Thunderbird Motel – 15 Flash Stories

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Amateur

Room 206

“Shithole for a bachelorette party,” Cathy scowls.

“We’re going out anyway,” says Becca.

“What if we meet boys?” asks Maria.

“Jessica has dibs. She’s bride.”

“We’ll meet boys,” says Jessica. “I know what happened at his party.”

Slips a thong past tan thin thighs.

“Someone’s going to be very lucky.”

Room 151

Point remote, more volume.

Crying still louder.

Panties. Bra. Chewed gum. Cluttered mattress.

Phone lights. Wife: Miss you!

Door opens. Her face red. Cleavage hickeyed. Neck bitten. Ass bleeding, belt-marked.

“What you wanted.” My voice.

“But I’m married in fifteen hours.”

She kneels, panicked.

“You’ll need makeup.”

More volume.

Wails.

Front Desk

It’s a fuck motel. Or you’re broke. Or you Google poorly.

They all think we don’t know. Like we’re a stop-off on their way to the Hamptons.

Fake names. Hour-long stays. Twenty-year old girls with friends visiting one by one. Sweaty-haired wives glaring at us on sprints to their cars.

Room 202

We’re starting out. This hotel is what we can afford.

Can’t wait to see the church I’ll be pastoring. A day’s drive.

Grace is in her robe, three nights married.

I feel canlı bahis şirketleri stirring. Sit on the bed, open her robe for the third time, her blushing like the previous two.

Room 101

Phone shut off. Check.

He’s tracked me that way before.

Purse in trunk. Keys hidden.

Never know who these guys really are, meeting this way.

Check my hair.

Say I’m forty-five; ten year lie.

They usually know. Never complain once clothes come off.

Younger girls, listen: don’t marry older men.

Room 114

No answer again. Fifth time.

She’s usually home now. Even ready for bed now.

Wipe the chip residue off my pants; dangers of eating dinner in bed.

I remember the security cam app on my phone.

Open it.

It opens my eyes.

Him. Licking her. In our bed.

Our bed.

Room 211

“Really eighteen?”

“No. Nineteen. Need my ID?”

“Need more than that.”

“Money first. Thanks. So what do you want to do?”

“Strip slowly. I need to see those titties. That ass. Bend over me. Whisper you’ll never fuck me. Never let me touch that pussy. I’ll handle it from there.”

Parking Lot

She’s always been stupid but at least then she was hot. Her phone’s off now but it wasn’t canlı kaçak iddaa when she parked.

My Mercedes idles.

Sometime soon some jumpy guy, nervous, walking fast, looking everywhere and nowhere along the way. He’ll knock. Then I’ll know which room.

They’ll like my gun.

Cell Phone screen in 151

7:21: Tomorrow’s it!

7:22: Wish it wasn’t bad luck to see you. Will miss waking up with you.

7:28: You looked so pretty at rehearsal.

7:34: Bad luck to see the groom, not text him!

8:01: Can’t wait to see you down that aisle! Can’t wait til this time tomorrow!

Manager’s Office Bedroom

I thought maybe the bachelorettes for 202. Need more cameras.

But I picked right. The Bible-beaters are better.

He opened that robe, porn-quality tits spilling out milky white. On a girl like that.

He’s thrusting one mile an hour. No talking. Just bed squeaking, him grunting, her eyes shut tight.

Ice Machine

Confusing machine.

She reaches around him, pushes proper button.

Ice tumbles.

He smiles.

“You know the machine.”

“Too well.”

She in jeans, cut-off tee.

“Oh.”

She knows he knows.

His eyes now on her younger, tauter skin.

“I’m in 114.”

“Soon. canlı kaçak bahis Gotta deliver ice.”

A face peeks out from 211.

Room 151

Sixteen years cleaning this hotel.

Things I’ve found: tons of underwear. Men’s, women’s. That’s enough on that.

Condoms. Clamps and Plugs.

Pizza.

Hallmark cards, opened and unopened.

Rope. Cuffs. Pictures. Magazines.

Wedding rings. Engagement rings.

Sometimes someone curled up, naked, crying in the corner.

It’s amazing what people leave behind.

Stairs

Finally he came. Then wanted ice.

Now downstairs to the next.

Coming up is some hot girl in a “Bachelorette Jess!” shirt, pulling along some guy. She’s drunk, clips my shoulder. I glare but she’s past me. The guy sees.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

“I dunno,” she says. “Some whore.”

Turn Lane

If the traffic ever clears, she’s in 101.

Never done this.

My wife’s a layer. Completely still. Lip kisses. Never lick her pussy.

This one wants eaten. Wants my mouth in hers. Paid for the room.

Love my wife. But I have to.

Turn in, hands shaking. Park.

See red.

Police Car 182

Pull up. Car starts, pulls out.

Maid walking a trembling girl.

Guy in shorts waving.

“Someone’s watching. My wife and I. A camera.”

Hooker punching a veiled girl near the stairs.

A Benz leaves.

“A camera in our room.”

101 opens, woman scans the lot.

Always something at the Thunderbird.

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