It had taken forever to get the subwoofer out of the Dodge Charger's trunk without damaging the cords. It was done with such skill and precision, it would appear that a surgeon had removed it. The key was to take the speaker out, remove the cords, and then hook the stereo back up to the factory installed radio speakers without the driver being aware of it. It had taken more time than before, but it was well worth it. That wasn't the hard part, though. The hard part was hooking the iPod up to the subwoofer without the benefit of a stereo. It had been a painstakingly slow process. One wrong splice of the cord, and the iPod would short out. But tenacity always pays off. The end result was raggedy looking with the cords kept in place with electrical tape, the iPod balanced on its side, held in place between two books, with a huge metal subwoofer vibrating next to it. It was ugly, but it worked.
The volume on the iPod was cranked up to highest level. It was so loud that the walls vibrated with each kick of the bass drum. There was no reason to ever use a subwoofer in a room this size, but the song demanded it. In fact, all good music always demanded it; this song in particular. It had been playing on repeat for the past hour. One song. One constant beat. One melody, and one voice screeching over that amazing guitar riff. Listening to it on anything lower than the max was the true definition of insanity.
Apparently, the people staying in the room next door disagreed because they had already done everything to get her to turn it down. They had yelled, banged on the walls, kicked on the door, they even called the manager. It didn't matter. The fucking neighbors could have called the National Guard, and the volume still wouldn't change. This song wasn't "noise". It was destined to be classic, in this room, if nowhere else. If it could have been turned up more, it would have been.
These fucking asshole neighbors. Apparently, they were the only ones that didn't understand how these places worked. No rules – that was the beauty of places like this. That's why this particular room was so choice. It was on the second floor, around the back facing the alley instead of the highway. There was nothing else on this side of the building except the five rooms on this level, garbage dumpsters, the overpass, and a pealing billboard. What in the hell were they expecting? If one picked a shit motel, with a shit room with no view, why would they think it would be quiet?
Anyone could stay in a two or three star hotel. But, a bed-bug infested No Tell-Motel? People stayed here because they wanted to get away with whatever dirt they were trying to do. That's why these places charged by the hour and not by the night. Most people wouldn't even want to stay for the entire night. Dirt didn't really take that much time to commit. For the most part, the only people who stayed in places like this only needed the space for about 20 minutes…a few hours if they had a lot of stamina. It was don't ask, don't tell…don't listen, don't knock. These assholes should know that.
Besides the annoying ass neighbors, the room was comfortable. There was a thick smell of stale cigarette smoke that clung to the air; it was almost reminiscent of home. The constant smoky air coupled with the music made it feel like a rock video. There was one problem with the room, though. It was hotter than a crack whore's crotch in there. The air-conditioning unit in the sole window did little more than blow the smoke rings further around the room. It provided a nice buzzing sound that served as background noise that served as reverb for the music. There was also a burning smell that came from the window-unit being cranked up to full blast. It had been a little hard to get used to, at first, but two packs of cigarettes later, it was no longer noticeable.
The roaches sure didn't seem to appreciate the extra heat in the room. They constantly ran in and out of the vents of the air-conditioner like they were trying to find a cooler climate. Or maybe they were just hungry. The box of half eaten pizza on the night table not only provided a nice temporary home, but also a hardy meal. They gathered there, grabbing their lunchtime snacks before running off to other wall cracks to share in a meal with their friends and family.
Most people would have found the place a disgusting, germ infested, death trap. But, Torren wasn't most people. In fact, she didn't seem to notice anything in particular about her living conditions. She had other things to focus on. She had already paid for this week, and next, so what did she care? The place had all of the essentials; electricity, toilet, running water, a bed, and a TV. Granted, the electricity was spotty, to the point that she couldn't have her curling iron and blow drier plugged in at the same time. The toilet was so soiled that it still hadn't been determined if there were rust stains in it, or if it just had never been cleaned…ever. The water ran brown when it rained outside, and a cloudy gray the rest of time. It didn't get hot either, it got tepid if she let it run for 10 minutes, but not hot. Not hot enough to sanitize your hands, or to take a bath in. But, it was already hot in the room, so a cold shower wasn't so bad. Besides, the tub was indescribable. If someone told her that a family of six had been murdered, and dismembered in that tub, she wouldn't be surprised. It just had that horror movie slaughter look, and the stains to prove it. The bed was hard and lumpy and judging from the DNA left behind from past guests and holes in the sheets, they probably hadn't ever been changed. The TV was small, but at least it was in color. Hell, the room even came with its own pets, and it was only $50 for the week! There truly wasn't anything to complain about.
Torren Sykes sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, surrounded by magazines. She rocked her neck and shoulders in a slow sway to the beat of the song playing. She haphazardly flipped through the pages, until she found a suitable picture. She ripped the page from the book, roughly, before picking up the scissors. She licked her lips slowly and ferried her brow, as she started the task of cutting it out. "God dammit!" She yelled before slamming the page down on the bed. Stomping angrily toward the door, she pulled it open and narrowed her eyes at the man standing there. "I swear, if you knock on this door again, I'm gonna slit your fucking throat!" She yelled, pointing the shears at the man's neck.
The motel manager was taken by surprised at the half naked woman holding shears to his neck. Standing before him was a beautiful brunette, with dark features. She had large, but perfect almond shaped eyes, and a heart shaped face. The soft dimple in her chin, and the one just at the curve of her mouth, gave her an almost angelic look. She was considerably shorter than him, about 5'5", and well built. She wouldn't have been considered thin; she was far too curvy for that. He had thick thighs, a round ass, pronounced hips, small waist, flat stomach and big breasts. Not too big, where one would sprain their thumb trying to hold them, but they were big enough to keep any man occupied.
She was wearing the smallest pair of underwear he'd ever seen. And what was the purpose of wearing a cut off top that stopped just under the nipples? He could clearly see the curve of the lower half of her breasts because the shirt failed to cover the lower half of her chest. She glistened with a fine sheen of sweat all over her body; her long hair clung to her cheeks and neck, with it. It was almost like her hair was beating as quickly as her pulse was. If she hadn't been assaulting him with a deadly weapon, it would have been a sexy Letters to Penthouse scene.
He could feel the rush of heat come out of the room, as soon as she opened the door. It was like she had just opened to door to an oven. She was hot, and sweaty, yet she still wore long tube socks that came up to her knees.
He had been so taken by surprised, that he couldn't think of anything to say to her. Instead he took a step back, and watched as she slammed the door. The entire encounter took about 5 seconds. Long enough for her to open the door, threaten him, and slam it again in his face. He wasn't sure what he was more surprised by how she answered the door almost naked, how hot her room was, how loud the music was, the anger in her voice, or the scissors that had been pointed just inches below his throat. The whole scene was just wrong and it scared him.
In the 20 seconds that he continued to stand in front of the closed room door, he thought about what scared him the most. It was the look in her eyes. Those beautiful almond shaped eyes were intense. They were concentrated. They had absently stared right through him. Something about those eyes weren't right. Had she even seen him? He would never admit it, but he hoped like hell that she hadn't. He hoped that she didn't remember what he looked like. He didn't want any trouble, and he could tell that she definitely was.
Stomping her way back to her bed Torren resumed her aforementioned position, picked up the magazine page, and started to sway to the music again. She smiled a little taking a second to run her fingers over the image on the page before she resumed cutting. Scraps of paper fell to the bed and the floor, some even stuck to her sweaty legs.
She clutched the cut-out to her chest, before falling back on the bed. Settling on her back, she held the picture up to the light. With tenderness, she brought the piece of paper down to her lips. She kissed it...him, with such passion, before sticking her tongue out of her mouth, and letting it rest on the waxy page - where his lips were. Planting her feet on the bed, she lifted her waist from the mattress, and started to thrust upward with the beat of the song.
Seductively, she flipped over on all fours, laying the picture down on the pillows. She whipped her hair around her head, before letting it hang over her shoulder. She scooped her neck down and began kissing the picture again. As she did, she started to grind her hips hard against the balled up blankets.
She let one hand travel down her torso, toward her panties, and smirked at the picture as she did. She braced herself on her left knee and elbow, before lifting her right leg out, then up. Roughly, she took her fingers and plunged them deep inside of herself. She bit her bottom lip, hard; she could taste the coppery blood on her tongue, and when she leaned down to kiss the picture again, she managed to get a nice bloody lip print on it. She twirled her hips, and moaned loudly as she pleasured herself. Her eyes never left the picture. She removed her fingers, only to trace the dampness on the image before placing them her mouth. Her taste was incredible. It always turned her on.
She had to have him. She needed him. She flipped over on the bed and grabbed another magazine from the stack. She found one with him on the cover. Ripping the cover off with urgency, she took the waxy pages down her body, before stuffing the picture along with her hand inside her panties. She closed her eyes. She felt his tongue running over her; she felt his fingers inside of her. The pillow covered in a t-shirt with his image on it, was now on top of her to simulate his body on hers, as her hand and the magazine continued to work.
She couldn't get enough of him. She would never get enough of him.
In the middle of a mind blowing orgasm, that happened to coincide with the best guitar solo every created, blasting on the stereo, she managed to yell one word, "ORTON!" Then she flopped back on the bed in hysterical laughter.
She unballed the magazine cover, and picked up her bloody cut-out from the bed. Wordlessly, she stuck them to the wall; amongst the 50 other cut outs of him that hung just over her headboard. After giving him another kiss, she finally turned down the volume on her stereo, picked up a piece of pizza from the box, shook it off, then headed in the bathroom for a cold shower.