Date: Thu, 8 Nov 2001 20:28:34 EST
From: Bkcycler@aol.com
Subject: THE RAUNCH MOTEL (ws, scat)

(Please note- You have chosen to enter the "Urination" section.  That means
raunch.  If raunch is not your scene, please stop here.  Otherwise, welcome
to the world of scat and water sports-my version of it, anyway!)

Part 1

THE  RAUNCH MOTEL

The Pacific Breeze actually looked better as a faded eyesore than it did when
it was in business.  Lee always said that it used to look like a giant wad of
bubble gum.  Not that people looked at it much now.  The mall blocked all but
a corner of the abandoned motel from Sequoia Boulevard, and the construction
site behind the mall meant it was only a matter of time before it would be
gone.  Somehow it was never vandalized much, except for a few FUCKs.  They
were probably keeping an eye on it to keep kids from screwing around with it
at night and vagrants from moving in.  Maybe the deal on it wasn't closed,
and they had to keep it standing until then. The windows were boarded over,
and rusty chains looped through the doorknob holes.

The mall was more interesting.  A multiplex meant people coming and going
from noon to midnight, and the Villa Roma restaurant, a piano lounge, and the
fast-food places drew their own crowds through the day and into the evening.
There was a bookstore with a coin-operated rocking horse in front. Candle
shops, shoe stores, popcorn.  The atrium in the center had palm trees and a
kind of big blue rock.  Water sheeted down its sides, and there were a few
molded benches if you had to sit down.

The part of the mall closest to the old Pacific Breeze was the San Diego
Health and Fitness Spa.  It drew mostly regulars.  Older men liked the early
mornings, but as the day wore on a younger crowd came in, guys on their lunch
breaks, guys from the bases, professionals who made their own hours, guys
with time on their hands.  Lee's day started around then.

He was maintenance at the Spa, a familiar face around the mall, say forty, a
touch of silver at the sides; you could see from his shoulders that he must
have spent years doing heavy lifting and hauling, but where you would expect
a belly there was just a straight line; his butt's tight bulging roundness
was the only break in his up-down line, an explosion--with a mini-explosion
in it: a small hole in the ass of his faded denims, the raveled threads a
dirty white fringe around it.  His half-shut eyes were a kind of explosion as
well: lines rayed outwards from a green glitter people looked away from
quickly as they might from the sideways glance of a lynx.  Several regulars
knew that Lee also took care of the Pacific Breeze--in a special way that the
thousands of customers who came and went and shopped and looked and pushed
strollers at the mall every day would never have guessed.

Late every afternoon, the last hour or so of good daylight, Lee stepped
softly into a small janitor closet in the Spa's sub-basement and walked from
there through a murky twenty-yard tunnel that led to another janitor closet
two levels below the old Pacific Breeze's main floor.  Back up to ground
level inside the old motel, brown-stained sheets to collect from the thick
black vinyl mattresses, soaked towels, beer cans, empty popper bottles to
pick up everywhere.  He was supposed to turn the industrial detergent hose
full blast right away on the walls and bottom of the motel's old indoor pool,
empty now except for twenty king-size black vinyl mattresses lining the
bottom around a drain grate the size of a manhole.  Two diving boards
extended out over the drained pool.

Lee always turned up his heavy metal station first and lit up a joint and
took his sweet time getting started, sniffing in the bouquet of fresh latrine
stinks from the day's pissing and shitting scenes, because that's what he and
about a hundred other local guys knew happened there every afternoon steps
from the mall: piles of guys pissing and shitting on and in each other for
hours.

Their  "casual drifting" into the Spa towards the middle of every day was a
piece of work: academy award performances of nonchalance,  "oblivious " to
each other as they stepped into the Spa for their "workouts"--guys who
connected with ordinary guys in all the ordinary ways everywhere else in San
Diego like straight guys anywhere, in banks, examining rooms, luncheonette
counters, you name it.  Everybody was totally cool and knew that all the
other guys would be; they also knew they were not just your average guys who
play disgusted when they get a whiff of the thermonuclear disasters they cut
when they're alone, or check their holes for greasy shit-tang in bed at
night, or once in a while when they're stoned do the old "glass-of-warm-beer"
scene--but guys who had tasted plenty of shit from other guys' holes and knew
how to gulp down hot piss from other cocks besides their own, guys who knew
their scene was being public toilets for guys.

Once they were safely in the tunnel leading from the Spa's sub-basement
fuckplay would begin.  It was a tradition that when the regulars noticed a
new guy they would suddenly show him scenes to try to make him shoot the load
they knew he was trying to save.  New guys knew about the tradition; they
just never knew when or how hot the scene would be, like say a young stud
with a fantastic butt suddenly bending over right in front of them, spreading
his cheeks and blowing a hot, ripe one straight into their face, or sudden
orgies, seven or eight guys sucking and rimming each other while looking
desperately at the new guy and begging him to get into it with them.
Sometimes one of the regulars would volunteer to slide out his shiny
four-foot golden load in soft loops with a slick popping sound.  But the new
guy would always try to keep his cum until far along into the main scene so
he could keep taking in the scene as long as possible with his drooling dick
in a tight, aching upward curve.

The main party was always in the drained indoor pool, and as guys arrived and
began to guzzle the free beer they would find lounging spots on the terrace
of vinyl mattresses to watch the "starter scene" in the middle of the empty
pool.  A favorite opening scene was twenty or so sweating Latino dancers
swaying to make their cocks slap around to a pounding disco beat and hoarse
young male vocals: "I gotta suck and fuck, can't stop fucking, can't stop
fucking, yeah, yeah," continuing with "I wanna be your toilet, man, and lap
your shit and piss all day! Uh! Uh! Uh!" As the beat pounds on the guys can
see that some of the drops splattering on them from the dancers as they
slowly jack aren't just sweat anymore: steady yellow streams are starting to
come from the ends of the dancers' cocks.  The streams become stronger.  Some
spatter against the other dancers' stomachs, some on the mattresses, and some
always reach to the guys sprawled on the mattresses, making them hump up and
flop around and jack faster or grab their dicks sideways to bend them back
from the edge of just starting to cum.  The dancers yip as they feel each
other's hot urine, dancing harder into the beat.  Several dancers' faces
pinch up just as one of them blushes deep red, a "yes-that-was-my-fart" red.
"Baby, you-oo-oo stink" one giggles, and the other dancers join him in
sniffing the air and lurching and straining toward the ass of the guy who
farted.  His fart rinses through the fountains of piss, a hot smothering
stink that means the urinal scene has graduated to full toilet.  A dancer
times a thunderclap fart to rip just as he does an open-ass bump, and the
others curse and dance as silent farts wisp and curl around the room from
several holes at once.  The cocks all prong up, curved back like
tight-as-steel monster hot dogs.  They stare into each other's eyes, dancing
closer and closer.  A stink of old burning metal and stale sauerkraut fills
the air as each guy takes a shit to the beat, catching warm hamburger, pizza,
rice and beans, cornflakes, and french-fry turds in their palms and smearing
everybody around them, the nasty smell drifting off and leaving behind a
sharp, buttslick tang, twenty flavors of brown manstink, a woodsmoke spice of
ripe male hole.  They bump and slide against each other, fucking to the music
in smears of shit.  The dancers back away from each other a little, their
heads tilted back, their eyes closed, as they sniff like dogs.  Molten
lightning bolts from their piss-slits crisscross as they jab their fingers
into their dirty holes, their cum sheeting widely as they scream loud
fuck-grunts.  The other "motel guests" roll back and forth and jerk and eat
their own piss and shit to show all the other guys in the room how bad they
want to eat male shit and drink male piss.  By this time warm water is
starting to pool up an inch or so above the vinyl mattresses, just enough to
float turds--dark bitter ones, veggie gold ones, grayish-tan weenie shapes,
soft piles, corkscrews, all floating in the warm water with mounds of
pissfoam at mouth level for the guys writhing on the mattresses, hot guys
from every race and color and class in the city shitting and cumming, jacking
and pissing in a nonstop blur of slamming male bodies.

Nobody else at the mall in the afternoons would hear or smell anything from
the old motel, or if they did, figure out that's where it was coming from.
Their hearing no longer even registered the clangs and thumps and yells from
the construction site that imploded into the grinding hum of the boulevards
all day, and whiffs of herb could come from anywhere.  The scenes at the
Pacific Breeze went on just steps away from knots of girls outshreiking each
other, boys nonchalantly shoplifting, and moms in curlers managing toddlers,
totebags, dropped toys.


Part 2

Jeff's face was beginning to be a familiar one at the mall.  The rest of his 
pack had trekked on months before, maybe college, maybe wherever, leaving the 
turf his.  That was okay with him, but then just about anything was.  Always 
tall, he still loped like a boy sometimes, but more and more moved like a 
slinky cat, absorbed by the feel of his bare shithole against the seam of his 
rolledup denim cutoffs.  Did anybody notice, he wondered.  Did it matter?  
Whichever, it was funny, like everything else.  Sometimes his hazel eyes 
flashed an urgent "Let's fuck!" from behind his dirty blond curls that 
startled older male passers-by until they recovered a second later and warned 
themselves that the kid's attention, if it focused anywhere, must have been 
on some new-age comic book he had just palmed.  More likely though Jeff was 
just taking a break from rounds of his favorite stalls.

At first, about a year before, he would go in just to take a quick whiz like 
anybody else.  Then, once, he was sure he had to crap real bad and rushed 
into one of the stalls and squatted his bare white butt back and pulled one 
cheek outwards and put his weight on it and then leaned to pull the other 
cheek outwards and then shifted his full weight to the inside curves of both 
cheeks to stretch his crack open and make his hole the size of an oreo cookie 
but it turned out to be just a burning fart that ripped and echoed around the 
wet bowl.  Half-expecting to see his weapons-grade fart melt the tiles, he 
noticed a good magic-marker drawing of a guy sniffing another guy's mouth and 
asking him whose shit he's been eating and the other guy saying it was a lot 
of different guys' shit and "Lap it up, man, because it tastes so fuckin 
good!"  Jeff's buddies always sneered about the queer shit on the walls of 
the can and then would usually talk for a while about a teacher everybody 
knew was a homo and then go on to plan ways to get beer so they could get 
shitfaced.  

As time went on Jeff secretly checked out all the stalls, knowing not to go 
in too much when the other guys were around.  When they were around and he 
got hot, he would pretend to hold in a load until one of them would say "So 
go take a fucking shit, asshole, before you crap your fucking pants.  We'll 
wait."  He loved that one drawing, and came back to that stall every time the 
coast was clear.  He started trying to guess which guys he saw walking around 
the mall might be into sniffing their own toilet paper, his cock dripping a 
sticky spot into the crotch of his cutoffs as he looked at asses stuffed into 
tight denims, wondering which ones had major loads still in them and which 
ones had skid marks on their jockeys.  He pictured cute guys shitting their 
pants, or just sliding out shiny brown coils on the floor, and would pretend 
when he cut one himself that it was some other hot guy's fart he was 
smelling.  

He thought it was kind of funny that the maintenance guy at the Spa would 
turn him on most.  He had seen Lee many times before, but lately all Jeff 
could think of was how much turd there might be in Lee's hole, how much it 
stunk, and how many times a day he shit--big loads of shiny brown logs, or 
soft piles with hot power farts packing a whole room with stench--whether he 
pissed the same time he shit or went back and forth from pissing to shitting. 
Jeff made it into a little game for himself, a one-man toilet orgy in his 
head starring the Spa's maintenance man.

One morning as the mall was slowly starting to fill up Jeff spotted a kid he 
definitely did not want to run into and quickly stepped sideways into the 
entrance area between the display windows of a store that hadn't opened up 
yet.  The moment he did so he realized he had also stepped through an 
invisible wall into a furnace of concentrated ass gas just cut by none other 
than the maintenance guy, who had obviously ducked in a moment before for an 
emergency of his own, a hole-blistering fart that couldn't wait.  

"Sorry."

It was the first time Jeff had ever heard the guy's voice.  His reflex was to 
duck back out into the mall, but he heard his own voice in his head: "Hey, 
shithead!  Enjoy it!"  So he decided to play stupid and stare into the store 
display windows like he was seriously considering buying a Swiss army knife 
or a walkie-talkie, for the first time openly feasting on a fart really from 
another hot guy's hole!  In recent weeks Jeff had in fact started to do some 
real scenes based on his fantasies, like skipping wiping so he could build up 
thick smears in his crack and poke a finger in and then sniff the ripe finger 
while he walked around.  He had started to catching shit in a plastic bowl 
instead of dumping in the toilet bowl and then spreading a coating of it 
around his mouth so he could lick it and swirl its bitterness around in his 
mouth as he jerked off.  

As he stood near Lee he could feel his dick getting hurting hard and 
pretended to have to check out the cameras in other display window so he 
could turn and give Lee a clear shot of the cannon in his crotch, sticky spot 
and all.  Lee caught the action, hoarsely muttering "Yeah!"  His own piece 
thickened as he 'casually' ran his hands around his cock and butt, staring 
straight into Jeff's eyes. 

Jeff suddenly began pounding his closed fist against his button fly and 
whimpered helplessly about ten times, his clenched ass snapping forward 
spastically each time, sweating red-faced and cursing as his little sticky 
spot turned into a lake.  This brought Lee to a ten-gun salute all over the 
crotch of his jeans, groaning for guys' shit and piss just loud enough for 
Jeff to hear, which forced Jeff into fuck number two as his balls strained so 
hard to re-empty  they began to ache.  No sense either one of them stepping 
back into the mall now, as they panted "Yeah!" and "Hey, OK!" and "All right, 
man!"  Jeff heard himself tell Lee he sure was very hungry and really liked 
to eat a lot.  A lot.  "Me too," Lee rasped. "Meet me in front of the Spa at 
five.  I know a place close to here where we can go."
      

I welcome your comments.  Bkcycler@aol.com (Dan)