The motel receptionist sat in a chair on the porch in front of his office, dozing. It was a fine summer’s evening and there were still three hours left on his shift. Business was slow; hardly one in three of the rooms were occupied lately.
He sat back watching room 203 on the second floor. For no particular reason. None, except for the two guys occupying it. They checked in that day. No car, they said they had come to town by bus. Just passing through, like tourists.
Two men in one room with one bed. One man black, the other white. They must be gay, he had supposed. Nothing he could do about that. It was the law now. Motels could no longer discriminate. Not that he cared, he told himself. Live and let live.
Suddenly, the door to room 203 burst open and the black man pushed the white one out onto the landing. The white one was stark naked. The black one closed the door, leaving his companion behind.
“Come on Lance, let me in,” the white one cupped his hands over his balls, demanding the man inside opened the door.
The motel receptionist couldn’t hear what the guy inside replied, but he didn’t open up. So the white guy hollered some more, while dancing up and down in anger on the spot, still hiding his dick. The white guy began to butt his head against the door, as if that might make the man inside change his mind.
The motel receptionist thought he had seen it all before. Married men caught by their wives with hookers. Kids getting high and trying to fly from the motel roof. There had even been a murder once. All part of the rich tapestry of life at a motel. You could ask any receptionist; they all had a story to tell.
He carried on watching. Surely, the guy inside would soon relent and the sideshow would come to an end. A car drew up at the reception. New customers, probably. The motel receptionist stirred from his chair, ready to greet them. They looked like they could be a man and his wife. Or at least a man and his squeeze.
The man was halfway out of his car. He heard the commotion on the second floor and looked across at the naked guy still imploring his pal to open up and let him in the room. The man in the car exchanged glances with his lady. No words were spoken. He got back in the car, reversed it and headed down the road to one of the dozen or so other places in the county.
The motel receptionist peered after the car as it hit the traffic. The motel needed all the business it could get. It didn’t need customers chased away by a couple of faggots. He headed for the stairs and moments later he was on the second floor.
“Come on Lance, open up. The motel guy is here now.”
“Can I help, sir?” the motel receptionist looked the white guy up and down. He was maybe twenty years old, a bit older possibly. He had a good body. Gay guys spent a lot of time in the gym, the motel receptionist had read that somewhere. He remembered from when they checked-in that the black guy looked a lot older. He was maybe thirty.
“Is there a problem, sir,” the motel receptionist didn’t really know what to say. Or to do. If the guy inside didn’t open up soon, someone might call the cops. The motel didn’t need that kind of scene. As the motel receptionist readied himself to ask the question one more time, the door swung open and the white guy pushed his way into the room, screaming curses at his friend inside.
The motel receptionist stood on the threshold to the room. Empty beer cans covered the floor. There was a faint aroma of marijuana. The sheets were half on and half off the bed. He cringed. If he looked too carefully, he would probably see patches of love juice.
The black guy spoke. “Sorry sir. It just got out of hand.”
The motel receptionist did not want to know what had happened. He really did not. He wanted to get out of there.
“Why can’t you boys play nicely?” the motel receptionist said, before turning and leaving, closing the door behind him. He was glad to be out in the fresh air once more. He returned to his chair to continue dozing.
Back in the motel room, Lance was in a foul mood. “I should never have brought you. You’ve been nothing but trouble.”
“You didn’t think that when I was fucking you up the ass.”
Lance recoiled. Such language. The boy was from the ghetto.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing, throwing me out the room?”
“Sorry Matt,” Lance giggled. The effect of the dope hadn’t yet worn off. He leaned across and kissed the boy on the top of his head. “Sorry-worry. Lance is sorry-worry.”
Matt cracked a grin. He had such an infectious smile. It started at his dark brown eyes and took over his whole face. That was what Lance loved so much about him. That and the seven-inch uncut dick.
“Lance, you are such a pain in the ass.”
“Sorry, daddy. I’ve been such a naughty boy,” Lance’s eyes sparkled and his dick started to stir.
The two friends settled into their routine.
“Yes you have Lance. And what happens to naughty boys?”
Lance, aged thirty-one, going on eleven, looked sheepish. “They get their butts spanked, daddy.”
“Yes, they do little one.”
Matt crossed the room and picked up his jeans from the floor. In one expert move he had the wide leather belt out of the loops and doubled up in his hand. “You know the procedure.”
“Oh daddy, please.”
“Get on with it buster.”
Lance smoothed down the bed clothes and then took three pillows and placed them one on top of the other in the centre of the bed. Then, after tucking his throbbing dick to one side, he lay face down, bottom high, across them.
Lance was more than six feet tall and built like a basketball player. He had muscles on his muscles and the most terrific bubble butt a boy could ever wish for.
Matt touched the leather belt across the crown of Lance’s mounds, taking his aim. Then he raised it high in the air and brought it crashing down with tremendous force. A dark line immediately appeared where the leather scorched into Lance’s bouncing buttocks.
“Oh daddy,” Lance gasped.
There followed a frenzied attack. Matt’s dick throbbed fit to burst as over and over and over again he spanked the heavy, wide belt across Lance’s rear end. The sound of leather on hard flesh rattled around the room, like machinegun fire. In less than a minute every square inch of the man’s butt was covered with lash marks.
Lance’s body rose and fell with each swipe. It was like he was humping the pillows. The boiling heat in his butt encouraged his dick on its crazy mission.
Another dozen, and then another, whipped into Lance’s upturned butt. Matt put every ounce of his considerable strength into the effort. He knew his pal could take it. Better than that; he knew he was loving it.
And so was Matt. His dick was raw, throbbing, pointing at the ceiling. It was touch and go which of them would explode first.
The thrashing went on and on. Lance’s skin tone was too dark for bruises to show clearly. Only later when the two friends intimately explored each other’s body would the true extent of the damage be apparent.
Bang. Bang. Bang. The whipping was relentless.
Lance gathered a portion of the bedclothes and sucked it into his mouth. He needed to silence his yells of agony and his squeals of ecstasy in equal measure.
“Huff, huff, huff,” the breath was being squeezed from his body. His heartrate was off the scale. If he didn’t come soon, he might die of a stroke.
“Agggghhhhh!” It was a deep throated scream from deep down in Lance’s soul. He raised his body from the pillows and rested on his knees. Gallons of semen soaked the bed. He gulped in great draughts of air, trying to make his lungs work properly. Sweat soaked his whole body. It looked like he had just stepped out of the shower.
Matt stood and watched with growing impatience. His own dick was red raw and waiting for action. Lance repositioned himself on the bed. His legs were spread wide, his back arched, his head was low and his butt was high.
He squealed the moment Matt’s huge dick slipped up his ass.
Downstairs, the motel receptionist sat bolt upright. Jesus! He thought. It sounded like the boys were killing each other.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second