Chapter 8: Backdoor Basics
The last shuddering aftershocks of the classroom orgy dissolved not into darkness, but into the oppressive, buzzing gloom of a cheap motel room. The scent of chlorine was instantly overwritten by something worse: mildew, stale cigarettes, and a cloying vanilla air freshener trying and failing to mask it all.
Bob was on his knees, thrusting. A sticky, rasping friction.
Beneath him, a woman with a wild mane of red hair and tear-streaked clown makeup gasped. Her name, he somehow knew, was Crystal. Her body was a pale, twitching roadmap of fake tan lines.
“It burns, Bobby! IT BURNS!” she wailed, her voice scratchy and too loud. Her nails dug into his bare shoulders. “You’re tearing me! I’m gonna chafe!”
Bob’s body didn’t stop. It pistoned into her with a dry, squeaking rhythm that made his own teeth hurt. The bed beneath them wasn’t a normal bed. It was a giant, amorphous mattress that sagged and rippled like a waterbed filled with syrup, each impact sending a slow, undulating wave toward the edges.
“For the love of Mike,” a new voice boomed.
The flimsy door to the room exploded inward, not with a kick, but because it was clearly made of balsa wood. Framed in the neon-lit doorway stood Brandy. She was all angles and aggression, a tanorexic brunette with breasts so large and pert they defied gravity, straining against a leopard-print robe she hadn’t bothered to tie. She held a giant, industrial-sized plastic gallon jug of clear liquid. The label, in bright red letters, simply read: ‘LUBE’.
“Jesus H. Christ, kid,” Brandy snarled, marching in. The door swung uselessly on one hinge. “You’re drier than the Sahara. You gotta prep the workspace!”
Bob’s body finally stilled, though it remained buried inside Crystal. He was just a passenger, looking over his own shoulder.
Brandy unscrewed the cap on the gallon jug. “Roll her over. Ass up. This is a two-woman job.”
Crystal sobbed but complied, scrambling onto her hands and knees. Bob’s body withdrew with a sound like Velcro tearing. Brandy didn’t hesitate. She upended the gallon jug over the small of Crystal’s back. A waterfall of cool, clear, viscous lube poured out, cascading down Crystal’s spine, flooding the cleft of her ass, and pooling on the weird mattress with a thick glug-glug-glug.
“See? Irrigation!” Brandy said, as if explaining basic plumbing. She tossed the empty jug aside and used both hands to smear the lube, working it into Crystal’s asshole with rough, efficient circles. Crystal yelped. “Quit your whining. You wanted him to stay over, this is the hospitality tax.”
Then Brandy grabbed Bob’s wrist. His arm moved without his command. She guided his hand, fingers splayed, and slapped it against Crystal’s lubed-up ass cheek. A wet, thunderous SMACK echoed in the tiny room.
“Spanking promotes circulation!” Brandy announced. She used Bob’s hand to spank the other cheek. SMACK. Crystal’s sobs turned into something else—a choked, hiccuping moan. The red handprint glowed on her pale skin.
“Now,” Brandy said, business-like. She positioned herself behind Bob, placing her hands on his hips. “We’re gonna prime the pump. On three. One… two…”
She shoved him forward with surprising strength.
Bob’s body slid into the newly lubricated channel with a grotesque, squelching SHLOOP that was absurdly loud. The friction was gone, replaced by a cold, slippery ease. Crystal screamed, but it was a scream of shock, not pain. “Oh my GOD, it’s so COLD!”
“Told ya,” Brandy said, smug. She kept her hands on Bob’s hips, now guiding the rhythm. “In and out, kid. Think of a plunger. You’re unclogging the dreams she had of being a veterinarian.”
Each thrust now produced a wet, vulgar squelching noise. The excess lube spilled out around the connection with every withdrawal, dripping onto the sheets. The room smelled like a chemical cherry factory.
Brandy watched, a critical foreman. Then she grinned, a flash of white in her leathery face. “Waste not, want not.”
She climbed onto the bed, maneuvering around the rhythmic sloshing. She positioned herself on her knees above Crystal’s head, her robe falling open completely. She lowered herself until her own exposed, neatly trimmed pelvis was hovering directly over Crystal’s lube-and-mascara-streaked face.
“Open wide, sweetheart. Step-mommy’s saving you the good stuff.”
Crystal, in a daze, opened her mouth. Bob, jackhammering away, watched it happen from behind.
Brandy bore down. Her stomach muscles clenched. A deep, guttural BRRRAAAAAP echoed through the room, not a fart, but a controlled, muscular queef. A fresh stream of the excess, now-warm lube poured from her, splattering in a glistening arc across Crystal’s open eyes, her nose, her gaping mouth.
Crystal gagged, swallowed, and then laughed, a hysterical, bubbling sound. “It tastes like cherries!”
“That’s the premium blend,” Brandy said, satisfied. She shifted off, leaving Crystal glistening and gasping. She then smacked Bob’s ass hard. “Now show her what a real gaping finish looks like! Go to town, boy!”
Bob’s body obeyed, slamming into overdrive. The sounds were obscene—a symphony of wet slaps, squelches, and Crystal’s babbling cries of “Yes! The vet school is closed! Close it!” The mattress undulated wildly, threatening to spill them onto the shag carpet.
With a final, shuddering roar from Bob’s mouth, it was over. He pulled back.
The resulting view was, as promised, gaping. A puckered, glistening orifice that slowly winked at the flickering light of the TV, which only showed static and the ghostly shadows of other, similar rooms.
Brandy nodded in professional appraisal. “There. Now that’s how you break in a new girlfriend.” She lit a cigarette. “You two kids want a grilled cheese?”
But the neon from the window was already bleaching the color from the scene. The buzzing in the air became a whine in Bob’s ears. Crystal’s post-coital giggles stretched and distorted. Brandy’s cigarette smoke swirled into impossible shapes.
As the motel room melted into lines of cheap, garish light, Bob had a single, clear memory: the solid, dusty feel of chalk. It was an anchor. A tiny, silent protest in the relentless, soggy, cherry-flavored madness.
Then the light consumed everything, and the memory was washed away, replaced by a new, oppressive smell—oil, hot metal, and the sour tang of forgotten sweat.