Pretty, Pretty
© 2002 by Rod Harden

Carl is good with gadgets.  Always has been.  About all he's good at, really.

Sitting at his desk, he's just about to test the latest enhancement to his system when the bell in the lobby rings.

"Shit!" he shouts, barely able to stop himself from slamming his fist down.  He steps out of his office and eyes the woman at the counter with undisguised suspicion. "Whaddaya want?"

She looks up and blinks.  Young.  Pretty blue eyes.  Obviously expecting to hear "May I help you?" or some such crap.  Doesn't like blunt talk.  Gotta have all the social niceties.  Everything's gotta be pretty and dainty for her.  Stuck-up bitch!

"Um...  I- I need a room for the night.  The sign said this is a motel."

Carl cocks his head at her.  She seems nervous.  What's she up to, really? Pretty things like her don't travel this road.  Not alone at this hour, anyway.  But maybe she's not alone.

"Of course it's a motel.  You by yourself?"

She hesitates.  Definitely hiding something.  Probably meeting her jock stud boyfriend, and doesn't want to pay double occupancy.  Cheap whore!

"Well, yes, I am alone.  Look, do you have a room or not?"

"Oh sure.  I got a room, all right.  Plenty of rooms.  You want a room, I got a room for ya.  Single, right?"

"Yes! I just said that."

"So you did." He turns to the cubbyholes full of keys, considers for a second.

Put her in number 4.  Yes, definitely.  Lying bitch thinks she can pull one over on me, but I'll show her!

Turning back, he sets the key on the counter. "That'll be twenty bucks.  Cash up front."

She scowls.

Uh huh.  Knows her little game is up.  And she thought she was so damn smart.

"Fine!" she says, reaching into her purse. "Here." She slams the bill onto the counter. "I don't suppose you- oh, never mind." She grabs her bag and heads out the door.

That's right, bitch, you don't suppose.  You don't suppose a fuckin' thing! No fancy schmancy room service for her royal fuckin' highness here! No goddamn HBO either! What the hell do you think this is?

He stares at the door for several long moments, trying to hold in his head the image of her firm round ass in that tight navy blue skirt.  His breathing deepens, becomes ragged.  His eyes narrow as his cock swells.

The bitch swayed her hips like that on purpose, just to taunt me.  Look at this, she says.  Lookee, lookee, Mr.  Motel Guy.  Mm mm.  Wouldn't you just love some of this?

Prick-teasing slut!

Abruptly, he hurries back to his office and flips a switch.  The monitor next to the desk turns on.  It shows a typical motel room.  Empty.  The view is from above the door, wide-angle lens taking in almost the entire room.  Carl gnaws at his fingernails, waiting.

Come on, hurry up! It's only thirty feet away.  What's she doing, crawling? Probably taking her sweet pretty time to tease me some more.  Or maybe she can't get the door open.  Can't even work a simple lock and key.  Stupid bitch.

At the bottom of the screen, he sees the top edge of the door as it swings open.  The woman enters the room and sets her bag on the bed.  She sits at the puny desk and rests her head on her arms.

What the hell is she doing? Must be waiting for that boyfriend of hers.  Can't wait for him to show up.  Getting all horny and wet thinking about him.  Bet he's quite the stud, too.  He'll come in the room, all eager for his pretty little slut.  But she won't look quite so pretty with his cock rammed down her throat, will she? No, Miss dainty I'm-too-good-for-motel-guys.  You'll be all mussed up then!

Carl unzips his pants and pulls out his swollen dick.  He slides his hand slowly up and down the stiff shaft, caressing it.  Unblinking, his eyes burn as he stares at the image of the woman, still slumped over.

What's the matter, bitch? Boyfriend late? Well, I got a cock for ya right here.  Yeah, here it is, baby.  Come on.  Come and get it.  You know it's what you want.

She stirs at last.  Opening her purse, she pulls out an envelope and unfolds the paper inside.  Her head moves in short jerky motions as she reads it.  Her body shudders as if shaken by sobs.  She wipes her cheeks with her hand.

Carl sneers at the image on the screen.  What's her goddamn problem now? Boyfriend told her to get lost? Not pretty enough for him anymore? Oh, boo-hoo! Get over it, you stupid weepy cunt! You could have a dozen guys eating out of your fuckin' hand! Except for Carl, of course.  No, not Carl! Poor Mr.  Motel Guy can't get a pretty stuck-up bitch like you, can he?

"Can he?!" he shouts out loud, standing and kicking his chair away. "You think you're so fuckin' special, don't you? Too fuckin' good for someone like me!" His face turns scarlet as he screams at the silent image on the screen.

The woman blows her nose.  She stands and begins undressing.

"All right!" says Carl, continuing to talk out loud. "Show time! That's right.  Strip for beddie-bye, baby.  Oh yeah! You goddamn teasing whore, you."

He strokes his cock more and more vigorously.  On the screen, the woman unbuttons her blouse, and hangs it in the tiny open closet.  She reaches behind her and unhooks her bra.  Bending slightly, the cups fall away from her breasts and she pulls the bra off.

"Yes!" shouts Carl. "Oh baby, turn just a little.  There! Such nice little titties.  You fuckin' slut, bitch, cunt, whore, fuck!"

The first few drops spurt from his cock.  He dances and pumps in front of the monitor, as more dollops of white jism jet into the room.  Stiffening, then shuddering, then stiffening again, he grunts and moans as he milks the last few drips from his quivering cock.

He watches the monitor again as the woman, wearing only her panties now, slides into the bed and reaches for the light.  The image goes dark as she flips the switch.

Shit.  Show's over.

He falls onto the sofa against the far wall of his office.  His breathing slows and steadies, and he's asleep almost immediately.

He wakens to daylight beaming through the window.  Blinking himself to alertness, he sees an empty bed on the monitor.  He lunges to his desk and press a switch.  The view on the screen changes to show the bathroom.  No one there either.

Dragging himself to the lobby, he sees the key to number 4 lying on the counter.  He picks it up and shoves it into its cubby.

"Fuckin' bitch," he mutters. "Pretty thing, though."

© 2002 Rod Harden.  All rights reserved. Do not reproduce.

This story along with 16 others by Rod Harden are available in All Comers: A Smorgasbord of Kink from Renaissance E Books 

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