Chapter 2

My follow up visit to room 69 of the Lakeside Motel was a nervous one for me despite the fact I was ready for anything and wanted to find my beautiful ghost from the previous visit.

In retrospect, I had to admit that the murdered girl, Carmen Cordero, was a thousand percent more carnally satisfying than my assigned escort girl. The whore was able to deliver a fine performance of ass-shaking and lip sucking that made her assignment quite successful, but it was Carmen with her fiery tongue and her tight anal passageway that tickled my fancy and filled me with an obsession to taste her feminine folds in an encore performance of Lust and Passion.

Of course, I didn’t tell anyone about my episode with the ghost girl that rang my chimes with the touch of her long-dead fingers.

Most people would just shake their heads and consider me a candidate for the “funny farm” if I tried to explain why I was hanging out in such a sleazy motel in a bad part of town.

I had looked up the details of Carmen’s bloody demise and saw the lurid photos taken at the scene of the crime. My understanding was that there were even juicier photos showing Carmen posed in an indelicate position down on her elbows and knees with a mop handle protruding from her anus like a parody of an animal’s tail hanging down from her naked heart-shaped ass.

Those photos never made it to publication and I could understand the reason since our respected newspaper was swollen with a sense of pride in the claim of being, “An old-fashioned family newspaper with all the news that’s fit to print”.

An undignified exposition of poor Carmen with the signature tail in her bottom was not in that desired projection of a family paper that could be read by all members of the family unit. It was the tabloids that used that sort of content to make Carmen’s death a reason for constant viewing of poor Carmen in her final pose spread out in gory color for speculation about her painful final hours.

I had already made the assumption that Carmen was in room 69 on that fateful night because she was working as a call-girl to help pay her rent and have funds to give to her disabled mother living in a nursing facility downtown. She had given me the sob story as I humped her fore and aft with joyful enthusiasm and I watched the tears flow down her cheeks as she took all I had to give without a single complaint. I liked that about Carmen, she was a regular person in that sense, always willing to go the last mile or give you the shirt off her back without a second thought.

I had listened to her story and from what I read in the old newspapers confirmed that she had been taken advantage of by some demented serial killer that preyed on defenseless “bad girls” stretched out on their bellies and easy to strangle from behind before they even suspected what was happening to them. I understood from what she had told me that everything seemed perfect right up until the last moment when she felt the cord tighten around her neck and all went black like an unexpected power outage had taken place.

As you can imagine, I was perfectly fine with Carmen filling my needs for female companionship, even if she was impregnated in my mind as true flesh and blood and not a spectral imitation of a real live girl. Once I had dipped my wicked wick in Carmen’s pretty peach pie, all my doubts about making her my go-to girl for serious sessions of carnal satisfaction ceased to haunt my conscience. I had no explanation for her existence in the world of the living, but it seemed tied in some strange way to the exact geographic location of her murder. It looked like Room 69, Carmen and I had a connection of psychic proportion and the benefits of going along with the program were uniquely more preferable than ignoring the strange opportunity.

I spent all the hours before midnight humping my Carmen every way from Sunday in a way that drained my reserves of spunk in a delightful fashion. She was walking around the room completely naked except for her buttock highlighting high heels and each time I looked at her perfect tiny heart-shaped ass, I rose again like some monster from the black lagoon ready for another go.

Eventually, my common sense took charge of my undisciplined dick and I realized it was important to “order” an escort girl to give me cover for my unprecedented use of the run-down room for another night of vice and passion.

“This is room 69; I wanted to order a petite brunette for full service between one AM and two AM. She must be comfortable with “going around the world” and I would prefer one that has no problem with swallowing and not spitting. Spitting is such a vile habit and not very ladylike at all.”

I heard the pimp at the other end of the line chuckle at my sorry attempt at humor and he promised me his “best girl” would arrive sharply at one and was well-trained to meet all my requirements. I took him at his word because the last offering for my below-the-belt urges was superior in every way despite not being at the level of Carmen’s distinct advantages. Of course, Carmen had been dead over twenty years and her reincarnation in room 69 was one of those mysteries of the universe that had no explanation and defied all common sense. I agreed with that perspective just as much as the next guy, but if you had your fully extended cock buried in Carmen’s tight channel of pleasure for a midnight ride, I feel certain you would see my point of view.