Friar's Gate

The anatomy of a broken motel with hallways of nightmares and buzzing fluorescent lights. Catering to debauchery's, John and Jane Doe's. Ice machines with liquid ice and echoes of scarlet whores with bathrooms of faux amenities
 
She walked by the concierge's desk, dropping a greenback. "Room 47, she whispered." She was on time, she was always on time. The Friar's Gate Motel is a borderline 1-Star dig. Her shtick is wraparound dark sunglasses and patronizing fools out of their money that they may well tithe to a church.    
 
She was a whore by night and an attractive middle age divorcee by day. Whoring her body and living out her fantasies. Tonight's interlude in between a rendezvous with the Marlboro man, preacher man, and a ribeye steak. All was well in Gotham tonight as the pastor opened the room door. She could smell the dried cum on the sheets and the discreet towel around his waist. Her stepbrother was a gelding and the leader of the coven. He had a fondness for double penetration, in his ass and the other end counting his teeth. Justine believed in free love and the Marlboro Man.