Welcome to another celebration of tits, slits and clits. Super Service
is about a lust-driven hypnotist with a shag haircut named Marco. He uses weird, homemade drugs on his female patients, turning them into helpless sex machines.
His assistant, a go-to-hell blonde named Stella, disapproves. ("What about Mrs. Taylor? She’s a raving nymphomaniac now!") Marco promises to tone down the dosage ("I think I better test that new batch. Maybe it’s the temperature ..."). Instead, he tests it on Stella, spiking her Pepsi. She goes into a trance and Marco uses his hypnotic powers on her, bringing her erotic fantasies to life. Stella dreams she’s in an antique store spying on a couple making love. During their boning and moaning, we hear Stella’s voice giving us the play-by-play. She sounds like Howard Cosell calling a ball game ("Finally the hot sperm came hosing through the length of him, spilling the white semen all over her face.").
While still in a dazed state, Marco roto-rooters her. Later on two of Marco’s clients come over leading to a Three-for-all Free-for-all with Stella (who should be exhausted by now). It ends with Stella spiking Marco with his own aphrodisiac.
The B-side to this diseased double feature is School For Hookers
. Matilda, Sandy and Silvia are a trio of bitter, hygiene-challenged hookers. ("Fuck all men, they’re all jackoffs!") They lay around masturbating with soda bottles. "We’re just not making it as whores." complains Sandy. Oral sex is a big part of their problem. "I try it, but I gag, I choke and then I throw up!" explains Silvia.
The girls decide to call up "Linda Lovewhip, a credited master throat specialist". Linda promises to teach them how to inhale penis. She offers a "Pay as you Lay plan". She makes her students munch on her cabbage patch, barking orders like a general: "Keep lapping! Pretend you’re Mark Spitz!". The gals watch porno loops featuring bondage and endless shots of women smiling into the camera as torrents of spunk are unloaded into their faces.
Finally Linda drags out a bunch of smirking, inbred-looking cretins (the type who look like they hang out in the Men’s Room of bus terminals). Our cock-drunk kittens eagerly gulp down dick as Linda Lovewhip chants, "Suck, suck, lick, lick!".
"I don’t choke anymore!" squeals Silvia. When the lights went on in the Dragon Art, there wasn’t a dry eye (or seat) in the house. --Mike Accomando, Dreadful Pleasures