Anonymous >> #21614
Posted on 2011-08-25 05:26:33 Score: 1 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
I personally like the women with penis and all of this artists work that's been posted here

Anonymous >> #21634
Posted on 2011-08-25 13:09:29 Score: 2 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
Um... That's not a woman. Note the lack of breasts and the cross-dressing, trap and yaoi tags...

Doodily_Doo >> #21643
Posted on 2011-08-25 19:10:29 Score: 12 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
It's a trap, as in a male that looks feminine enough to easily pass for a girl. If you do not like this sort of thing, make an account to blacklist the tag, or you can do a regular search for whatever, adding "-trap" to the end of the search (Separated by a space, like all other multi-tag searches)

And no. I will not stop. This is what I like. I will continue to upload and view content such as this. If it really bothers you that much, do something about it other than bitch. Like the options I put above.

Anonymous >> #21692
Posted on 2011-08-26 11:10:15 Score: -11 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
Nice try retagging this as spam. Fixed. Also, artist is Reva Diehard....... I think.

Anonymous >> #21695
Posted on 2011-08-26 12:10:41 Score: -5 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
Herp, derp, it's Majalis. The story and detail should have been a dead give-away. My bad. Correcting.

Anonymous >> #73675
Posted on 2013-01-06 01:56:50 Score: -8 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
"The receptionist watches as the handsome man from the night before approaches with his date" under his arm. When they'd arrived the previous night, he could swear the boy was a prostitute, as the man looked smug and assured, he couldn't have been older than 19, and he didn't say anything or do anything at the check-in aside from flash his bubbly smile and awkwardly follow the man up to his room, mentally steeling himself even as the elevator door closed. he had half-expected for the man to try and pay in cash, especially when he noticed the wedding band on his finger, but he seemed perfectly alright with leaving his credit card at the desk. He was confident and all smiles. he had seemed like the type of boy that picked his men based on the quality of their watch or car, and he had no doubt that regardless of his actual status, that he'd be on his back, and that he'd have a lot of money to show for it. What he hadn't expected was him to arrive with him heavily pregnant, with him looking just as smug as before. he certainly didn't seem like his husband, and he was wondering what kind of trophy husband would risk getting knocked up before his 20's while the two of them made their way towards him.

With each knock of the boy's shoes on the marbled floor of the lounge, his tremendous tummy bounces a little under his shirt. Strangely, it also wobbles side to side, as he has difficulty placing one foot in front of the other, no doubt because of how large he is in the stomach region, and the relatively wide placement of his hips. he looks anxious, and won't look anyone in the eye, and actually looks sort of half-lidded himself, like he's completely exhausted, or terribly uncomfortable, or both. The lobby is comfortably air-conditioned, but he's visibly sweating, as if carrying a heavy burden. The receptionist considers for a moment that he might be in labor, but his "husband" seems to be in no rush, and is in fact, guiding him, specifically, towards the receptionist's desk. his gut stretches his shirt taut around him, which seems odd given the circumstances. The previous night, he'd walked with such an exaggerated sashay, but now he walks with small, measured steps, almost shy.

When they finally reach the desk, he expects the man to speak, but he remains silent, and instead looks to the boy. he looks around, anywhere but the receptionist, and stays silent himself, until the man shakes his shoulder, at which point he still doesn't make eye contact, but he does start to force out speech.

"Um... hi. Um... we're done."

his voice sounds like an affectation, like he's making it higher and sweeter than it actually is. The receptionist tries to pick out his real voice underneath, but he's distracted by the gurgling of the large belly he's certain wasn't there the previous night, and the pleasant smell in the air: honey, likely the boy's aftershave, with a strangely potent mixture of sex. This seems odd, as the two seem cleanly showered, although he supposes it possible that they did something just before coming down. The two of them are, taken apart and together, actually very alluring, although the boy isn't trying very hard to hold himself in a dignified or bombastic way.

"You're... ah, done?"

The boy doesn't say anything, but blushes strongly. He responds by leaning against him and pushing his belly into the desk. he elicits a small "guh!" and it starts to grumble and he starts to sweat more rapidly. The receptionist ask his if he's alright, but he purses his lips and stays silent. he then smiles a forced smile and speaks in the same cutely-affected voice.

"Yeah. We... we finished."

The man suppresses a chuckle. He leans back, relieving the weight on him, and he whispers something into the boy's ear, and he flicks him a sharp look, only momentarily, before clarifying.

"I mean we're ready to check out. Is that okay?"

"Oh, sure," says the receptionist, and he brings up the bill on his computer. his gaze keeps darting to the young boy, specifically his belly, and then back. Eventually, the boy takes notice.

"Um, is there something wrong?" he says, somewhat impatiently.

"No, it will just take a minute, um, but if you don't mind me asking... is that...?" he says, smiling empathetically, pointing to his abdomen.

"All my doing," he says, rubbing firmly on his belly, pressing it in, showing a small amount of give. he grits his teeth and gives an unsure smile. he seems to want to get away from the receptionist as quickly as possible, but the receptionist can't figure out why.

He starts to apply more and more pressure to his tummy, and his awkward smile gives way to a trembling lip, as nervousness gives way to fear. "Darling?" he asks, his voice high and strained, but he doesn't respond. he leans against his chest, his small frame shaking with worry. "It's going to... come out..." he says, almost as a warning.

He interrupts him with a kiss, tilting his chin up with the mere suggestion of one, and his eyes start to moisten with the effort. He reaches under his shirt, and pulls down his boxers to his thighs. The receptionist looks on, unable to see what he's doing, but recognizing that something significant is occurring just out of view. he doesn't see his hand working its way across his ass, or when his hand finds the foreign object lodged in his rectum and grabs hold of the only part of it untouched by his shameful innards. However, he does see a noticeable change in the atmosphere, as the young boy grows more lusty in their kiss as his hand roams across his backside, and bites on his lip in shock and perhaps a little anger as he grabs on to his tail.

Of course, he also didn't see the spectacle last night, wherein the boy was on his hands and knees behind closed doors purring like a kitten or barking like a dog as the situation demanded, while a man pushed open his real money-maker without any resistance. The receptionist hadn't seen him on his back or on his belly, tearing at the sheets, waiving fees here and there at his request, so that hourly rates became nightly rates became special discounts and then finally became a privileged encounter. Those same fees which were ostensibly the reason for the minor lapse in orientation, became as forgotten as the young boy's actual name as he hoisted his rear-end back onto him while on his hands and knees, or while sitting, or riding, or simply pushing back while pressed against the bed or floor. Every position in pornography became his inspiration and a small part of his wished there had been a recording of his freebie session. he smiled and didn't think too hard about it while he called out "ruf, ruf, ruf" like a dog while taking it "doggy," and tried to think even less about how the thing that was bringing so much pleasure to his tight little bottom belonged to a man. When he called his a "bitch" or a "slut" or a "whore" a part of him wanted to contradict him and a part of him came, over and over again. They had sex in the shower, on the bed, on the floor, on a chair, on a desk, under the sheets (where, even more certain that no one could possibly see him, he kissed him while he made the space in-between them moist), and he even convinced him to lean out the window and look down at the world below while the fact that he was male got pushed up inside of him repeatedly until he jizzed all over it. he placed his hands on the wall, bent at the waist, spread his legs, and waited for him to penetrate him without a word of complaint. And when a few minutes later, when his hands were on his shoulders and he bit his lip while he rammed it up inside of him, he found himself pushing his butt back onto him. When he realized that the angle wasn't right for a full penetration, he slid his feet further apart, spreading his legs wider and lowering himself, which allowed another inch of stiffness to bore into his butt. Despite wishing he'd shown more restraint while he gashunked it into him, he still pushed back, even when he called him a rude word and fired off up inside. he felt the pressure build as he shot liquid into liquid, his sphincter tight around his shaft, sealing all of his satisfaction inside. he sat in his lap and when he came he realized he had been flaccid and hadn't even noticed, at which point that stopped being true entirely. At one point he asked his what he wanted and his mind blanked, his only response being a guttural moan punctuated by a splat because he hit just the right spot.

The last boyfriend he had couldn't have gotten a man to cum so many times, and yet whenever he was finished his biggest fear was that it was the last one, and "I'm... not... finished!" he sucked off his wedding ring and held it on his tongue while he bounced on him, and was about to throw back his head and swallow the troublesome thing when he came, and the shock made his cum, and then it didn't seem like such a good idea. he gave it back to him and he slipped it back on, slick with his saliva, but he knew that if he kept with the path he was on, he was going to end up swallowing it at some point regardless. He said his husband had his own boytoy, and he wondered what he'd think if he found out his husband had his own boytoy as well. his own ring was sore, but that didn't seem to stop him, or him for that matter.

he called him a bastard and a liar and a jerk and other, colorful things when he laughed about his reactions, the sounds he made or the demands of his client he inevitably made, or when he poked fun at his figure or stature, but every stain and glob that they left behind for some poor cleaning lady to boil or spray was his, and that the sheets were sticky enough to adhere to the wall was also his doing. Not a single drop of his satisfaction-guaranteed ended up anywhere but inside of him, or his belly in particular, even when the sloshing of his stomach made his queasy and he asked for it on the face or on his body. When all was said and done, he excused himself to the bathroom, but he stopped him - quite literally, as he felt the bloated turnip-thing slowly sliding into his anal cavity, plugging up his well-used hole, and even as he begged him in his exhausted, sore and embarrassed state to remove it, he fell asleep with it inside him, and dreamt of overly-full water balloons. When they woke, he kissed it, said it was his gift to him, and wouldn't let him live down the things he'd said in the throes of passion the night before. Somewhat sober of sex, he denied what he'd previously said, and called the whole thing an "accident," which is when he suggested that he wasn't going to let him have another "accident," and so he showered with it still aching inside of him, and dressed with it still holding open his sphincter, and then approached the receptionist desk so full of shame both figurative and liquid that he thought - and hoped - that he might burst. The way it sloshed around made his realize just how much he'd squeezed out of him, and what he'd squeezed it out of him with. It felt so slimy and thick, he knew that if he could hold it in long enough to get to a sperm bank, he could profit on the night anyway. And he knew that when he made him talk to the receptionist, that even though he hadn't yet penetrated his mouth, there was a very real chance that if he hiccuped it would taste like cum, and he'd like it.

"That's enough of that," he says, bringing his mind back into the present, where the clueless receptionist watches in confusion. He gives him what appears to be a slap on the rear, and the receptionist tries not to look at his when he does, as it must be embarrassing, the pig! he thinks, but instead of the yelp he was expecting, the boy groans hoarsely, and his hands ball into fists, and he can swear he hears his mutter "bastard" poutily under his breath.

Immediately, he tenses up, and the receptionist wonders just what sort of naughty thing the man is doing just out of sight. In reality, he's twisting the immense thing that's clogged up his backdoor, turning it clockwise so that it drills his "husband's" insides. He whispers something in his ear, and he looks as mad as he looks lustful, particularly when he pats on the end of the plug again and he sees stars. All at once, he imagines himself bent over the receptionists desk, panting like a fool while his belly gets that much more stuffed full of his favorite milkshake. he knew he should have swallowed that ring.

The receptionist notices a strange crease in the boy's jeans that seems to become more and more prominent. The man seems to notice it as well, and he suddenly reaches down and smooths it out with his hand. It's a sweet little gesture, he thinks, and as he looks away at their bonus expenses, he stealthily slides his hand underneath his shirt, and his demeanor shifts as a small, shy, nervous smile finds its way onto his face. The receptionist can't very much see the small movements underneath the shirt, just as he is ignorant to the rotating and twisting under the back end of the shirt, which is churning the boy's guts, making his wild with eagerness, even as the fear of exposure and the greater fear of expulsion weighs heavily on his rapidly beating little heart.

To hide even that small, visible motion, the man suggestively pushes on his back with his chest, and he leans over the receptionist's desk, as if trying to get a look at his screen. The receptionist notices a few small bonus expenditures with no description, that read instead "Ask Carlos," one of the gofers that delivers special items to guest's rooms for a fee. his brow furrows, and the boy with a fake placidity above and a hidden maelstrom below asks his in a cracking, breathy voice what the matter is.

"Did you order anything special last night?"

The boy's face becomes frozen in horror. "We... did we?"

"It says here you ordered something up to your room, but it doesn't say what. Are these charges correct?"

he spins the screen around, and the wide-eyed boy looks at the two "items" ordered, and blinks vacantly.

"Yeah... we did."

"Oh, okay. So long as those are genuine charges. Did you get what you asked for?"

The man snickers, and the boy looks at the receptionist with a curious expression. "Yeah... mmm... I did."

"That's good to hear! I hope you both enjoyed your stay?"

The boy nods, a little too fast, and then puts his hands on the desk. he crumples the reservation list in his hand, but the receptionist doesn't notice, as he's running their card through the machine. For a second, it looks like he's in pain, but then the man's hand rears back, and then slaps into his backside with force. The receptionist jumps with a start at the sound, but the boy merely rolls his eyes, closes them, and chokes down a wordless howl of pain and pleasure that would have shattered the vase on the receptionist's desk. he shakes with tears in his eyes, and then goes still, and coughs,
before drawing himself up again.

"We certainly did," answers the man, late, while affectionately rubbing the boy's tummy again, he himself with the far-off look of a man satisfied. The receptionist smiles absently and hands him back his card.

"Have a good day then Mr... Johnson. And Mr... um?"

"Eclair," says the man, and the boy turns an even brighter shade of red. he'd never heard that name before, but he knows that an eclair is a cream-filled pastry.

The receptionist nods, feeling like he must have missed something, and then watches as they turn away together to leave. He whispers something in his ear, again, and this time he catches that he was saying something about him "making room." Maybe they were going out to eat?

he sees Carlos walking, and calls him over, at which point he laughs and explains that all those two asked for was a tub of lube and a 5-inch wide buttplug. The receptionist boggles, and then looks over to the boy, who is still having trouble walking. That would explain it. Carlos then says that the cleaning lady said their room looked like it'd been glazed over.

The two of them hail a cab out in front, and he watches them duck one after the other into the backseat. Though the boy gets in second, the receptionist can't see him as the cab drives off, and he blushes with the realization seconds later.

he shakes his head, trying to avoid thinking about how such a heavily pregnant boy gets up to those kinds of things, when another guest approaches his station. Just before he opens his mouth to say something, he looks confused, then down at his shoes, and lifts one of his feet off the ground.

"Ugh!" he says, disgusted, "is this gum?"

Anonymous >> #75434
Posted on 2013-01-21 02:29:11 Score: 5 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
Here's the original since the anon's version above me is rather confusing with every single character referred to by male pronouns.




The receptionist watches as the handsome man from the night before approaches with his date" under his arm. When they'd arrived the previous night, she could swear the girl was a prostitute, as the man looked smug and assured, she couldn't have been older than 19, and she didn't say anything or do anything at the check-in aside from flash her bubbly smile and awkwardly follow the man up to her room, mentally steeling herself even as the elevator door closed. She had half-expected for the man to try and pay in cash, especially when she noticed the wedding band on his finger, but he seemed perfectly alright with leaving his credit card at the desk. He was confident and all smiles. She had seemed like the type of girl that picked her men based on the quality of their watch or car, and she had no doubt that regardless of her actual status, that she'd be on her back, and that she'd have fancier jewelry to show for it. What she hadn't expected was her to arrive with him heavily pregnant, with him looking just as smug as before. She certainly didn't seem like his wife, and she was wondering what kind of trophy wife would risk getting knocked up before her 20's while the two of them made their way towards her.

With each knock of the girl's heel on the marbled floor of the lounge, her tremendous tummy bounces a little under her dress. Strangely, it also wobbles side to side, as she has difficulty placing one foot in front of the other, no doubt because of how large she is in the stomach region, and the relatively wide placement of her hips. She looks anxious, and won't look anyone in the eye, and actually looks sort of half-lidded herself, like she's completely exhausted, or terribly uncomfortable, or both. The lobby is comfortably airconditioned, but she's visibly sweating, as if carrying a heavy burden. The receptionist considers for a moment that she might be in labor, but her "husband" seems to be in no rush, and is in fact, guiding her, specifically, towards the receptionist's desk. Her gut stretches her dress taut around her, which seems odd given the circumstances. The previous night, she'd walked with such an exaggerated sashay, but now she walks with small, measured steps, almost shy.

When they finally reach the desk, she expects the man to speak, but he remains silent, and instead looks to the girl. She looks around, anywhere but the receptionist, and stays silent herself, until the man shakes her shoulder, at which point she still doesn't make eye contact, but she does start to force out speech.

"Um... hi. Um... we're done."

Her voice sounds like an affectation, like she's making it higher and sweeter than it actually is. The receptionist tries to pick out her real voice underneath, but she's distracted by the gurgling of the large belly she's certain wasn't there the previous night, and the pleasant smell in the air: honey, likely the girl's perfume, with a strangely potent mixture of sex. This seems odd, as the two seem cleanly showered, although she supposes it possible that they did something just before coming down. The two of them are, taken apart and together, actually very alluring, although the girl isn't trying very hard to hold herself in a dignified or bombastic way.

"You're... ah, done?"

The girl doesn't say anything, but blushes strongly. He responds by leaning against her and pushing her belly into the desk. She elicits a small "guh!" and it starts to grumble and she starts to sweat more rapidly. The receptionist ask her if she's alright, but she purses her lips and stays silent. She then smiles a forced smile and speaks in the same cutely-affected voice.

"Yeah. We... we finished."

The man supresses a chuckle. He leans back, relieving the weight on her, and he whispers something into the girl's ear, and she flicks him a sharp look, only momentarily, before clarifying.

"I mean we're ready to check out. Is that okay?"

"Oh, sure," says the receptionist, and she brings up the bill on her computer. Her gaze keeps darting to the young girl, specifically her belly, and then back. Eventually, the girl takes notice.

"Um, is there something wrong?" she says, somewhat impatiently.

"No, it will just take a minute, um, but if you don't mind me asking... is that...?" she says, smiling empathetically, pointing to her abdomen.

"All my doing," he says, rubbing firmly on her belly, pressing it in, showing a small amount of give. She grits her teeth and gives an unsure smile. She seems to want to get away from the receptionist as quickly as possible, but the receptionist can't figure out why.

He starts to apply more and more pressure to her tummy, and her awkward smile gives way to a trembling lip, as nervousness gives way to fear. "Darling?" she asks, her voice high and strained, but he doesn't respond. She leans against his chest, her small frame shaking with worry. "It's going to... come out..." she says, almost as a warning.

He interrupts her with a kiss, tilting her chin up with the mere suggestion of one, and her eyes start to moisten with the effort. He reaches under her dress, and pulls down her panties to her thighs. The receptionist looks on, unable to see what he's doing, but recognizing that something significant is occuring just out of view. She doesn't see his hand working its way across "her" bum, or when his hand finds the foreign object lodged in "her" rectum and grabs hold of the only part of it untouched by her shameful innards. However, she does see a noticable change in the atmosphere, as the young girl grows more lusty in their kiss as his hand roams across her backside, and bites on his lip in shock and perhaps a little anger as he grabs on to her tail.

Of course, she also didn't see the spectacle last night, wherein the girl was on her hands and knees behind closed doors purring like a kitten or barking like a dog as the situation demanded, while a man pushed open her real money-maker without any resistance. The receptionist hadn't seen her on her back or on her belly, tearing at the sheets, waiving fees here and there at his request, so that hourly rates became nightly rates became special discounts and then finally became a privilidged encounter. Those same fees which were ostensibly the reason for the minor lapse in gender and orientation, became as forgotten as the young girl's actual name as she hoisted her rear-end back onto him while on her hands and knees, or while sitting, or riding, or simply pushing back while pressed against the bed or floor. Every position in pornography became her inspiration and a small part of her wished there had been a recording of her freebie session. She smiled and didn't think too hard about it while she called out "ruf, ruf, ruf" like a dog while taking it "doggy," and tried to think even less about how the thing that was bringing so much pleasure to her tight little bottom belonged to a man, and didn't even bother to wonder at which point the G4P lable she figuratively wore became "girl for pay". When he called her a "bitch" or a "slut" or a "whore" a part of her wanted to contradict him and a part of her came, over and over again. They had sex in the shower, on the bed, on the floor, on a chair, on a desk, under the sheets (where, even more certain that noone could possibly see her, she kissed him while she made the space inbetween them moist), and he even almost convinced her to lean out the window and look down at the world below while the fact that she was actually male got pushed up inside of her repeatedly until he jizzed all over it. She placed her hands on the wall, bent at the waist, spread her legs, and waited for him to penetrate her without a word of complaint. And when a few minutes later, when his hands were on her shoulders and she bit her lip while he rammed it up inside of her, she found herself pushing her butt back onto him. When she realized that the angle wasn't right for a full penetration, she slid her heels further apart, spreading her legs wider and lowering herself, which allowed another inch of stiffness to bore into her butt. Despite wishing she'd shown more restraint while he gashunked it into her, she still pushed back, even when he called her a rude word and fired off up inside. She felt the pressure build as he shot liquid into liquid, her sphincter tight around his shaft, sealing all of his satisfaction inside. She sat in his lap and he felt at her padded bra and when he came she realized she had been flaccid and hadn't even noticed, at which point that stopped being true entirely. At one point he asked her what she wanted and her mind blanked, her only response being a guttural moan punctuated by a splat because he hit just the right spot.

The last girlfriend she had couldn't have gotten a man to cum so many times, and yet whenever he was finished her biggest fear was that it was the last one, and "I'm... not... finished!" She sucked off his wedding ring and held it on her tongue while she bounced on him, and was about to throw back her head and swallow the troublesome thing when he came, and the shock made her cum, and then it didn't seem like such a good idea. She gave it back to him and he slipped it back on, slick with her saliva, but she knew that if she kept with the path she was on, she was going to end up swallowing it at some point regardless. He said his wife had her own boytoy, and she wondered what she'd think if she found out her husband had his own boytoy as well. Her own ring was sore, but that didn't seem to stop her, or him for that matter.

She called him a bastard and a liar and a jerk and other, colorful things when he laughed about her reactions, the sounds she made or the demands of her client she inevitably made, or when he poked fun at her figure or stature, but every stain and glob that they left beind for some poor cleaning lady to boil or spray was hers, and that the sheets were sticky enough to adhere to the wall was also her doing. Not a single drop of his satisfaction-guaranteed ended up anywhere but inside of her, or her belly in particular, even when the sloshing of her stomach made her queasy and she asked for it on the face or on her body. When all was said and done, she excused herself to the bathroom, but he stopped her - quite literally, as she felt the bloated turnip-thing plug up her well-used hole, and even as she begged him in her exhausted, sore and embarrassed state to remove it, she fell asleep with it inside her, and dreamt of overly-full water balloons. When they woke, he kissed it, said it was his gift to her, and wouldn't let her live down the things she'd said in the throes of passion the night before. Somewhat sober of sex, she denied what she'd previously said, and called the whole thing an "accident," which is when he suggested that he wasn't going to let her have another "accident," and so she showered with it still aching inside of her, and dressed with it still holding open her sphincter, and then approached the receptionist desk so full of shame both figurative and liquid that she thought - and hoped - that she might burst. The way it sloshed around made her realize just how much she'd squeezed out of him, and what she'd squeezed it out of him with. It felt so slimy and thick, she knew that if she could hold it in long enough to get to a sperm bank, she could profit on the night anyway. And she knew that when he made her talk to the receptionist, that even though he hadn't yet penetrated her mouth, there was a very real chance that if she hiccupped it would taste like cum, and she'd like it.

"That's enough of that," he says, bringing her mind back into the present, where the clueless receiptionist watches in confusion. He gives her what appears to be a slap on the rear, and the receptionist tries not to look at her when he does, as it must be embarassing, the pig! she thinks, but instead of the yelp she was expecting, the girl groans hoarsely, and her hands ball into fists, and she can swear she hears her mutter "bastard" poutily under her breath.

Immediately, she tenses up, and the receptionist wonders just what sort of naughty thing the man is doing just out of sight. In reality, he's twisting the immense thing that's clogged up her backdoor, turning it clockwise so that it drills his "wife's" insides. He whispers something in her ear, and she looks as mad as she looks lustful, particularly when he pats on the end of the plug again and she sees stars. All at once, she imagines herself bent over the receptionists desk, panting like a fool while her belly gets that much
more stuffed full of her favorite milkshake. She knew she should have swallowed that ring.

The receptionist notices a strange crease in the girl's dress that seems to become more and more prominent. The man seems to notice it as well, and he suddenly reaches down and smoothes it out with his hand. It's a sweet little gesture, she thinks, and as she looks away at their bonus expenses, he stealthfully slides his hand underneath her dress, and her demeanor shifts as a small, shy, nervous smile finds its way onto her face. The receptionist can't very much see the small movements underneath the dress, just as she is ignorant to the rotating and twisting under the back end of the dress, which is churning the "girl's" guts, making her wild with eagerness, even as the fear of exposure and the greater fear of expulsion weighs heavily on her rapidly beating little heart.

To hide even that small, visible motion, the man suggestively pushes on her back with his chest, and she leans over the receptionist's desk, as if trying to get a look at her screen. The receptionist notices a few small bonus expenditures with no description, that read instead "Ask Carlos," one of the gofers that delivers special items to guest's rooms for a fee. Her brow furrows, and the girl with a fake placidity above and a hidden maelstrom below asks her in a cracking, breathy voice what the matter is.

"Did you order anything special last night?"

The girl's face becomes frozen in horror. "We... did we?"

"It says here you ordered something up to your room, but it doesn't say what. Are these charges correct?"

She spins the screen around, and the wide-eyed girl looks at the two "items" ordered, and blinks vacantly.

"Yeah... we did."

"Oh, okay. So long as those are genuine charges. Did you get what you asked for?"

The man snickers, and the girl looks at the receptionist with a curious expression. "Yeah... mmm... I did."

"That's good to hear! I hope you both enjoyed your stay?"

The girl nods, a little too fast, and then puts her hands on the desk. She crumples the reservation list in her hand, but the receptionist doesn't notice, as she's running their card through the machine. For a second, it looks like she's in pain, but then the man's hand rears back, and then slaps into her backside with force. The receptionist jumps with a start at the sound, but the girl merely rollsher eyes, closes them, and chokes down a wordless howl of pain and pleasure that would have shattered the vase on the receptionist's desk. She shakes with tears in her eyes, and then goes still, and coughs,
before drawing herself up again.

"We certainly did," answers the man, late, while affectionately rubbing the girl's tummy again, she herself with the far-off look of a woman satisfied. The receptionist smiles absently and hands him back his card.

"Have a good day then Mr... Johnson. And Miss... um?"

"Eclair," says the man, and the girl turns an even brighter shade of red. She'd never heard that name before, but she knows that an eclair is a cream-filled pastry.

The receptionist nods, feeling like she must have missed something, and then watches as they turn away together to leave. He whispers something in her ear, again, and this time she catches that he was saying something about her "making room." Maybe they were going out to eat?

She sees Carlos walking, and calls him over, at which point he laughs and explains that all those two asked for was a tub of lube and a 3-inch wide buttplug. The receptionist boggles, and then looks over to the girl, who is still having trouble walking. That would explain it. Carlos then says that the cleaning lady said their room looked like it'd been glazed over, but the receptionist still doesn't figure out the gender of the little tart waddling her way out.

The two of them hail a cab out in front, and she watches them duck one after the other into the backseat. Though the girl gets in second, the receptionist can't see her as the cab drives off, and she blushes with the realization seconds later.

She shakes her head, trying to avoid thinking about how such a heavily pregnant girl gets up to those kinds of things, when another guest approaches her station. Just before he opens his mouth to say something, he looks confused, then down at his shoes, and lifts one of his feet off the ground.

"Ugh!" he says, disgusted, "is this gum?"

Arsenic >> #100803
Posted on 2013-08-25 20:57:19 Score: -6 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
All this just for a night at the love motel... hmmm... probably worth it.

Anonymous >> #132338
Posted on 2014-05-21 07:37:02 Score: -5 (vote Up)   (Report as spam)
why was the Long comment of the Pictures story from the artists page of the picture he made, made hidden?

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