Every Thriving Motel Feels the Same
Thriving motels are all alike no matter where you go. Even if they claim decent soundproofing, the rooms are packed wall-to-wall like a rundown villa, so moans big and small leak out nonstop. No wonder there's that urban legend about busy motels filming couples' hookups with hidden cams to line their pockets. Of course, any decent adult doesn't buy into that ghost story crap. The only truth and justice is what you see with your own eyes.
I own a smartphone, but I'm no pervert secretly filming other people's affairs. I carry a recorder everywhere, but I'm not some freak taping strangers' moans. I just want to wrap up some personal business before S-man's S Pen crosses that irreversible point.
"Mm."
Standing in front of Room 701 with that mindset, I felt a bit awkward from the pounding thumps and thin moans seeping through the thick door. Poor bastard.
"I know you're in there. Open the door now, and out of pity, I'll personally write up a petition to Jesus for you. Don't open, and I'll summon Epic Sax Guy with this couple's vibrator—tuned to the rhythm of your hips shaking up and down."
These days, Daiso is selling all sorts of stuff to keep up with convenience stores dominating the market. If convenience stores chase ultimate convenience, Daiso goes for extreme variety, hawking imported junk from everywhere. I hit up Daiso regularly for random supplies, and just yesterday, a couple's vibrator caught my eye—bam, bought it. Why? Hell if I know, fuck. Just thought it'd be hilarious to buzz the shit out of something.
I licked my dry lips and pulled the couple's vibrator from my coat pocket, hidden like a pistol. True to its cheap Daiso origins, the plastic prefab toy was easy to tote around. The second my lips touched its air hole, the locked door to 701 clicked open from inside.
Stepping in with the vibrator in hand, there was no sticky air thick with the heat of man-woman passion. Instead, a fishy stench hit me along with a cold gust that swept over my body. A quick brush of my shoulders with my hand, and the stink vanished in a flash.
"Brushing your shoulders is basic warding—folks call it a expedient trick. I get you're pissed I interrupted your precious time, but snapping at a stranger right off the bat? Nah."
A light shoulder brush cleared the fishy smell, but the heavy, bone-chilling air pressing down on my whole body lingered. No choice—I undid my waist pouch and scattered coarse salt from a plastic bag around the room. The salt, strewn haphazardly on floor and walls, popped and crackled like popcorn in a hot fire, turning brown. It didn't stop there; soon it blackened completely and died.
Yeah, getting cockblocked mid-fuck would piss anyone off. I grew up without parents barging in during my wanks, so I wouldn't know the feeling, but I get it's morally rude as hell. Still, one line from Jesus trumps any towering wall of hypocritical, phony morality. You think all your bullshit ethics outweigh a single word from the guy who sacrificed once for all humanity?
Scattering salt as I advanced, the room's interior came into view beyond the bathroom door. Pathetic sight: a naked woman and man entwined, panting hard. S-man was slumped over her like dead weight—he'd burned a ton of energy in that short time.
"Was S-man's S Pen really the S in Short?"
Damn, he blew a load and then some. Approaching from behind, I yanked S-man's nape—still unconsciously thrusting—and hauled him back. What oozed from his S Pen, buried in her, wasn't the white stuff we all know. It was dark red.
"She really went all out sucking him dry."
I tossed S-man aside; he passed out with faint breaths like he was one gasp from death. He looked jacked with some muscle at the cafe earlier, but now he was gaunt, like he'd crash-dieted overnight.
"Almost turned six into seven there."
I flung a handful of red beans at the woman—Ms. Sunyoung—who'd been playing half-dead from exhaustion. She flopped like a fish hitting sweet land air.
"Kiiiiiiiiiiii!"
"Lemme see... here it is. Name: Lee Sunyoung, age 31, resident ID last digits start with 1."
Rifling her fancy women's wallet, out popped a real ID, not fake. Tech's so advanced now, most admin stuff's online—you can flash a forged ID daily and no one notices. Just use the real one for ID checks. Even that's going digital, so spotting fakes is tough.
Anyway, I gave a wry smile at Ms. Sunyoung, her hit spot swelling red like an inflamed pimple. On the street, she clung to S-man so tight it was hard to tell who carried the six—man or woman. At the cafe, I timed grabbing food with him to see if she'd peel off; no dice, she was glued solid. Now, post-motel quickie, I knew who had the six.
"A chick glued to a guy's body—not content with chopping off his healthy dick via trans surgery, makes him whore out too. End times for real. Technically still a dude, so gay hooker?"
Fuck, that means he did gay shit. Jesus fucking Christ. Even Sodom and Gomorrah weren't this bad!
Old-school ghosts would've possessed the guy's body, made him laugh demonically or prance in drag for kicks. But modern medicine's advanced—chop and you're a woman. This grab ghost bitch knew it and hurled Sunyoung into the abyss. First, surgery to carve out his dick for full possession, reshaping him woman-ish. But born male, Sunyoung can't survive on yin alone; needs constant yang top-ups. Enter fucking random dudes.
To my eyes, Sunyoung's glowing body overlapped the evil ghost. Around them, shriveled husks of men wept blood tears—mummified grudging spirits. All like S-man: sucked dry of semen, blood, every drop of yang, reduced to earthbound wraiths via her body as conduit.
A guy hauling a bunch usually pissed off big grudges nearby. A woman? Often abortions. But Sunyoung, originally male, can't have fetal spirits. Meaning: dude turned chick, racking up grudges galore.
"Quit whining and sit your ass down."
"...How'd you know?"
The evil ghost, rolling naked and cackling, grinned ear-to-ear with bulging eyes. Pupil-less voids held bottomless dark; in it, pure ugly malice coiled.
"I'm good. Wanna try? Killer pussy—everyone dies loving it! Hehehehehe!"
"Truth is, I don't hate sinners like you. Love 'em, even. Gotta collect as many year bitches as possible to offer up to Jesus."
Even I won't forgive some shit. One: slicing a healthy guy's dick without consent. Two: forcing him into womanhood. Three: turning him gay.
"Heard thriving motels got adult toy vending machines... ah, here."
Paid via S-man's phone S Pay—out popped SM play set: rope, cuffs, gag ball, blindfold.
"Old saying: big pussy, big responsibility."
Snap! Snap! Yanking the rope taut, I eyed the ghost slathering his fluids like lotion, grinning lewdly, and passed sentence.
"Believe in Jesus for heaven, or hellbound via Hong Kong—your call. Even if hell, I'll ship you to heaven anyway, so no sweat."
S-man booked the room overnight, so our physical exorcism's uninterrupted day and night. And I've got this perfect-plug couple's vibrator ready to roll.