Life can be pretty lonely in a hotel. There was a strict rule against fucking the guests (not that I really cared), and girlfriends were out of the question.

I mean, would YOU want to bring someone you cared about to a place like this?

A year into my time, I discovered telephone dating. You’ve seen the commercials on late night cable. So I tried it for a few weeks. Fuck it, it was something to do. Every other night, I got to talk to this girl named Emily. She had the sweetest voice, and lived about five minutes from the hotel. Phone sex was a common theme in our conversations, and she was good. REAL good.

After a couple weeks, we decided to meet. She came to the hotel, and we made it to my room. She was a bit on the chunky side, but not what I’d call “fat.” Just thick thighs, huge tits, round ass, and a bit of a belly. As soon as we got through the door, she was on me like a velour tracksuit on Joey Buttafucco.

Her togue thrust into my mouth, probing and embracing mine. She placed my left hand on her breast, and my right down the front of her pants. She was totally shaven and smooth, and was already very wet. I was amazed at the heat that came off it. I slid a finger inside, and teased her mercilessly.

“God. . .I want more. . .” she panted. She pulled down her jeans and panties, and knelt down on the bed, ass in the air.

I obliged with two fingers.

“More. . .”

Okay. I slipped a third in. Her quivering slit sucked greedily at them.

“MORE. . .”

Kinky. Okay. Slowly, I slipped my pinkie next to the others. She clenched hard, hips bucking wildly.

“MORE. . . .”

“Jesus, girl, I’ve already got four. . .”


I shrugged. It was HER snatch, not mine. I spit on my thumb and wrist, and plunged further, deeper.

Now, I cannot even BEGIN to describe what it’s like to have your entire hand in someone’s fuckhole up to the wrist. Tight comes to mind. Her vaginal walls were very tight and muscular, and there were a couple moments where I thought she was going to break my fingers. Also, a great deal of suction gets built up, and it gets increasingly harder to pull your hand free.

And the QUEEFING. . .I have heard queefs, but if a queef is the squeaky, friendly voice of Tiny Tim, these queefs were the demonic growling of Corpsegrinder from Cannibal Corpse.

She was VERY into it, moaning and screaming, biting the pillow. Her ass quivered with every stroke, and she pushed back, forcing my hand in deeper, and deeper, and. . .

What the fuck is this?!

I stopped thrusing, puzzled, as my fingers curled around something inside her. I withdrew slowly, and examined the object in my hand.

“Hey, Emily, did you know you were PREGNANT?”

Yes, this story is total bullshit. I concocted it because someone had made a crack about the rubber fist mentioned in a previous entry, and had asked me not to share any fisting stories, if I had any.