I suppose I have written more "literary" erotica in the past. Here is a sample of one of my stories. I can be more explicit if need be but I do like to have dramatic tension in my work. Keeps the reader wanting more:
The Pervert In Room Number 8
I like to sneak into motel rooms. An innocent hobby at first, which has turned into a full time pre-occupation. How it began was by overhearing a conversation about a motel (which is close to my home) that is a hub of activity for prostitution. My tentacle grew curious and I was desperate to figure out what was going on. At night I would visit the motel and prowl around outside listening for the sounds of sex. I would wait in my car for hours and watch prostitutes and their patients walk hand in hand into motel rooms. The motel had a back area which would allow me to sneak up behind the bathroom window and listen in to what was taking place inside. It was difficult seeing or hearing anything, but occasionally I would catch a glimpse of a prostitute cleaning up in the bathroom. After a month or two of sneaking around I became frantic like a man who was being left out of the show. I was determined to find a way in. I tried to unlatch windows, and use credit cards to unlock the doors. Then one night while fooling around I found the weak spot. The doors could be unlocked using a paper clip. This changed everything. Now I could hide under a bed, with a small mirror in hand- and wait for the show to begin.
It was a guessing game. Since the motel only consisted on ten rooms and at one time as many as five rooms could be occupied by prostitutes. Sometimes while waiting under the bed no prostitutes would show up. Rather there would be a lonely traveler or a couple looking for respite from a long drive. In this case I would have to wait patiently until they fell asleep and then quietly leave the room. More often than not my luck prevailed. At least one out of two times I was guaranteed a peep show. The prostitutes were mostly black and latina but on average they were fairly attractive and able to tolerate various forms of penetration. They seemed to have preferences for certain rooms. #3 and #6 were haunted, #1 and #2 were to close to the office and #8 was the most comfortable and had the best bed.
What still to this day surprises me most is the fantasy life of men. The things that they asked of these prostitutes would always keep me deeply entertained. I would look forward to my evenings under the bed while at work all day. I would wonder about what kind of fantasy I would witness being fulfilled that night. Would it be a married corporate looking male being shat upon by a petite dark skinned whore or would I listen to a younger white man with a wedding ring beg a prostitute to let him have sex with her like a goat on a hill (a sex position). The requests that came from the mouths of men almost made me feel innocent in comparison.
My luck did not always prevail, however. There where times that I witnessed things that disturbed me so much that I swore off returning to the motel ever again (of course I would return a few days later). Men with no money prefer very fat prostitutes. More often than I would like to admit I would suffer the smell and weight of a very fat prostitute being penetrated by a dirty old man or a younger man with a thing for fat hookers. It was always the fat prostitutes that would have sex with men without condoms and then swallow their sperm (it was almost as if the guilt of being fat, black and a prostitute unconsciously caused their death drive to kick into gear when having sex with men). It was always the fat prostitutes that insisted upon anal penetration and then yell out “you are not in me yet,” because the man would be having sex with all the fat preceding the anal cavity. One time a middle aged black man who was having anal sex with a fat prostitute yelled out, “fat feels good baby…it feels gooood!!,” and I was almost unable to hold back my laughter. The fatter the prostitute the more the bed would droop down onto my face and chest and cause me to become anxious and experience difficulty breathing. I would try to find a comfortable position beneath the bed but some times I felt as if I was struggling to survive. I began to dread the orgasm of the fat whore. It was like an erupting volcano. It would cause all the furniture to rattle and the hairs on my arms to twitch. It was a truly horrible sound. One that suggested that the end of the world was soon to come (no pun intended).
More Of Story Available Upon Request
