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Cock of Ages Ch. 01

By: Creamer



Baltimore, Maryland

April 17th, 1951

"God, you're a good fuck, Sarah," I gasped as I heaved my cock into the moaning young wife of another man. She had a frightened and ecstatic look on her face as the second cock in her young life plumbed the tight depths of her cunt. Of course she was frightened -- she was a married woman committing adultery with a virtual stranger, and enjoying the hell out of it. But here, that could get you killed. By here, I don't mean Baltimore. I mean 1951.

She didn't have a chance. I loved working the Fifties, everyone was so incredibly gullible and willing to believe a handsome stranger. Always a kind smile and a gracious host, a whole country full of June Cleavers. And a whole country full of horny beavers. The average young housewife of 1951 was pathetically undersexed, usually completely ignorant of her own body, and has almost never had an orgasm on purpose. But you have to go after the young married ones here and now, because having a child out of wedlock will get them socially ostracized -- and we didn't want to do that.

Yes, me fucking the shit out of this young woman over the gleaming space-age formica of her kitchen table was not mere whim -- although I would have done it anyway -- it was calculated. She was on my List. She was mine to find, fuck, and impregnate. 

Sarah had been easy -- she was naturally amorous, and had been woefully neglected for the last few months by her traveling salesman husband. Some of the more "virtuous" ladies in the Fifties you had to practically rape. But Sarah was a pin. 

I met her in the children's section of the downtown bookstore -- ironically, one that would be a triple X porno palace in just a few decades when the downtown area dried up -- ostensibly shopping for my fictitious niece's ninth birthday. Sarah was looking for herself, and I recognized the wistful look in her eye. She wanted children, but her husband wanted to wait until he could be at home more. That's what the profile in her file said.

Sarah, it's your lucky day.

I hit her with both barrels, figuratively speaking, a concentrated barrage of synthetic pheromones wafted from the daisy in my coat, and subsonic subliminals poured forth from my briefcase like a shower of gold. Sarah was mesmerized. For the next forty minutes, we chatted and talked like giddy schoolchildren. I admit, I prolonged it. The seduction is always one of my favorite parts, and I drew it out much longer than necessary. Truthfully, I could have hustled that little honey into the back room and fucked her ten minutes after I laid eyes on her, but that wouldn't be proper. And it wouldn't be as much fun.

I toyed with her, alluding to my single status, my love of children, my hope to meet someone just like her some day and settle down. I told myself off as a carpet salesman, and my briefcase was stuffed with samples. And I was interested in carpet: the one between her legs. I watched in fascination as her chemical-inspired lust warred with her sense of propriety. Her loins wanted me -- and why wouldn't they? 

I was a tall six foot one, sandy hair, dimples, the most attractive chiseled chin money can buy, brilliant blue eyes, and a smile that could sell Colgate. I was broad shouldered, good natured, carried myself with supreme confidence. I knew exactly what to say -- I'd studied the complex interplay of the male/female romantic dynamic for years. I knew what she was thinking, what she was going to say, before she did. She really had no chance.

I found out where she lived -- I knew, already, of course, but I had to hear it from her own too-red lips. 1503 Oak Avenue, the little brick one with the yellow shutters and the (I'm not making this up) white picket fence. I asked if she had considered the advantages of modern stain-resistant carpeting. She hadn't. Would she be interested in seeing my swatches? Why yes she would. Later that afternoon.

Which is why two hours later my face was buried in the nape of her neck while my hands massaged her bra-less breasts and my cock was already to break out of my pants. 

Sarah hadn't put up much of a fight. She flashed those pretty blues at me, lashes batting like butterflies, asked if I'd like some lemonade, let me get out my briefcase and everything, and was the perfect model of hospitable decorum. I amped up the subsonics -- they were fucking with her cognition -- and had set the pheromones at maximum. They had pleasant, cucumber scent that isn't overtly sexual, just to encourage her to inhale deeply. But it turns the most mild-mannered, coy little Fifties princess into a seething cauldron of lust. They can't help it, poor dears. Over a century of science has made the subtle of allure of Chanel No. 5 obsolete. I sat and I watched all the classic signs -- feet and thighs twitching beneath her perfectly-laundered yellow skirt, her cheeks turning crimson under her make-up, her pupils dilating, her bust thrust unconsciously towards me. Every word I spoke was a programmed suggestion that she could trust me -- and she did. 

No one would know.

Her husband wouldn't be home for days.

It had been so long.

I seemed like such a nice man.

I took my time and launched my close within a half an hour -- long enough to simmer her panties but good -- and finally laid it out.

"Sarah," I said, gently. 

"Huh? Yes?" she asked, dazed.

"I think we can skip the rest of the presentation, don't you?"

"I . . . I suppose, if you're --"

"I think we both know why we're here."

"What? We do?"

"Yes," I said, almost whispering. "The bedroom."

"What?" she asked, shocked and dazed, now. She caught the innuendo. She could either maintain her virtue, and profess offense -- or she could capitulate to what her body was telling her she needed to do. "The bedroom?"

"Yes, my dear. I think we both know the answer."

"We do?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Yes, Sarah. The Harvest Gold. The Berber."

"The . . . Harvest Gol—?" I moved in before she could complete the sentence. My lips caught her at just the right moment, and her addled little brain went into near-orgasmic overload. As I pulled away, slightly, she pressed forward, her tongue dancing desperately over mine as she kissed me in return. She was hooked.

I pulled her tightly to me, then moved behind her, breaking the kiss long enough for her brain to start to catch up with the pace of events. Oh, no. Can't have that. I hit the neck, two inches under her ear, and put just the right amount of pressure, there. Her spine turned to jelly as every neuron on her sweet-smelling skin fired. 

A contact euphoric gel. Where I come from ninth-graders are doing this at innocent kids' parties. Here, it was the equivalent of making her smoke a pound of weed. I began to unbutton the front of her dress with one hand while the other massaged her thighs, traveling upwards until I was at the outskirts of her drawers. 

"Noaaaaaaahhh . . ." was the only token protest she made.

"Oh, yesssssss," I hissed into her ear. "The truth is, you wanted this. You seduced me. Didn't you give me the address? You can't afford carpet, Sarah. Not on Jack's salary. You wanted what is in here," I said, drawing her hand back to rest on my bulging slacks. "You want my . . . say it . . ." I insisted. If they say it, I would have no more resistance. If they say it, she has consented. 

"C-c-cock," she stuttered.

"What was that, Sarah?" I whispered.

"I-I want your c-cock," she said, as if in a trance. It wasn't far from the truth.

"Well, I suppose, since you aren't going to be buying any carpet from me," I whispered in her ear while my hands unfastened her Maidenform, "I suppose I should check out your carpet."

"M-my what? Oh. Oh!" Sarah said, as my innuendo caught on. "You want to see, to s-see my . . . pookie," she said, embarrassed.

"No, Sarah," I corrected, gently outlining her bared breasts with my fingertips. "You want to show me your . . . your pussy," I insisted.

"I want to show you my p-p-pusssssy," she breathed, closing her eyes. "I want to show you my pussy."

"If you insist," I agreed with a chuckle, twirling her around and sitting her ass on the counter-top. I kept her eye while I pushed up her skirt. "Show me, Sarah. Don't be shy, show me your pussy," I directed her. She blushed deeply and looked away, but her alabaster-white thighs opened and her groin came slowly forward. The star of the show. Her pussy. Wild ringlets, barely trimmed, as dark as the hair on her head. It would be two generations before the Brazil. More than that before vulvar tattoos became popular. This was pure, 100% all-natural, all American grade A Pussy, this was.

And I was going to eat it. Probably for the first time in her life.

Cunnilingus just wasn't an issue in the Fifties. They hadn't even acknowledged the female orgasm, for Christ's sake. Fellatio was something bad girls and whores did. Anal? That was for perverts and sodomites. So I took particular pleasure in burying my face in her pristine twat for the first time, capturing her throbbing clitoris with my lips, and began licking in small butterfly licks. 

Little Sarah lost her freakin' mind. I love to eat Fifties Pussy. I took her to three thunderous orgasms before I backed off, and if she was dazed before she was nearly comatose now. 

"Dear God," she said, reverently, "I never . . . it never . . . I . . ."

"You were beautiful, Sarah," I said, seductively. "A woman at the point of ecstasy is always beautiful." I was absolutely sincere, too. "Now . . . I want you to do the same thing to me, Sarah," I suggested.

"What?" she asked, confused. "I can't -- I don't—"

"That's fine, that's fine," I soothed, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'll teach you."

"Uh . . ." 

I pulled her down from the countertop and pulled out a chair for her. While she was finding her seat -- breasts still free of their inhuman cages -- I pulled my dick out. When she turned back around it was staring her in the face. Her eyes opened wide, first in recognition, then a little wider when she saw just how large I am. 

I'm not gargantuan -- I'd be poorly suited for this line of work if I was. But I was a healthy eight and a half inches in an age where the average was five and a half. I knew her husband wasn't as big as me. That's all that really counted. The biological alarm that overrides conscious thought in a woman when she sees a big dick kept her staring at it, fascinated.

"Touch it, Sarah," I directed. "Feel it. You want to feel it. With your hands. With your lips. Touch it with your tongue, Sarah."

"It's . . . that's . . . unsanitary," she finally sputtered, the last vestiges of her virtue dying an ugly and desperate death. I laughed.

"I bathed this morning, and I've not done more than catch a streetcar and walk a few blocks. I promise. Just clean, wholesome skin. And burning desire. You did this to me, Sarah. You. Your beauty. Your appeal."

She looked up at me, almost pleadingly. Now was not the time to relent. I nodded, almost sternly. She leaned forward, never taking her eyes from mine, and closed her dark red lips around the head. In a moment her tongue made the first tentative moves over my glans, and I was in heaven. I leaned my head back and groaned.

She smiled a smug little smile -- with that one groan, I had confirmed her essential womanhood. She was in control -- so she believed. Perhaps this wasn't the first time she had taken a cock in her mouth.

I let her tend to me for about five minutes. Tempted as I was to unload deep in her throat -- an experience few Fifties housewives ever got -- I had a job to do. I waited until I felt the first base stirrings of orgasm and then eased her off.

"Wha—?" she asked, beseechingly, "did I do something wrong?"

"No, not at all," I chuckled. "But I want to be inside you." I picked her up before she could protest and put her on the kitchen table, lustfully sweeping aside my briefcase and all of those horrid samples. She leaned back, spreading her legs eagerly. I didn't wait for her to reconsider, pushing my dick deep into her surprisingly hot pussy with one thrust. She hissed and groaned, but the truth was that her earlier orgasms had left her sopping wet. There was no resistance. Her husband had obviously been taking care of her plenty when he was home.

"God, you're a good fuck, Sarah." I delighted in profaning the pristine air of the wholesome Betty Crocker-worthy kitchen with such language. Every time she served her family dinner on this table for the rest of her life she would remember this day, and my voice telling her she was a good fuck.

"Ohmygod," she said, eyes wide. "You are so BIG!"

"No, my dear, you are as tight as a virgin bride," I lied. "And as hot as furnace!"

I thrust manfully for a while, getting my bearings and watching her reactions. Truthfully, I didn't need for her to orgasm, but I felt obligated. I had turned her into an adulteress, after all. The least I could do is broaden her sexual horizons a little. I considered it my duty -- the Fifties is a lousy era for female sexuality. I gave her a good lusty pounding, shaking the steel tube legs of the table as I did, and pushed her into another hard orgasm. From this angle I was tagging her G-spot with every thrust, and it had an effect. She shrieked and panted like a dog as she thrashed through her climax. Job well done.

When she came down, it was my turn. I abruptly pulled out of her cunt and pulled her to her feat, confused. Then I spun her around again, pushing her shoulders down. She obediently lay forward, her boobs pressed against the cool linoleum, and suddenly her ass was available to me. She didn't seem to realize the implications, though.

"What, you want to spank me?" she asked, worriedly.

"Oh, no, Sarah," I said. "I want to fuck you. I want to fuck you senseless. I want to fuck you like an animal, in a way your husband never does any more." At the mention of her husband she startled -- as she was meant to. It added an element of danger and excitement which ramped up her arousal. Again, I didn't have to do that. I was just a nice guy. 

I slipped my cock between her hairy folds again and pushed. With her thighs together like that she was much tighter, and her earlier climaxes had made her twat pleasingly wet. With this grip, at this angle, I'd give her a hump she'd remember until she died, in a nursing home in 1991. Heh. Maybe someday I'd look her up.

She started moaning and wailing, and I was thankful for the brick walls and the expanse of greenery between her house and the neighbor's. She came quickly, one after another, not as powerful, perhaps, but in rapid, mind-numbing succession. Her once-neat hair flew all over the place, and I hoped the camera in my briefcase was catching the sight of her lovely breasts mashed down like that. The recordings were for my own use, not part of the official record. Just a little something to remember her by.

Finally, it was time to unload. I had ridden her for at least twenty minutes in the land of the three-minute men. That, on top of the cunnilingus, had changed her outlook on sexuality forever. The huge torrent of sperm I soaked her cunt with also changed her life forever. The fluid carried a mixture of chemicals that were unknown in 1951. And my seed would carry a bastard into her womb at the same time. Both would end up changing the world, in some small way.

I stayed in her long after I climaxed, giving the juice time to traverse the mucous membranes of her vagina and start doing their work in her blood stream. She probably thought I was basking in the afterglow. When three minutes had passed, and I was beyond the safe mark, I slowly withdrew, leaving a sticky trail behind. I pulled a panting, sweaty Sarah to her feet, and turned her around and passionately kissed her. That gave the euphoric a second shot at her that would keep her from going apeshit with guilt and worry. Plus, the kissing helped seal the act as a moment of passion, and not of lust. Having conflicting feelings about her marriage was one thing; being a slut in her mind who just wanted to get laid was quite another. The illusion of a romantic encounter allowed her room to save her dignity. 

Of course, while I'm happy I gave her a growth opportunity, I wasn't just here for the paycheck. You have to be a special kind of person to do this job, and for me part of the benefit is the power relationship that develops. By violating her code of ethics, I had made her a party to the crime. Which meant that she had no recourse if she didn't like the experience. Who could she tell? 

So after I released her kiss, I stared her in the eye and pushed forcefully down on her shoulders. She obediently sank to her knees, and after a tense moment of reluctance and panic, she finally acquiesced and opened her mouth to take me in, still sticky from our combined juices. 

It had a real benefit, as well. The more of my juice she ingested, the better. But I was in it for the thrill of power and pure sex when I forced her into the act. When she was done, turning her head and coughing desperately, I helped her to her feet again and held her tightly. 

"Thank you," I whispered. "You're a wonderful woman, Sarah."

"What have I done?" she whispered. 

"It was a moment of passion," I said, kindly. "It doesn't make you a bad person, Sarah. No one ever need know."

"How you made me feel, no one—"

"I know, my darling, I know. I felt it, too. Say, I'm going to be in town for another day or so. Would you mind if I paid you a call . . . late in the evening? After they turn out the streetlights?"

"I . . . I . . . I don't know if I can do this again! I can't believe I just did! And you want to do it again?" she asked incredulously. 

I held her and hushed her. "Look, my darling, we've already done the deed. Not doing it again isn't going to make us any less guilty, is it?" I asked, purposefully confusing her.

"Well . . . no . . ." she admitted. "I suppose not . . ."

"Then light a candle in your window tonight, and I'll know you want me. In a proper bed. As man and woman."

"I . . . okay," she said, dazed. 

"Here, let me get you a glass of water," I said, putting my cock away. She looked rough. She'd probably cum more in the last half-hour than in her entire life. I took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it from the tap. While I was at it, I opened my ring and slid a tiny square of blue gelatin into the glass, where it dissolved instantly. By tonight her loins would be on fire. So would her window. I fully expected to see a few candles there.

"I have to go meet a client, now," I said, handing her the water. "I treasure this experience, darling, and so do wish to repeat it. So if I happen by and see the flame, I'll know you valued it, as well."

God, it was a corny line. But she ate it up. Hey, it was the Fifties.

***

I met Cornwall at the Checkerwood Diner, a decent coffee shop on North Avenue that was close to the train station. He was already there when I showed up, a bald, sad-looking man with a pork-pie hat, off-the-rack suit and a stringy black tie. He carried a briefcase, as well as an overcoat. He looked like a funeral director.

"Evenin'," I said, doffing my hat and hanging it on the rack next to his. "What do you recommend?" I asked.

"The pie," he said, sipping his coffee. "Try the pie. Apple. Made with real lard. Melts in your goddamn mouth," he said, reverently. "Coffee tastes like horse piss," he added with a shrug. "Just not as hot."

"No doubt. This was when bad coffee was a sign of American enterprise. Things didn't get fucked up until they started to get good coffee."

"Brilliant social commentary, stud. When do you see your mark, next?"

"Oh, her?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "In a few hours," I admitted. He nodded. "For seconds," I added. His eyes got wide.


Cock of Ages Ch. 01



"Jesus, Tom, you just fucking got here this morning! You fucked her already?" he asked in disbelief.

"Dumped in her doggie over the kitchen table," I said proudly. "Took about three hours. And I did it right, too. No potential cry of rape, there."

"I don't know how you guys fucking do it," he said, shaking his head sadly. "I can't get laid in real life, and you go to work and fuck."

"Hey, you get to watch us," I protested. "That's got to count for something." He scowled -- they didn't really get to watch us, but they got to hear the reports. I had no doubt he whacked off to them, too. 

The waitress approached, a slightly fleshy blonde in her thirties who had that widowed look. Probably in the war. Lots of widows after the war. But she was attractive, and had a deep warm voice with more southern accent than you usually see around Baltimore. I ordered some pie and some horse piss. I always kept it light when I'm working. Last thing you need is to fart in some housewife's face at an inopportune moment and blow your case. But the sugar was good, and the pie was loaded with it.

"Anyway, you bag . . . Sarah? Sarah again, you can move on to the other four in the neighborhood. No reason you should go back to her, anyway, if you did the job right the first time," He said with some bitterness. 

"Hey, I get two days per, that's the SOP. If I can do her in one day, that will free up some time if one of the others is . . . reluctant."

"So why go back? Move on to the next one."

"Because she's an outstanding lay, that's why. Young, nubile, first blush of adult sexuality . . . it's like fucking an American icon, Cornwall. And SOP says if I can arrange twosies, I should. And I set this one up proper."

"Yeah, you can do no wrong," he said, sourly. "The guys back home love you. Highest success rate of any of the group. Your kids are popping up all over the radar, and the recovery rates are starting to inch up."

"Not precisely my kids," I reminded him. That's right; the boys in the bag were augmented clones. My natural testicles were somewhere, somewhen, in a laboratory freezer, probably next to the janitor's lunch. The ones I was currently sporting were cued to pump juice in the ways they had wanted, plus they gave me about twice as much testosterone as I had, naturally. I could get my own nuts back when I retired, if I wanted -- but I had to admit, these boys were doing the job nicely.

"Eighty percent," he said, gruffly. "And mostly stuff that don't mean squat. My heart bleeds for you. You've got more than fifty kids, so far. Me an' Angie tried for years."

"I know," I sighed. "There's a lot of that going around."

"Anyway," he said, changing the subject, your next one after this icon you're fucking is one Mrs. Amy Hunter. Another brunette. Twenty-one, an orphan who married a soldier boy who just left for Korea. And I mean just left, so you've got to strike quick."

"Natch," I shrugged. "What does Mrs. Amy Hunter do? Another housewife?"

"She works for a florist," Cornwall said, shoveling more pie into his pie hole. "Downtown."

"Any ins, up front?"

"She drinks. A lot."

I sighed. "You'd think the future mother of my children would have more respect."

"She was brought up in an orphanage during the Depression," Cornwall said, rolling his eyes. "I'd probably drink, too."

"Good point," I agreed. "She a loner, or does she have a bar she frequents?"

"Little of both. Buys from her local liquor store. Two bars she hits, good neighborhood places . . . just packed to the gills with her husband's friends."

"Hey, I like a challenge," I said nodding. "Okay. I'll probably tone down the wholesome image a bit, play a returning vet, talk about the war. If she's a soldier's wife, she'll be sympathetic, probably depressed. Get me some good filler material, will ya? Get her drunk, pump her full of happy smells, I'll be between those thighs like lightning, leaving only a sticky after-image in my wake."

Cornwall studied me. "You really bug the crap out of me, you know?" he said, finally.

"It's just business," I assured him. "I know what I'm doing. Mrs. Amy will wake up in the morning with a splitting hangover and a sticky crotch and swear to never drink that much again. She might not even notice the wet spot until she does laundry. Nine months later, hubby comes home to his bouncing baby and adoring wife."

"No, actually," Cornwall said, grimly. "Hubby ain't coming home. KIA at Imjin River. In about two months."

"Damn," I said, wincing. "That's a shame."

"She'll always have a piece of him -- or you masquerading as him," Cornwall said mockingly. "She'll get by. Trust me, the guys back home know what they're doing. You do your part, they will do their part. But try not to take so long, will ya? I saw the schedule for the next couple of months. We do Tampa in 1963, next. A lot of 'em, too. You still got Shelly Montgomery, Patricia Ryan, and Lisa Horcek to do, here, too. Time's wasting," he said with a grin. "They've got plenty of work ahead of you."

"Cornwall, you can't rush these things. It's an art," I insisted. "You do it wrong, you get heat. Heat is bad for business. Remember Chicago?"

"Look, just fuck 'em and forget 'em, okay?" he said, disparagingly. "Quit being so goddamn emotional about it. You're a fucking stud gigolo, so stick it in, drop your load, and be done with it. Jesus, why does everything always got to be a production with you, Tom?" 

I studied him for a moment. "You really bug the crap out of me, y'know?" I sighed.

"You should talk to my wife," he said sourly.

"Who knows?" I said, mischievously, as I slurped down the last of the coffee. "Maybe someday I will?"

***

I was right. Three candles. I chuckled as I glanced around, then stepped quietly up the walk. A single rap on the door, and she opened it. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown that was doubtlessly part of her trousseau, and she looked sexy as hell in it. Gone was the proper housewife. The sultry seductress was trying to come out. 

Well, I'll give her points for trying.

The truth is, most American women in this era, despite an innate belief that having a vagina somehow made them naturally skilled and talented lovers, are mediocre at best in bed. They have some very inflated -- and sometimes amusing -- ideas about romance and passion and all of that, and expect the emotional moment to make up for the utter lack of poise or technique. 

I mean, she was pretty; she wore a pretty gown. She was wearing appropriate make-up (if inexpertly applied) and definitely had sex on the brain. But she was hesitant and jerky in her motions, didn't know what to do with her hands, she didn't present herself as well as she could have. But she was trying. Poor little thing just didn't know how.

I ignored her clumsiness and moved in to kiss her, passionately. She returned it in kind, and we locked tongues for over five minutes, there in her foyer. 

She led me into the parlor and sat me down, handing me a drink without asking. I slurped it quietly while I eyed her hungrily.

"I've never felt this way before," she breathed. "About my husband, about . . . about anyone."

"It's pretty novel for me, too," I lied, boldly. "You are a beautiful woman, Sarah." She blushed right down to her nipples and looked away.

"Do you . . . want me to . . . do that thing . . . you made me do earlier?" she asked, guiltily.

"Yes, Sarah. I want you to put your mouth on it. Suck it like a piece of hard candy, nice and slow. And I want you to look at me while you do, my darling. Look at me while you suck . . . my . . . cock," I annunciated. She blushed furiously, and only the synthetic hormones raging in her system kept her from getting up and running from the room, I think.

But Sarah was a complacent, obedient little wife. She sank to her knees in front of the settee and began unbuttoning my slacks. She stared at me the entire time, her eyes dazed. With a great deal of fumbling she finally released my dick from my boxers, and stroked it clumsily for a while. She examined it thoroughly, as if she'd never seen one properly before. 

"I can't believe all of this . . . fits inside me," she confessed with a lusty sigh a moment before she tentatively took the head between her lips. She was very hesitant, her tongue almost timid as it explored the head, finding the slit and encountering the first drop of dew.

"It's sweet," she said, surprised, when she backed off of it.

"That's what I hear," I agreed. "Keep going," I encouraged. "You're doing well."

She went back to sucking me, a little more confidently. The whole head, now, between her dark red painted lips, and her tongue was beginning to be bolder. I had to instruct her to play with my balls and stroke my shaft, but once prompted she did a fine job. I let her fellate me for a good twenty minutes -- a more experienced woman would have gotten me off by then, but Sarah was a newbie. I cut her some slack.

When I finally pulled her up, I pushed her back onto the sofa and dove under the silky skirt to devour her Fifties twat. It smelled freshly bathed, if over-perfumed -- like most Fifties Americans, Sarah suffered under the impression that her cunt stank. I tried to ignore the overly floral presentation and found her throbbing little clit with my tongue. Then I rang her bell three times in a row, just to make her senseless.

It was a testament to how far I had corrupted this demure little minx when she grabbed my ears and ground her pussy against my mouth. When I finally turned loose, I sat back on the couch, let her catch her breath a little, then pulled her over on top of me.

"Wha—?" she asked, confused. "I thought . . ."

"Shhhhhh, Sarah, trust me," I insisted. "You'll enjoy this." It took a moment to make the connection between my cock and her pussy, through all of that cloth, but I did, finally. With a little wiggling I forced the head past the lips and deep inside, impaling the housewife securely. Her eyes went wide when she bottomed out, and she bit her lip in pain.

"That's it, that's my girl," I encouraged her, rocking her hips slowly on my cock. It took her a few moments to get the hang of the novel angle, but when she realized what kind of control and power she had in the cowgirl position, she went nuts.

I held on to her hips to guide her -- she was fucking kind of all over the place and needed my direction -- but when she came explosively I took a risk and stood, hoisting her into the air and allowing me to control the action, now. The standing position is a strain, of course, and requires practice, balance, and endurance, but I had all three. While I stared into her eyes my hands pumped her small body up and down on my cock until she went out of her mind with orgasm. I sat back down when she was finished, and let her fall off my body naturally. She tried to curl up in a fetal ball, but I'd have none of it -- I prompted her to get back down between my legs and suck me again. 

She was reluctant, of course, due the sticky mess she had made, but I enjoyed compelling her, and she took it like a good little wife. Then I got behind her as I pushed her manfully across the seat of the sofa and raised the hem of her skirt.

"I feel like such an animal when we do it like this," she confessed deliciously. 

"It's how they do it," I agreed. I positioned my cock at her entrance and pushed in hard. I waited for her moaning to subside before I started the slow, deliberate fucking I planned for her. I suppose she expected something more brisk and more brief, but I wasn't going to let her off the hook that lightly. I wanted her to engrave this fuck into her mind as the best one she'd ever had, and I'd like to think I was successful. I made her feel every hard, throbbing inch of meat as it pushed through the tight walls of her vagina.

She wiggled nicely, I'll give her that. Some of it was lust-inspired, some of it was just an involuntary attempt to avoid the thick intruder. But the end result was great, for me. I enjoyed watching her pretty ass move beneath her lingerie as my cock moved in and out.

I made her cum four times like that, never increasing my pace more than marginally. I was tagging the G-spot exclusively, but her clit was rubbing up against the couch and poor little Sarah just couldn't stop climaxing. Then I put on the gas, increasing the strength and frequency proportionately, until I was slamming into her hard and she was cumming continuously, gasping into a dainty little couch pillow someone had thoughtfully embroidered with the date of her marriage.

You had to love that.

I finally came, hosing down the inside of her spasming pussy with my life-giving seed. If the squirt earlier in the day didn't knock her up, this probably would do the trick. But I had to give the wrigglers a chance to do their work, not get interrupted by an untimely douche.

So I just held her there, half-collapsed over her back while I caught my breath. She was whimpering timidly into the cushion, trying to recover her sanity. Me? I was still hard. Three minutes of rest, and I was ready to go again. I signaled her as much when I straightened, grabbed her narrow waist, and began thrusting my cock inside her again.

"N-n-n-no!" she begged. "Please! I . . . I . . . I can't! I can't any—"

Time for a reach-around. I dug my right hand under her nightgown and found her soaking, throbbing little clit, and masterfully started diddling her. That silenced her protests, and in moments she was actively pushing back at me. Just what I wanted.

Because I couldn't resist one last little humiliation. I'm a bit of a sadist -- you kind of have to be in my line of work, where your job is essentially abusing the trust of your marks. And as much as I had already ruined her life by forcing -- okay, strongly encouraging -- her to commit adultery and get pregnant by a passing stranger, I wanted to add one last little testament. I waited until she was near her next peak, then withdrew suddenly.

"H-hnuh?" she grunted in surprise, completely out of breath. I didn't say anything, just grabbed my dick and fumbled around with it a little. She relaxed a bit as I tried to get re-seated.

Of course, it quickly became clear that I was not searching for her pussy's soaking entrance. I placed the head carefully against her rosebud, and shoved a third of it up her ass before she clued in.

She screamed -- of course she screamed. She reared up, eyes wide, mouth open, arms flailing as she struggled to unseat me. I was having none of it. If you're going to fuck June Cleaver, you really don't need much cooperation. I pushed her back down on the couch and began pushing the rest of my tool up her rectum. She still moaned and sobbed, but she stopped trying to stop me.

God, I love the Fifties!

I plundered her sweet, virgin asshole for at least ten minutes, even leaning over as I sodomized her and whispering to her what a hot little slut she was. I really laid it on thick, too, telling her I knew she was a cheating whore when I first laid eyes on her, how I knew she couldn't be faithful to her husband, and how I knew I was just the first in a long line of tawdry affairs she'd have. I called her every name in the book as my hips drove my cock deep inside her bowels. She sobbed hysterically into her marriage pillow while I did it -- and when she came, hard, a few minutes later, she was bathed in the warm glow of shame.

I took it as a sign, and I quit my taunting so I could get back to the business of injecting her with synthesized RNA. She was deliciously tight, and I no longer had to worry about her comfort, so I fucked her ass brutally. Oh, I didn't do any real damage -- the human rectum is remarkably resilient -- but it hurt, I knew. I didn't care. I fucked her ass with gay abandon until the friction was hot and my cock was ready to explode. Then I unloaded deep in her gut, painting her insides with my seed.

I left her there, bent over the couch, my semen trickling from her ass and pussy, sobbing quietly. I had raped her ass -- but whom could she tell about it?

"When your husband gets home," I said, casually, as I lit a cigarette and started to put myself together, "I suggest you fuck the daylights out of him. Really hard. Hell, try some of the new stuff, too. Tell him you missed him, and maybe he won't see the shame in your eyes. Men are easy, that way. You fuck them and they'll forget about everything else."

"How, how could you?" she accused, tearfully. "You put it . . . you put it in my, in my BOTTOM!"

"Your ass hole," I corrected. "Yeah, nice and tight, too. Your hubby will enjoy the hell out of that, let me assure you."

"I'll NEVER—" she began, defiantly.

"Yes, you will," I countered, firmly. "You see, Sarah, you're going to start to lose his favor. Oh, you're in the honeymoon period, still, but in a year or two you'll have children, you'll lose your figure, and he isn't going to be that attracted to you anymore. Oh, he'll fuck you occasionally, but only for relief. He'll turn to the attractive women he meets in his travels to sate his lusts. So your only hope is to give him something . . . a little extra," I said, amused.

"A little extra? Buggery?" she asked, astonished. "No proper woman would EVER—"

I interrupted her with a chuckle. "Not in my experience. Everyone does it, Sarah. Every wise wife, at least. Put your ass in the air and beg him to take it. That's what the older women do to keep their husbands at home. Oh, they'd never admit it, but they do."

I left her there, sobbing on the couch, with one last thought. "Oh, and I hope you don't mind if I call on you again the next time I'm in town," I mentioned. "You're a great fuck, and I can't wait for another piece of that."

"You will NEVER darken my door—"

"The hell I won't," I shot back. "Indeed, perhaps I should see the man of the house about those carpet swatches. I'm sure he'd be interested—"

It was her turn to interrupt. She saw where I was going with this and was mentally watching her pristine little world crumble around her as the scandal enveloped her and her family. She sat back on her heels and looked at me with big, pleading eyes.

"Oh, God, NO! Okay, I'll . . . let you have me," she said, shamed at the words. "Just don't ever talk to my husband. Ever. Please!" she begged.

"See you next time, then, Darling," I said, blowing her a kiss and walking out into the night.



Cock of Ages Ch. 02



Baltimore

April 18th, 1951

I found Mrs. Amy Hunter at the florist shop where she worked. 

I was a little less-nattily dressed this time around, and instead of the sample case I had Cromwell conjure me up a battered old attaché -- still all the same gadgets, but in a dark brown, weatherbeaten bag that hung around my shoulder. I had traded in my tailored salesman's suit for a long peacoat, Merchant Marine surplus, and I had re-done my hair into a more rakish style. Instead of shirt and tie I wore a ribbed black sweater. I was going for a gritty post-war pseudo-beatnik intellectual look, the mysterious stranger with a chip on his shoulder and unrestrained libido. Add in a cocky swagger, and you have the confident young poet who any recently-married and soon-to-be-widowed young lady might find attractive. 

I wasn't going to try to make her in the store, of course, I was just scouting out the territory. Amy was working the register when she wasn't arranging more bouquets, and she was doing it in the slow, tired way that showed off both her proficiency and her apathy about the whole exercise. This was no giddy schoolgirl with a heart of gold. This was a long-suffering, depressed individual who took a cynical view on life. 

She was almost the polar opposite of sweet, sweet Sarah, wearing a black turtleneck and large round glasses. A cigarette hung from her lip and was replaced almost as soon as it was gone -- that made her a rebel. In 1951 women didn't smoke in public, as a rule. She wasn't pretty, but she was attractive. Long facial features, long dark straight hair, short torso and legs, a modest bust and barely perceptible hips. As I overheard her interact with the customers and her boss -- a matronly lady whose face could go from smile to scowl in microseconds -- I caught on to her sarcastic wit and her generally pessimistic outlook on life. 

You might think that would be a drawback, in my line of work. But the truth is you can make a depressed woman almost as easily as an optimistic one. You just push different buttons. Cynics like Amy got just as randy as any happy housewife, they just had a different path to their horny place than the June Cleaver model. She had been recently married, and had been getting it pretty regularly. With her husband gone her hormones, so devoted to pairbonding in the early stages of the relationship, would have her thinking in that direction. The fact that she drank would certainly help, too. 

I bought a short bouquet of daisies from her, flashed the smile, gave her the warm-up to the mating ritual. Not too much -- I just wanted to catch her eye at that point, burn my face into her memory (along with a jolt of a powerful attractive pheromone) and touch her hand, lightly, just once, which I managed when I took back my change. Thank you, thank you, smile, look, linger, out the door, look back, go. Stage One was complete.

I knew she didn't get off until 3:00, and it was still late morning now. Plenty of time for a cup of coffee, read the charmingly quaint 1951 newspapers, and maybe cruise for a freebie or two.

I mean, I had my List, and those were the girls I had to visit. But I wasn't restricted, on most missions, to sticking to just the List. I was actually encouraged to pursue non-entangling liaisons (agency-speak for "quickies") that would help spread the biochemical gospel in my juice to as many women as possible. Having more testosterone coursing through my system as mortal man gave me a motive, and one does like to keep one's professional skills sharp. Besides, the preliminaries are always rewarding. Pure observation of the Fifties Female added to my database of seduction techniques.

In the space of two hours in that coffee shop I spotted five women I could have pursued -- each taking more or less time to successfully seduce. They ranged from a coquettish teen who had, in my professional opinion, likely recently discovered sex in some form and was desperately eager, to the middle-aged war widow who hadn't gotten any in so long you could see the desperation on her face. I noted details of style and dress and mannerism. 

Ranking my choices, I put the widow as the easiest and quickest to score. A casual glance had a paper with the want-ads spread out in front of her, various jobs circled. Unemployed -- or underemployed -- that could be helpful. She was having a single cup of coffee and plain toast, no butter. That told me she was broke and watching her weight -- she could have gotten a rasher of bacon for fifteen cents. Toast and coffee was a dime. She had a pack of Lucky Strikes by her elbow as she read. 

I slid into the booth across from her and handed her the bouquet. She looked startled and confused for a moment, then suspicious -- all perfectly natural and expected emotions, under the circumstances. 

"For you," I said, graciously, bowing just a hint."

"For . . . me? Who are you?" she asked, brusquely. Trace of northern accent -- New York or New Jersey, maybe both. 

"I am a representative of the rest of the universe, which has directed me to bring a little sunshine into your life."

"Uh . . . why?"

"Because you deserve it," I said, as if it settled the matter. She was still confused, but she was starting to catch on to my game, a little. I could detect the seed of a smile. Women are suckers for flowers -- that's a human universal.

"And upon what, pray tell, does the rest of the universe base that?"

"Hey, I just work here," I said in mock protest. "I get the memo and the work order, I go and dispense sunshine and happiness. I don't ask why." The smile was starting to blossom. Time to strike. "Hi, I'm Jack. Jack Morrow," I said, casting her my best friendly, disarming, enchantingly attractive smile as I offered her my hand.

She returned it, despite herself, and shook my hand. "Candace," she said. "Candace Greene." She took out a Lucky and lit it, staring at me intently the whole time. "So, you trying to make me, mister?"

"Please, call me Jack. And yes, Candace, I'm trying to make you," I said seriously, a trace of laughter in my expression. And I never looked away. That would be weakness, and with this woman you needed supreme confidence. "How am I doing so far?"

She shrugged as she exhaled. "You're still sitting here," she observed. "That's better than most."

"Are you so unobtainable, then?" I asked. 

"No, I'm just very, very choosy," she replied. "But it's the middle of the day, I don't want to look for a job I've got to get, and I like your smile."

"What kind of work are you looking for?" I inquired, politely.

"A rich man's mistress, but there doesn't seem to be much call for that. Secretary, probably. I can type. Clerk if I have to. Waitress, if you put a gun to my head."

"Rich man's mistress," I said, stroking my chin. "Any good at it?"

"Never tried. But I'm willing to learn. I have all the tools." She exhaled again, pursing her lips teasingly. She probably didn't even know she was doing it. "You a rich man in need of a mistress?"

"Maybe," I shrugged, taking one of her Luckys without asking. Territorial thing. I was establishing my dominance. "But if I was that rich, I'd probably look for someone beyond entry-level." That was a term that wouldn't come into wide usage for another three decades. By using it I sounded clever. I also had shoved back, a little. "Mostly I'm a humble purveyor of daisies to pretty women, and when I'm not busy with that or the numbers of my diamond mines, I'm a gentleman of leisure. I had some leisure time, and you looked like the kind of woman who both appreciated daisies and who also had some leisure time."

She laughed but was on guard. "You're good with the banter, Jack, and I'm sure you're a nice guy . . . but I really do need to find a job. Soon," she said, with just the smallest amount of desperation in her voice. 

"Well, maybe we could work something out," I said, toning down the suggestion into a casual remark. "Would you consider a temporary position?"

"I'm not a—" she said as her eyes opened wide.

"I wasn't implying that you were," I said, instantly. "Or we wouldn't be playing these verbal games. I just figured your time was valuable, and if I purchased, say, a few hours of it . . . say for fifty bucks . . . that might give you some breathing room on your job search."

She considered, warring with herself. Fifty bucks in 1951 money was pretty significant. A week's pay, for some. But accepting it would make her a whore, and that was crossing a line.

"I don't know . . ." she said, doubtfully. "For fifty bucks you could get a couple of nights with the . . . working girls over on Fleet Street."

Time to close this thing. "I don't want a whore, Candace, I want you. Look," I said, gently, "You look like a really nice lady, and I like the way you laugh. Under ordinary circumstances I'd ask you out, wait until Friday night, take you out to a club, drinks, dinner, dancing, maybe a long drive, then a second date on Saturday at the movies, with dinner, etcetera, etcetera. But the problem is I'm on a train to California tomorrow, and I don't have the time to do all of that while I lure you into my web of deceit and try to get you into a compromising position. So I'm getting to the point. I'd love to lavish you with attention and delicacies, but I figure you could probably use the money more than the flattery right now."

"I . . . well, you're probably right about that," she admitted with a depressed sigh. "And honestly, it's been so long since I was on a real date that I appreciate the attention. But . . . fifty bucks? For a few hours with me?" she asked, clearly not believing I was serious. "You shouldn't tease an old lady."

"Hardly old," I said. "Besides, in my experience a woman doesn't really know what to do with herself until she's in her late twenties." Candace was clearly past her late-twenties, but all women everywhere enjoy flattery. Come to think of it, most men do, too.

"Well Mr. Morrow, how shall I respond?" she asked with a weak smile. "With outrage that you think I might be that kind of girl? With suspicion because you're that kind of man? Or gratitude that the universe at large has seen fit to not only bring me flowers, but to give me a month's rent for what I suddenly want to do very, very badly?"

"I'd go with the third," I suggested. "You're a pretty lady. I'm a handsome stranger. Those are some very nice daisies. And no one will ever know," I said, pronouncing the words that have closed more propositions than "I love you!"

She considered. She finished her cigarette and drained her coffee. "Let's go," she said, decisively. "I live in a fleabag right around the corner."

Five minutes, thirty nine seconds. Not quite a record, but impressive.

***

I've got the best fucking job in the entire fucking universe.

I was recruited moments before I was going to be sentenced -- what for doesn't really matter -- it wasn't murder or terrorism or jay walking or anything, just a misunderstanding that got out of hand and saw me unexpectedly in a courtroom, fearing for my freedom. I don't even know why she pressed charges. She seemed happy enough when I left.

But as I was about to be sentenced, a grim-looking man with the severe-looking Department of Public Health logo on his arm approached the bench and whispered a few minutes to the judge. The old man raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and plopped the gavel down: sentence suspended. Then the DPH man approached me, introduced himself as Dr. Weems, and asked me if I'd like for him to buy me lunch.

Five minutes earlier I had expected to be eating a cold lunch out of a Styrofoam box and fighting Bubba McRapist for the privilege, so I was more than happy to grub on his dime. We found a comfy café three blocks over, ordered, and then Dr. Weems gave me the pitch.

"Tom, how many women have you fucked?" he asked, patiently. It was odd hearing that word come out of such a . . . mild-mannered mouth.

"Today?" I asked, curious. 

"Uh . . . no, I mean, how many total?"

"Couple of hundred," I said, after some quick figuring. "Hard to keep an accurate count."

"I bet," he said, dryly. "I've studied your records. Scores of random encounters in the last year alone. You rarely stay with one woman for more than a week, and if you've been faithful to her during that week, we haven't heard about it."

"Well, apart from the morose interest you have in my sex life, what is all of this about? I mean, I'm appreciative," I said, hurriedly. "Don't get me wrong. I really didn't want to go to jail. But unless you're an admirer of my work and . . ."

"No, no, nothing like that," Dr. Weems assured me. "No, this is a business proposition. I see that you are currently unemployed --"

"Well, screwing the boss' wife on top of his desk while he's at lunch is apparently considered grounds for dismissal in this backwards jurisdiction," I grumbled good-naturedly. "Not to mention criminal. Barbarians!"

"My point is, Tom, we've been watching you. You are what we in the trade call an Alpha Casanova."

"I, um, I like to screw," I shrugged, as the waiter put our drinks on the table. "Early and often. With lots of pretty ladies. Nothing unusual about that."

"Not the fondness for screwing," he agreed. "But the rate of success you have is unusual. It's incredible. From what we've been able to tell, you are perhaps one of the most efficient seducers in the world. You meet a woman you want to have sex with, and you can usually talk her out of her panties in less than twenty-four hours."

"And this . . . impresses you?" I asked, confused. "I was just about to go to jail because of it."

"Oh, my, yes, it does impress me, Tom. You're an expert. Further, you're kind of pathological about it, too. You vary your technique, tailor your dialog, even wear disguises when necessary. Very impressive."

"Let me guess, you want me to see if your wife will cheat on you?" I sighed. "Okay, I've done that before. Here's what—"

"No, no, thank you, I'm a widower. My wife died three years ago of SANS," he said quietly.

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry," I said, meaning every word. Of all of the nasty little bugs killing people these days, SANS was a particularly nasty way to go.

"That's partially why I'm talking to you, actually. As you can see, I'm with Public Health. And we've been a little . . . busy the last few years."

That was an understatement. Every since I was a kid, we've been in a Pubic Health Emergency, due to the wave after wave of dire diseases that had rapidly spread among the population. The last War was probably why -- too many factions with delusions of competency and access to basic lab facilities let loose a plague of designer plagues. Some nasty bugs had been unleashed, and several of these designer diseases had reached past the troops in the field and infected civilian populations. SANS was a big killer, but there were two-dozed or so related syndromes that would be taking out whole towns, if left alone. Worse than that, a lot of the viruses left you alive, but sterile. That's why our population had been shrinking slowly but surely since the War. 

I listened to him explain it with half an ear, but I already knew the story. SANS, SAS, ASAC, C-NAS, plenty of other cryptic acronyms too. They call them "S-Panel" syndromes, and I have no idea why. Lots of icky viruses had made it back home, despite the best containment precautions. Now the US population was shrinking by half-a-million a year, both due to the diseases and the dramatic over-all fall-off in births. America used to have over 315 million people. We were at 240 million now, and that was slipping as fewer babies were born. In a few generations we'd be back to pre-industrial levels of population. 

The government had always said that there was nothing to worry about. But everyone knew better. Human beings being what they are, most of us ignored the news and got on with our shallow, depressing little lives and tried not to think about the future.

" . . . so we've tracked the issue to a common genetic marker," Weems was explaining. "It's ridiculously common, we discovered, and makes us susceptible to all the S-Panel virons and viruses. It's a kind of 'back door' in the messenger RNA."

"Well, great, get crackin' on that cure, Doc. I have every confidence in you."

"Oh, we've done that," he said, casually. "We know how to eliminate the . . . weakness. The problem is, you can't just jab someone with a needle or give them a pill. Genetic-oriented diseases can take generations to manifest, and by that time it's too late. Hell, some of the S-Panels have been around since Columbus, but didn't present as life-threatening until this last few years."

"So . . . we're doomed? And I was having such a good day, too," I chided.

"Tom, the issue isn't that we're doomed, it's how many of us are doomed. Right now only about two percent don't have the 'back door'. Which means that that two percent will survive, and, maybe, breed. But in the meantime, billions will die childless. Imagine the world with ninety-eight percent less people in it."

"Sounds good to me," I agreed. "I've always thought the joint was too crowded."

"Oh, it is. But . . . well, that cappuccino you're enjoying. That one cup of coffee represents whole industries that will be wiped out through lack of workers. The farmer, the processor, the truck driver, the shipper, the brokers, the roasters, the retailers, the dairies, the guy who made the mug and the guy who made the drink. All gone."

"I . . . guess I should switch to decaf," I admitted, sheepishly. "Okay, you've made a point. End of the human race is bad for the coffee industry. I get it. So?"

"So, we think we may have found away around the whole idea of certain doom."

"And I assume it isn't coffee."

"No, Tom. It's sperm."

"Well if you're looking for taste-testers, I regret to inform you—"

"No," he interrupted, chuckling, "no, Tom, plain, ordinary sperm won't do it. We need to inject the corrective measure directly into the germ plasm of the genetic population generations before they will be needed. That's the rub. Anyone we inoculate now, well, our civilization will fall apart before they will be of any use. Oh, it will contain the spread, but the damage has long been done."

"So unless we have some sort of time machine, we really are screwed, huh?" I asked sighing. 

"Exactly," Dr. Weems said, leaning closer and speaking with great deliberation.

It took me a few moments to realize what he was saying, and the implications started to occur to me with the force of a sudden avalanche.

"Oh . . . but . . . wait, I . . . uh . . . but you . . . I mean—"

"Let's just say -- hypothetically -- that we do happen to have a time machine," he said, softly. "If we did, then it would be vitally important to make certain that this humanity-saving treatment will find its way into the gene pool. Which presents a very important problem, Tom. How can we surreptitiously inoculate our ancestors against the present series of plagues without them knowing? Not to mention the idea that doing so will have irrevocable impact on our present?"

"Uh . . ."

"You find a man of exceeding intelligence, with a nearly pathological sex drive, superior seduction skills, and you send him back with orders to impregnate certain people. People who will pass the resistance down to their children, until enough of the present-day population survives these plagues and rumors of plagues."

"Oh . . ." I said, dully. "That would be someone like . . . me."

"Someone exactly like you, Tom. We've found you, and a few dozen just like you, to enter a special government program. We want you to go back in time and fuck everyone you can. Knock them up. Have a bunch of children. And never have to bear the responsibilities involved."




Cock of Ages Ch. 02



"Um . . . so what's the catch?"

"Well . . . theoretically, every time you screw someone, it will change the timeline. Perhaps imperceptibly, perhaps profoundly. But you won't be able to come back to this exact timeline when you are done."

"I wasn't particularly fond of it, anyway," I said, absently. "So I get paid to fuck . . . a bunch of dead women."

"Pretty much. We'll give you plenty of resources, plenty of preparation. You'll have a list, but you won't be restricted to the list. And you won't stay in any one place for very long. Too many of your kids in one spot could lead to unsuspecting incest down the road."

"And the pay?"

He shrugged. "Name a figure. Money is just a number."

"Um . . . health and dental?"

"Government standard."

"Done," I said, instantly.

"Uh . . . don't you want to think about it a while?"

"What for?" I asked. "I'm done with lunch, now. I have no family, no job, and a raging hard-on. I'm not terribly fond of this place, right now, and you've just given me the opportunity of my dreams. Let's go!"

And so I went.

First to "time traveler school" in Florida, where they tried to teach me about their time machine. I'm no idiot, but I lacked about three master's degrees worth of math to even understand what a "rotating pair of singularities" is, much less build one. The nuts-and-bolts of the machine, that was easier to learn. Set the time and place you wanted to go to, press a few buttons, and get into the capsule . . . POOF! You're in merry ol' England.

I also learned a gods-awful amount of American history, including long courses on slang and attitudes. I chose the 1920s to 1980s period, a popular one due to the language and the sexual mores. That was perfect for their purposes, because those were the generations the thought would be best helped by our intercession. 

They tried to teach us "seduction", but my fellow time-travelers and I ended up laughing them off the stage and writing our own curriculum on the subject. We were the experts, after all. They did teach us how to use synthetic pheromones, subsonics, and a thousand other little spy gadgets that would make our task easier. Plus first aid, self-defense, weapons of the period (we were always going to be in danger of irate menfolk) and protocols and standards. When we completed our course of training, we were allowed to experience time travel first hand. We were sent back to a Pacific island that the DPH had set up, way back in 1840, which would blow up in a few years destroying everything on it and preserving our secrets from the people of the past. We couldn't go "home" -- our original time-line -- but that wasn't a big deal. 

Oh, and they cloned my balls, too. Not exact copies, of course, but they used my own genetics as stock to carry the wonder-drugs or nanobots or whatever the hell they were. I was a little worried about giving up the boys, but to be honest I'm pretty happy with the upgrade. 

I met my first handler there, and we proceeded with four trial runs to various eras, just so I could get my feet wet and get used to working with him. Everything was fine, and three months after my court date I was hitting the beaches in 1960s Los Angeles, ready to fuck everything with a vagina. Actually, that's how I start most days . . . 

So that's the back-story: every time I go back in time and fuck a chick, I'm saving an estimated 2500 people in the future from a long, nasty wasting disease that ensures that they're a genetic dead end. And if I get her pregnant, the rate goes up to about 8000. I seduce them, cajole them, trick them, rent them, even rape them, if I have to, but I fuck them hard and leave them knocked up with my spawn. 

That's me: altruistic savior of humanity. With health and dental.

***

Candace's basement apartment was hardly a "fleabag", but it was small, had its own bathroom and "efficiency kitchen" -- a double hot-plate and a sink. It was clean, comfortable, and private, though, and someone had painted little flowers all over the place. She turned the radio onto a jazz station, pulled out a Murphy bed and when she turned around, I kissed her. She was surprised, at first, but quickly got into it, putting her hand behind my neck and skipping right to the intrusive tongue action. I broke the kiss and started undressing her.

We did it in three different positions -- missionary, spoon, and doggie -- and I came inside of her twice. 

She had a pretty tight pussy for a lady her age, and she fucked for her own pleasure, very uninhibited. And she didn't even mention a condom or other birth control, which would have made the boys back home happy -- every baby I produced while on assignment was a bonus. More importantly, to me, I had done it without pheromones, without subliminals, without aphrodisiacs. Just me and my well-honed seduction skills.

I washed off in the bathroom. When I left, I dropped a whole $70 on the counter, kissed her again, and stuck a daisy in her hair as she sprawled naked on the bed, basking in the afterglow of her orgasms. I made some excuse about an appointment later in the afternoon, and asked if I could call on her when I next came to town. She said yes enthusiastically.

And it was only 2:00. Time to get back to work.

I took some time to refresh my memory on Amy's extensive notes, going back over particulars I could exploit. Then I walked around unobtrusively until Amy got off from work, then followed her to Mallory's Bar. I waited another five minutes before I went in, sat three seats away from her, and ordered a whisky. 

I listened to her for a little while, watched her smoke and talk to the bartender, then prepared my approach.

"Amy?" I said, suddenly, as if I was recognizing her. "Amy Grinstead?"

"Uh . . . Hello?" she said, trying to place me. "Um . . ."

I chuckled. "Of course, you wouldn't recognize me. I'm Nate. Nate Barfield. 'Little' Nate Barfield, back then, but . . . well, weren't you at St. Mary's in 1938?"

"Why . . . yes," she admitted, blushing slightly. "Just for a few months, though. You were there too?"

"Well, just for a few months. I got there about a month before you left. I remember watching you, though, when you were out on the playground. You were kind of lanky, but at the time I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world," I said, dreamily. 

"You couldn't have been more than . . ."

"Ten. I was ten years old. You were a year older than me. And you had the prettiest hair. Do you work at a florist shop? Because I swear I saw you earlier today . . ."

"The daisies," she snapped, laughing. "You bought the daisies."

"Right," I agreed. "So it was you! Wow, thirteen years, and I still remember you."

"Well . . . I wish I could say the same, Nate," she said with a humorless chuckle. "Especially since you thought I was 'the most beautiful girl in the world'. But I'll take your word for it. Oh, and I'm Amy Hunter, now. My husband is in the Army, and he just went overseas. Buy me a drink?"

And so it began. We were old school chums, so that got me past her husband's friends and neighbors who were watching out for her. I mentioned a couple of other orphanages we had "shared" -- her file listed eight in the area, two of which I had backgrounds and floor plans for -- and we hit it off like we really were old friends. She wasn't giving me any of the serious signs, but she was enjoying herself. 

When she excused herself for the bathroom I decided to dispense with the hard work and clandestinely dropped an aphrodisiac into her highball. Not hard to do in an age where a "Mickey Finn" was a huge glob of hard-to-dissolve white powder and "date rape" wasn't even a term, yet. My little twenty-second century blue gelatin square dissolved in seconds. When she came back, she drained her drink and ordered another. I had about an hour before it started working seriously.

I bought her a drink, she bought me one. We traded "war stories" from inside the system, and she talked about her husband. I talked about being in Italy during the war, and how disillusioned I was with Western Civilization after what I saw there. She ate that up. About the time my drug started working on her, she suggested we settle up and go buy a bottle. I explained that I was headed West in the morning, as we hit a tiny liquor store on the way, but hadn't found a hotel yet. So of course we went back to her place.

Ironically, her apartment was only three blocks away from Candace's. It was on the second floor, and much nicer, looking more like a married couple's place than a bachelorette pad. But the signs that Amy was not a happy camper were evident everywhere I looked. Empty bottles scattered around, dishes in the sink, overflowing ashtrays, shoes dropped hither and yon -- it was as if she were making up for the years of enforced discipline she had suffered at the orphanage. Of course, with her husband deployed there was no one to clean up for. She seemed almost defiantly proud of the mess. 

I made her a drink and one for myself and just talked for a while. She was going through the booze at about twice my rate, and that was getting her very drunk, very fast. She got more depressed and cynical while she did so, but also more open. She was the first one to mention sex -- and she used the word, not some silly euphemism as was typical in the Fifties -- and she mentioned how she missed it. She talked about her husband some more and how she missed him and was afraid he wouldn't return. It was the aphrodisiac talking, of course. I didn't have the heart to confirm her suspicions -- he'd be dead in another few months, the result of a Chinese counter-offensive in southern Korea. But when she started to tear up, that's when I moved in.

I was sympathetic at first, of course, merely hugging her a little. But then I buried my nose in her hair, just under her ear, and spent several minutes breathing in that vicinity. Between that, the unexpected contact, the liquor and the drug, well, when I kissed her and started taking off her turtleneck, she didn't resist. By the time I was down to her bra she was helping me enthusiastically, the tears mostly gone.

It was a frantic coupling without much foreplay. I pushed her back on the narrow couch, pushed up her skirt, and while I was sucking her nipples I pulled her panties down her legs. I moved up from her boobs so I could kiss her some more . . . and plant my pecker deep into her tight twat.

She almost sobbed in pleasure. She was dripping like a faucet. She clung to my back as I pushed deep inside of her, and took the hammering my hips were giving and begged for more. I rolled over and pulled her on top -- which quite surprised her -- and encouraged her to ride my cock while I played with her ass.

Finally, I spurted into her and held her for a good long time, letting the little guys I my sperm get into her system. She seemed dazed, drunk, and almost unconscious. I picked her up and carried her to her bedroom, then lit a cigarette for her. She took three drags and passed out.

Hell, I was already ready for more. I shrugged and stroked my erection back to life while I watched her sleep, then crawled back between her legs for another round. She only partially woke up. I took my time with that one, driving into her for almost half an hour before I gasped and came into her unconscious body. I know, I know, it's not nearly as good as when you have a fun and enthusiastic partner. But lazy pussy is still pussy, and it's still pretty good. 

Two loads in her belly, mission accomplished. Time to move on. I left a brief note about catching a train, grabbed a cold shower (no hot water heater in the building, yet) and got out. It was a little late for dinner, but I found a café that was still open and grabbed a thick sandwich to soak up some of the liquor.

And, I realized, I was still quite close to Candace's place. I had had sex three times in the last six hours, but with my super-charged nuts I was always ready for one more. And I still had about $160 in my pocket to blow before I went on to the next assignment. I made my way back to her apartment and knocked on the door. She opened it, wearing a bathrobe tightly clutched to her chest, and her eyes went a little wide.

"Wanna make another fifty?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

"Again?" she asked. "Um . . . hell yes. Come on in."

I did. She was obviously getting ready for bed. I took the last of the bottle I had rescued from Amy's place and poured us each a glass, which she sipped slowly while she watched me. 

"So," she said, conversationally. "This is what being a whore feels like."

"No," I assured her. "You're a rich man's mistress. Just for today."

"Mistress or whore, it feels like the same thing."

"Is that bad?"

"No . . . I had a really good time today, Jack. You are a great lover. Better than . . . anyone else I've slept with. I mean that."

"Thanks, Candace," I said, sincerely. "You were a pretty great screw yourself."

"My late husband thought so. Died in the Battle of the Bulge. I've only had one or two other lovers since. And none made me feel like you did." She considered. "There's, uh, something that he taught me how to do . . . with my mouth," she said, hesitantly. "It's . . . kind of . . . perverted . . ."

"No, it's not," I corrected. "I'm familiar with the act. The French girls do it all the time. It's great. More American women should do it. Yeah, I like that a lot, Candace. If you want to . . ."

"Oh, I do," she assured me, earnestly. I smiled and nodded my permission, and she slowly, hesitantly, sank to her knees. "I mean, I've only done it a couple of times, but for some reason you make me feel like doing it. In fact, I've thought about doing it to you all afternoon. When I saw you at the door again, I . . ."

"Say no more," I chuckled. "You haven't been the first to do it. But I look forward to seeing your talents."

And she was talented, for a Fifties widow. She pulled my pants and plain white cotton boxers off my legs, exposing my happy wiener to her gaze. She fondled it thoroughly, blew me, tentatively at first, then with much more confidence. She let me put my hands on her head and guide her, and that let me keep her going until I erupted unannounced into her mouth. She struggled and eventually swallowed just because I wouldn't let her up, but she didn't complain when I did. 

"I hope you aren't done for the evening," she said as she sat back on the floor, exposing a length of bare leg to me. "Because I want it in my . . ."

"Cunt," I supplied, smiling viciously. She blushed a bit, but nodded. "I'm more than happy to oblige," I agreed. "But first I think I want to return the favor."

That seemed to confuse her. "What?"

"I said I want to lick your cunt before I fuck it," I annunciated clearly. 

"You . . . you can do that?"

"Oh, my dear sweet Candace. Lay down. I'm going to show you what you've been missing all these years," I answered, rising. She still looked confused, but tentatively took to her bed, and with a little encouragement opened both her robe and her thighs. She wasn't really comfortable doing it, I could tell, so I moved slowly, so as not to startle her unnecessarily. She was shivering a little with anticipation as I came closer to her furry mound.

With a heartfelt sigh I buried my face in her bush and probed her folds with my tongue in quest for her clitoris. When I finally found it, Candace nearly came off the bed, she responded so well. I grinned to myself and redoubled my efforts. I didn't let up until her body squeaked out its third orgasm in ten minutes. Then, while she was laying there a witless dishrag, I crawled up her body and planted my cock deep in her pussy and began power-stroking. She came continuously for twenty minutes as I pumped her, her eyes as big as hubcaps and her lustful moans and screams destined to wake the neighbors. I didn't mind. I finally emptied another life-giving load inside of her and rolled off.

"A . . . a . . . amazing," she gasped. "I . . . I didn't . . . know that . . . it could . . ."

"Yes, I have that effect some times," I said, lazily. I stuck around long enough to fuck her one more time -- which purely astonished her -- and before I left I put another hundred bucks on her table. 

"If this is whoring," she sighed breathlessly, "I'm a convert."

"It's just temporary," I reminded her. "But I'm sure I'll be back in town before long. Depends entirely on how much business I have in California. But if I do come back in a few months or so, would you be willing . . .?"

"Hell, I'd pay you!" she said, fervently. "Don't hesitate to come by. I might have a job by then, of course -- well, I'd better have a job by then -- but . . ."

I liked Candace. Sure, she was a lonely, desperate woman in her thirties, but at least she was in an era that gave her freedom to rut, if discreetly. Not like the 1920s. That era is just bad news, unless you're a certain kind of guy.

I made my good-byes and grabbed my bag, heading for my rendezvous point. Time to load up for the next little girl on my list, one Shelly Montgomery. I glanced at the handwritten note while I walked. Work, work, work . . .



Cock of Ages Ch. 03



Chapter Three

Baltimore

April 19th, 1951

Shelly Ethel Montgomery. 19 years old. Unmarried. Sounded perfect -- I love the young and fresh stuff almost as much as I like the old and experienced stuff. I figured it would be easy . . . until I saw the rest of the file. Particularly the "occupation" blank.

Shelly Montgomery was an Evangelical Christian Missionary, full of holy fervor and chastity. She would die in August of 1993, and there was nothing in the file to convince me she wasn't a virgin when she died. She led a number of prominent groups in her more mature years, and her youth group sermons were all about the evils of masturbation and premarital sex. What were the guys downstream thinking? Assholes.

Shelly would be a problem. I'd have to just about rape her. That took me back, at first, but then I grinned good-naturedly and began to whistle. I love a challenge. It allows one to approach one's work with creativity . . . and fuck up other peoples' realities.

Look, most normal, red-blooded American girls -- or girls of any nationality, for that matter -- pay lip service to their moral and religious upbringing and then immediately find every way they can to get around it so that they can have sex the way their bodies want them to. It's human nature, a much-maligned but terribly important component of humanity. Girls like to fuck. Almost as much as guys. Some moreso.

Some you can seduce with a look, or a suggestion. Some take persuasion and liquor and money and flattery to make them cross that barrier. And some take their religion seriously, and wouldn't spread their legs for you without a signed order from Jehovah. 

Shelly Ethel Montgomery was like that.

She was the only child of two missionaries, and probably the result of the only sex they ever had together. She had been spoon-fed the anti-sex propaganda from an early age, and believed it with all of her soul. She was destined to die pure, a virgin, unless I intervened. I looked at her picture and sighed. What a waste.

At nineteen she was a vision of loveliness -- slender, blonde, high cheekbones, delicate features, just the hint of breasts and the promise of more in the very near future. She still lived with her parents in a humble two-story home on the edge of town, an inheritance from her sainted grandparents, and in two weeks she would be leaving for Africa on a two-year mission. She could quote the Bible chapter and verse, she could testify endlessly, and she knew sermons of hellfire and brimstone by heart.

But she was on my List. So Shelly was going to get fucked.

I'm not a huge fan of rape -- it denotes a lack of skill in the operator. But I will indulge in it if the situation is called for, and in this case I honestly didn't see any other way into her panties. But there is rape and then there is rape. This wasn't a duct-tape job (since duct tape hadn't been invented yet). It would require far more finesse with that. That meant more work, but if properly played it could also mean more fun.

I requisitioned a bunch of special equipment and got it almost instantly -- handy thing about time machines: deliveries are always on time. I chuckled as I went through the box that arrived at my hotel room and started to get hard in anticipation of deflowering and impregnating this holy virgin. 

I had a plan.

I started by visiting her father's church that Sunday, dressed in a handsome white raw-silk suit and matching hat. I had my best pheromones on, and naturally I attracted the attention of every double-X chromosome in the joint. I made a point of thanking her daddy for his lame-ass sermon, shaking his hand, and letting my gaze linger on her for just long enough to attract her attention. I almost got out of there after that, but some old biddy accosted me and inquired as to my name. With a hint of irony in my voice, I introduced myself as Michael Angel. Then I disappeared.

I pursued one or two personal efforts the rest of the day, but only after I had located and hired a remote farmhouse I could use as a temporary base. It was close enough to Shelly's, yet far enough away from anyone else to preclude unwanted attention. A few hours work transformed the central room into the little love-nest I wanted. By Monday night I was ready.

I still waited until Wednesday night prayer meeting. I didn't mind -- the Fifties are pleasant if you are white and affluent. I bagged two other girls while I was waiting, two sluts who hung out at the low-rent theater on the edge of town and listened to Negro music. But Wednesday was when Amy's church really got to praying. Her parents presided, of course, leaving Shelly at home alone to continue the ministry's paperwork. That's where I found her. 

I was tempted to just sneak up and thump her in the head and ravage her there on the floor, but that would hardly be artful, now, would it? Instead, still in my pristine whites, I knocked on her door about dusk . . . proselytizing. 

"Yes, may I help you?" Shelly asked cheerfully when she opened the door. I gave her my million-dollar smile and pushed a tract towards her. I had had it specially printed, a full-color rendering of an angel in the process of delivering a passionate sermon. Of course, the angel looked exactly like me.

"Good evening, Miss," I said, respectfully. "I was wondering if you would be interested in hearing about the Word of God as relayed in the Gospel of Jesus Christ?"

She had the grace to giggle prettily. "What a coincidence!" she said. "I'm preparing tracts myself! My father is the pastor at St. Luke's, down by the rail yard. My, that's a lovely printing job you did, too! Beautiful! May I . . . may I have one? As a sample? And for . . . inspiration for devotions, of course," she added, without a trace of innuendo. 

I handed it to her with both hands, which gave me the opportunity to touch her skin ever-so-briefly. In doing so she activated a very mild but perceptible electric shock. Totally harmless, and completely meaningless, except that it would register me in her brain as somehow special. She even startled slightly when the current passed between us.

"What church are you from?" she asked.

"I . . . my church is everywhere, Miss. Wherever the Lord calls me. You could say I have a special mission," I said, smiling to myself at the irony.

"I know what you mean," she nodded, sagely. "I, too, sometimes feel as if the Lord has special things in store for me." Oh, he does, Shelly, I told her in my head. "You can try the next block up -- there are a lot of Jews and Catholics over there. Not easy to witness to, but when they convert it's pretty serious business."

"Thank you, Miss," I said, gratefully, tipping my hat. "Perhaps we will meet again on our respective missions. God Bless!" I said, and walked away with just a hint of expectation in my voice. She waved to me as I progressed down the street in the direction she had indicated, and then went inside. I turned the corner and then waited.

The contact poison in the paper I had given her was potent. She had about fifteen minutes before she passed out. I circled around and quietly searched the place, finding her slumped over in the outhouse, my tract still in her hand. That was perfect. I stuffed her in a soft cloth bag (I admit, I copped a feel -- those tits were divine!), slung her over my shoulder, and hotfooted it out of there under cover of darkness. She sagged in the back seat of the Ford I had hired from a jitney, and didn't stir a bit the entire way. She was out cold. 

Half an hour later she was laying, still clothed, on a featherbed mattress in the middle of the floor of my rented farmhouse. I had given her a whole cocktail of psychoactive drugs, a little mix of aphrodisiacs, MDMA, other euphorics to distort her sense of time and place but ensuring a serene feeling of well-being. I didn't want her scared.

The entire room was painted with five cans of Fadeaway White, a nifty invention from the far future. The "paint" started out white, then faded into transparency over time. Don't ask me what exactly it was used for, but it did make a great background for what I was doing. I had painted it over every square inch inside the farm house, which turned the whole thing into a glowing, pure-looking temple. 

My attire? I was dressed in a white tunic complete with biblical sandals and robotic angel wings. Yes, as hokey as it sounds, I had twenty pounds of mechanical feathers strapped to my back. They twitched and moved on a pre-programmed schedule, so they looked alive. I also wore a golden headband inscribed with some kind of Hebrew letters. I didn't know what it said, and it served no real purpose save that I look really fucking cool in a golden headband.

I had a remote about the size of my thumb in one hand. As soon as I saw her eyelids flicker, I cued the song I wanted -- a triumphant fanfare that wouldn't be penned for thirty years -- and stood at the foot of the featherbed, waiting patiently for Shelly to fully awaken.

It took her a moment. Then she startled, staring up at me with awe and wonder. I had rigged the lights so I was bathed in a warm glow. Plus a backlight that shone right into her eyes, making me difficult to see from her angle.

"Shelly Ethel Montgomery," I intoned, the amplifier in my collar giving extra subsonic oomph to my words.

"Y-yess?" she asked, meekly. "What . . . who . . ."

I smiled, serenely. "Do you not know who I am?" I asked.

"You . . . you . . . are you . . . a . . ."

"Behold!" I said, loudly, unfurling my wings dramatically. "For I am an archangel of the Lord, sent unto thee to bear a message and instruction!"

She eeped, turning away. Can't have that.

"Fear not," I demanded, bringing the wings back down. "For thou hast been chosen for a special destiny. Not since Mary has a woman been so honored by the Lord."

She was speechless, of course, and I plowed through to get to the point quickly. The drugs would last a few hours, but I needed to make an impression. I pulled the music back to a reasonable level and changed it to something a little mellower.

"Dost thou accept this great commission of thy own free will, Daughter of Eve?" I asked, intently. More subsonics made this an oppressively heavy moment. I think I stole the 'Daughter of Eve' thing from Narnia.

"If, if I have the strength, Lord," she said, shielding her face.

"Of course thou dost," I chided. "The Lord does not make mistakes. Man, however, is replete with them. Among them is the conceit that Man can speak on behalf of the Lord."

"That, that's folly," she agreed, wide-eyed.

"Thou have been blessed, Shelly," I said kindly. "I am here on His behalf to instruct thee in the secret ways that the Lord desires of his most devout. Are thou willing to hear the instructions of the Lord?"

"I am, Lord," she said, prostrating herself.

"Then . . . shed thy garments, so that thou art as you were on the day of thy birth," I commanded. She was slow to do it, of course, but we angels are a patient lot. Still, best to hurry the process.

"There is no shame in baring thy breast to me," I said, sternly. "For I have known thee since before thou were born. To the Lord, thou art always naked."

She swallowed, and nodded, clearly overwhelmed by my presence. It was a heady feeling, but I couldn't let it get away from me. Even with the drugs, one slip-up and I'd be the spawn of Satan in her eyes. That might be hard to fix.

Finally, she had shucked off the last of her elaborate undergarments. I approached her, and while she looked away, she did not cover herself. I reached out and touched her breast -- the electroshock device ensured a tingle when I did so. She looked away.

"These were provided for thee, to suckle thy children, and delight thy mates," I said, casually. She perked up at the mention of mates. The aphrodisiac was working.

"Yes, Shelly, mates -- for it is fated that thou shalt have many, many men to minister to over the course of thy life, in many diverse ways. For with thy body, thou shalt sanctify the souls of those thou shalt minister to. Thus sayeth the Lord," I said, earnestly.

"So sayeth the Lord," she said, absently. Here eyes were fluttering a bit as I expertly played with her pretty little nipples. 

"The First Lesson thou shalt learn, Shelly, is to enflame the soul of thy mates and receive their sins. What parts of thy body are the most profane?" I demanded.

"M-my . . . my fanny . . .?" she offered in a whisper, blushing.

I nodded. "Indeed. As it is for thou, so it is for others. Yet I shall bless thy lips with the power to extend God's holy grace unto thy mates."

"Lord, I am not worthy," she protested, shivering at what I was doing to her boobs. I'm good with boobs.

"That is for thy Lord to decide," I chided. "Not thou. Whenever the Lord moveth a man . . . or woman . . . to come unto thee and utter this phrase . . . 'I beg you to heal my pain', then this is what thou shalt do: take thee them into a place of uttermost privacy, bless them, then perform thee this ritual." I traced her lips with my thumb, while the other hand moved aside the tunic and released my cock -- which was hard as a bone, of course. This was over-the-top, even for me. Shelly watched in awe as it moved slowly toward her face, mesmerized by it. 

"Hast thou seen the generative organ before?" I asked. 

"Yes, Lord," she said, her lip quivering. "My father has shown me his."

Oh ho?

"Pray tell me, in what context hast he shown thee his weapon?"

"He showed it to me first when I was sixteen," she admitted. "And he . . . later, he bid me . . . to tend it . . . he has told me that it is a wife's duty . . . to tend it . . . and that my mother . . . has neglected her duty." So, the pious old perv was a child molester. As pissed off as I was about that -- even time-traveling rapists have some rules -- it would likely make this next part easier.

"Showeth me what he hast bid thee to do," I commanded. She closed her eyes and nodded. I watched enrapt as she leaned forward and took the head of it between her lips, and shivered as her nimble tongue cautiously probed the glans. There was a slight electric tingle, as the microtransformer I had hooked up under my wings provided a trace current that, in her addled state of mind, would make the experience of touching me "magical" somehow. Slowly she pushed forward, plunging her lips down over the head of my shaft until half the length was buried in her mouth. The little angel's tongue became quite animated, and I put my hand on her head to steady her.

"Indeed," I murmured, "thy sire has trained thee well in the wifely arts." She looked up at me. 'Pleased' wouldn't cover the expression on her face -- "enraptured" is more like it. "It is my command, and the Lord's, that thou shouldst perform this blessing in secret to all who say to thee those words: 'I beg you to heal my pain'. And thou shouldst do this until thy lips are covered in their emissions, be they male or female, and swallow thee all that thou canst; for so shall thou cleanse them of their sins, in the name of the Lord," I said, as piously as I could. I couldn't believe she was buying it, but she was.

"It shall be done," she said, innocently, pulling away for just a moment. "I am a servant of God."

"The more thou shalt do this, the more blessed shall thee be in the eyes of the Lord," I intoned, as her sweet mouth moved back to my shaft. "Both thee, and thy child," I added. That caused her to gasp and pull away.

"Lord?" she asked, confused. "I have no child! I don't even have a husband!"

"Nor shall ye!" I commanded, struck by a perverse piece of inspiration. "Thou shalt conceive of a child by the Lord, through me, and refuse all who seek to take thee to wife. Reject all men, though your sire beseecheth you greatly, but stand steadfast with thy Lord's command. For thy child shall have a special place in the work of God, Shelly, and thy ministry to the sinners shall prosper."

"Yes, Lord," she moaned, pulling her head away again. I pushed it back, urging her back to work. I was nearing orgasm, and she was giving me, hands down, the best blowjob I'd had in the Fifties. Her adorable face was priceless, her innocent looks of religious awe as her lips worked my cock were perfect. I kept my hands on her head and rocked it faster and faster onto my dick. With a mighty shout -- because I had cued to subsonics to trigger to the button remote concealed in my palm -- I erupted a gallon of angelic sperm into Shelly's mouth. She drank it down like it was nectar.

"Was . . . was I properly wifely, Lord?" she asked, hesitantly, when she was finished.

"Indeed," I agreed, trying to regain my composure. "No better wife a man could have -- yet no man shall wed thee, until he tell thee this: that he hast been visited by the Archangel Michael, minion of the Lord, and that I hast commanded him to seek thee out and that I bless the union. The man shall bear the token of a white rose. Of this thou shalt not speak to any living man or woman." 

"Yes, my Lord," she agreed, meekly, wiping her lips.

"Now shall we conceive thy child," I said. Despite the superb hummer she had just given me, I was already rising again in anticipation of her ravishment. 

"Lay thee on thy stomach, with thy posterior elevated," I commanded. She hesitantly turned to do so. She acted confused. Apparently her daddy had been satisfied with merely using his daughter's mouth in which to relieve his tensions. 

When she was in this state of religious bliss, she was pliant and submissive and did what I said. I parted her thighs gently, fondling her furry cleft and noting with distaste that leg shaving was still considered too "liberal" here-and-now, especially amongst the daughters of missionaries. Still, that ass was magnificent, two pale halves of paradise, her blond bush burning between them. I started fingering her clit immediately.

"Hast anyone touched thee here, Daughter of Eve?" I asked. 

"No, my Lord! I am chaste!"

Except for sucking off daddy, I added, mentally. 

"Dost thou touch thyself in this place?" I asked. I could see her blush down her back. 

"Yes, my Lord!" she finally said, her head hanging.

"It is the command of the Lord that thou shalt touch thyself each day," I said forcing back a grin, "between the dawn and twilight. Dost thou hear?"

"I d-do, my Lord!" she moaned as my finger wormed into her from behind. No hymen. Which wasn't unusual, of course, but I found it interesting. 

"Touch thyself thus until thou shalt feel the blessings of the Lord wrack thy body in ecstasy," I pronounced. 

"I w-will, my Lord!" she agreed enthusiastically. She was soaked due to the aphrodisiac but I think she would have had plenty of native enthusiasm for the spiritual discipline I had instructed her without it. Without further ado, I positioned my cockhead at the entrance of her furry cunt and lunged forward, impaling her. 

Now, I'm not gargantuan -- the docs back at base had made sure I wasn't quite hung like a bear before loosing me on their grandmothers -- but I'm not small, either. A good eight-and-a-half inches, well over average and impressive in just about any time period. But when you're a functional virgin, the sudden introduction of that much man-meat in your most sensitive part for the first time is going to get a reaction. In this case, it was a near ecstatic scream as my cock burrowed into her soft, hot depths. I grabbed her hips to keep her from pulling away, then and began a ruthless plundering of her tight, virginal pussy.

"Oh, dear Lord, praise God, oh, it hurts, praise Jesus, praise God, halleluiah, praise Him," she chanted as I fucked her. As much as I reveled in her discomfort, I didn't want this to be a totally one-sided experience. I was experimenting, here, and it was essential from a scientific point of view that she enjoy the experience -- hell, not just enjoy it, but for it to be the perfect spiritual-sexual experience. Doggie style works the G-spot, but it does little for the clit. I pulled a stylish clear-plastic vibe, complete with twinkling LEDs, from under my wings and reached around to bring it between her legs. It only took a moment to find her clit, and another for her to blast off on her first heavenly orgasm. I let her have two more in rapid succession before I dropped the wand on the mattress and went back to work, fucking her as hard as I could while she writhed in pleasure.




Cock of Ages Ch. 03



"So . . . sayeth . . . the . . . LORD!" I said, clicking my 'climax button' as I came again, splashing my life-giving seed against her cervix while triumphant music wafted over us. She managed one more orgasm before collapsing, and I pulled out and immediately stood up.

"Thus hast thou been blessed by God," I said, as she huddled half-naked on the mattress."

"Thank you, thank you, my Lord," she whined. "I am not worthy!"

Like hell she wasn't -- I never thought a preacher's daughter would be such a righteous lay.

"Thy work here is not yet complete," I added, as I caught my breath. "For hear me: when thy child is born, that child shall be outcast. Steal away with thy child unto the city known as Tampa, as Hathor did with Abraham's son, Ishmael, and raise that child there as thou buildest thy ministry."

"Y-yes, my Lord!" she agreed, getting back on her knees. "It shall be as you command!" She had a blank, flushed, dazed expression that was part sexual ecstasy and part spiritual bliss. 

"Wait there until thou receivest a sign. Gather unto thee followers, maidens who are filled with the Holy Spirit, and teach unto them this gift of blessing I have commanded thee. Thus sayeth the Lord!"

"Yes, my Lord!" she cried. 

"Now clean thy secretions from my holy staff. Hum thy favorite hymn whilst thou workest." Even though it would be a while before I could get another full-blown erection, no reason why I couldn't enjoy another devoted hummer. I still had some time, yet. A double-shot of engineered antibodies would help protect the brat I just put into her belly, too. 

Oh, I'm a bad man. I had just taken a sweet, innocent, God-fearing little missionary girl and completely ruined her for any other man. No 1950s farmboy would be able to match 21st century sexual technology -- not when it was backed with the full force of divine revelation. Worse yet, I had possibly started a heretical pro-sex cult, something Christianity in general just didn't tolerate. That thought amused me, for some reason. I've never been much of a church-goer. Sure, it meant Shelly and her bastard were in for a hard, hard life, but she wouldn't be the first minister's daughter to end up with a big belly. 

No matter. She'd soldier through, I figured, with nothing less than God on her side. Maybe I'd look her up in the future. I had sent her to Tampa, where our next stop was scheduled, maybe I'd come back for a quickie and see how she was doing. I groaned, interrupting my musings. Her nimble lips had reinvigorated my dick, much to my surprise. Of course, the sheer perversity of the situation was arousing, but she did know how to suck a mean cock. I interrupted her, turned her around, and re-entered her pussy from behind again with a savage thrust.

Might as well make sure her ovaries had plenty of super-charged sperm to choose from.

I drugged Shelly one last time as she lay recuperating from her blissful rape, and when she was asleep I acted fast. Packing everything back in the trunk was easy, after I got changed, and so was loading the trunk in the car. I drove the girl to a nearby forest stream, about ten miles outside of town, and left her on a pretty, grassy hill next to the water, naked as the day she came into the world. As an added bonus I stuffed three tabs of MDMA up her gooey slit. By the time she woke up from the sedatives she would be rolling her little brain out, in love with everything in sight. 

I added one final touch: I put another religious tract featuring me on the cover in one hand, and I took a child's temporary tattoo and applied it to her left breast, over her heart -- temporary for the 21st century, actually. The solvent that could remove it wouldn't be invented for seventy years. Until then, she would bear a whimsical little harp about the size of a quarter. 

Nothing like a little stigmata to really bring the experience home. It would give her something to think about while she coped with an unexpected motherhood. Talk about a righteous lay.



Cock of Ages Ch. 04



Baltimore, Maryland

April 20th, 1951

"Here, put these in storage," I grunted as I handed Cromwell the big ugly cardboard box with my wings and things in it. We were back at his hotel room, one downtown that had seen much better days. "I'll need them again, someday. That was a good set-up."

He looked at me incredulously. "Jesus, the angel thing actually worked?" he asked, gape jawed. Not a pretty look for him.

I shrugged dismissively. "You just gotta know how to turn 'em, It was pathetically easy. One in the mouth, two down the middle. And now I'm just a pleasant dream . . . "

"I'm so happy for you," he said, sourly.

"You know, you really need to get laid," I pointed out, recognizing a condition I rarely suffered from. "It would improve your mood tremendously. What the hell do you do with yourself during the day?"

"I sit in a hotel room and wait for the goddamn phone to ring," he said, gruffly. "I read the local paper and laugh, and listen to the radio, and wait for you to fuck other men's wives. And I take care of your laundry, apparently," he said, looking at the box distastefully.

"Just make sure that doesn't get lost," I reminded him. "If we're going to the Bible Belt, I'll definitely want to use that in Tampa."

"You're the boss," he shrugged, which was only a little bit true. "I'll send it to your storage room on the Island. You ready for the next one?"

"Ready and willing. Shoot."

"Okay," he said, pulling a new file out of his briefcase. Like mine, it did all sorts of unlikely things for this era. Just not the same unlikely things mine did. It contained a very subtle and very sophisticated computer and communication set-up. You had to know how to access it, but in Cromwell's capable hands he could access virtually limitless amounts of data, and have it printed in date-appropriate format on the spot. Handy, when you want to forge some credentials. I knew Cromwell spent most of his day staring at it, receiving news from the remote transmission that the Project broadcast from some secret location. That's where our orders came from, and things like aphrodisiacs and angel wings. 

"We have one Mrs. Patricia Ann Ryan, age 24, married to one Mr. Albert Ryan, who owns and runs the Chelsea Theater east of town. Mr. Ryan is carrying on an affair with one of his ushers, a fact that will be a big scandal and close down the theater in five years."

"Why? Seems innocuous enough. This isn't the Twenties," I pointed out.

"The usher's name is Tom."

"Ouch," I winced. Being gay was not OK in the 1950s. It would be more than a decade before the Stonewall Riots. Here-and-now it was "the love that dare not speak its name", no hope of acceptance. At best, it was mental illness. Hell, they even put you in jail if you got caught. Barbarians. 

"Yeah, well, denial is never pretty. Seems as if Mrs. Ryan ain't gettin' the sausage she was promised at the altar. So she spends all her time at her garden club at Easterwood Park. She lives over on North Pulaski, one of those row houses. Here's the address. And a picture."

I took the latter, first. A flawless facsimile copy of an old Polaroid of a sad-looking brunette, not particularly bad looking, in a floral print dress that should have been outlawed under a faded sweater. She dangled a burning cigarette in one hand, casually. 

"Easy. One day," I figured. "Go ahead and give me the other one, too. Maybe I can pull a double."

"Showoff. Just because you're undefeated . . . Okay, we have Lisa No-Middle-Name Horcek. Elementary school teacher, engaged. Long engagement. But she gets married sometime next year."

"I bet she does," I said, taking her picture. She was a thin, almost frail little thing, with a pretty face but no shape to speak of. She had tiny tits, only barely discernable under her dress, and a waist that existed only by virtue of the fashion of the period. But she looked smart, assertive, well-put-together. I pegged her for a 'sudden romance' sort of thing.

Ryan? She might be a little harder. Some of those married-to-gay-guys women actually preferred it that way, either because they didn't like sex much or because they were closeted lesbians themselves. Or they just plain liked it better that way. 

But then there were those other women who had no idea about what Hubby did when he went 'fishing', and told off their husbands' queer behavior as mere quirk or eccentricity. Or internalized it to batter their self-esteem on a daily basis. It could go either way.

I had ways to get around all of those obstacles. Regardless of which type of gay wife she was, I could find my way into her panties. I didn't even need to look at her psych profile -- I preferred to be surprised. 

"And here's some re-fills for your kit," Cromwell added, tossing five little packs on the bed. Pheromones, date-rape drugs, aphrodisiacs, mood enhancers, sedatives, amnesiacs, a hand-selected twenty-second century pharmacopoeia that was guaranteed to charm the panties off of any mortal woman no matter which brand of hair crème you used. I gathered them up and noticed Cromwell shaking his head.

"What?" I demanded.

"Just wondered if you get tired of doing it all the time."

"What, fucking for a living?" I shrugged. "I'm sexually obsessed. That's why I got the job. You should try it some time."

"I'm married," he pointed out. "And they won't let us go back downstream until our mission term is up.

"You won't be married for almost a century, yet," I countered. "Go out and get yourself a piece. Slip one of the blue ones into some slut's beer. See how far you can go," I encouraged, teasingly.

He actually considered it. I could hear his wheels turning. He had been in the field for over a year, and hadn't seen his wife in at least that long. When he was done they could pop him back into the stream so close to when he left that, apart for some superficial aging, his missus wouldn't know he'd gone. "I don't know . . . it ain't my gene pool that's supposed to be playing back here in the olden days."

"Quit worrying! You don't have anything nasty or they wouldn't let you in the program. And I think you know how babies are made. Go out, have yourself some fun."

Cromwell took the tab. "You're a bad influence, Tom. Maybe I will," he said with a shrug. "Beats staying in here. Ain't even got TV yet. Or radio. I got to watch on that tiny little screen I brought."

"My heart bleeds for you. Get laid. Try 1950s pussy -- it's the real thing. And it will take away all of these moods you've been having."

"Asshole," he grunted.

Mrs. Patricia Ryan was actually a lot prettier than her picture (which wouldn't be taken for another few years) showed. I scouted out her house over on North Pulaski Street, a quaint and cozy little row-house. I walked back and forth in front of it a few times wearing a non-descript business suit, a hat, and carrying a briefcase. Every now and then I looked at a card I was holding. No one bothered me.

The house was cute, in a tacky sort of way, but it had had some construction done recently. On my third trip by I saw what it was: a bomb shelter. 

You've got to love Fifties Paranoia, almost as much as Fifties Pussy. The shelter gave me my game plan.

Patricia was, indeed, at her garden club at the park, and I walked by there a few times, too, just to see her out of the house. She and four other women were planting petunias or some damn thing in a flowerbed and gossiping. Patricia looked content with the work, but generally unhappy. I circled the park without her noticing and headed back to her house to wait for her. While I waited I painted up my back-story and printed out the documents I needed from the sophisticated computer hidden in the lining of my briefcase. Real solid spy stuff.

She came home just before lunch, and I was waiting for her on her stoop.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Are you Mrs. Ryan?" I asked gruffly.

"Why . . . yes, I'm Pat Ryan. Can I help you?" she repeated.

"Civil Defense, ma'am," I said, pushing a fake badge at her. It's actually an interchangeable Federal badge, completely authentic, along with a card that showed that I was David Meyers, Inspector of Civil Defense Projects. "You've recently had a shelter installed?"

"Why, yes, yes we did. Last week. My husband worries so much about those . . . horrible bombs."

"We all do, Ma'am," I agreed. "If only more people thought like your husband. I'm here to inspect and rate your shelter as a part of Baltimore's Civil Defense effort. We are, as I'm sure you know, high on the list of Russki targets," I said, confidently. Of course I knew nothing of the sort, but people always want to believe that they're important enough for their enemies to strike them. Human nature.

"I, I didn't know about any inspection!" she said, nervously.

"It's a new policy," I said, soothingly. "Started at the beginning of the month. Yours is only the fifth one I've done. We check for construction, supplies, ventilation, occupancy, all of that. So we can compile an accurate count and estimate survivors in case of attack. You can never plan too much for that sort of thing."

"Well, sure," she agreed. "It's right back in the back yard. Please come in," she said, unlocking the thick wooden door.

The house was comfortable and decorated with heirlooms, hardwood floors, lots of antiques. Someone from the Old South had died and left the Ryan's an assload of heirlooms. She led me back through the kitchen and out of the back door. The entrance to the shelter was a manhole-like cover at the back of the yard. I nodded and opened it, revealing a dark hole with a ladder running down one side.

"Is there light?"

"Battery lantern, just at the bottom of the ladder. Or at least it's supposed to be there, according to Al."

"Thanks. Mind coming down with me?"

"Uh, sure, I suppose," she decided, nervously. I went down first, which allowed me to get a full peek up her dress as she descended. White cotton panties. Nice. Hey, I'm a perv. News flash. Sue me.

I lit the lantern as her feet hit the floor. The shelter was very basic, four bunks against the walls, a small space beyond for a kitchen, a "bathroom" set-up beyond that. Minimal storage. I started scribbling notes on my legal pad. 

"Um, sleeps four to eight, looks like . . . about three thousand cubic feet . . . steel reinforced concrete construction . . . food for, looks like three weeks, six if you stretch it. Water?"

"He built in a cistern over the top," she answered. "It comes out in the kitchen. He can refill it from the hose in the garden."

"Body disposal bags?"

"What?" she asked, paling even in the dim light of the lantern.

"Plastic or rubber bags to seal bodies in, in case of attack. To protect against disease," I added. 

"Um, I don't know. He hasn't mentioned it to me, if they're here."

"Hmmm. Doesn't sound like he's made you very familiar with the shelter. Either that, or he doesn't want to alarm you."

"He doesn't tell me much," she admitted with a small frown.

"Most men don't. They all have secrets," I agreed with a kind smile. I suspected Mr. Ryan probably had a few down here himself. "Sanitary facilities . . . medical supplies . . . okay, I think we're ready for the ventilation check."

"The what?"

"We have to seal the place for an hour, with people inside," I explained. "To ensure that you can still get fresh air in the thing during an attack. Don't want anyone to suffocate down here. That kind of defeats the purpose."

"Right," she said, absently. I brushed past her -- rubbing seductively up against her was easy in these tight quarters -- and went back up the ladder long enough to close the hatch with a clang.

"What are you --?"

"Like I said, ventilation check," I repeated. "We've got to stay down here for an hour. I'm going to release a gas that will stain any leaks above bright green," I said, taking one of the wide-area aerosol pheromone disbursers out of the case. "It's harmless, just a marker. But it will show any flaws in the pneumatic integrity of the structure." I was completely bullshitting, but if you do it confidently enough no one questions you.

"Oh," she said with a nod. "A whole hour?"

"It's standard procedure," I said, nodding. "And we like to have the people who are actually going to use it participate in the rating. It kind of gives you a vested interest in the result. Too many people are getting ripped-off by unscrupulous contractors who are using poor designs. Might get a lot of people killed, if we were under attack."

"That makes sense," she said, already looking a little uncomfortable.

It was starting to get warm, with the lack of fresh air, two warm bodies, and an electric lantern going. The hiss of the pheromones also added to the closeness, and in a moment I was stripping off my jacket and loosening my tie.

"Sorry," I said with a grimace. "My least favorite part of the job. I'm a little . . . claustrophobic."

She smiled back, warmly. But she still had her arms folded protectively over her boobs. Not a good sign. Time to move this up a notch.

"Might as well do an extended inspection while we wait -- I'm supposed to do one a week. Mrs. Ryan, does your husband keep a weapon in the shelter?"

She frowned. "I don't think so . . . of course, he wouldn't tell me if he did. He's very . . . secretive."

"Mind if I look around for them? It's recommended that they be stored in a hidden location, to prevent theft or accident."

She shrugged, bored. "Sure, go ahead. We've got time."

"Thanks," I grinned, and started talking while I searched. I launched into a long monologue that casually mentioned my first wife dying of cancer (to promote sympathy and establish my single status), how I buried myself in my work to keep from being haunted by her (to build confidence that I was a hard-worker and good provider), how I didn't ever think I'd find anyone else like her (to establish the possibility of fated romance), etc. All this crap gives the woman information that she wants to know, but since I controlled the flow I also controlled how and what she actually heard. By the time I had finished searching the south-facing bunks, I had established myself as a take-charge man who was sensitive and single. Then I found what I thought I'd find. Under the top bunk on the north side.

"I . . . see your husband likes fitness," I said, casually. She couldn't miss my skeptical tone.

"What do you mean? He's got a belly like Santa Claus," she said, confused.

"Well, he likes reading about fitness, then," I said, holding up the two muscle-building magazines I'd found. The pages were worn and dog-eared, and a few of them were stuck together by . . . protein.

And that wasn't all. Inside the back page was a letter from one of his friends. A really close friend, apparently, and one with whom it was clear he had been intimate. Patricia grabbed the letter immediately, and began reading. The tears started before she got to the second paragraph.

"That bastard, he promised me . . ." she started, her shoulders sagging.

"He's . . . a . . ."

"I don't know when he started," she confessed, tearfully. "And he said he didn't do it often, but . . . a few years ago I came home from my mother's unexpectedly. He . . . he was . . . in bed . . . with another man!"

"My God!" I said, feigning shock. This was the Fifties, after all. 

"Yes, it was . . . horrible. To see my husband, being . . . buggered like that," she sobbed. "I threatened to divorce him. So help me, I did! I threatened, and he promised -- promised! -- he'd never do it again. He isn't a terribly affectionate man," she revealed, "but to see him being . . . intimate . . . with another man like that, it . . . it . . ."

"I am so sorry," I began in a whisper, sliding closer to her and putting a supportive arm around her. The pheromones were thick in the air now, and I saw her breathing pattern change away from crying and towards more serious pursuits. Cortisol, the stress hormone. It hikes up the flight-or-fight mechanism, biochemically, but it also sends a surge of interest down the reproductive areas. That's why so many erotic encounters happen when the shit hits the fan in a natural disaster or war. Nature has a way of making sure it gets one last chance at your gene pool before you get killed. 

I matched my own breathing to hers. That kind of entrainment is subtle, but it can have a powerful psychological effect, especially in a moment of weakness. 

And she was weak. God, was she weak, and vulnerable, her self esteem and self worth lower than this crappy fallout shelter. 

"He promised me he would stop," she repeated. "I trusted him. But this, this!" she said, brandishing the letter, "this proves he didn't. Look at the date -- look at the date!" she demanded. I looked. It was three weeks old.

"He never stopped. He just . . . he just came out here, instead. God damn him," she swore. "God damn him!"

"Perhaps you should divorce him," I suggested. "Expose him to everyone."

"Don't think I haven't considered it!" she said, agreed, fiercely. "A woman doesn't expect too much in a marriage, but she does expect her husband not to be a goddamn pervert! You know, he hasn't touched me in months?"

Bingo! Referring to her own sexual activities so blatantly was as good as an invitation. I nodded. "That would stand to reason if he was thinking about . . . well, did he show any strange proclivities in your . . . marital life?"

"He . . . he . . . Oh, God, I can't believe I'm talking about this with a stranger!" she said, her social filter kicking in briefly. It was gone a second later as she stared me in the eye, her pupils dilating in the gloom. "I'm no prude -- really, I'm not. But he only liked . . . well, he liked it when I -- I can't believe I'm saying this -- he liked it best when I was on all fours. Like an animal. He never liked to do it face to face. And the few times we have done it in the past year, he always tries to . . . put it into my bottom. I even let him once, but it hurt and I made him stop. I know some women like it that way -- no, it's true, you ought to hear them down at the beauty shop -- so I didn't think much of it, until I caught him with his . . . lover," she said, distastefully. 

Ah, the closet. Long, long gone by the time I was born, but back here in the Dark Ages it was still actually a crime to be gay. And the social stigma was overwhelming. I actually felt sorry for the guy. If he had put off being born a few decades, he could be running a cozy little bed and breakfast up in the Appalachians with his ruggedly handsome partner, Steve, while he worked on his Marilyn Monroe collection. But here-and-now, he was subject to arrest and prosecution, not to mention divorce and disgrace. 

"I . . . I don't know what to say," I said. Actually, I knew exactly what to say. "That must make you feel . . . so bad . . . for him to dishonor you as a woman, this way."

"It's unbearable," she agreed, with more tears. "I feel like such a failure! What did I do wrong, to drive him to that? Am I ugly?" she demanded. 

"No, not at all, you are a very, very attractive woman," I agreed, with just the right amount of emphasis to make it clear that I was personally attracted to her. That was the bait. Self-esteem redemption is always a quick way into a woman's panties. And I was on an express line.

"Am I . . . am I that . . . bad," she whispered, "you know, in bed?"

"I . . . I'm afraid I wouldn't be the best judge of that," I said, chuckling good-naturedly. She realized what I meant and laughed a bit, too. Then I fixed her with a stare and thought, very loudly, Yet! 

I didn't say a word, but I didn't have to. Those thoughts are communicated subtly, through facial expressions and body language. I caught the responding cues, too -- she knew what I was thinking. And she was thinking it, too.




Cock of Ages Ch. 04



"Wanna find out?" she asked, sultrily.

"Aren't you married?" I reminded her. Just being a gentleman.

"To a buggerer," she said. "And an adulterous buggerer, too."

"Do two wrongs make a right?" I teased, touching her arm intimately. She shivered.

"Right now they do," she assured me. "He hasn't touched me in months. I hardly know you, but since we're trapped down here for the next hour, anyway . . . well, it's getting pretty hot in here, don't you think?" she asked. She was right. I nodded. "And if that hatch up there works properly, it should keep out radiation. It would also keep some secrets in, too."

I smiled wolfishly. "You don't need to convince me," I said. "I thought you were beautiful the moment I set eyes on you."

That's all it took. She was in my arms in a flash, passionately kissing me while trying to strip off her shirt at the same time. I returned her passion in the kiss, and helped her with the disrobing. Her boobs weren't huge, about B-cup, actually, bigger than I thought, but once I loosed them from that Maidenform monstrosity they were quite charming, with little pink eraser-tip nipples that begged to be sucked. So I did.

She let out a loud low groan as my lips captured them, one after another, and she scooted in to face me, clutching my head to her breast. I reached around and grabbed her ass through her skirt, felt how firm it was, and then sought out her knees to I could get my hands under her skirt. I pulled them over the length of her thighs, caressing all the way, and she damn near swooned. She had firm, slightly skinny legs, but she also sported a pretty decent ass under all of those clothes.

"I can't . . . I can't believe I'm . . . doing this," she panted in the stifling heat of the shelter.

"You deserve it," I encouraged her. "A man shouldn't deny his wife like that, even if he does prefer sucking dick to eating pussy," I said, crudely. I had a feeling about Patricia, and I was borne out a moment later when she attacked me. She had a dirty mouth, and her 1950s sensibilities were just waiting for permission to cut loose with it. When I got crude, she got her permission.

"That son-of-a-bitch never eats my goddamn pussy," she breathed, in between kisses. "But he still wants me to suck his tiny goddamn dick! Nothing but a goddamn faggot-assed bitch!"

"And this pussy needs some tending to," I replied heatedly, as my hands dug their way into her panties and found her furry bush. I roughly probed the excited labia and fingered it until I found her clitoris, then savagely rubbed it. This was no time for tenderness. Her knees buckled in response. I knew it. She wasn't in the mood for delicate romance.

"Oh, GOD, that feels good!" she moaned as she brazenly pressed her cunt against my hand. 

"So does this," I said, pushing her to the chair and unzipping my fly. She batted my hands away and did it herself, quickly, and let my dick spring forth. Her eyes got wide. Apparently her homo hubby didn't have this much pork in his pocket.

"I didn't know they could get that big," she said, in awe. If only I had a nickel for every time I heard that. 

"More than a mouthful is a waste," I quoted. "Let's see how much you have to waste." I pulled her head to my groin and she took the bait, swallowing my dick as deeply as she could in that first thrust. She gave a little moan of fulfillment as my meat filled her mouth to overflowing. She wasn't shy, however, and her tongue was instantly busy welcoming every spot on my cock she could reach.

"That's the stuff," I sighed. "Suck that cock, you randy little slut!" She moaned again at the words, her lips sliding gracefully up the length of the shaft, then back down again. At least Albert trained her up right for that. Or she had some natural talent. Either way, I was enjoying the ride tremendously.

"Do it in my mouth," she begged when she took a break. "I want you to fuck me, but I want you to spray in my mouth, so I know what real man cream tastes like for a change!"

"Oh, I can fuck you, too," I assured her. "I haven't gotten laid in over a year, and you're the sexiest bitch I've seen in all that time!" Both were lies, of course, but they also served to encourage her to redouble her efforts to make me cum. Her hand worked its way under my balls and began a lovely massage, while her lips pressed tightly against the shaft of my dick.

I decided to help her out a bit, and took her head in my hands and fucked her face for a few minutes. She reveled in the loss of control, but pushed my hands away to catch her breath a moment later. "God, I love that!" she declared between breaths.

She sucked on the head while she stroked the shaft, licking the glans delicately. Pat stared up at me with those big, sad eyes, and I moaned in delight. She wanted real man sperm? I'd give her a healing load to swallow that she'd never forget. Sensing I was close, she started pistoning her head down again, and in moments I was blasting her tonsils with my spooge. She swallowed with only a little difficulty, but seemed to relish the taste as she did so.

"Damn! I'm almost satisfied with that!" she said, happily.

"I'm not," I replied, gruffly, and picked her up to sit her on the table. Mission said I had to fuck her, so she was gonna get fucked. I took her seat and pushed up her skirt. I hooked my fingers in the waistband of her panties, and then paused as she stared at me, dazed. "When was the last time someone really ate you good?" I asked, my eyes narrowed.

"God, since long before Al!" she said, lustfully. "He says it makes him ill."

"Who?" I inquired.

"A . . . boy in the neighborhood," she admitted. But I knew she was lying.

"You sure?"

"I was there," she agreed. "Boy next door, only he was two doors down. He snuck into my window and ate me all night long." I could tell by what her eyes were doing that she wasn't being totally honest with me. And I think I knew why. The randy little hypocrite had had a female pussy licker! I didn't want to push the issue and cause a scene, not when I was so close to fulfilling my objective. So I tore off her panties and pushed apart her thighs so I could bury my face in her bush.

Pat liked that a lot. She laid back on the table and let me ravish her neglected pussy with my tongue. She was soaked, I mean literally dripping juices in a pool under her ass. I ate her lustily, making her squirm on my tongue as one savage orgasm ripped through her after another. 

Just as I was bringing her to perhaps her third major climax, I stood and buried my dick into her twat without warning. She squealed at the intrusion -- she was as tight as a sixteen year old -- but she was quickly pushing her hips up to greet me. Ordinarily I would have done her like this and then spun her around, doggie, but in deference to her horrible marital life I decided she deserved a little face-to-face time while she was getting fucked. So I sought out her mouth with my own, still sticky from her juices, as I relentlessly pounded into her.

She had to grab the sides of the table to steady herself. I pulled her into a slightly better angle and worked at the cervix-bruising power strokes she seemed to enjoy the most. Having already cum, I hammered into her, standing fully for better leverage, for at least half an hour. Most men go about eight minutes. She'd know the difference after this.

I watched as her climaxes lit her up like a pinball machine, and she screamed. Thank God we were under ground, or the neighbors would have called the cops. When I couldn't hang on any longer, I released a torrent of my super-fertile seed against the far wall of her pussy, and then covered her heavily in the aftermath. The longer I kept her horizontal, the better chance there was of insemination.

"That . . . was amazing," she said, wide-eyed. "I haven't been fucked like that . . . ever."

"Sorry, got carried away in the moment," I said softly, kissing her some more. 

"Good. I love it. After Al's limp dick for the last few years, I'd almost forgotten what a proper fucking was like."

"Glad I could be of service," I quipped. "That was some really good pussy, you know?"

"Thanks," she said, gratefully. "I almost thought it didn't work right, what with him . . . going elsewhere."

"Seems to work fine for me," I laughed. "As a matter of fact, I could stand to double-dip, if you're interested."

"Again?" she asked, shocked. "You want to go again?"

"If you're willing. We still have ten minutes or so before the test is up. But lets move to one of the bunks," I suggested.

Our second coupling was far less frenetic than the first, but just as enjoyable. Pat was at that place in her life where she was just discovering her body, in many ways, and she had something to prove about her femininity. I pumped her silly for another half-hour, and then injected her with another load. We laid there for a long time afterwards.

"Damn," she breathed. 

"I concur," I said. 

"Serves the bastard right," she threw in, slyly. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to wipe up with my panties and stick them in his goddamn 'fitness' magazine, that's what I'm going to do. So the next time he comes out here to whack off, he'll know."

"Won't that cause some . . . problems?" I asked, feigning concern.

"No, because I'll keep the creepy little love-letter. He tries to give me any shit, well, it would all come out in court."

"That will serve him right." 

"Damn straight. I was mad, before, but you set me right, David. Gave me some perspective. He can keep his little butt-boys, I'll get what I need on the side. If he doesn't like it, well, he can suffer."

"That's the spirit!"

We slowly got dressed, which felt like putting on blankets in the stifling heat, and finally opened the hatch. I watched as she placed her sticky panties ceremoniously between the pages of Al's magazine and stuffed it back under the mattress where I found it. Then we both emerged into the sunlight the sweat still clinging to us, and I made a show of looking for bright green stains. I found none. Go figure.

"Here's my card," I said, handing her one of the fake ones I'd printed. "You ever dump that . . . butt pirate, let me know." She took it gratefully. That was one of those little things to keep her from having "cheaters remorse" -- the feeling of being used some women have after a clandestine quickie -- and to assure her I wasn't just fucking her and heading for the horizon. Of course, that's exactly what I was doing. When and if she called, she'd find out all too soon that "David Meyers" wasn't a Baltimore city employee, and that the Civil Defense program didn't really inspect newly built shelters. By that time, however, she'd be safely pregnant -- something else which would cause some issues between her and Al -- and I would be safely in Tampa, ten years from now. On my way out she stopped me in the house and kissed me.

"Thank you," she said. "You made me feel more like a woman in an hour than Al has in years."

"Just doing my job, ma'am," I said with a grin. For once, I wasn't lying. 



Cock of Ages Ch. 05



Chapter Five

Baltimore, Maryland

April 22, 1951

Lisa Horcek was an all-American girl, born of one of Baltimore's leading upper-middle-class families and educated at William and Mary. She had been teaching since she had graduated in 1945, and had been "seeing" (Fifties slang for "fucking") a nice Catholic boy she had met at school, who was now pursuing a law degree somewhere in the rural bowels of North Carolina. According to her file, he saw her on holidays, briefly, but that was it. The engagement ring on her finger was getting a little tarnished, by now. I could only guess how randy her schoolmarm cunt would be.

She lived in a lovely brownstone apartment over on Union Avenue, which would be bulldozed in a dozen years or so to make way for the Jones Falls Expressway -- but right now, the Eisenhower Interstate system was a planner's dream and a political talking point, not a reality. She taught at a nearby school, the very picture of the modern independent career woman -- which meant in Fifties terms that she smoked, drove a car, and was desperate to get married.

Pretty girl, too. Thin, delicate features, blonde hair, pretty smile. But no tits. And it would be a few years before some Southern California stripper would get silicone injections to increase her bust and make history. Hell, back home they usually sucked your thighs and did your boobs all at the same time on your lunch hour. Of course, Lisa didn't have enough meat on her bones to provide any left over for boobs.

I scouted her out after school, watching her walk the eleven blocks between there and home. She carried herself well, stopped twice to gossip with friends on the way and once to duck in to a butcher shop and pick up something, but then she was back on her way. By the time she had gotten home, I had come no closer to coming up with a brilliant plan to lay her. So I found another coffee shop and went back to her file. Then it hit me. I checked the date on a discarded paper, then grinned. Tonight, it seemed, was her poetry club.

I'm no stranger to poetry. Back in my own college days it was one of my sure-fire ways of getting laid. The third-rate state school I went to was right down the road from a private liberal arts college filled to the rafters with sensitive young pussy who would believe just about anything, if you said it the right way. I had memorized reams of the stuff, especially the Romantics, and I knew a couple of dozen Shakespearean sonnets by heart. I tried to stay away from saccharine crap like Dickenson -- not that it didn't work, but there is such a thing as pride.

Her club met every Thursday at a local church. I scanned the very brief description of the group the Wayback Machine had come up with and formulated a plan.

An hour later I was in one of the dusty church classrooms chatting, smiling, and introducing myself as Jerome P. Steward, a scholar and aspiring poet who had heard about the group from a friend of a friend. I told myself off as a visiting scholar at one of the morbid little liberal arts colleges that dot the Maryland countryside, and professed my eagerness at participating in such an erudite group. Four old ladies, two older gents, and a nerdy set of young twin girls with coke-bottle glasses were present, and they hung on my every word. Of course, the pheromones from my lapel flower probably had something to do with that. 

We didn't get started until Lisa arrived -- she ran the group -- and I have to admit, it was actually a lot of fun. Everyone picked a poem to read aloud and then the group ripped it to shreds. Except mine. I recited it from memory, entitled it Sweethearts, and put every bit of passion I could into it, while catching Lisa's eye at the poetically suggestive parts. Of course it wasn't really mine -- they were famous song lyrics from 2018, my grandad's era, by a band called Big Bear. Pretty stuff, and still popular decades later, but without the thumping drums and heavy metal chords it loses something.

It was enough for Lisa, though. I timed my delivery perfectly, using my hand motions and body language to lure her into my intimate personal space before I had even spoken directly to her. By the end of the meeting I was perhaps the most popular person there, and the two teen girls would have done anything I had asked. They were wound up, I could tell by their responses. I chatted with them a moment while Lisa said good-bye to the old folks, and got their names -- no lie, Candy and Brandy -- and found out they lived in a dorm at William and Mary. I promised them if I had time to stop by and look at some of their poetry. It made me nostalgic for college, where I had bagged a few dozen of their spiritual great-great-granddaughters. 

Finally the girls left Lisa and myself alone. I thanked her kindly for the meeting, and she thanked me for coming -- all very polite and above-board. She was already flashing her eyes at me, I could see, her intellectual interest starting to meld in with her physical interest. An invitation to a cup of coffee was given and accepted, and before ten o'clock we were back in the same friendly coffee-shop I started the evening in.

"So, Jerome, how long are you in town?" she asked, batting her lashes at me. Long, delicate lashes, too.

"Actually, I leave day after tomorrow for a seminar in New York," I lied, "but after that I'll be back for the rest of the semester. Unless I can find a publisher for my work up there that can grant my every whim and desire for a book contract."

"Really?" she breathed, giving me a small, quiet grin. "I have to say, I was impressed with your work. Very imaginative -- and all of those made-up words, those were really interesting. But didn't you think the subject matter was a little . . . suggestive?" she asked as the waitress brought us coffee. 

"Romance and passion have ever been the province of the poet," I countered with a chuckle. "They happen to be my favorite subject matter . . . in front of the proper audience, of course."

"Yes, I noticed the Evans Twins seemed to be smitten by your voice," she giggled. "They aren't usually so easily impressed."

"So my poems weren't to your liking?" I asked, eyebrows raised. I wasn't worried -- it was all part of the essential playful banter that all women used in their flirtations. She liked me, lusted for me a little, I could tell by her eyes, her hands, and her breathing patterns. But her ancient concepts of "virtue" mandated that she not give me any real praise. That would put her in an intellectually vulnerable position. 

"They were all right," she conceded. "But . . . well, I'm sure you spent a lot of time on them. They're good, perhaps publishable, but they don't really capture the heart of the matter, do they?"

"Aren't there a million ways to describe that feeling, though?" I asked, eyeing her intently. "And none of them can do it conclusively. I find that extemporaneous professions are usually best. Nothing like a quick and dirty poem, made up on the spot, to fit the occasion."

"So what occasion produced that poem?" she asked, curiously. "And did your fiancé object, or was she the subject?"

"No fiancé, actually," I admitted. "As incredibly good-looking as I am, few women of quality want to hitch their fortunes to that of an itinerate poet who's greatest goal is a cushy teaching job with tenure at some sleepy country college. No, the subject of that poem was a seductive neighbor of mine, back in Massachusetts. Mya, was her name. Dark haired Italian beauty, looked like a movie star."

"I see," she grinned, dimpling. She had a very pretty smile. "And how did you and . . . Mya? How did you and Mya get along?"

"Never spoke to her," I admitted. "I just saw her in the hallway of our apartment building. Pulled her name off of the mailbox. But she enchanted me and haunted my dreams. I saw her hanging up laundry one day and, well, that's when I wrote that poem."

"So you never spoke to her?"

"Never got up the nerve. I was shy in my youth."

"I find that extraordinarily hard to believe," she said, stirring her coffee absently.

"Oh, I overcame my deficiencies," I said. "I don't think I'd have the same problem now."

"And what poem would you make up for her, now?"

"She's not the pretty girl that I'm talking to at the moment," I said, watching casually but carefully for her response. Shoulders went back, boobs were subtly thrust out, and I could see her squirm the tiniest bit on her seat. A trace of a blush peeked through her make up. Flattery. Gotta love it. 

"Well, I'm going to powder my nose. When I return you can tell me what kind of poetry I inspire in you, Mr. Steward." And with that she got up, shaking her hips just enough to tell me that I had her about hooked.

Of course, now I had to come up with a poem.

I decided to scam some more song lyrics, picking the innocent romance of the 1980s as my best choice. I thought about the tunes I knew the words to from that syntha-pop era until I found a good seductive one. 

I also took the chance to glance around, and when I was sure no one was looking, I flipped one of my magical blue gel squares into her coffee and watched it break up and sink almost instantly. Poetry is good. Flattery is better. Chemistry is a sure thing.

Lisa came back about five minutes later, her hair and make-up tuned up. She was nearly purring already.

"So give me your pitch, Mr. Romantic Poet," she demanded playfully. I cleared my throat, closed my eyes, and began reciting some piece of romantic fluff, synthesizers playing in my mind to help me with the timing. I had her pegged, all right. As I spoke the cloyingly sweet lyrics as if they were high art, I watched her pupils dilate and her breathing change. The rest of her body language confirmed it. I had her intrigued. 

"Trite, predictable, and shallow," she pronounced with a smile as I finished.

"I like to stick with the classics," I agreed, smiling back. "Romance is no time for experimentation."

"Oh, I don't know," she chuckled. "An open mind is a virtue in most endeavors. I don't see why romance should be any different. I note that there is a certain . . . carnal element in your verse."

"Yeah, well, simply going on and on and on about how beautiful a woman is, that gets a little boring after a while."

"You are obviously not a woman," she laughed. 

"Which is why my verse contains a certain carnal element," I replied, wryly. "It is a failing of my gender, I'm afraid."

"I don't think it's exclusive, necessarily," she countered. "We're just better about presenting it wrapped in a better aesthetic."

"Floral imagery?" I suggested, just the right hint of good-natured scorn in my voice.

"If you want to be banal," she admitted. "I prefer a more involved metaphor."

"Could you share with me an example?" I asked, loftily. 

This is how academic nerds flirt. With a thesaurus. 

She did, about a half a page of intensely-quoted poetry with an astrological theme. It showed a surprising amount of creativity and wordsmithing, and was sexy as hell, in an understated 1950s sort of way. I was impressed. And hard as a rock.

"Well done," I breathed when she was done. She smiled smugly and drank about half of her heavily-laced coffee. Another half an hour . . . 

We continued the tame flirtation, and she never once mentioned her fiancé or the ring on her finger. She did purse her lips and eye me hungrily as our conversation got more and more heated -- although the working-class stiffs in the booths around us probably didn't understand a word of it.

Finally, when she drained her cup, I stood and threw a couple of bills on the table. 

"May I escort the lady home?" I asked, charmingly.

"It is a pretty rough neighborhood," she admitted, charmed. That was an outright lie. If I dropped my wallet here, it would come back with all the cash in it. She took my arm, straightened her skirt, and we started off.

I could feel her resolve weakening with every step as my little blue friend started taking over. I could almost hear the internal dialog, with the increasingly loud "I need to get laid!" voice repeating itself after every reasonable argument. Oh, our actual conversation was tame enough for a church social, but the innuendo started to fly thick and fast as we approached her place. I almost made the mistake of leading her there directly, but that would have overplayed my hand -- I wasn't supposed to know where she lived. Instead I let her tug my arm in the right direction when we came to the intersection. 

By the time we reached her doorstep, she was nearly quivering. I could see the hesitation in her eyes, the fear of losing her dignity even while her loins screamed for satisfaction. She compromised by inviting me in for a drink. It was only ten o'clock, and she mentioned that she had school in the morning, but she also mentioned that she was really enjoying our conversation. I politely agreed, and mentioned my own fictitious train in the morning. That seemed to assuage her conscience a bit. 

Ten minutes later I was kissing her passionately on her couch. 

It was like I flipped a switch. One minute we're discussing the merits of the poets of the late 1920s and the next I leaned in and without preamble stole a kiss. After that she was all over me. The schoolmarm in her faded to be replaced by raw, bubbling lust.

"I never do this," she insisted when we came up for breath for the first time. Her chin was quivering and her eyes were glowing. "I mean, never. Only with my . . ."

"There's no one here but us," I pointed out. "No need to bring in anyone else."

"But what you must think of me!" she said, worriedly.

"You're a healthy, intelligent, and very beautiful woman," I countered. "And a very independent woman, too," I added.

"Thanks," she breathed, and kissed me again.

My hands went to her back, then around towards the front, where she clasped them in her hands and pulled them to her almost non-existent breasts. I let one of them linger there while the other went for her thighs. Lisa definitely liked that. By the time my left hand began snaking its way up the hem of her skirt, her legs were splayed open, and the heat from her loins was almost palpable. Meanwhile, her tongue was doing its best to force its way into my mouth.

I decided to play the selfish gent and abandoned the hunt for cunt while I pulled her dainty fingers towards my fly. She moaned in my mouth as her hand found the swelling bulge in my slacks. She seemed content to hesitantly stroke me through my pants, but I wasn't interested in something so mundane. Instead I pushed her hand gently aside and unzipped, allowing my thick pole to enter the scene.

"My God, you're huge," she said when it popped into sight.

"You think?" I asked. "Or are you exaggerating?"

"One way to find out," she vowed, and ducked her head without urging to engulf my dick between her lips. College girls, I thought with a sigh. They always know how to suck dick. I watched her ply her lips up and down my shaft, and restrained myself from grabbing the back of her neck and pushing it down her throat. Business before pleasure, after all, and I had a sackfull of seed that had an appointment with her womb. I let her get me nice and worked up before I pulled her head back to eye level and attacked her blowjob-soft lips with my own.

"That was fun," I breathed. "But I want to skip the overture and get straight to the first act."

"The curtain beckons," she answered with a whisper, pulling the hem of her skirt up seductively. Schoolmarm to seasoned slut in twenty minutes. Love those little blue squares. I watched in admiration as she displayed her well-built thighs and her panties -- they were considered "dainty" in this era, though in a few decades they would be considered unbearably unflattering. Still, she wore garters, and that wasn't a bad thing at all. I signaled my approval by dropping to my knees and burrowing my face under her skirt, making her yelp with surprise.

She relaxed quickly, apparently no stranger to cunnilingus. I tongued her through her panties while she spread her thighs to give me better access. She leaned back on the sofa, head lolled to one side, breath coming in gasps, while my busy tongue burrowed into her clitoris. I wasn't about to hold back -- I licked her straight to orgasm without even touching her vaginal canal. When I finally pulled my face away, after her moans subsided, a shock of her hair had broken loose from its tightly-controlled style and hung playfully over one eye. The other one stared at me hungrily.

I didn't wait for an invitation, I pulled my trousers down mid-thigh and pulled her ass to the edge of the couch. I pulled her panties aside, and pushed forcefully into her twat, reveling in the heat and tightness of the space. Her arms automatically reached around my back and she was hanging on for dear life as I plunged my fleshy weapon deep inside her.

Her moans were wordless and thoughtless. I wasn't about to abandon myself to passion and blow my load the first time around. Instead I held her tight, and before she knew what was happening I hoisted her lithe little body into the air, continuing to thrust the entire time. She screamed in pleasure and surprise and started to ride my hips like a winning jockey. 

I held her suspended through a powerful orgasm, then pulled out of her and plopped my ass on the sofa. She didn't hesitate, and in moments she was riding me again.

"I . . . love . . . being . . . on top," she gasped as she pistoned my cock inside her. 

"You do it well," I commended her. 

"My . . . fiancé . . . doesn't . . . like it . . . this way," she said, biting her lip in concentration as she drove herself relentlessly towards another one. "So . . . I cheat . . . on him . . . every . . . chance . . . I get," she finished, with a shriek as another climax consumed her.

This was fun, but I needed to make a deposit. I took hold of her hips manfully and began directing her movements forcefully. I slammed her tight twat down over my hard cock, making her eyes bug out a bit as she got every last centimeter in her. Another two dozen strokes and she had yet another climax on the heels of my own. And likely a bruised cervix. Oh, well.

She collapsed on my shoulder, and my juices started dripping down. Can't be wasteful, I noted, so I flipped her on her back and started plowing her again, letting the nano-thingees in my sperm get a good chance to infect her system. She seemed shocked that I was still eager to go, but in a few moments she had abandoned herself to the act and was willingly pulling me into her, her long fingers on my bare ass, urging me forward. It took another twenty minutes to cum again, and she was willing to work for it. A second load doubled my chances of a successful implantation -- and the sex was hot as hell. She might be an effete intellectual snob, but Lisa fucked like a well-paid whore.

When we were done, there was no guilty looks, no recriminations, no weeping -- God, I can't stand the weeping. She looked satisfied and content, and offered me a cigarette. I gallantly lit two and handed her one. We collapsed on the sofa and basked in the afterglow, her head on my shoulders. It was nice.

"I should go," I said, finally, with great reluctance. "I have a train to catch in the morning, and someone has been keeping me up past my bedtime."

"Me, too," she agreed with a yawn. "Thanks, by the way. I've been randy for weeks, now, just waiting for the break when my fiancé comes home. I . . . well, girls do things that—"

"Yes, I think I'm familiar with female masturbation," I said, dryly. She giggled. 

"Well, I've been worrying that poor little thing to death," she confessed. "Every night. Sometimes even during the day, at school. But this," she said, laying a hand gently on my softening prick, "this should give me a week or so before I start climbing the walls again."




Cock of Ages Ch. 05



"Um," I said, hesitantly, as the feel of her cool hand stirred the relaxing snake in my lap back to life. "You sure two doses are going to do?"

Her eyes widened. "Again? You want to . . .?"

"If you're up for it," I offered.

"Oh, hell yes," she assured me, quickly leaning down --careful to keep the burning cigarette far away from me -- and began to lick our combined juices from my dick. In seconds it was stirring again. In minutes she was sucking me long and deep, and I was back to my pre-orgasmic hardness. When she was satisfied, she took one final drag, stubbed out her smoke, and climbed back on, cowgirl style. "I think it might take at least one more to work everything out of my system," she agreed as she sank blissfully down my shaft. 

"Yes, at least one more," I agreed, letting her set the pace.

And that was it. Five on the list, five properly fucked. When the last blast came, I was actually looking forward to the mandated week-long recuperation at the Island between shifts. 



Cock of Ages Ch. 06



The Island that the Project had taken over was geographically remote, a bare, rocky spur of land not half a mile wide and only two miles long. It rose slightly at one end, where a few disheartened plants clung to small pockets of seagull poop disguised as soil. From the highest point on the island, there was nothing visible on the horizon but ocean and more ocean. The base was a fully-enclosed concrete building, powered by a wave motion generator, and was like a very utilitarian resort. 

It was actually pretty spacious. Each of us had our own room, and the Casanovas each merited our own suite. The control room, class rooms, and computer bays were on the East side of the building, along with the transposition equipment ("time machine"), and the rest of the place was given over to storage, facilities, residence and recreation. There were at least seven or eight of us Casanova operatives working at any one time, each with a controller, plus a generous support and analysis staff and technicians who ran the time machine. The whole place had that government low-bid contract feel with just a hint of YMCA and a dollop of Stud Club. But when you arrived by time capsule, pretty much all you see are the pasty-faced technicians that ran the things.

I had become friendly with one of them, Nathan, a swarthy-looking fellow who had a wicked sense of humor and a knack for explaining complicated technical issues in small, bite-sized pieces. I waved at him as we arrived in the base, and he waved back.

"Whatcha bring me this time?" he asked, excitedly, when the transposition dome retracted. Each of us always brought back little souvenirs of our trysts – the common room in the residence hall was covered with authentic crap from half-a-dozen decades of American history. But I knew what little trinkets were near and dear to Nathan's heart, so I dug in my pocket and tossed him a tube.

"Brill-Kreme?" he asked, surprised.

" 'A little dab'l do yah!'" I agreed, singing the song. He looked up and grinned. 

"Thanks, Tom!" he beamed. "How 'bout you, Corny?"

"Don't call me that," Cromwell said, grouchily. "I brought you him. That should be enough."

"Spoil sport. Next time, maybe you end up in prehistoric times. You guys, the PI wants to see you soonest."

"Dr. Weems?" I asked, concerned. "Anything wrong?"

"Nah, just some new goodies," he shrugged. "No big deal."

"Thanks, Nathan," I smiled, charmingly. Cromwell continued with his gruff act, and followed me obediently down the wide hall towards the Admin office in the East wing. The light was on. Dr. Weems was in.

"Gentlemen!" he said, approvingly. "Just got the updated figures from up-stream! Great foray, this time around. You saved about seventy-five thousand, according to our statistics. That's a record. Are you just fucking every woman with a vagina in your path?"

"As many as I can," I agreed, smugly. "That's SOP, unless it's changed."

"No, not at all, not at all. You do good work, Tom. You're headed for . . . Tampa, next? 1980s?"

"Sixties," I corrected. "March of sixty-three, to be exact."

"Ah, the Sixties!" he sighed, pleasantly. "Lovely era. The bleeding edge of the sexual revolution. JFK, Camelot, the whole romantic shmeer. You'll do well, there. And you'll be able to catch Spring Training."

I shrugged. I'm not a baseball nut. "How many on my list this time?"

"Nine. Oh, you'll have three weeks to do it, that's three a week. Well within your capacity. Plus we're offering incentives for going above-and-beyond. And a little extra help, too," he said, taking a small jewelry box out of his desk and snapping it open. Inside was a thick, gold man's ring.

"Doc, this is so sudden," I said, mockingly. "I like you, but . . . marriage?"

"Look closer, Tom," he said, snickering at the jibe. So I did. It was an Ivy League class ring, Harvard, no less, inscribed with a date of 1957.

"Pretty, I guess. But I don't need that to get pussy. That's amateurish," I said, indignantly. 

"Oh, it's not a lure," he assured me. "Or, not really a lure. It's a device. When you wear it, and it comes into contact with a woman's skin, it takes some readings from her and determines whether or not she's ovulating or close to it. It should help you narrow your . . . extracurricular activities to those most receptive."

"Hey, that is neat," I agreed, taking the ring. "How do I tell?"

"It warms, slightly. The warmer it is, the closer to ovulation she is. It doesn't get so hot as to be noticed, but you should be aware of it. Oh, and we've been thinking about how to give you a better-disguised codex, too, so you don't have to keep running back to your handler every time you need a spare bit of data. This is what we've come up with."

He pulled out a handsome book, a leather-bound 1921 copy of The Wealth Of Nations, and opened it to the last page. He showed me how to run my finger along the spine while I was holding the book a certain way, and the back panel of the book turned black and displayed the ready-screen logo you see when you look something up in a computer. 

"Works like a charm, and I had it loaded with everything you need. Historical information as far back as 1850. We're hoping this will allow you to extend your stay significantly, and help you stay fast on your feet. We had an . . . incident. One of our people didn't come back."

I winced. It happened, from time to time. "What happened?"

"Rogers, got shot in 1931. We suspect it was a farmer whose daughter he was fucking. The handler was able to clean up, but still . . . best you be as prepared as possible."

"Ouch," I agreed. "Pity. I liked Rogers." 

"Well, he's not the only one. Billy Aldridge was knifed in a dark alley in 1944 in Pittsburgh, assailant unknown. He made it to a phone, though, and his handler brought him in. He's in the infirmary for a week or so. This is a dangerous business," he repeated, grimly.

"Anything else?" I asked, lightheartedly. 

"Actually, yes," he said, suddenly remembering something. "Check with Medical before you go. Got some new aphrodisiacs. New and improved. Less waiting time, more right-to-the-point."

"That's cheating," I said, sourly. "I need that half-hour to make them think it's their own idea. Otherwise they start asking questions."

"Use your judgment, then," Weems shrugged. "And take a couple of days to learn about Tampa before you go. One good thing: we're setting you up right, this time. No more of this 'out of town businessman' thing. This time you'll be a wealthy bum living it up in one of Tampa's beachside resorts."

Cromwell snorted in disgust. Weems eyed him.  "You too. Just three floors down in an 'economy' suite. Just stay ready to back up Tommy boy, here, and enjoy the beach."

"Thanks," Cromwell grunted. "I get anything helpful?"

"How about this?" Weems asked, and pushed a box at him. Cromwell opened it to reveal a .45 Army-issue 1911A automatic pistol. He took it, pulled the magazine, sighted the barrel, nodded approvingly. I remembered he had been in the Army. "We're having all of our handlers carry, now, timeline permitting. Since you will be Tom's mysterious valet, ostensibly with Mafia ties, no one will give you any trouble about it, I think. Just to mitigate the danger, you understand."

"Sure, sure," he agreed, happily. It disturbed me a little that packing heat made him happy. But Cromwell was a strange duck.

"And, finally, your list," Weems said, handing me a sheet of notebook paper. "We put their files into your book, but that's who they are. And in your book in the 'owner' file you'll find a complete dossier on who you are supposed to be: Michael Winslow, late of Chicago. But educated at Harvard. Spent some time in Europe. Filthy stinkin' rich playboy."

"It'll be a stretch . . . " I said, smiling. 

"God, I hate you sometimes," Cromwell said, disgusted.

"That's it," Weems smiled ushering us out. "Go do your homework, relax, get ready. Let the coordinator know when you're ready."

I love my job.



Hanging out at the Island is a bit like a long cruise to no-where. Plenty to eat – the cafeteria is divine – plenty of electronic diversions, a full gym, and a big library. I mingled in the third-floor lounge we operatives had staked out as our own little cozy clubhouse and was reading my background papers when Billy Aldridge came in. He was using a cane and had a pad under one arm, and winced when he sat.

"Howdy, Billy," I said, casually. "Cut yourself shaving?"

"Something like that," he said, snidely. "Goddamn dark ages . . ."

"How did you get yourself into a mess like that?"

"Dunno," he shrugged. "One minute I was getting ready to meet my mark, the next minute some short little fucker has stuck a knife in me."

"Poor planning," I said, shaking my head sadly. "Maybe it was a mark unhappy with the service . . .?"

"Please, I could out-fuck you any day of the week," he bragged. "No, it was . . . I get the feeling it was a babe. Don't ask me why, I don't remember much about the experience. But it was real professional, and I'd swear it was a woman. And they didn't even bother with my wallet or watch."

That was strange. "Where you headed next?"

His face brightened. "Actually, Hawaii, 1943. I'll be Major Brown, Military Intelligence. Got a bunch of nurses and local lovelies to get to."

"Sounds like fun. Me, I got Tampa, '63. Michael Winslow, millionaire playboy."

"That could be a blast," he agreed. "How many?"

"Nine," I said, casually.

"Nine?" he asked, in awe. "You've got to fuck nine? How long?"

"Three weeks. Piece of cake."

"Well, you are at the top of the ratings board," he agreed, reluctantly. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow," I sighed. "I thought about milking a few more days before I get back to work, but . . . "

"Yeah, I get horny here, too," he said, miserably. "There are a few of the techs that look—"

"Don't shit where you eat, guy," I cautioned. "Fun is fun, but you should try to avoid entanglements at work."

"That's what I hear. Never was any good at it."

I sighed. Amateur.



Tampa in '63 was just deciding that it wasn't a farm town anymore, despite the miles of orange groves around it. We transposed into our site – an abandoned barn on one of those groves – and made our way up to the Esso station a mile away to call a cab. I started putting my Winslow persona together the moment we got there. I was already dressed the part – my suit was raw silk special ordered from Saville Row, and the rest of my clothes were likewise luxurious. Cromwell was in his usual menacing dark suit, and there was an unfriendly bulge in his left armpit. By the time the cab arrived, I was in full rich bastard mode. By the time we checked into the hotel (the Palms – I swear there's a Palms everywhere there's a beach) I was stoked.

I took the biggest suite they had, paying for it in cash for four weeks ahead. Throwing around that much scratch that early got me the attention I deserved, and the concierge was bending over backwards to kiss my ass. If I had told him I wanted a blowjob, I think he would have volunteered for the gig and shined my shoes while he was down there.

As it was, I let him know I wanted some companionship for me and my . . . associate. I dropped two fresh hundred-dollar bills on the counter and said I expected results by nightfall. Then I went upstairs to the suite and made myself a drink.

Why bag a whore the moment I got there? Two reasons. One, I wanted to treat Cromwell – he'd been watching my back for over six months, now, and as grumpy as he was, he was effective. Boy needed to get his oil changed, and I knew Tampa had a brisk and exciting reputation for illicit pleasures since it was a pirate port a few centuries ago. Two, I wanted to get in character, and nothing does that for a rich playboy like a greedy, skilled, no-holes-barred hooker.

A red-head named Cynthia appeared at my door by seven thirty, not looking particularly hookerish, but still amazingly attractive. I invited her in and she kissed me on the cheek.

"What can I do for you, sir?" she asked.

"Blowjob," I grunted. I parted my luxurious bathrobe, exposing my rising prick. "But tease me, first." She raised her eyebrows appreciatively and began her whore's dance.

I pumped a load down her throat, fucked her hard missionary style on the bed, and took her ass forcefully in the shower before I sent her on her way. Nothing special – just relieving a little pent-up tension. The Island does that to you, sometimes, and it's best to have a clear head when you're approaching your first mark of the run.

I never saw who Cromwell got, but he was in a much, much better mood the next morning at breakfast, which we had on the balcony of my suite. As he munched muffins and drank really good Jamaican coffee, I went over my itinerary.

"So what's the plan?" he asked, almost pleasantly. "More angel wings?"

"Maybe later," I shrugged. "Right now, after looking at what I've got in the pile, I'd say the Prince Charming routine ought to do it."

"How's that run?" he asked, only somewhat interested.

"Easy. Wealthy playboy seeks nasty beach slut to become Mrs. Wealthy Playboy and piss off his upper-class parents."

"Will that really work?" Cromwell asked, skeptically.

"Like honey to ants," I assured him. "This burg is full of young pussy who get to see the cream of American wealthy society sail by and stop for local color. Most of them have dreams of marrying some rich stud and living the glamorous life. Wave a pedigree and a big bank account around, they'll smell blood in the water. Make it known that you plan on marrying the biggest slut, and they'll come at you twat-first, ready to fuck you silly to keep your attention from wandering. They'll put up with all kinds of crazy shit for the chance at a five-carat ring and Christmas in the Hamptons."

Cromwell shrugged. "You're the boss. If you think this'll get your list—"

"The list is just the beginning. I want to hit five bystanders for everyone on my list. Last night was one – I've got nine – that means I need to bag forty five in the next few weeks."

He whistled appreciatively. "That's a lot of cooze, Mikey," he said, staying in character. 

"First up," I announced, "Stephanie Anne Bristow. Age twenty-five. Brunette. Works at a marina for her uncle. Unmarried, but hungry. Looking to bag a rich one, apparently. Hangs out at the . . . Tiki Club? God, couldn't they come up with anything original?"

"It's a beach thing," Cromwell grunted, his mouth full of muffin.

"Must be. Well, little Miss Bristow will be easy, so I'll knock her out first. Then there's Mrs. Susan James, lower-middle-class housewife, just around the corner from the Club. A little plump, but no matter. And finally there's Daisy Lee Katherine Ramone, an art student at the local college."

"Sounds easy," Cromwell noted.

"It is. I could do them all in one night, if I put my mind to it. But I think I'll go for Bristow, first. The Tiki Club sounds tacky enough for my purposes."

I let him spend the day at the beach while I staked out the Tiki Club. It was a pretty typical high-end beach bar with coconut cups and lots of palms fronds and Don Ho on the Wurlitzer. The waitresses all wore leis and hula skirts. It was cheap and tacky, but trendy for the Camelot era. 

I made a point to get to know the afternoon bartender, and let him know I was interested in an easy woman or three. He gave me a knowing smile and told me to return that night, and he could line them up for me. The bar was popular with rich tourists, apparently, and that attracted man-hungry girls who wanted to be a rich man's wife. He had seen my Harvard ring and my bankroll – he'd spread the word.

So I did a little banking while I waited for dusk. 

The Project gives me all the money I need – I don't know how they do it, exactly, but counterfeiting those primitive greenbacks was a breeze for twenty-first century technology, for instance. As generous as they were, I've always liked to have a little extra cash to play with, and this time-travel thing gave me plenty of opportunities to make certain I could build up a fortune on my own, on the sly, without my bosses realizing it. 

So I had opened a savings account early on – back in 1935, actually – and I made a point of making a deposit whenever I could. It's amazing what compounding interest will do, and I must be – or will be (time travel is so confusing!) doing it for a while, because when I checked my balance it was up well over a hundred thousand dollars. I made another generous deposit, moved some of the money to another account, and then did a little shopping. I could have fucked the teen-aged clerk at the souvenir stand near the bank, if I so desired, but I wanted to save my strength for the evening.

By the time it was nine o'clock or so, I was back at the Tiki Club, loaded for bear.  It was a youngish crowd, well-dressed, dancing to "Negro music" and drinking heavily. Fun. Whether or not Stephanie Ann Bristow showed up that night, I was guaranteed a good time.

I had all my usual toys about my person, plus a few new ones. I had a sheaf of the new fast-acting aphros in my pocket, and a lovely little "love bomb" the boys in the lab had cooked up. One of the big draws of the Club was the air conditioning (still a novelty in 1963), and it didn't take long for me to find a main vent on my way back to the john and "detonate" the bomb. It was the size of a pack of matches, stuck to the ductwork with a magnate, and slowly released chemical stimulants into the airstream. In an hour or so, every woman in the joint would have wet panties and be ready to fuck her brains out. I liked those odds.

Me, I sat at the bar and let Donald the bartender spread the word that Mr. Rich Playboy was looking for a fun time. I talked to him loudly about how my parents were pressuring me to marry. I flashed a roll of bills big enough to choke an elephant. I even danced a bit, and a lot more smoothly than the white kids who were just discovering the joys of rhythm and blues. 

My first potential conquest of the night came up and shyly asked where I went to school. I laughed cynically and told her. She was instantly impressed, and she had big boobs, so I bought her a drink. Her name was April, and I could see the tiny beads of sweat that stood out on her upper lip, the dilated pupils, the shallow, rapid breathing – this kid (18, she told me) was primed. I didn't even need to dose her.

She flirted a bit, and I played along until her drink was about half-way gone. I regaled her of tales of yachting in Maine, of the French Riviera, of gambling in Monaco. A casual touch on the arm brought my ring against her skin, and it warmed up nicely – if not ovulating, she was at least in the fertile zone. Then I dropped the bomb, crudely, as any rich bastard might have.

"So, do you suck cock?" I asked, bluntly. She blushed, but didn't run away. A lot had changed from the early 50s. While it seemed refreshing, it was also a little disappointing. I remembered sweet Sarah and how delicious it had been to crack through that wall of propriety and get her to act like a whore. April nervously looked me in the eye, looked away, looked down, and mumbled something.

"What was that?" I asked.

"I . . . I've done it before," she admitted, shamefully.

"Well, I need to get my cock sucked tonight. Are you the girl for the job? Daddy always said I shouldn't even bother fucking a girl until I knew how she sucked dick, much less marry her."

"I . . . well . . . I'm not . . . I . . ."

"Don't have all night," I growled. "If you can't do it, scram, and I'll find some one who can."

"I . . . haveagoodevening!" she said, and fled from the room. I chuckled, and the bartender joined me.

"I could have told you about her. April's a tease. That blonde over there, Cary? She's not. I've caught her in the men's room plenty of times."




Cock of Ages Ch. 06



"Jailbait?"

"In this town? If she's in here, she's at least sixteen with a good fake ID. But I know she's at least twenty-one."

"Sounds good to me," I agreed. "Send her one of those fruity drinks."

A few moments later and the girl arrived drink in hand and all boobs and smiles. She was a curvaceous blonde, wide cheeks, slightly slutty black cocktail dress, the Jackie Kennedy hair band bisecting her locks. She moved like a classic sex kitten, and was desperately trying to project an aura of elegant sexiness that a chick that young just can't really pull off.  Still, she knew about sex. There are some things that can't be faked.

"Hey there," she said in attempt at sultriness. "Thanks for the drink."

"Pretty lady, you looked thirsty."

"I was. And . . . hungry," she added with a bat of her eyelashes. I suppressed the urge to groan. I was on business. 

"No doubt," I said, after looking at her for a moment's pause. "What's your name, pretty lady?" I asked, lighting a cigarette and offering her one. She took it and fitted it into a longish holder that looked a little ridiculous in her hand. I nodded and lit it for her.  

"Cary," she said. "Cary Salinas."

"Well, Cary Salinas," I said, "I'm Mike Winslow. I'm in town for a few days. I'm looking for some occasional companionship. Tonight, I'm holding auditions," I said, blowing smoke manfully in her direction. She took it like a champ, and there was that gleam in her eye. Sure, there were massive pheromones at work on her CNS, but I was sure that gleam was in here eye before I crossed the doorstep.

"What kind of auditions?" she asked, smoothly, returning the pall of smoke. 

"If there's someplace . . . more private we can go, I'll be happy to discuss it," I said, casually. I didn't lead with the blunt blowjob line because Cary would have bounced that right back at me and try to soak me for drinks all night before she finally gave in. April, on the other hand, would have either bolted or quietly acquiesced. While she had done the former, I'd still say I had a fifty-fifty shot at it. 

To engage Cary's immediate attention, I needed to make it a challenge. The Harvard ring and the bankroll and the rich-but-sloppy manner I was dressed were the bait, but she needed to see it as a competition. She figured she could nail me first and captivate my attention for the duration of my stay, which was just what I wanted her to do. I needed to work quick. I was on a schedule. 

"I know someplace . . . " she said, and motioned for Donald. After a fevered whispered conversation with the bartender, he reluctantly nodded and glanced at me.

"Let's go check out the office," she said, her voice fluttering a bit. She was horny, nervous, and determined. I was a big fish, and she wanted to land me quick.

"Lead the way," I agreed. With a nervous glance around, she led me back into a darkened hallway, past the rest rooms, and to the very back, into the bar's office. There, she took a key from a peg and unlocked a storage room and ushered me inside. It was dimly lit by a single bulb from the ceiling, and the unpainted walls were covered in shelves which were covered with all the crap you need to run a bar properly.

"The Presidential Suite, I see," I said, wryly. "What'd you have to promise him to get this?"

"A . . . a blowjob after work," she confessed. 

"You must really want this position badly," I teased. 

"Oh, I think I have the right qualifications," she said, trying to be sultry again. I think she was waiting for me to kiss her. I shrugged. No reason not to – it gave me a shot at checking out her goods. She had big soft lips that collided pleasantly with mine as she swam into my arms. She was an adept kisser, for her age, just the right amount of tongue and tease. I ignored the rules of baseball when I skipped the batting practice and went right for first base. My hands wandered over her ass, squeezing and feeling roughly. I brought one up to go for her tightly-encased tits, which took her aback – but she didn't pull away, either. She was aroused, and the indelicate treatment was turning her on. 

I pulled at her nipples through her dress and whispered in her ear, "Are you going to ignore me all night?"

"Sorry," she said, quickly bringing her hands to my fly, where she began to rub. That's when I noticed my Harvard ring was getting warm. I chuckled, causing Cary to knit her eyebrows.

"Nothing," I said, dismissing it. "Just a wicked thought."

"Best kind," she agreed with a smile. "My, but you're a big boy!"

"Big enough," I admitted. "So, let's see what you can do."

She smiled again, a little too widely, displaying a slight discomfort – this was probably moving faster than she was used to. Teasing drinks and dinner out of some middle-aged salesman was one thing. Having a supremely self-assured playboy shredding through half of her act to get to the payoff was a little out of her experience. Still, she hung in there, looking at the big picture. She started unzipping me as she sank to her knees. She gave me another glance and a seductive hair-toss as she stroked me in the dim light, then put me to her lips.

Yes, for a girl her age, Cary knew her way around a cock.

She put everything into it, every ounce of hope and enthusiasm, and she turned in a good performance. Had I actually been a rich playboy slumming in Tampa, I might have been tempted to sweep her off her feet on the basis of that blowjob, alone. Instead I groaned lustfully and relaxed to the soothing sensation of her agile lips massaging my shaft, her busy tongue caressing it languidly.

Life was good. I entangled my fingers in her hair, delighting at the headband that was emblematic of the era, and pulled her just a little more insistently down my cock. She struggled just a bit – Deep Throat wouldn't be out for a decade, yet – but went down two thirds of the way. Remarkable, for this day and age. I let her control the pace after that, and for ten glorious minutes I reveled in the oral expertise of a late teen slut on the cusp of the sexual revolution.

She glanced up at me to gauge my appreciation, and I nodded my approval. She went hungrily back to work, no doubt to coax a load from me quickly so she could get on with being arm candy for the rest of the night. I wasn't that much of a sucker – I withheld my orgasm. My ring had been warm. It was time to knock this chick up. 

I pulled her away from my groin, which confused her a bit, and I kissed her full in the mouth. The passion of the moment overwhelmed her confusion, and she sagged just the slightest bit, her breathing ragged. No doubt her panties were soaked. I broke the kiss and stared at her.

"So far, so good," I murmured, and spun her around with a squeak. A hand between her shoulder blades compelled her to bend over a convenient case of rum, and I admired her ass for a moment. Round and full, like an apple – but I could see where she'd have some saddle bag issues when she was around forty. She was ripe and fresh at this age, though. Cary glanced back with a combination of nervousness and anticipation as my hands traveled over her thighs, under her skirt, and to the waistband of her panties.

"I don't usually—"

"Can the crap, sugar," I said, a little testily. "Don't tell me you haven't been bent over in this very spot more than once." That caused her to blush furiously and turn her head back around, eyes closed.

I grinned to myself at her discomfort. No woman likes being made to feel like a slut, even when she is a slut. But sometimes it really gets them off. Sometimes, it really turns them off. At this stage of the game, she couldn't back out without losing face, so I figured it was worth the chance of pissing her off. Sadistic of me, I know.

I pulled her skirt up over her ass and pulled her panties down, mid-thigh, where they hung like a hurricane flag after a squall – and were about as wet. I gave her ass one last feel, then parted her thighs and began pushing the head of my cock against her beaver. Nice and furry, still, here in the Sixties.

She groaned as I filled her, and I had to admit, she was nice and tight. It took a little effort to get inside, and once I was there it was cozy. She gave a low little moan at the penetration.

"Tighter than I expected," I added, a little back-handed compliment to push her humiliation buttons some more. I felt her ass wiggle, so I took her hips between my hands and started some deep and powerful thrusting. I wanted this little tart to feel it, every inch. I went slowly and deliberately, but forcefully, pinning her ass over a case of cheap rum in the back room of a tacky bar. Of such things are precious memories made.

A few moments of thrusting and she began to get highly responsive. Moaning and grunting at every stroke, hair tossing around, ass wiggling back at me as the lust took over and transported her away from a dusty back room. I could feel her orgasm approach, so I slowed down, pushing heavily into her until I was lodged against her cervix, and I bent over to whisper in her ear.

"How many times have you been fucked, little girl?" I asked the spasming teen. "How many times have you spread your legs for some crappy local football hero, or some drunk from out of state who's wife just doesn't understand him?"

She answered with a wordless groan. 

"Well, Mikey is in town now, and I can fuck little whores like you all day long. So spread the word: my daddy wants me to get married and start popping out grandkiddies – he's already got the trust funds set up. But I won't marry any cunt who can't keep up with me in bed. So I'm going to find the biggest beachfront bar-slut in Tampa and take her home to meet my sainted parents. They want me to find a prim and proper little socialite, but if I pick a horny little fuck toy they can't stand, that'll do. So take this," I said, suddenly slamming back into her, which drew another moan. "Take that, and let the word go forth. Auditions start today, and last all week. Best slut wins. Winner take all."

I didn't spare her after that – I'd given her all the bait she needed. A night of free drinks was one thing – trust funds and rich parents who wanted a daughter were quite another. Those were high stakes, indeed, and there was no way in hell that she would keep her succulent lips closed about it. In an hour, the word would go forth, and every bar on the strip would empty out as the chicks came at least for a look at Mikey The Eligible Bachelor. I was set for pussy for days, tons of freebies, all off the books. If this didn't impress the boys down-stream, I didn't know what would.

I pumped her ruthlessly, using her as callously as any rich boy would use a poor girl. And she took it, took it well, and suddenly she became very, very vocal. I paused again, just shy of her orgasm, and sighed. "Yeah, every slut in Tampa. And you're the first, Mary."

"C-cary!" she struggled out, writhing in frustration.

"Carry what?" I asked, feigning confusion. "I'm not carrying shit!"

"My name!" she cried, a little desperately. "My name is Cary, not Mary," she insisted. If she was going to get hammered, I at least had to know her name.

"What's the difference?" I sniffed, and began pounding away again. It only took me a few moments to get my nut, spraying her insides with plenty of life-saving baby batter – but she had cooled down enough during our little discussion about her name that she hadn't quite made it, yet. She was wound tight and ready to go, and my dick was already deflating inside her. 

"Great ride," I commented with a grunt, pulling free of her warm, wet depths. "Stick around tonight, I might give you a second go."

"O-Okay," she said, tensely, but meekly.

"Oh, wait," I said, before I closed up my cock in my pants. "I seem to be all sticky, now. I can't have that. Do you have any idea what I can use to clean off my dick, Cary?" I asked, meaningfully.

I didn't have to explain. Cary was smart enough to figure it out. Without even pulling her panties up, she slowly turned and squatted in front of me, and obediently cleaned my cock off with her tongue and lips. 

"That was pretty good," I commented, critically, as I finally zipped up. "But I couldn't just . . . settle for the first can of peas on the shelf, now, could I?"

"Huh?"

"I'll be in touch," I said, without explaining further. "Like I said, stick around a while. You might get lucky." And with that I left the storeroom and returned to the bar.

"You just got yourself a mean tip, Donald," I said, sliding a hundred dollar bill across the bar. "Scotch, rocks. And . . . Cary? Cary drinks on my tab tonight."

As if I had summoned her, Cary came out of the bathroom a moment later, looking a little worse for wear, and blew me a kiss from across the bar. Sure, I had humiliated and used her and left her on the brink of release, but she was currently at the top of my very short list, and she didn't want to blow it.

"You mind if I use your office again, later?"

The young man stared down at the bill and swallowed in surprise. "Yeah, sure, boss, whatever you need."

"I need a drink, and then I'm going to scout for more sluts. Help me out with that, will ya?"

"You bet," Donald agreed, making the bill disappear. "It's still early yet, but I know all the easy marks."

"Great, let's see how many I can do in one night," I said with a grin.

I don't think he believed me, but for the kind of bread I was throwing around, he was willing to bang them over the head for me and hold them down if I wanted.

I could get to like this Mike Winslow guy. He knew how to party.



Cock of Ages Ch. 07



Tampa, Florida

March, 1963

The night was waxing with possibilities at the Tiki Club. A trendy dive a few blocks away from the Palms where I was staying, the Tiki had that certain special charm that attracted pretty young girls who wanted to dance, fall in love, and find some visiting rich young stud to marry. They flocked to it like bees to sugar.

In 1963, that was probably your best shot at a bright future, for a young woman. The domestic ideals of the Fifties sill lingered, and most women had yet to enter the workforce on a permanent basis. The common ideal was the husband with a good job, nice house, two cars. Find the right man and spend the rest of your days getting drunk on the sly and breezing through middle-age. Their educations were largely focused on "home economics" -- that is, how to be a wife and mother. As ideals go, it wasn't that bad, and their bright young faces were filled with the hope of romance and prosperity. Security.

Little did they know what was ahead: the ramifications of the Sexual Revolution and liberalized divorce laws would turn the once-straightforward mating ritual into a hellish spiral of serial monogamy and ever-diminishing expectations. By the time these fresh young flowers hit thirty-five, about a third would have ex-husbands, little or no alimony, dependent children, and be forced to take jobs. But for now, at least, they were hopeful that their femininity could be their ticket to the good life. And the boys were taking advantage of it. 

Me? I was masquerading as a rich young stud: Mike Winslow. Or Winthrop. Or Winwood. I had three different but completely authentic identifications available. I found it handy to be able to switch them around a little, give different names to different girls, especially in a tangled situation like this. And it was tangled -- it was the height of the evening, and the dance floor was filled with young lovelies careening around the dance floor to the strains of Jazz and Rock and Roll and other, more esoteric forms of "Negro music." Actual Negroes, of course, weren't allowed. This was a respectable joint, after all.

After fucking one fine little filly in the back room already, I wanted to pace myself. It was still early, after all.I rested an hour or so, dancing occasionally, but mostly presiding at the bar, before I hit on another chick. 

This one was a small, slightly-Hispanic-looking girl in her early twenties, named Rosa. She had small tits but pretty eyes, and when we danced my ring heated up instantly. I asked her if she would join me for a drink, and she demurely agreed, after she went to the ladies' room. While I waited, I had Donald make something a little fruity and popped the insta-aphro in it while he wasn't looking. Sure it was artless -- the air was thick with pheromones already -- but I was on a schedule, and Latinas, while hot, often take a little more coaxing to overcome their Catholic upbringing.

Rosa was sweet and polite and bore my boorish behavior beautifully. She smiled at my awful jokes and made impressed noises when I told her about my fictional parent's fictional home in the Hamptons -- and then it dawned on her that I was filthy stinkin' rich and she was in way over her head. By the time she had drained her drink, the drugs had started acting on her, and her eyes were getting dilated.

"So," I said, when I had drained mine, "You want to go back to the back room?"

"Why?" she asked, affecting confusion. 

"To see some dusty old bottles and count the bags of chips," I explained, a lusty growl in my voice. "Why do you think?"

It amused me to watch her decide if I was serious -- and what I was being serious about. Luckily, her artificially-energized clitoris made up her mind for her. There were enough pheromones in there to rouse a retirement home, and her central nervous system had but one goal in mind: get fucked. 

"Okay," she said, finally, tossing her hair back bravely. She hopped down off the stool and went back, not even looking around to see if someone was watching. Cary was, of course, and out of the corner of my eye I caught her looking daggers at Rosa, but when she saw my eye on her, she was all smiles.

Rosa apparently knew the way back to the storeroom as well. So much for Catholic innocence. She nearly attacked me when I closed the door behind me, and suddenly I had a double armful of horny Latina on my hands.

She kissed enthusiastically, with some rudimentary knowledge of the art, but not well. She smelled wonderful, however, and whatever she was using on her hair was enough to give a dead man wood. I inhaled a few times, then pushed her uncomplainingly to her knees. 

She knew what to do. She gobbled my meat for a good five minutes before she hopped up of her own accord and sat on a case of glasses, pulling her light summer skirt up over her hips. She wore no panties, and her jet-black beaver glistened in the dim light.

"I need you in me," she said, intensely. "There's something about you . . ."

"Yeah, and here it is," I said, muscling between her dusky thighs and planting my root into her with a single thrust. She was dripping wet, and took the whole thing without a whimper -- no fainting virgin, then. I pounded her with the same urgency I had taken Cary, but without the need for humiliation. This girl didn't need it. She knew she wanted to be fucked, and she didn't seem to mind that I knew. She came quickly, and then again, and a third time as I spilled my seed deep into her hot box. Then she collapsed a few moments on my shoulder.

When I withdrew, I just looked at her. "I'm here to find a wife," I said, bluntly. "Here's the deal: My family is wealthy and I want to piss off my parents by bringing home the biggest slut I can find. If you can be this nasty all the time, you're on the list. Marriage, kids, a huge pile of money. If not . . . let me know now."

"I'm your girl," she assured me, eyes wide with the possibilities. 

"Show me," I said, glancing at the floor. She took my hint and cleaned me off pleasantly with her mouth. We parted without another word, but she watched me like a hawk the rest of the night. 

Ten minutes later I was back at the bar, sipping Scotch, and trading lies with the bartender. It was still relatively early, and on a school night. But I knew if I waited long enough my mark would appear.

And, wouldn't you know it, she did.

Stephanie Anne Bristow. Age twenty-five. Brunette. She looked just like her photo in her file (which wouldn't be taken for another eighteen months), only with slightly shorter hair. Long, thin nose, pencil thin eyebrows, dark blue dress that was just a little too snug over her boobs. Not that I minded. She was pretty, and those jugs were pretty tempting. She sidled up next to --surprise! -- Cary, and within five minutes she knew the scoop. She glanced at me, then stared, as Cary filled her in on my situation.

She started all the attracting signals at once -- lip-licking, hair toss, framing her boobs with her arms, darting glances, she pulled out all the stops. I made her wait at least twenty minutes or so before I finally had Donald bring her a drink and invite her over to my end of the bar.

"Hi, I'm Stephanie," she said with a girlish giggle that she was just a little too old to pull off completely. 

"Mikey," I grunted. "You're pretty," I added out of the side of my mouth.

"Thank you, sir," she said, dimpling. "So what do you do?"

"I pick up loose women in bars, when I'm not sailing," I muttered. "Are a loose woman?"

She shrugged. "Depends on the size of the yacht," she said with a flirtatious tilt of her head. "How big is yours?"

"Thirty-five feet," I said. "But she's in dry dock in Greece right now because my asshole ex-captain couldn't steer her past the biggest fucking rocks in the Mediterranean. Tore a nine-foot rent in the bow. She'll be out all season," I grumbled bitterly. I'd never been sailing in my life, but I'd used the 'dashing wealthy yachtsman' line since long before I came to work for the Project. Read The Yachtsman's Omnibus, scan a few issues of yachting magazines, hang around the Admiral's Club at a ritzy marina for a few days, and you pick up enough basics to fake it admirably. For a small but dedicated percentage of the female population, that was sufficient to get them to part their legs with enthusiasm. With Stephanie, however, I couldn't delve too deeply into my limited knowledge of seamanship, because she knew enough to bust me. So I invented a fictitious boat and a fictitious disaster and played the stranded sailor.

"So, is my yacht big enough to qualify you as a loose woman?" I added.

"My limit is usually twenty nine feet, so you just make it," she giggled again. "What's her name?"

"The Wet Pussy . . . cat," I said, being deliberately crude. "My old man named her Candace after my grandmother, but when he bought his fucking barge of a boat I got her, so I re-named her. Father was not impressed."

"Parents are like that," she said, smiling too broadly and showing just too much teeth. "My Daddy is bugging me to get married all the time. Says it's unseemly for a young woman of my age to not have a husband."

"My Father just wants heirs. So he's given me a deadline. So I'm auditioning the local talent for the gig. Biggest slut wins. You game?"

She seemed to consider the matter, but she'd already decided before she even came over. Couldn't put out without at least pretending to struggle, though. Her "virtue" was at stake. Finally, she bit her lip and whispered, "What would I have to do?"

I shrugged and knocked back my drink. "Anything I tell you to."

She swallowed hard -- I'd added just a hint of menace in my voice to push those 'bad boy' buttons she had. "Should we go back to your place, then?"

"I'll end up taking someone, probably, when I leave," I assured her. "That's for the first cut, though. You have to earn that. So far," I said, nodding towards the blonde, "Mary -- Cary? Cary seems to be in the lead. Roas's doing pretty well, too -- Mother hates Spics, and the slut sucks cock like a dream. But I'll be here all week, if you want to try another night."

"No, no, I can -- I'll -- I want to—" she stammered, finding herself in the unexpected position of basically begging me to fuck her in the back room of a bar. I grinned to myself, and if a little of that grin actually ended up on my lips, it just played into my image. Stephanie was so predictable. Wave the bait under her nose, then point out the younger, blonde, ostensibly prettier bar slut was ahead of her, and she rose to the competition like a washed-out champion on a come-back tour. She took a deep breath. "You just tell me where you want me," she finally got out, a determination in her voice. 

"Back room," I grunted. "Ten minutes." She swallowed again and nodded, then kissed me briefly on the cheek and retreated to the ladies room to prepare her warpaint. That gave me time to finish my drink and my cigarette -- and it was only then that I realized I hadn't even dosed her. Miss Stephanie was apparently very hungry.

By the time I sauntered back to the storeroom, she was waiting eagerly. I came in and locked the door behind me, looking at her with a certain restrained lust. She was attractive, but I had to make her work for it. She did. She rushed forward and kissed me gently but passionately, played with my shirt buttons a little, and said, shyly, "So what do you want to tell me to do?"

"Take out my cock, get on your knees, and suck it like a whore until I cream in your mouth. Then swallow. Got it?"

"Aye aye, captain!" she grinned, and sank to her knees. She fished my dick out of my pants with a minimum of fumbling, and if she detected the presence of pussy from my earlier shenanigans she had the good grace not to mention it. She quickly caught my cock between her lips and began her best First Date head.

Stephanie was a trifle older than most of the chicks in the club, so her technique was a little more self-assured. She nibbled the head, and nuzzled my balls, and stroked me daintily with her fingers while her warm, wet mouth covered the head and her tongue flicked against my glans. She looked up at me adoringly. "Am I loose enough for you?" she asked, wickedly (and with just a bit of desperation in her voice). I noted with part of my mind that my ring was warming some, but not a bunch -- if I wanted to knock her up, it might pay to wait a few hours or so and let he cycle catch up.

"It's a good start," I conceded, pulling her head forcefully back to my shaft. She took it up again eagerly, and started making long wet strokes with her mouth. She got more than two thirds down her gullet, which was admirable for this day and age, and didn't complain a bit when I grabbed the back of her head and skull fucked her deeply for a few moments. She made some moans and groans as I plumbed the depths of her throat, but she took it like a champ. Then I let up a bit, and let her work for my third load of the evening.

It took a while, and all of her skill as a fellatrix, but after twenty minutes or so she finally made me spurt across her tongue. She took it all, swallowing gratefully while I pumped her face. When at last I sighed and leaned back, she stood, wiping her lips.

"So, did I make the cut, Captain?" she asked, imploringly. 

I sighed. "That was pretty good," I said. "But just how badly do you want to go home with me tonight?"

"I want you so badly that my cunt is leaking like a wet sponge," she said, earnestly. I didn't doubt that. But I decided to play with her just a little bit more.

"But what if I want your ass, Stephanie?" I asked. "What if I want to bend you over and fuck your tight little asshole. Could you do that for me, Steph?"

She swallowed nervously -- surely she was an ass-virgin. "Um, yes, I'll do that," she said, blushing furiously. 

"What if I want you to do . . . other things?" I continued, evilly. "Perverted things."

"Whatever you want," she agreed, with strained enthusiasm. "I love . . . sex," she confessed.

"How about if I ask you to eat pussy, Steph? Would you eat another girl's pussy for me?"

She swallowed again, and her nose wrinkled just a bit. "If that's what you want . . ."

I considered. "Okay, let's give you a little test. You ready for a little test, Steph?"

"Just try me," she agreed.

"Okay, here's the stakes: you do this, and you go home with me tonight and I'll fuck the shit out of you and put you on the short list. It's still early in the week, yet, so I'll be auditioning others . . . but you will have made the first cut. Winner gets a mansion, a yacht, complete financial security, a husband guaranteed to fuck around on you, and the most pretentiouss in the galaxy. Agreed?"

"Whatever it is, just tell me," she said firmly, no doubt getting wet all over again at the thought of the high life I was dangling in front of her. 

I took a moment to keep her in suspense while I lit a cigarette. "Okay," I said, finally, as she stared at me in wild anticipation. "You've got ten minutes to go out there, find someone at least as pretty as you, and send them back her for me to fuck. No teasing, no bullshit. Find me a girl to fuck, and you can sleep at my place tonight." Her eyes grew big as I gave her her kinky quest. 

"But --" she began. "What about me? I'll be—"

"I'm auditioning, remember?" I asked, pointedly. "I'm already going to fuck you -- I want some new pussy before I take you home. You must know those girls pretty well, know which ones will screw. Find me one, tell her whatever you need to to get her back her, but find her. Because you now have nine and a half minutes, and once I walk out that door, our deal is off."

She nodded once and bolted. I chuckled evilly to myself as the door closed behind her. I'm not a nice man, sometimes. Poor little Steph was thinking one hummer and I'd sweep her off her feet -- and now she was put in the position of lining up new cooze for me (and new competition for her). I wondered which way she'd go: bringing in an ugly chick to keep the odds in her favor, or try to appease me by bringing in a pretty girl. If she was able to accomplish it at all, I noted, glancing at my watch at the half-way mark. 

I was just stubbing out my third smoke when she skated in just under deadline, giggling her way through the door with another girl in tow -- to my surprise, it was April, the babe I had scared off earlier. She was blushing furiously and wouldn't meet my eye, but she was here, completely nervous.

"Well, we meet again, April," I said in an amused voice.

"I . . . well, I . . . Steph said . . ."

"Have you changed your mind? Are you ready to suck my cock?"

She nodded, still not looking at me. Stephanie started edging towards the door. I shot her a glance. "You stay. I want you to watch. Might need your help. So, April, what did Stephie tell you to get you to change your mind?"

"She said . . . she said you were rich," she whispered, looking at her feet. 

"Filthy fucking rich," I agreed. "But you knew that. What else did she tell you?"

"That you . . . wanted to find the biggest slut in Tampa," she said, still looking away.

"Is that you, April?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'm . . . I'm kind of shy."

"Apparently not so shy as to suck off a guy in the back room of a bar," I pointed out. "Which makes you, if not the biggest slut in Tampa, at least in the running. Is Steph a friend of yours?"

"Y-yes," she nodded.

"How good a friend?"

"Real good."

"Great. So what did she promise you if you did this?"

"She said . . . she said that I could borrow her yellow angora sweater, and that she would set me up with her cousin Bill."

"So the price of my dick on your lips was a sweater and a date," I shrugged. "Sounds like a heck of a deal, sweetheart."

"M-maybe this was a mistake," she said, starting to move towards the door. Before I could say a word, Stephanie was blocking her exit. 

"You said you'd do it, April," she said, accusingly. "You promised!"

"I . . . I changed my mind," she squeaked. 

"The hell you did!" Stephanie growled. "You made a deal, you bitch, and you're going to stick to your end of it or I will destroy you!"

April wasn't expecting such a strong attack from her friend Stephanie, and physically stepped back away from her, eyes wide with shock.

"I didn't mean—"

"You get down there on your knees right now, you little whore, or I'll spill every last filthy secret about you! I'll tell everyone how you sucked off Brett and Steve your senior year while his girlfriend was sick, how you slept with Amanda's husband the night before they got married, how you let Mr. O'Malley cornhole you on the bus on the way back from Orlando -- all of it! I own your ass, April, so you just get on your knees and open your mouth and take it!" Stephanie said, vehemently. 

April was in tears now, as I cleared my throat. "Is there a problem, ladies?" I asked, sharply.

"No!" Stephanie said, instantly, and looked at the sniffing little brunette. "Is there, April?"

"No," the younger girl said, sullenly, tears still coming down her cheeks prettily. "No problem." And with that she came over and knelt in front of me, defeated.

"Go on," I urged. "Take it out and get to sucking. No need to piss off your girlfriend, is there?"

Still weeping, April reached out and unfastened my fly for the fourth time that evening. I stared Stephanie in the eye as I sank to the back of her little friend's throat, and kept my attention on the older girl even as the younger one struggled to take me. I watched as various emotions warred for control of her -- guilt, lust, greed, self-recrimination, resolve, shock, it was all there, covered by a thin veneer of desperate eagerness. She had to win this little Prince Charming contest, now that she had essentially blackmailed her young friend into whoredom. 




Cock of Ages Ch. 07



April was competent, and there is something delicious about fucking the mouth of a reluctant woman, but after four loads spent in less than three hours, it would take more than her mediocre mouth to bring me to climax. I relaxed and let her get me as hard and excited as she was able -- and to her credit, she stopped crying and started to get into it a little -- while I watched Stephanie's face.

Eventually I pulled April to her feet with a squeak of protest. 

"Wha --? Was I doing it wrong?" she whined. "Oh, God, Steph, don't tell anyone—"

"You give fine head, you'll make someone an excellent second wife some day," I said, bored. I pushed her back to the crate that had become my platform this evening and pushed her back on it. "I just want to take things to the next level," I informed her, as I began drawing up her skirt.

"But -- but you said he just wanted a blowjob!" she whined at Stephanie, accusingly.

"He changed his mind," she shrugged. Clearly she felt bad about pimping out her friend, but she had committed herself, now. Losing the game after all of this was just not an option.

"But I didn't wanna fuck—"

"Shut up," I ordered her, as I inspected her pelvis. Clean white cotton panties with a very damp crotch. I could smell her late-teen pussy from three feet away, and see her dark tangled bush clearly through the cotton. "I'm feeling like some pussy, April. You've got a nice pussy, there, it looks like. Young and clean and fresh. Is your pussy young and clean and fresh, April?" When she didn't answer immediately, instead looking up at me accusingly, I turned to Stephanie. "Doesn't it look young and clean and fresh, Steph?"

She played along. "Oh, yes, that's first-rate Tampa pussy, there, Mikey!" she said with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Probably nice and tight, too -- she's only had a few boyfriends, and she's only fucked a few of her friends' husbands," she said, cattily. The implied threat to April was clear -- shut up and take this cock, or I'll ruin your life. Sisterhood is a powerful thing. 

"I think it would, too," I agreed, running my finger under the leg band of her panties and digging into her pussy forcefully with my middle finger. She stiffened and whimpered at the penetration. "But I think she's a little nervous, Steph. Don't you think?"

"Maybe a little," the older girl conceded. "She's not very experienced."

"Then would you mind warming her up a little, then?" I asked, casually. That caught Stephanie off guard -- while she was prepared to be a passive observer to the rape of her friend, she hadn't counted on being a participant. 

"What?" she asked, in disbelief.

"Get her warmed up," I explained, as if I was telling her how to make toast. "You know, kiss her a little, play with her tits, lick her pussy for a while," I suggested.

"You want me—"

"I thought we'd been over this, already," I said, warningly. She swallowed and nodded, and replaced me between April's thighs. She moved slowly, as if she was in a daze. First she kissed April on the eyes, tentatively, and then moved to her mouth. She was slow and reluctant, at first, but after a few moments April started kissing her back. As soon as she felt the change in her friend, she started feeling up her tits. She lingered there for a while, just feeling her up and kissing her, until I urged her to get on with the foreplay.

She stole a guilty look at me before she got on her knees for the second time that night and brought her face in proximity of April's unwilling but soaked cunt. Steph hung back as long as she could, fingering the girl through her panties a little, until she couldn't wait any more without looking like she was stalling. Then she slid the panties aside and began to softly, gently, lick her younger friend's furry labia.

It took a few moments for April to get into it -- I think Steph was having a hard time finding her clitoris -- but when the older girl finally found that bud April threw her head back despite herself and moaned loudly, a shameful expression on her face and tears at the corner of her eyes. Stephanie paused, and took a deep breath, but then she closed her eyes and clumsily went to work on April until she was wiggling her hips on the brink of orgasm.

I pulled Stephanie back and took position. "Open wide, April," I sang. "Looks like Stephanie is a closet lezzie -- and you seemed to enjoy a woman's tongue on your pussy, didn't you? Didn't you?" I asked, louder, when the weeping girl didn't respond. She finally nodded and barked out a 'yes' as I positioned the head of my dick at her entrance. Stephanie stood up and held on to one of April's arms, more in support than in restraint, while April looked at her friend's sticky face accusingly. 

I relished the conflict between them and pushed deep inside the teen. Despite her tears she was soaked, and I slid in without a hitch. That isn't to say that April was ready for a cock the size of mine -- she moaned in pain as my thick girth stretched her tight young pussy wider than ever before.

"Jesus, you're cutting me in half!" she complained as I drew back and thrust again, slowly and steadily. 

I chuckled. "Just be glad I didn't want to fuck your ass tonight," I pointed out. "Luckily, your pal Steph has volunteered to give up her butt for me -- isn't that right, Steph?"

Stephanie looked mortified, and gave a quick, curt nod. April was squeezing her eyes tightly shut, though, and missed it, so I prompted her again.

"Yes," she finally said, "Mikey is going to put . . . put it in my bottom," she admitted, all trace of even feigned eagerness gone from her voice.

"Oh, don't play demure, girl," I chided. "I'm going to fuck your ass silly, tonight. I'm going to stuff your tight little rosebud slam full of dick . . . and all you had to do was get your friend to fuck me." I was rocking April forcefully while I spoke, really slamming into her pelvis with my own, battering her young cervix mercilessly with the head of my dick. When she thought about the friend who betrayed her getting sodomized with it, she seemed to loosen up a little.

I wasn't here for her orgasm. I was here to dump my load, and under the circumstances I really didn't see any way for her to enjoy it. But somewhere along the line her arousal caught up with her, and she was having a very loud and very violent orgasm under me before I came. I was impressed -- impressed enough to cum myself, filling her tightly clasping twat full of my life-giving seed.

"Oh my God!" she said, after she caught her breath. "You didn't use a rubber!"

"Yeah, so?" I asked, dully, my cock softening inside of her.

"So what if I get pregnant?" she asked, new tears forming.

"Then I'll have another little bastard running around, is all," I shrugged. "Get in touch with my lawyers, they'll take care of it. Or," I said, an evil idea coming from the depths of my subconscious. "Why don't you convince your good friend Stephanie, here, to . . . clean up the evidence?"

"What?" April asked, confused.

"What?" Stephanie asked, sharply.

"I said," I continued, patiently, "why don't you get Stephy the Slitlicker to suck the cum out of your cunt so you don't get knocked up?"

"Does that work?" April asked, still confused.

"You want me to do what?" Stephanie demanded.

"Eat her box. Make her cum again, and the sperm will be expelled. Relax, I've seen it work dozens of times," I assured them. Thirty years later I would have been laughed out of the storeroom by spouting such bullshit -- but here-and-now sex education was so primitive that the coke-and-aspirin douche was still considered a reliable form of birth control, and it was widely known that girls could get pregnant off of a toilet seat.

"W-will you do it?" April begged. "Please, Stephy, I can't get pregnant -- I can't! My folks would kill me! Could you . . . could you eat me out again?"

"I can't believe . . ." Steph said, shocked, shaking her head. 

"Goddammit, don't let me get pregnant!" April insisted. "You did it before, do it again!" The tears were big and in earnest, now, as the frightened girl realized her "friend" was about to walk away from her in a moment of need. The guilt proved too much, though, and with a sigh Stephanie got to her knees again and began eating out the teen's overflowing pussy.

I watched and lit a cigarette, my cock still out and half-erect. The way Steph's head moved in tight little circles as she tried to lick out all the spooge I had deposited was priceless, and was obviously having an effect on the teen, who was arching her back and moaning lustily. She was just on the brink of orgasm again when Steph started to pull her head away.

Little April didn't want that -- not when she was this close -- so she grabbed Steph's curly locks and forced her face back into her pussy, wiggling until her throbbing clit was once again the focus of her attention. She kept her locked like that until she came explosively against her lips.

"You two get cleaned up," I grunted, appreciatively, as Steph stared up at me with a dazed expression. "I'll be at the bar. We'll leave when you're ready," I said to Steph. Then I turned to April. "That was good pussy, there, kiddo. As I'm sure your friend will agree . . . Thanks." And with that I left.

I waited at the bar for twenty minutes, making eyes at Cary, who was still eager to be my bedmate that night. She flirted outrageously, pissing off the young buck she had attracted while she was waiting, and I sent her a drink through Donald as a reward. But when Stephanie finally came out, trailing April, whose face looked like she had been crying, I stood and flipped a few bills on the bar and blew her a kiss.

"Don't forget about the blowjob you promised Donald," I called to her across the bar. "I don't like women who go back on their word!"

Something told me I wouldn't be paying for my drinks the next time I came back here.



Cock of Ages Ch. 08



Tampa, Florida 

March 3, 1963

I treated Steph to midnight room service at the hotel that night, and laid on the Rich Playboy thing pretty thick. She deserved it, I guess -- she had essentially coerced and abetted in the rape and probable impregnation of a younger friend of hers. The least I could do was buy her an ice-cream sundae and a bottle of rum.

After a little rest and a shower I put her through her paces, making her strip seductively and then whore-crawl across the carpeting to the sofa, where she sucked my cock again. Then I laid her back on the cushions and pounded her pussy mercilessly, making her cum twice and dumping a fair-sized load into her increasingly fertile womb. We adjourned to the bedroom about one in the morning and napped out. It had been a busy day, even for my superior nuts.

I woke her just before dawn by sticking my fingers into her sloppy pussy and pumping them until she awoke, then crawled on top of her and added another batch of baby batter. She passed out again and we didn't really get up until about ten o'clock the next morning. She started freaking out because she was late for work, but I put a hundred dollar bill in her bra and she calmed down enough to let me kiss her. That seemed to melt her panic, and when I pushed her back on the bed and mounted her, she remembered why she came. 

Of course I couldn't let the brunette beauty go without what I promised her. She had been draining my nuts as much as possible, probably trying to make me forget, but I wasn't going to let her sweet ass leave without a load in it. When I had fucked her to two solid orgasms I flipped her over and took her doggie -- which apparently was a novel position for her. I banged the hell out of her from behind, going really deep and controlling every thrust with my hands at her hips. She moaned enthusiastically, and I let her have one more good orgasm that way before I surreptitiously spit on her winking rosebud and pulled out during the intermission between orgasms.

"You want me to change position?" she asked, helpfully. "You must be tired, Tiger, you've ravished me like an animal!"

"No, no, this is fine, " I assured her. "Just getting ready."

"Ready for what?" she asked, curiously. I stuck the head of my dick at the entrance of her butt and her shoulders sagged. "Oh," she said, just above a whisper.

"You didn't think I'd forget," I asked, pushing firmly against her sphincter, "did you?" She groaned long and low in response, burying her face in the luxury goose-down pillow as I shoved a telephone pole up her ass.

"Oh, yeah, that's the stuff," I groaned, myself. "You sure you aren't an ass-virgin?"

"I-I-I've done it twice," she confessed, between sharp intakes of breath. "But never with someone as big as you."

"Really?" I asked, conversationally. "I never would have known. You know, that's why guys like European sluts: they take it up the butt at the drop of a hat. Actually prefer it that way -- they aren't really cheating, then. And the Greek girls, they can't wait to bend over and get sodomized. Can't use anything for lubrication but olive oil, though," I mused. I don't think Stephanie was enjoying my travelogue as she was getting her ass fucked, though. That's the problem with Americans: no interest in international affairs.

Steph, though, she was hanging in there while I banged her butt, both fists clutching at the covers while she screamed into the pillow. She wasn't having a good time, and I couldn't resist adding to her sexual penance after her performance last night. I slammed into her deep, and stopped, my cock filling and flexing in her bowels. I leaned over and muttered into her ear.

"I hope you like this," I said, slyly, "because I love anal sex. I'll want to fuck your ass at least a few times a week -- more when you're pregnant. Can you accommodate that, Stephanie?"

"Y-yes-yes," she hissed, tears beginning to leak out of her eyes. "I love it!"

"Good," I said, resuming my powerful strokes. "Because my wife has to love it in the ass. Oh, and the pussy eating thing --definitely a turn-on. You don't mind eating pussy while I watch, do you? You seemed pretty good at it."

"Loved it," she managed to bark painfully between clenched teeth.

"Good, good -- we have this Spic maid who I like to watch getting eaten. She gave me my first blowjob, by the way. She's fucking Father, no doubt."

I decided to finish up, since she was about at the point of just collapsing in a heap. Another half-dozen strokes and I was unloading deep in her bowels.

Ten minutes later I was pushing her dress at her and telling her that her cab was waiting. She seemed confused -- hadn't we just spent a passionate night together? She tried to kiss me, but I dodged. She looked perplexed. 

"Look, you got on the short list," I said, dismissively. "Good head, decent pussy, good ass, willing to lick bush -- I have your qualifications. I'll be in touch for the next round." I lit a cigarette to cover watching her face as it fell when she realized that she hadn't won me over with her feminine charms. 

Another internal argument ended with her swallowing, pulling on her wrinkled dress, and doing the walk of shame to the elevator. She did favor me with a smile when she opened the door to leave. What a trooper.

Cromwell was in fifteen minutes later carrying breakfast. He was slightly sunburnt, but apparently hadn't realized it yet. "That her?" he grunted as he poured the coffee.

"Yeah, Stephanie. Cross her off the list. I might go back and back over it, but I'm pretty sure I knocked her up last night," I said as I buttered a croissant.

"Any collateral damage, for the record?" he asked, wryly.

"Actually," I said with a grin, "now that you mention it, put me down for three, last night. It was busy in the back room of the Tiki Club."

"You going back tonight?"

"Probably not. Need to let it rest, pop up someplace else. By tomorrow night, word will have spread and I'll have 'em lined up."

"Jesus, how many are you planning on doing?"

"As many as possible," I said, taking the coffee. "I mean, that's why I'm here, right? Need to play it to the hilt, put as many genetic vaccinations -- or whatever the hell it is they're called -- in the local population. Besides, might as well set a Project record."

"You kill me," Cromwell said, disdainfully. "I got what I needed from that Hooker the other night, and I'm good for a while. You . . . you're a machine."

"Only at the molecular level," I pouted. "The rest is all me."

"Then you're a perv."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Thanks for the hooker, by the way," he added, a moment later. "I didn't realize -- it's been a while since I was home. Hated to cheat on her, but . . ."

"Technically, you aren't married yet," I pointed out. "Technically, she hasn't even been born. Besides, 'Drunk and on the road don't count'. You were tense and needed to relax. I need you frosty if I get in the shit -- which very well could happen. You heard what happened to the other two guys?"

"Yeah, they had a whole handler meeting about it," he nodded. "Had us brush up on security techniques, first aid, and firearms. Someone down-stream is nervous."

"Probably a coincidence."

"Probably," he agreed. He looked at me a moment.

"You packing?" I asked, finally, nervous for some reason.

"Right here," he nodded, patting the armpit bulge under his light jacket.

"Good. Probably a coincidence . . . but you don't bag the babe when her husband's on the way home. Bad form."

Mrs. Susan James, ne Lamplighter, was the daughter of a Merchant Marine killed in the War, something her alcoholic mother apparently never recovered from. Raised by an uncaring aunt, she married a local boy at sixteen and settled down into one of the rattletrap little bungalows they had built in Tampa after the War. Her husband drove diesel fuel trucks all over the state, and she was usually home alone, bored, and often drunk. So sayeth her file.

Believe it or not, I was having a hard time with this one.

All I knew about her was in the electronic file in the back of Wealth of Nations, and there just wasn't much to go on. The alcoholic thing I might be able to work with, I thought. But there needed to be some sort of hook, and this slightly dumpy plain jane just didn't have any interesting bumps to hook on to.

I studied her from afar for a few hours and learned a little more about her. She was a bit of a slob, I could tell by the state of the house. She had aspirations of affluence, but not the tiniest bit of motivation. She watched soap operas after hubby left for his long day on the road, and started drinking after lunch.

I was starting to get frustrated after a few hours of this. Her neighborhood was mostly deserted during the day, and I sat in a local coffeeshop slurping chowder while I tried to figure out a way around her impenetrable fortress of boredom.

By the time I was done with the meal, I decided to try the direct approach. The really direct approach. Something I've used, occasionally, but usually only on a younger woman in dire straits. Mrs. James might just be too damned middle-class comfortable to consider it.

I straightened my appearance somewhat in the bathroom before I went boldly up to her door and knocked on it. I was about to repeat the knock when I heard the TV turned low, and someone came to the door. A moment later a busty dishwater blonde woman with well-padded hips and a wide mouth opened the door just a crack. If Sarah had been the epitome of June Cleaver, 1951, then Susan was the epitome of June Cleaver's housekeeper. She even wore the shapeless blue housecoat.

"Can I help you?" she asked, cautiously. "Mrs. James? My name is Mike Winslow. Can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Um . . . is this about the mortgage? Look, we'll make it up next—"

"No, no, ma'am, this isn't about the mortgage. But it might affect that. May I speak to you in private for a moment?"

"Sure," she said, after a long moment's hesitation. "Come in, Mr. Winslow." She was taken by my charm, of course -- I'm as handsome as science can make me. I could see from the coffee cup half-full of rum on the aluminum TV tray that she had already started drinking today. I let her close the door behind me before I turned to face her.

"Mrs. James, I have an . . . unusual proposition for you," I said, delicately. "Have you been having a difficult time paying your bills?"

She looked at me warily. "Well, we get behind sometimes," she said, reluctantly.

"What if I could tell you that, for a few hours of your time, I could get you the money you need to catch up on all of your bills and still have cash left over to spend as you see fit -- or as a nest egg?"

"What are you selling?" she asked, cynically.

"Actually, I'm buying," I countered, reaching into my jacket for my wallet. I fanned thirty one-hundred dollar bills, fresh from the bank, in front of her eyes. 

Hook.

"What do I need to do?" she breathed.

"I just want a few hours of your time," I repeated. "And I want your complete and total cooperation during that time. Whatever I want you to do you must do it without question. I have reasons for this request, but they are long, complicated, and difficult to believe. But if I can purchase your time -- utterly -- for two hours, I will give you every single bit of this money. Three thousand dollars. Money that you will have fairly earned, and will be legally yours to do what you want. Money that your husband -- nor anyone else -- will have any idea about," I added, meaningfully. 

She stared at me, breathless, her eyes wide. "Will I have to kill anyone?" she asked, as if that might be an unpleasant -- but not insurmountable -- issue for her.

"Nothing so criminal. Two hours. Anything I want. No excuses, no interruptions. I'll need your utter discretion, also -- you must tell no one I was here. And this offer expires in thirty seconds," I added.

"I'll do it," she said, instantly. "Whatever it is, I'll do it."

"Great!" I grinned, laying the fan of cash on the TV set. "Be so kind as to lock the front door," I commanded her, and she raced to do it.

"Now what?" she asked, excitedly. She had no clue what I would be asking her to do, but already her pupils and nostrils were warning me of her arousal. Sudden and unpredictable excitement can sometimes have that effect on a woman. Most of the time they aren't even aware of it. In 1963.

I stared her dead in the eye. "Take off your clothes. Completely."

She stared back, and after a moment's hesitation she began to unceremoniously strip. It was passionless and perfunctory, and was doing nothing for my libido. She had a thick thatch of hair that traveled up her slightly protruding belly, and boobs that were headed for a long, slow decline. The left one was slightly higher, and her nipples didn't quite match. When she finally dropped her panties and stepped out of them, she looked at me, arms at her sides in an open posture, and cocked her head to the side.

"Now what?"

"Get on the couch. Spread your legs. Masturbate."

"What?" she asked, shocked.

"Masturbate. Play with yourself."

"Um . . . okay," she said, shrugging. She sat down and her legs sagged open. She began frigging her clit, looking at me, the sudden nature of the act adding to her building erotic excitement. I stood and took off my coat while I watched her. My cock was starting to take notice. Not much, yet, but the pure perversity of the situation was inherently erotic to me. Her fingers were moving in methodical circles around her clitoris, and her hips were starting to move a bit. She never took her eyes off me.

"Is this how you get your kicks?" she asked, a note of accusation in her voice.

"No questions, remember?" I responded softly.

"Right," she agreed as I dropped my pants. Her eyes went wide at the sight of my growing dick. "OhmyGOD! That's a big one!"

"Suck it," I commanded, simply. She instantly stopped what she was doing, leaned forward, and captured the head between her lips. I let her give me uninspired wifely head for about five minutes, just long enough to get the old boy hard. She kept glancing up for approval while she sucked. I gave her boobs a few half-hearted fondles and tweaked her nipples, but she didn't seem to respond very well.

"Tell me," I said, authoritatively, "When did you lose your virginity?"

"I was fifteen, in the back of an orange grove," she said, interrupting her blowjob to answer. "It was with Bill Settler. He was a senior and he got me drunk on peppermint schnapps."

"What was the first dick you sucked?" 

A pained look crossed her face, but she discarded it almost immediately. "Brandon Hayes and his brother, Luke. The took me behind the gymnasium and made me get on my knees and suck them off a few times when I was sixteen." I pushed her head back to work for a few moments to keep the cock interested, then asked her another one. 

"How often do you and your husband have sex?"

"About twice a week," she said, after consideration. "Wednesday nights and Saturday nights. I blow him on Fridays, and he does me Sunday morning."

"Do you enjoy it?"

She shrugged. "Beats no sex at all," she offered. Hard to argue with that.

"Turn over and show me your ass," I commanded, and she obediently flipped over and stuck her butt out. It was a little flabby, already, but not too bad yet. I put a hand on the small of her back and started to position my cock at the entrance of her hairy cunt. She reached back and grabbed it, putting it in the right spot and pushing back against it. It took two or three pushes, but in a few moments I was encased in her depths. She put both hands on the back of the couch and began methodically fucking back at me. 

It was a standard, general issue fuck. I pounded my cock into her pussy, holding her hips to steady myself, while she grunted with every thrust. I got into it, of course -- I am a professional, after all. I fucked her steady for about twenty minutes, graciously allowed her a nearly-silent orgasm, and then sprayed a big load inside her working-wife pussy. 

I sat back down on the couch and pulled her down beside me.

"Goodness," she said, her hair all sweaty. "I haven't gotten fucked like that in years!"

"Glad you enjoyed it," I grunted, lighting a cigarette. "Now get on your knees and keep sucking me off."

"You mean, without cleaning up?" she asked, skeptically.

"You ARE the cleanup," I pointed out. She hesitated only a second, then promptly got on her knees and began licking my dick clean. Still no attempt to branch out into anything interesting, but it felt good. I smoked my cigarette and watched her suck for a while, and when I put it out on the nearby TV tray, I decided to give her a few pointers.

What followed was a Blowjob Boot Camp. I schooled her in the proper way to approach and handle a dick, showed her how to vary the strokes and which parts were the most sensitive, what to do with her hands, what my testicles were for, the whole shebang. She took every lesson to heart, too, and after spending over an hour slobbering on my cock, I spilled another load in her mouth and made her swallow it. Then I put her back on her hands and knees and fucked her for the last twenty minutes, cumming with four minutes to spare.

Susan collapsed back on the couch, out of breath and thoroughly fucked. She looked up at me with an expression akin to awe as I got dressed.

"So, you just go around fucking housewives all day?" she asked.

"Pretty much," I agreed. "But the situation is complicated. Thanks for your time. I'll show myself out, if you don't mind," I added, pulling on my jacket. She was wary until I was out of arm's reach of the money on the TV, but then relaxed.

And that was how I fucked Mrs. Susan James.

I walked away from the James residence with a satisfied, if slightly dirty, feeling. There had been little art in it.

Next on the list was the art student. I had just enough time to shower the bourgeoisie off at the hotel before I went after her.

That's when I saw her. 

Tall -- at least five nine -- brunette, curvy coke bottle figure, elegantly but casually dressed, impeccable make-up, and a million dollar smile. Pretty girls are everywhere, but this was a beautiful woman, and there is a difference. Lots of differences. Classic nose, but slightly exotic facial features. A beautifully proportioned bust just barely concealed by her crisp white linen shirt. Flashing eyes with just a hint of make-up under her expensive sunglasses. A tasteful bit of jewelry, perfectly manicured fingers, and legs that looked like they had been sculpted out of Italian marble. Luxurious raven tresses that bounced naturally with every step she took. I nodded politely, and she graced me with a smile. I had an instant boner and felt my heart melt a little.

I mean, I fuck for a living. I live for seduction. But after the hundreds of pussies I've sampled, my heart can still be touched by the sight of a truly beautiful woman. And this one did it -- she was an amazing package of femininity, and as she walked by and I caught a scent of her intoxicating perfume, I felt for a moment like one of my marks. I was nearly drooling as I watched her leave the hotel and get the doorman to hail a cab for her. I was so dumbstruck, in fact, that I completely forgot to get her name or even introduce myself. Poor execution. But that's just how much she got to me.

I inquired at the front desk, but they were unhelpful even after being properly bribed. I bribed them anyway and told them to keep an eye out for her. I wanted to meet her in the worst way. In fact, I couldn't stop thinking about her while I showered and prepared to nail my third mark of the trip, Miss Daisy Lee Katherine Ramone. Art student and wild child. Soon the anticipation of this tasty little piece of cooze made me forget all about my brief encounter with Helen of Troy, or whatever her name eventually turned out to be.




Cock of Ages Ch. 08



Almost.

Art students are easy. Young, easily led, sometimes stupid, and always either idealistic or cynical or both. Daisy -- or Katherine, as she insisted upon being called now that she was a serious woman instead of a rambunctious teen -- was going to be easy. 

Sent to school on the Redneck Riviera by her notable Atlanta family, Katherine was a young hellion, soaking up beat culture like a sponge and eager to add her own bit of infamy to the mix. I found her down by the port, where old and decrepit warehouse space was cheap.

I re-did my Mike Winslow persona to deal with her. Mike transformed from the Ivy League yacht-monkey to the anti-establishment beatnik rebel with a trust-fund. Katherine grew up affluent. Money or power wasn't what she wanted out of life. She had security in spades -- all she had to do was call Daddy for more of his filthy money. No, what Katherine Ramone wanted was respect.

Respect and recognition, that's what feeds the artist's ego. I straightened my beret and called Cromwell's room. He appeared a few moments later.

"Whatcha need, Boss?"

"A big bag of weed, Cromwell. Local, if that's all you can get. But if you can get me some down-stream kind bud, that would work best."

He whistled. "All those fancy pheromones and aphrodisiacs, and you want humble pot?" he asked, sarcastically. "Not what I'd thought Mrs. James would be in to."

"It's a prop," I explained. "And Mrs. James is in the can. Twice in the twat, once down the throat. She might be ovulating, might not be, but either way I covered her. Miss Daisy, on the other hand, is an artist, which means, here and now, that you smoke weed and drink wine. Cheap red wine. I can get that anywhere, but if you can put in an order for something amazing and hydroponic, all the better."

He shrugged. "I'll put up the smoke signal. I'm sure the boys back at base can come up with something." He left. I don't know exactly how he contacted our people and arranged for delivery, but he was back ten minutes later with a baggie of thick, glistening green buds, so aromatic I could smell it through the bag. He looked genuinely proud. "Late Eighties Purple Haze, straight from Amsterdam. I hope you don't mind -- snagged a little for myself."

"Natch," I shrugged. "Only one problem."

"What?" he asked, offended.

"The zip-lock bag won't be invented for another seventeen years or so," I pointed out. He started to argue and then looked sheepish. "I'll handle it. Thanks, Boss. Nice get-up, by the way."

Twenty minutes later I was taking a cab towards Miss Ramone's "studio", a cigarette dangling from my lip. I stopped for a bottle of cheap red wine, put it in my duffle bag, and wished I hadn't showered. The beats were known for many things, but hygiene wasn't one of them. Hopefully the smell of stale cigarette smoke would cover my distinct lack of BO. To compensate, I put my pheromone dispersal equipment on high. There'd be a lot of horny little beat chicks in the bar tonight.

The place her file said she frequented was a nameless bar two blocks away from the docks. It was as big a hole-in-the-wall as I'd seen, with garish Indian tapestries and a beaded doorway and Chinese calligraphy and Marxist posters and hot tea for a nickel, beer for a quarter, a bottle of wine for a dollar. The cloying smell of sandalwood and patchouli mingled with cigarette smoke and a little of the primitive grass available here-and-now. I found my way to one of the dimly lit tables and ordered a bottle from the goatee behind the bar.

This stage of the game is always fun. Like the Tiki Club the previous night, I enjoyed surveying the room and picking out the easy marks. The skinny waitress who'd probably suck you off in the bathroom for five bucks, if you asked her; the pudgy chick with the sandals and dirty toes who wore all black and chain smoked Luckys and who hadn't gotten laid in a few months; the terminally sensitive willowy blonde who looked fragile and bit her fingernails impulsively and was trying so hard to prove to herself that she wasn't a lesbian that she'd fuck any dick offered to her. A few more. It wasn't the candy shop of cooze that the Tiki Club had been, true, but it was a lot more interesting.

Within twenty minutes the willowy blonde came by, introduced herself as Fury (no, really, that's what she called herself) and asked me if I was new in town. I didn't see my mark lurking anywhere, so I decided to knock one out before she arrived. Fury was kind of cute, in an anorexic kind of way, and I was intrigued by her. Besides, her nail biting was cute, in a self-conscious sort of way.

So I bought her a drink and started telling lies about myself. I stuck as much as possible to my original script, with some embellishments. I was the youngest son of a rich cryptofascist family of oligarchs, and was rejecting the bourgeoisie trappings of affluence while I scoured the world for revolutionary art for my new New York gallery. 

Fury hung on every word, letting me overwhelm her with the force of my personality. She was young, too, no more than twenty, and easily impressed by my worldly ways. I was enjoying teasing her and watching her get worked up despite her attempts at coolness. One of the new insta-horny tabs in her wine when she wasn't looking, and I was set.

"What would you do," I asked, after she had finished the cup, "for a chance to smoke some of the best grass, ever?" I asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Grass?" she said, looking around as if the cops were about to raid the joint. "You have grass?"

"Grass doesn't begin to describe it. This is one-hit wonder. You'll be higher than any time in your life, doll-baby. What would you do to have that?"

"Anything," she said, eyes wide. "I love to smoke."

"Give me head in the alley?" I offered.

She shrugged, and her nipples stood out through her turtleneck. "Sure."

"Let's go."

Fury was a little gawky, but as I predicted, she was a weed whore. I could sense the aphro was working on her even as we left the bar, and a stroll to deserted alley a block away convinced me without a doubt. Her cupcake-sized boobs were all pointy, and she kept looking at me expectantly and then looking away. 

When we got to the alley I expertly rolled a joint and let her smell the bag (now in a contemporary baggie) which made her nipples even harder. One last glance around the neighborhood and I sparked it up. She took a couple of hits and then stared at me. 

"Wow. Oh, wow. This is . . . this is amazing!" she murmured as her eyes dilated. "You were right. I've never been this high," she admitted with a hysterical giggle. I shushed her and made her take another hit, then without a word I pushed her to her knees.

She was already in a stupor, but I didn't mind. I pulled my own cock out through my dungarees and placed it at her lips. Absently she began to suck the tip. Then, as if realizing what she was doing for the first time, she began to enthusiastically suck. The aphro was in full effect, and despite any confused sexuality issues she might have had, she was enjoying the erotic feel of my cock in her mouth. Her tongue was busy caressing the head even as she struggled to get more than a third of it in her mouth. Her long nimble fingers were busy stroking the shaft the whole time. Not a bad blowjob, all things considered. 

I petted her short hair affectionately as she sucked. There are few things as pure and sublime as a late teen blowjob. She didn't even bother looking up at me most of the time, not until I warned her I was going to cum and telling her I expected her to swallow every drop. I did and she did, although she clearly wasn't happy with it.

"Thanks," I said, pulling her up and passing her the roach. "I feel much better, now."

"God, so do I," Fury swore. "I mean, not because I . . . but because of the grass, man. That was . . . I've never had it so good before."

"Plenty more where that came from, if you play your cards right. Keep the roach for later. Maybe you can introduce me to a few of the local artists tonight."

"Oh, hell yes, I know everyone from here to Clearwater," Fury assured me. 

"I'm not interested in stuffy crap," I added. "I'd like to put together a collection of brilliant female artists, actually. No one is doing that in New York. That Warhol guy and his pack have mentioned it a few times—"

"Warhol? You know Andy Warhol?" She was shocked.

"Yeah, squirrelly little fucker. He's trying to get a show up at Paul Bianchini's whorehouse of a studio, whole bunch of commercial crap. Someday someone's going to shoot that little fucker. He mentioned doing an all-girl show last year, but nothing ever came of it. I want that kind of thing for my gallery."

"Then . . . I'll try to introduce you to a few. There are a few here, I guess. Let's go back to the bar, see who wanders in."

We did, and the crowd was at least a little larger. I sat with Fury and enjoyed being stoned and recently blown and waited for Katherine to come in. Just around eleven she did, and immediately made a bee-line to Fury's table.

Katherine was about average height, yellow-blonde hair cut just under her ear, with sharp eyes and a button nose. She would have been cute in high school -- now she was intriguing, young, brash, and ready to take on the world. 

"Hey, Katherine, man, this is Mike," Fury began, clearly enjoying the attention. "He's an art dealer from New York. He knows Andy Warhol."

"I know a bunch of people," I said, reluctantly. "Bunch of fakes, you ask me. Not a goddamn bit of real talent in all of Soho."

"I'm Katherine," the cute girl said, and I knew immediately that I was going to enjoy this. She had some very nice titties under all that black, and they seemed both pert and completely unencumbered by a brassier. She fixed me with a serious stare -- like I said, she wanted respect and recognition. "I do art."

"What's your medium?" I asked, lighting a cigarette and motioning her to sit down.

"Acryllics. Oils. Collage. Whatever," she said, dismissively.

"I'm looking to buy, if it's good. Looking to show if it's great."

"Mike is putting together an all-female show," explained Fury, excitedly.

"Then why is he in a shit-hole like Tampa?" Katherine asked, accusingly.

"Because the shit-holes are where you find the diamonds," I explained. "Next year I plan on doing some good Negro art."

"That's cool," Fury said, her eyes narrow.

"Yeah, but who the hell has ever heard of you?" Katherine said, belligerently.

"My friends are my business," I shot back. "They have money and I tell them what kind of taste to have. Billy Apple ring a bell? Robert Watts?"

"How about Mary Inman?" Katherine responded.

"I've fucked her," I shrugged. "She fucks better than she creates, I'll give her that."

"Okay, Daddy, you talk some talk. You wanna come back to my studio and gaze at my magnificence?"

"You gonna smoke some pot with me if I do?"

"Sure," she said, shrugging -- but she couldn't hide the excited twinkle in her eye. "Let's get some wine on the way, too," she added.

"Already have some. But Fury has to come with -- if I buy, she gets the commission. And I'm interested in talking to any other female artists you know. Young ones -- I'm done looking at wallpaper painters."

We talked some more, then the three of us got up and walked the three blocks to Katherine's "studio". It had a big wooden door that had seen plenty of squalls, and a dark and eerie appearance that was almost calculated to be sinister. Katherine slid it open and ushered us inside, turning on two low-wattage light bulbs and lighting some candles.

I actually made a show of looking at her stuff while I rolled another joint, and it wasn't too bad. I'm no artist, or even an art critic, but it was clear she had talent, if not a shred of discipline. I picked out three that weren't too awful and offered her five hundred for the three of them. 

Katherine hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then agreed. I paid her in cash on the spot -- and paid an excited Fury fifty for her help. When the average weekly wage in 1963 was less than a hundred bucks, that was big money for a beatnik.

"Let's celebrate," I said, after I had launched Katherine's professional career. "You have wine goblets?"

"Three mason jars do?" Katherine asked, skeptically.

"Just the thing," I assured, charmingly. "I'll pour. You light that joint, baby."

Of course I dropped some more aphro in each of their cups. I didn't think I'd really need it, of course, but I like to amp things up in such a situation. The pot was really the key. I'm sure these ladies were well experienced in smoking the lawn clippings that masqueraded as weed here in the dark ages. What we were smoking had been painstakingly cultivated and professionally bred to be potent even by 1980s standards. Back here in prehistory, it was literally the most powerful weed on the planet. And I had about an ounce and a half of it. Things were going to get freaky.

Half an hour later both ladies were half-drunk and twice as stoned as they'd ever been in their lives. Katherine dominated the conversation, of course, while Fury kept glancing excitedly between her and me and tried to add the occasional comment. I could tell both were squirming in their seats (okay, their pillows -- Katherine's studio was pretty primitive) and aroused even before the weed really kicked in. A few minutes after I poured them a second glass, I looked over at Fury.

"Take your shirt off," I commanded.

She blushed and stammered a bit, but I persisted. "Come on, it's hot in here. All these candles. I know you're hot. Go ahead and cool off some."

Katherine looked at me strangely, but I had Fury's eyes locked with mine. She bit her lip, and like a kid playing truth or dare she looked at Katherine for some sort of permission. Katherine shrugged, so Fury pulled her shirt off to reveal her teacup titties. 

"Nice," I said, approvingly. "How about you, baby?"

Katherine didn't look as convinced, yet -- she had a strong personality. But the weed, wine, and hormones coursing through her system were impairing her judgment, and after a moment she shrugged again and pulled off her own shirt. "Nice," I repeated. I leaned over and fondled one. I could see her tense a bit, but then again I had just handed her five hundred bucks, got her high, and was considering an art show. She put up with me pinching her nipples.

As I fondled Katherine's tits, I leaned over and kissed Fury forcefully. She was reluctant, too, but our earlier intimacy melted her resolve, and soon she was pushing her tongue into my mouth eagerly. My other hand stole up to play with her tits, and I changed to kissing Katherine. 

"Lets get naked," I suggested, when I came up for air.

I had fun that night. With two young women eager to rebel against the establishment, a big bag of weed, and a cock that wouldn't quit, how could I not? I took charge, too, despite Katherine's natural tendency to lead. Fury was a follower, and she followed my orders to suck my cock again while her friend sat on my face. I licked her sparse bush to three quick but hard orgasms, then pushed her off. Then I ordered Fury on her hands and knees in front of Katherine, and while I entered her from behind her face was in very close proximity of Katherine's slit. I fucked Fury for a good ten minutes, through one crashing orgasm, when I leaned over and whispered in her ear:

"Go ahead. You know you want to. Tonight is the night to try it," I suggested. She looked up at Katherine's spasming twat and started inching her body forward. I followed her enough to push her face in Katherine's crotch and watched with relish as Fury got her first taste of pussy.

Katherine might have been upset about it if she had been sober, but she wasn't. All she knew is that there was another tongue on her clit and it was driving her wild. Fury looked like she was in heaven, literally praying at the altar of pussy while I pumped her tight twat. Katherine came twice more before I dismounted the skinny girl and crawled on top of the curvy one.

"Ugh!" she grunted as I sheathed myself inside her. It was probably a little uncomfortable and unexpected, but I didn't mind. Her juicy boobs were flattened against my chest, and I had a grand old time fucking her missionary style while Fury waited her turn. It only took twenty minutes or so for me to shoot her full of spooge, and then I sat back and rolled another one while we recovered.

Of course, Fury hadn't been truly satisfied, yet, so I encouraged the girls to kiss and make out. It took just the smallest bit of encouragement, and soon both blondes were writhing around, their fingers buried in each other's snatches. I pointed out that Katherine hadn't dined at the Y yet, and dared her to do so, calling the bourgeoisie rejection of homosexuality a patriarchal plot to consign the proletariat into easy categorization. Hell, it sounded good. Katherine finally acquiesced and headed south until her face was between Fury's thighs. I took the opportunity to sink my cock into Katherine from behind, then feed our combined juices to Fury in between her climaxes.

I fucked them both that night, repeatedly. By the third joint they were little more than torpid dolls that did what I asked without question. And I pushed their sexual envelopes, too, making Katherine eat out her willowy friend while I fucked her plump asshole for the first time, then fucking Fury while Katherine rode her face. I dumped at least two or three loads in each girl, and at four in the morning I started walking back to the hotel, the girls passed out in a lezzie puppy pile. 

It had been a sweet experience, and I wished I had had a camera to capture them sleeping that morning. It would have made a pretty picture, a moment of pure sapphic innocence that I would have loved to frame and hang on my wall back at the Base. "Late Beatnik Pussy Party Aftermath", 1963. Warhol would have liked it, I'd like to think.

I don't know art. But I know what I like.



Cock of Ages Ch. 09



Tampa, Florida

March 4th, 1963

I slept in the next morning, after popping a hangover-helper (thank God for 21st century pharmaceuticals!) and grabbing a cleansing shower. Cromwell tried to wake me up for breakfast, but I persuaded him to come back at noon. I'd had three full days of fornication under my belt, and even my batteries needed to be recharged some times. By the time he knocked tentatively on the door at 12:30, I was awake, dressed, famished, and ready to take on the world.

He had ordered bagels and lox this morning, and another pot of the Jamaican coffee, and we took it on the balcony again.

"Cross the other two off my List," I told him with a sigh. "Got them both, yesterday. Plus one more."

"Only one?" he asked, surprised.

"I'm pacing myself," I shrugged. "But I saw one I want to put on lay-away – a brunette. I'll point her out to you, if I can. Gorgeous." I poured a second cup of coffee and opened up Wealth of Nations. "Who are my next three victims?"

"I dunno, Boss," he said, aping a stupid Mafia thug accent to annoy me. He did it really well, actually, but I let it annoy me a little anyway so that it wouldn't hurt his feelings. "Let's see . . . Starting with Mrs. Pamela Mueller, wife of local CPA and future suicide victim Carl Mueller." I took a look at the photos at the top of the page, scrolled through a few. Good looking woman, not pretty, perhaps, but attractive and sexy, in an understated sort of way. Thin, wavy brown hair, very fine facial features, figure like a rail. "The lady is twenty-two, married two years, no kids. Nice neighborhood, upper middle class. Some charity work, takes classes at the college – nothing serious, I think, lots of crap classes – published an article on making your own pie crust in the local paper last year."

"She reeks of quiet desperation," I observed. "Looks like a romantic affair, maybe? I'll have to lay some groundwork. Huge pain in the ass, and out of character for my current character, and that could present some problems. Let me think about it. Maybe I can come up with a more workable angle. Next?"

"Camilla Ortega, 19, working class girl clerking in the Ye Olde Buccaneer Gift Shop and Boutique, up on the beach. You could walk there. Mommy left home when she was 8, Daddy died when she was fifteen. On her own, unmarried, aspirations of something better, probably. Works the shop for an older woman – lezzies, maybe?" The two pictures of Camilla were both less than a month old, and both showed a smiling, slightly buck-toothed Hispanic girl with pretty average looks. Slightly busty, but still teen-aged skinny. 

"Possible, but I doubt it," I noted. "Says she marries later in life. Not much else to go on. More groundwork," I groaned. 

"Yeah, your life is so hard," Cromwell snorted. "Now number six is a looker: Alice Glover. First runner-up for Miss Tampa . . . in 1958. Now she's a real estate agent. Unmarried, young, pretty, probably makes serious money."

"Or not," I added. "Appearances can be deceiving, especially with real estate. She's the easy one, though." I flipped back through all three of my marks, trying to put together a decent strategy. I was on a roll – had to be a way to kill three birds with one stone.

"Okay, I've got some ideas," I said, lighting a cigarette and staring out at the ocean. "But I'll need your help, at least with a few of them."

"We handlers aren't supposed to . . ." he began, after a moment's thought.

"Get involved directly, yes, I know. I think I'll just need you as a prop, sort of. You won't have to fuck anyone, I promise."

"Shit. I was hoping that was what you needed me for."

"Nope," I said. "Well, maybe. I'll just need you to play the goon and look menacing at the proper time. But that will probably be for tomorrow. Today I set up the groundwork. I'll need some tasteful gold chains. And a classy car. And I'll need you to find out a few things . . ."

Cromwell sighed. "And here I was planning on working on my tan today," he grumbled. I looked at his increasingly red face and shoulders and winced. We'd mostly cured skin cancer down-stream, but it was still ugly to look at.

"You'll thank me later," I promised.

***

I went by Ye Olde Buccaneer Shoppe since it was, literally, within walking distance from the hotel. I had on a sloppy Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts and sandals, shirt mostly open. I enjoyed playing the rich tourist, leering at the scantily clad babes on the beach and prowling the little shops. By the time I got to the Boutique – a tiny little hole-in-the-wall sandwiched between a bait and tackle shop and a hot dog stand – I was thoroughly in character.

I walked in, bells tinkling on the door, and began looking around at the outrageously tacky shell-art, the shot glasses with Tampa's name on them, and locally-manufactured souvenirs. And I watched Camilla, who was sitting, bored, behind the small counter.

She looked better in person than in the photos – but not quite as bright, I was guessing. She smiled when I came in but quickly went back to her magazine when it was clear I wasn't a shoplifter. I picked up a few postcards, some knick knacks, a Wall Street Journal, and a really hip pair of shades before I ambled up to the counter. I had an idea.

"One forty eight," she said, after carefully calculating the amount. I handed her a fifty.

"Uh . . . Sir? I . . . I can't make change for that," she said, apologetically.

"You have to," I said, calmly. 

"What?" she asked, confused.

"You have to," I repeated. "See the little words down here at the bottom? 'Legal Tender For All Debts, Public And Private,'" I pointed out. "I want this stuff. I have the money. It's up to you to make the change."

"But . . . I don't have more than ten dollars in the register!" she complained. "I can't even go to the bank! I have to wait until the owner gets here at five to—"

"Relax," I said, in a soothing voice. "A fifty is all I've got. So here's what we'll do: I'm going to go to the beach and read this paper after I send off these postcards, and then I'm going to have dinner, and then I'll be back at my hotel room. So you come by my hotel with the change, and you can keep two dollars as a tip. Sound fair?"

"Um . . . I guess . . . well . . . sure, I can do that," she said, nodding enthusiastically. "I'll just get the owner to go to the bank and I'll come by about five?"

"Five is fine," I agreed. "What's your name?" I added, turning on the charm.

"Cammie," she replied, shyly.

"Well, Cammie," I grinned, "you look pretty trustworthy. And I know where you work if you don't show up. Although forty-eight dollars and fifty two cents probably wouldn't get you to the border." She laughed at that, clearly nervous about the matter. Good. I wanted her nervous.

"See you at five, then, Mister . . ."

"Winthrop, Mike Winthrop," I said, with that smile that's lured so many girls to my bed. I gave her my hotel information and went on my way.

I stopped at a doughnut shop and used the pay-phone – when will the personal phone be invented? Pay phones are a pain in the ass. I called the number I found in the book. 

"Alice Glover, Real Estate," the matronly voice on the other end of the phone said.

"I'd like to speak to Miss Glover," I said in my best Harvard accent. 

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Mr. Winthrop."

"One moment, please."

Being on hold in 1963 meant a thankful silence, not a barrage of easy listening tunes. It was a more civilized age.

"Miss Glover speaking," the low, sexy voice finally said into my ear. She was playing it up, and that told me a lot about her character already.

"Yes, Miss Glover, I'm Michael Winthrop. I'm in town on . . . vacation," I said, purposefully pausing, "and I'd be interested in seeing some local real estate. Someone at the hotel suggested I give you a call."

"Well, I'll certainly try to help fulfill your needs, Mr. Winthrop," she cooed. "Just what were you looking for?"

"Nothing fancy, just a vacation home. Something remote, say six or seven bedrooms. And a garage. At least two cars." I could almost hear her nipples getting hard over the phone.

"Why, I think I have several properties listed that might meet your needs," she said, breathlessly. "When might I be able to show them?"

"Tomorrow? In the afternoon. I've got an appointment in the morning. Can you drive? I haven't acquired a car locally, yet, though my driver is working on it."

"Of course I can, Mr. Winthrop!" she said, laughing. I told her where my hotel was, and we agreed to meet in the hotel restaurant for lunch at one.

So much for groundwork, I thought to myself as I hung up the phone. As soon as Cromwell got back to me with the data I requested, I'd have these three sewn up. 

Sweet little Camilla arrived promptly, her clothes changed and freshly scrubbed. The front desk called and told me she was waiting, and I had them send her up. I had prepped carefully, setting the scene just so. The air was loaded with pheromones, I had a subsonic subliminal playing in the background, under some jazz on the radio, and I was wearing nothing but a white terrycloth bathrobe. 

Camilla looked scared and nervous as I opened the door for her.

"I've got your money, Mr. Winthrop!" she said, hurriedly.

"Come in, come in, Camilla," I said, kindly. "Just got back from a dip. Have a seat, I'll go put some shorts on or something," I said, apologetically. She nodded hesitantly and sat on edge of the couch. She clearly felt out of her element, which was good.

"Sorry about the misunderstanding this morning," I said from the other room as I pulled on my shorts. "My driver came back from the bank with nothing smaller than a fifty. I should have broken it before I went out." I poured two glasses of orange juice and dropped one of the quick-aphros in hers.

"Not a problem," she squeaked. 

"Oh, I know it was a pain," I clucked, handing her the cup before she could protest. "And I hate to be a pain. Actually, I'm kind of glad it happened. I'm considering buying some real estate in the area, and I'd like to ask you a few questions about the local scene."

"Oh, I don't know anything about real estate," she said, her eyes wide.

"You don't need to, sweetheart," I said, soothingly. "I just want to know a few things about the place where I'm putting my money." I proceeded to ask her several mundane and disarming questions about schools, local government, the rich parts of town, and the tourist season. The last was the only thing she had any kind of information about, but that was fine. I was trying to put her at ease, and drinking the OJ helped. She was done with hers while mine was still half full.

I seized upon something she said about a new resort hotel that was being talked about, and asked her a barrage of questions I knew she couldn't answer. But it killed time while the magic pussy potion began to work, and when she was squirming in her seat and having a hard time focusing, I figured that it was time to strike. 

"How much do you make at your job, Cammie?"

"Um . . . about twenty-two dollars a week," she admitted. "Sometimes more with overtime."

"So that fifty was half a month's salary for you," I said.

"Yes," she agreed, after painfully doing the math in her head.

"See many fifties in your shop?"

"No, this was only my second," she admitted.

"How about," I said, producing a bill, "a hundred dollar bill?"

Her eyes opened wide. "No! I've never even seen a hundred dollar bill!"

I chuckled. "I have a bunch of them, Cammie. Thousands. I could buy that crap-hole shop of yours with what's in my wallet right now."

"Woah," she said, amazed. 

"That's right, Cammie, I'm rich. Filthy rich. I have houses, cars, yachts, art collections . . . my uncle is a senator, my cousin is an ambassador, and I could call JFK and get through any time."

"Wow!"

"So I usually get what I want. I'm used to it. And right now, I want to give you a hundred dollar bill, Cammie."

"What?" she asked, dully.

"I'll give you a hundred dollar bill, Cammie," I repeated, "if you'll do things for me."

She eyed me warily. "What kind of things?"

"Whatever I want."

"You mean . . ." she dropped her voice low, and continued in a whisper, "sex?"

"Yes, Cammie," I said, calmly. "I do mean sex. Have you had sex before?"

"Y-yeah, sort of," she said. "But . . . but . . . you want to . . . have sex . . . with me?" she asked in disbelief. "But I'm not pretty!"

I shrugged. "Pretty enough. And you're here. And it amuses me to make you this offer. So what's it going to be?"

She hesitated. Her crotch was no doubt throbbing 'yes!', but her brain was still clinging to the nice girl paradigm. Time to tighten the screws.

"Of course, I could just have security escort you from the building," I said, softly. She swallowed and slowly nodded. 

"Yes, I'll do it. For . . . a hundred dollars," she added, blushing.

"I'll hold you to that, Cammie," I said, nodding. "You and I have a contract. You know what that makes you, Cammie?"

She looked away, ashamed, blushing furiously.

"A . . . whore," she whispered.

"No, no, my dear girl," I laughed. "You didn't approach me on a street corner. No, that makes you a businesswoman. You have done it before, haven't you?"

"Well, yes, kind of," she repeated. "Um . . . a boy at church . . ."

"It doesn't matter," I dismissed. "Most young women have. You're just making a little money in the bargain. And I can tell you have plenty of lusty thoughts. So why don't you stand up and take off your clothes, sweetheart? I want to watch."

"I . . . I think I've changed my mind," she said, starting to rise. 

"We have a contract, Cammie," I reminded her, sternly. "I've sued millionaires for less."

"We . . . I . . ." she stammered, terrified. This was getting good.

"Just stand up and take off your clothes, girl, and hurry. I'm a busy man!"

Once confronted with a firm command, she immediately obeyed. She was conditioned to, after all. Low self esteem, a social system where both her heritage and gender were against her, and above all her complete lack of power in the situation compelled her to obey. She stood and began taking off her shirt. I sat in front of her and watched, leering openly.

Her brown nipples were delicious looking, like milk chocolate, perched on well-formed breasts. Her belly was just slightly rounded, and as she dropped her colorful skirt to the floor I noted that she wasn't wearing panties.

"No underwear, Cammie?" I chuckled. "Yes, you knew what would happen, here. You're a closet nympho, aren't you?"

She looked horrified. "No! I was in a hurry and just forgot to—"

"No girl just happens to 'forget' her panties, Cammie," I told her authoritatively. "If you didn't wear them, then at least some part of your brain wanted to have sex tonight. Deny that your pussy is soaked," I accused. She blushed even more and hung her head. Of course that aphro would have soaked an octogenarian nun's pussy, but she didn't know that.

"See? So be a good girl and get on your knees and put your mouth on my dick," I commanded. She reluctantly complied, clumsily getting on her knees in front of the couch, then pulling down my shorts to reveal my dick. She didn't seem surprised at the size. She closed her eyes and put her mouth on the head of it.

I let her fumbled around for a few moments before I feigned frustration and started lecturing her on fellatio, grabbing the back of her head and pulling it down to get at least half of my shaft in her mouth. She struggled for only a moment before she went limp and let me fuck her mouth. She wasn't crying, which was interesting. She wasn't into it, either, but she wasn't crying.

"To answer the question you're asking yourself, Cammie, yes, you really are a slut. You must be, or you wouldn't be doing this, now would you? And you wouldn't be wet between your legs, either. So you are a slut. And now you are a whore, too – or a 'businesswoman', if you prefer." I pumped her face a few more times then pulled her up, her face dazed.

"Wha—?"

"Climb on my cock, slut," I said, pulling her hips up so she was straddling me. I positioned my dick at her entrance, noting my Harvard ring was burning hot when it touched her skin, and then paused. "Go ahead. Fuck yourself. I want to see you do it – put my dick in your pussy, slut."

She looked away, but with a grunt she did just that, impaling herself on my pole. She let me run the show after that, and I encouraged her to bounce up and down a bit. When I thought she had the rhythm right, I let go and she continued of her own accord. I laid back and let her work her tight furry pussy on my dick, her natural instincts making up for a lack of finesse. Latinas have always been a favorite of mine, and this lithe teen was getting me going. I let her piston herself for about twenty minutes before I made her lay across the arm of the couch and took her forcefully from behind.

It might have been her first time in that position, because she didn't seem to know what I wanted her to do, and she acted surprised when I slipped back inside her oily twat. She couldn't move much, of course, as I had her pinned between me and the couch, but she did manage to shake her ass a bit as I pumped her. She moaned and groaned, and I was compelled to reach around and toy with her little brown nipples until she had a potent climax. That was sufficient for my purposes. I powered through my own orgasm, shooting plenty of semen up in her womb, before I suddenly dismounted.

"Now that was worth a hundred bucks!" I declared. 

"Are you . . . are you finished?" she asked, meekly.

"You want to go again?" I asked, surprised.

"I . . . I'm kind of . . . sore back there," she admitted sheepishly, looking over her shoulder. There was sweat on her brow. 

"You should probably take that thing out more," I chuckled. "Especially if you're going to be a businesswoman. But I'll fuck you again in a moment, if you want. No extra charge."

"No, I think I'm done," she said, dazed. I couldn't resist. I pulled her cinnamon colored cheeks apart and pushed my index finger into her asshole. 

"You sure you don't want to try it this way, too?" I asked, chuckling. "A lot of girls like it."

"N-n-no, I'm done," she said, wincing. I gave her a few more callous strokes and then pulled out abruptly. Then I took the hundred dollar bill, rolled it into a little tube, and pushed it up her soaking twat. It was cruel, I know, and purposefully humiliating, but that's part of the charm of this job. I can do that from time to time and not feel guilty about it, since I'm trying to save the world and all. 

She looked pained at the intrusion, and stood up slowly. I watched her slowly get dressed, the money still in her twat, and then I walked her to the door. She left without another word. And she never did get the extra two dollars for delivering my change.

Maybe she'd be back.

***

That night I hit the Tiki Club again, as promised. I got there about ten o'clock, after the teenyboppers had mostly cleared out and the serious party people were drifting in. Donald the bartender was there, and I immediately got a place at the bar, a stiff drink at my elbow, and a run-down on the talent. The man was good. 

I went in without much in the way of tools, just some passive pheromones and a few aphros to speed things up. I wasn't technically working, after all, I was practicing my technique. I didn't see my former conquests, at first, which gave me a chance to look over some new cooze. Donald was kind enough to go through my best three prospects, having already spoken to them extensively about my "quest" for the biggest slut in Tampa. 

"All three are pretty respectable on the surface," he said as he polished the bar in front of me. "Sandy is the red-head, she's dated pretty much every man in the bar, by now. Hot piece of ass, no doubt about it. Lori is the dishwater blonde – she makes herself out to be a tease, but I don't know a man yet who hasn't scored with her. And that brown-haired girl with the glasses and the huge boobs is Madeline. She's been left at the altar twice, now, because she got caught screwing someone she wasn't engaged to."




Cock of Ages Ch. 09



"Sounds like an eventful evening. You give them my story?"

"Oh, yes, they ate it up. I played it up for you, just right – my thanks for the headjob from Cary the other night."

"Maybe I can help you out again. Any of the other ones available?"

He shrugged. "Three or four. But those three are sure things."

"Great. Send the . . . blonde a drink and tell her I want a moment of her time."

Donald nodded knowingly and casually moved to do just that. She didn't come immediately, trying the "hard-to-get" act. I hate coy, especially when I'm working. I made a mental note to punish her for that.

When she finally did sashay over to me, swinging her hips suggestively, I was ready. She slid onto the barstool next to me and dropped into a thick Southern drawl.

"Do I have you to thank for that delicious drink?" she asked, batting her eyelashes at me.

"Sorry, sweetie, you move to the back of the line," I growled. "Delay of game. Three girl penalty. If you have the guts to stick around, maybe I'll let you play. But you wasted my time, and I hate that. Back to your perch," I said, nodding sternly. She looked shocked, obviously not used to being spoken to like that when she was considering surrendering her favors. She started to protest, then Donald caught her eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly. She took the hint and slunk back to her stool, eyes downcast.

"Next," I said. "The redhead."

Another drink, and this one took the hint. She came over almost instantly. 

"Hi, I'm Sandy," she said, sweetly. 

"I'm Mikey," I said, gruffly. "I've already spanked one of you girls for giving me trouble, Sandy. Am I going to have trouble with you?"

She looked at me thoughtfully. "Is what I hear about you true?" she asked.

"That I'm filthy fucking rich and looking for a slut to marry to piss off my respected folks?" I asked. "Yeah, that part is true. I've been told you might be interested. Is that true?"

"If you get me the hell out of this shit hole of a town, I'll fuck donkeys at your mother's birthday party and then make balloon animals for the kiddies," she said.

I laughed so hard rum came out of my nose – not a pleasant feeling.

"That was good," I acknowledged as I patted my nose with my hanky. "You must really hate it here."

"You always hate your hometown, Mike," she said with a sigh. "I guess Tampa is no better or worse than any other place. Just been here too long. I would love to get away, and it's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. So I'll be your slut, if you want. I'll be a fucking whore. Just take me away, and I'll do whatever you want."

"An admirable attitude, and one that should serve as an inspiration to young girls everywhere," I agreed. "This is the deal: I'm here for a few weeks. I plan on fucking everything in a skirt. If I can find one of you I can stand, I'll make an offer. But until then, the field is wide open. So, what can you offer me, Sandy?"

"Besides the birthday party thing?" she asked, wryly. "Well, I can suck dick," she said, the words sounding wickedly nasty out of her mouth. "I can fuck you off your feet, in any position. And I've been known to . . . take it in the back door. I love sex, dirty nasty sex, and I was probably a French whore in a previous life."

"So if I wanted a blowjob audition in the back room . . .?"

She looked up, instantly. "Don, the key?"

He tossed it to her, and she caught it expertly. "Let's go," she said, leading the way.

I followed her, eyebrows raised, as I mouthed to Donald "I like her!"

She was evidently familiar with the way, and she pulled me into the dusty storeroom. It still smelt like a storeroom, despite my attempts to make it smell like a brothel two nights before. Sandy turned to me and immediately began unbuttoning her blouse.

"Just a blowjob, for now," I said.

"Look, I'm trying to impress you," she said, patiently, revealing her stark white bra. "I have great tits, and I want to use them. Okay with you?"

I shrugged. Why not?

They really were nice when they were released from their silky prison – two even globes, ivory pale, with bright pink nipples the size of silver dollars. She was freckled around her neck and arms, but her boobs were free of the sunspots – a real ginger girl, no doubt about it. She posed for me in the dim light and encouraged me to feel them. Nice.

"You want to stand or sit?" she asked, politely. 

"I'll stand," I decided. She nodded and smiled and slipped to her knees while she unzipped my fly. She paused long enough to give it a few admiring strokes. 

"No offense, but I expected something a third of this size," she said. "Most rich guys seem to have little dicks. Apparently you and JFK are exceptions."

"You've blown JFK?" I asked, surprised.

"Only in my dreams," Sandy said with a giggle. "But my aunt went to Vassar – yes, believe it or not, she did. Apparently Jackie liked to brag."

"I've heard that," I admitted. Her fingers were doing lovely things to my shaft, and she snaked her other hand down to gently cup my testicles. Without further ado she leaned forward and took just the very tip between her lips and began a slow, steady, and incredibly good blowjob.

"You've done this before, I take it?"

"Once or twice," she admitted mischievously. Maybe once or twice this week – Sandy had some skills. She continued, demonstrating an ability to slide as much as two thirds of my length in her mouth. And she had rhythm, moving her hands in perfect concert with her mouth. 

I reached down and cupped both of her tits with my palms, fingering the nipples roughly – and she pressed them tighter against my hands. Then I put my hands on the back of her head and encouraged her to go deeper. She did so without complaint. My ring was cold, so wasting a load on her pussy wasn't imperative. Instead I found myself emptying my nuts down her throat in a surprisingly short amount of time.

"Wow," I said, when I caught my breath. "That was impressive. And I'm jaded as hell."

"Thank you, sir," she said with a wicked smile. "Was that a successful audition?"

"I think so," I agreed. "Come to my room tonight, and we'll see how far it goes." I gave her the hotel room number while she licked me clean, and I smoked a cigarette while she put her top back on and straightened herself up. I paused just long enough to lean in and kiss her blowjob soft lips, and I felt her sag a little in my arms. She was pretty keyed up, I guessed. To confirm that my right hand stole up her skirt unopposed and dug past the legband of her panties, then burrowed between her soft lips to her moist channel. I plunged my finger in a few times, then pulled it out and tasted it.

"Like honey," I pronounced.

"That bodes well," she grinned. "See you later tonight?"

"I might have friends with me," I warned.

"Bring whoever you want," Sandy assured me. "I'm up for anything."

I led her back to the bar and she gave me a wink before going home to prepare. I sighed and Donald got me another drink.

"That was fast," he noted.

"She was good," I observed. "She got straight to the point. I like that."

"Let me know when you're ready for the next one," he nodded, and went to make someone a martini.

I smoked a couple of cigarettes and flirted across the room with a few chicks who had come in late. I got some of the appropriate responses, including a sullen glare from the blonde – Lori was still at the bar, licking her wounds. When I felt ready to strike again, I nodded to Donald and he put a drink in front of Madeline, the brown-haired girl with glasses. She beamed at me brightly and hustled over.

Madeline was a big woman – not fat at all, but tall. At least five-eight, and she was wearing what were, for 1963, modest pumps that added another inch to her height. She was a tall woman, but the monster boobs on her chest suggested she might be worth the climb.

"Hi!" she said, offering her hand. "I'm Maddie!"

"I know," I nodded. "You know the score, Maddie?"

"I think so. You want a wife—"

"Not really, but my parents seem to think I do. They've left the selection up to me. So I'm trying to find the nicest whore in Tampa to bring home to them. You seem like a nice girl, Maddie – can you be a nice whore?"

"I'll sure try!" she said, enthusiastically. 

"Well, I can't ask for more than that," I agreed. "The last little lady I bought a drink for was kind enough to meet me in the back room for a preliminary interview. Are you up for that?"

"I don't see why not!" she said. She had a wide mouth, and her glasses were kind of doing it for me. I nodded and left my drink and smokes on the bar, leading her back. She seemed almost proud to go with me, even though half the bar knew the deal. Not very self conscious, was Madeline.

I closed the door behind me and Maddie smiled sweetly. I smiled back, and immediately felt her up. Instead of shying away she pushed out her chest proudly. She was very big, at least a D cup, and carried them well. I considered telling her to lose the shirt, but I decided to save that for later, if necessary.

"So you're looking for a wife," she said, softly, as she pressed her tits into my hands. "I'm looking for a husband: a filthy, dirty, horny husband who will use me like a whore every day," she said, sweetly. I couldn't help it – instant boner. This bookworm-looking babe was talking like a seasoned whore. 

"Can you suck dick, Maddie?"

"Just like Daddy taught me!" she said, merrily, and got on her knees. She was clearly excited – she wasn't faking that. She was turned on by the situation, not just fishing for a wealthy husband.

"There's going to be a lot of competition, Maddie," I cautioned her as she plunged my cock into her mouth. "Lots and lots. This burg is filled with filthy whores. You're going to have to want it really bad to compete at that level. You up for that?"

"MM-hmm," she agreed enthusiastically with my cock deep in her mouth. She was breathing hard. She pulled off my dick for just long enough to say, "Grab my head and fuck my mouth." I shrugged and grabbed her head.

She had the deep throat technique down pat. I don't know if she actually did have some fatherly schooling in that direction, but if she did it had been going on for years. She took every inch greedily. Nice.

"What else are you willing to do?" I asked as her head plunged rapidly up and down my cock. To answer, she stood up and bent over the handy crate, presenting me with her ass. It was a nice ass, wide and ample, not small and tight. She flipped the back of her skirt up and shimmied her panties down, mid-thigh. 

"Do me in the butt," she invited me with a mischievous grin. "Go ahead – I like it!"

I'm not one to pass up such a generous offer of sodomy, so I shuffled over and positioned my spit-moistened cockhead at her sphincter. Without warning I grabbed her hips and pushed into her. She gasped, then growled in pleasure.

"GOD I love it there!" she said. "When I was in school, I used to let the boys do me there so I wouldn't get pregnant and Daddy wouldn't know." She pushed back further, seating every inch of me in her rectum. "I got so I liked it a lot," she continued, grunting as I pushed inside. "But it's hard to find a guy who doesn't mind doing it. A lot of them think it's queer."

"I don't mind so much," I said, enjoying the tightness of her ass. She might have used it a lot, but you couldn't tell by feel. 

"That's great! They even gave me a nickname in school – 'Rear Admiral' Maddie! Isn't that a hoot?" I agreed that it was. Despite her chatter, she was quickly approaching orgasm, having stolen a hand back between her legs. I stuffed my meat into her as fast and furious as I could, until my balls were smacking her busy fingers. We both came at the same time in a pleasant explosion. She collapsed limply on the crate, unconcerned for anything but the feeling of hard wet dick up her butt. She wiggled a bit, pulled me out, and quickly pulled her panties back up.

"That was really hot," she said as she straightened her skirt. "Really. I know you probably won't pick me, but it was worth it just to get a chance at that prick."

It was rare that I got compliments like that. "The pleasure was mine, Maddie. You want to come by my hotel room tonight, join a few friends and myself for more fun?"

She dimpled when she smiled. "I have to work tomorrow, but what the hell? I can always call in sick." I told her my hotel room number and mentioned that she should be ready for anything. She liked that, and after fixing her smudged makeup she beat a retreat. I took a long piss in the john before I returned to the bar, where a new crowd had gathered in our absence. A lot of young pretty faces, a lot of knowing looks. Word had gotten out.

"I dunno where they came from," Donald muttered to me as I took my seat. "But someone musta made a public address announcement somewhere. I've gotten at least ten chicks asking me about you, and three offers for head to introduce you."

"I do hope you took them up on it?" I asked. "I'll make them pay up-front before they get an audition."

"Consider it done," he assured me with a grin. "This round's on me!"

I smoked and waited a bit more, checking out the new talent. A little younger than before, but there were a couple of steely-eyed sluts who carried themselves with all the menace of a shark. Having this kind of selection was a bit of a departure for me, so I took my time choosing – I figured I could nail at least two, maybe three of them here before I went back to the hotel with Sandy, Maddie and whoever else I invited for a little orgy. That should give me enough time to cream in several.

I chose a very young teeny bopper next, with short blonde hair and a tight ass. She was almost speechless, like Cinderella at the Ball, when I took her back in the back. There was a murmur in the crowd when I did it, and a few hoots at her expense, but she blushed and carried on. I pushed her skirt up and had a ball-draining doggie screw with her, and it was clear that she had little experience with a dick this big. She was nearly in tears when it was over, and when I asked her to suck me clean she just looked at me, shocked. Too naïve, by far. I told her I'd be around if I wanted a further interview and left her, panties mid-thigh, in the back room.

Next up I finally picked Lori, again. She came to me quickly, this time, with her head bowed in embarrassment. Before I was a catch – now, I was the man who publicly wanted to use her. It had to be humiliating, knowing that everyone in the place was standing around waiting to see which girl I'd fuck next, and then being that girl. Not nearly as glamorous as being a rich man's plaything.

"Are you ready to drop the bullshit and get nasty, now, Lori?" I asked. 

Cowed, she nodded. "Whatever you want, Mr. Winthrop," she said, just a hint of her oh-so-Southern accent remaining. "I can be very accommodating."

"Well, we'll find out, won't we?" I asked, sweetly. "Back room. I'll be there when I finish my drink."

She started to argue, then thought better of it, hopping off of her stool and retreating without looking at anyone. I took a long time to finish my drink, chatted with Donald about additional prospects, and letting him know I'd be back on Friday night for more "auditions". 

Lori was waiting for me, and had moved the crates around a bit so that she'd have a place to sit while she sucked my cock. Thoughtful of her – especially in the face of the humiliation she'd endure. Girls in 1963 never admitted to sucking cock, after all – it was still the province of whores, here-and-now. That didn't mean they didn't do it – every culture practices oral sex, even if it condemns the act – but they didn't discuss it, and they damn sure didn't announce it to a whole bar full of people.

"Anytime you're ready, Mr. Winthrop," she said, patiently. I decided to give her points for perseverance. Most women would have fled by now.

"So, Lori, what's so important about landing a rich husband?" I asked, mockingly.

"I . . . every girl wants to marry well," she countered.

"But few will go so far as to essentially announce to the world 'I'm a cocksucker!' to a bar full of strangers with only the slightest hope of landing a good marriage," I chided. "So there must be more to the story."

"Yes," she said, "there is. But don't you think that kind of talk should be saved for after we're married?" she asked, softly.

I had to chuckle. "Fair enough." I hauled my cock out of my pants, still sticky with the nameless teenager's secretions. "You ready to play?"

"Any time," she agreed, her emotions under tight control. I stepped into her range and, before she had a chance to protest, stuck my thickening cock straight into her mouth. She started to gag a little at the intrusion, but she didn't complain. She went to work diligently, licking every inch of it as if it were chocolate. She preened and cooed and complimented me on my size and virility, but she was faking. I didn't mind. I was getting my dick sucked for the third time that evening, and the cool state of my class ring told me I could go ahead and unload in Lori's dedicated mouth.

I knew she was going to try to fuck me, try to get me to knock her up so that she could at least sue me for support. I was going to make sure that wouldn't happen. When she tried to pull away at a critical time, I grabbed the back of her head and power-stroked through to my orgasm, send a torrent of steamy, slimy sperm down her throat as she made reluctant, lamenting sounds.

"Not bad, not bad at all," I sighed as my cock flopped free – leaving a trail of sperm on her dress. She didn't notice. I didn't bother to point it out.

"Glad you liked it," she said, evenly. "Is there anything else I can do for you to convince you that I'm your woman?"

"Well . . . not tonight, but I'll be back here on Friday night. Show up and I guarantee a trip back to my hotel room for more . . . exhaustive auditions."

"Not tonight?" she asked, looking pained. "Tonight would—"

"Not be the night you're coming home with me. But Friday, you get an automatic shot. That's the best I'll do."

She looked defeated, but tried to hide her disappointment. "Okay, I'll see you Friday night, Mr. Winslow. And do enjoy yourself, this evening," she added as I patted her on the head and walked away.

Lastly, I went for something a little unusual. There were about a dozen standard "pretty" girls in the place, all eager to set their hook in me, but I resisted. Instead I picked a real "plain jane" who had a hungry look in her eye. Her name was Lacey, and she was nineteen, too, and when Donald placed a drink in front of her and told her where it came from, her eyes got wide as hubcaps. When her awe caught up with her, she joined me at the bar, looking in a daze. She wasn't ugly – just not pretty. Shoulder length brown/blonde hair, inexpensive but pretty pink dress, a cute nose that looked like it might have been broken, once, and decent 34B titties. She looked like she'd been chosen as Miss America.

"You . . . bought me a drink?" she asked, after introducing herself. "Why?"

"I like to give the underdog a chance," I said, as she took a seat. "There are a million pretty girls out there, Lacey. They all suffer under the illusion that they know how to fuck, and being pretty should be enough for me to want to get in their panties. I like your look, though – you look like a girl who knows how to fuck. Am I wrong?"

"No, I love to f-fuck," she assured me, the words coming to her mouth with some difficulty. 

"Do you, now?" I asked, chuckling at her enthusiasm. "And if I asked you to suck me off in the back room?"

"That – that sounds good," she agreed.

"How about in a cab?"

"Sure," she said, only a little hesitation evident.

"Fuck you in an alley, bent over a trash can?"




Cock of Ages Ch. 09



"S-sure."

"How about in the butt?"

"In the WHAT?" she asked, mystified. I almost laughed out loud. "People can do that?"

"Oh, my yes," I said. "I did it once already tonight. And I expect any wife of mine to bend over and offer me her asshole cheerfully and without reservations. Understand?"

"Oh, yes, that's no problem, Mr. Winthrop," she said, her enthusiasm dampened only a little by my revelation. "Um . . . does it hurt?"

"We'll find out by morning," I nodded. "Right now, I want you to come back to the hotel with me and a few of . . . a few friends. And things are going to get terribly out of hand," I warned. "If you can't handle that, let me know now and I'll get someone else."

"Whatever you want to do is fine!" she said, instantly. "Even . . . perverted stuff."

Ah, the innocent 60s!

I had Donald call me a cab, then I announced to everyone that I would be back on Friday, and that if someone wanted to talk to me, they had to get Donald's OK on it, first. That made the guy's night. 

Then I had Lacey blow me sweetly but inexpertly on the cab ride back to the hotel, tipping the negro driver lavishly. She didn't make me cum, but that was fine – I had a triple date upstairs. Three more eager bonus cunts, and all night to fill them.



Cock of Ages Ch. 10



Tampa, Florida

March 5th, 1963

"Is she a beaut, or what?" Cromwell asked, eagerly, as he showed off the car: a brand-new 1963 Cadillac, shiny black and menacing. "I mean, this is the cream of the Internal Combustion Engine crop!" he said excitedly.

I had to agree. Where we come from, ICE cars are a novelty for rodeos and tractor pulls, dinosaurs of the great days of our industrial past. We get by on electric cell cars. They're efficient as hell, but they have none of the majesty of a V8. And none of the class of a real authentic Caddy.

"Nice," I agreed, stroking the hood. "You pay cash?"

"Payment plan," he said, smugly. "A hundred down, low monthly payments. Starting next month." We'd be long gone by then, of course, but until then we had a classy ride.

"This will do very nicely," I agreed. "Now I'm going up to get changed. We have an appointment with Mrs. Pamela Mueller, and I want to look just right." I gave him a once-over. "You, too. Something sinister, black leather if you can manage it. Gold chains. Try a toothpick in your teeth. And remember every bad gangster flick you've ever seen to get into character."

"We're going Mafia?" he asked, surprised. 

"It's Florida," I shrugged. "It's the Sixties. Mafia is stylish right now."

***

We parked in the street in front of the Mueller residence, in an upscale suburb north of town. Nice house. Brick, with lots of palms around it. Affluence oozed from every crevice. I surveyed the place for a moment, went over the game plane with Cromwell until he knew the signals cold, and had him let me out of the car. He followed close behind me, wearing shades and a black leather coat and looking about as menacing as he could manage. Not much to me, perhaps, but to little Mrs. Mueller, he'd be the epitome of every thug she'd ever heard of.

He knocked on the door for me, twirling the toothpick in the side of his mouth.

"Mrs. Mueller?" I asked, flatly, when the woman came to the door. She was as advertised – slender, brown hair, delicate features, penetrating eyes. She wore a pleasantly casual everyday dress and a puzzled expression.

"Yes?" she asked, the door invitingly open. 

"May we come in?" I asked. "It's about your husband . . ."

"Carl?" she asked, alarmed. "Yes, come in! Please!" she said, anxiously, motioning us inside. Stylish furnishings, carpeting, a new Hoover vacuum presiding regally over the interior. "What's wrong? Has something happened?" she asked as she closed the door behind her.

"In a manner of speaking," I agreed, slowly. "You're Mrs. Mueller? Wife of Carl Mueller, CPA?"

"Yes, I am! What's wrong? You're scaring me!"

"Sorry, ma'am," I said, genuinely apologetic. "Didn't mean to cause you any consternation. I am . . . well, call me Mr. White. This is my associate, Mr. Black. We're . . . friends of a client of Carl's. A very unhappy client," I added. 

The confused look persisted, but she calmed down a bit.

"Carl isn't in his office today," she confided. "He's—"

"Yes, we know he isn't at the office," I interrupted. "And he's . . . well, he's not where you think he is, but that's none of my business. What is my business is my friend, Carl's client. And he's very unhappy."

"I . . . I really don't know much about Carl's business," confessed Mrs. Mueller, looking troubled. "He doesn't mention it, much. Boring, really. But if Carl isn't around, just what do you want with me?"

"Let me be frank, Mrs. Mueller," I said with a sigh. That was Cromwell's signal, and he opened his jacket casually and displayed the .45 automatic in the shoulder holster, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the missus. "Your husband has caused a great deal of trouble to my friend, and he has sent me to file a complaint. And get satisfaction. Indeed, if he doesn't get his two million dollars back, he's likely to take offense. Permanent offense, Mrs. Mueller," I said, ominously.

"I . . . Oh, my . . . I don't . . . Carl is . . ." she said, wide-eyed, looking back and forth between me and Cromwell, who was playing his role like a seasoned character actor. 

"We're simply here to send a message, Mrs. Mueller," I said, reassuringly. "There's no need to do anything . . . hastily . . . if we have your cooperation. My friend is in danger of losing a significant amount of money, thanks to your husband. Until it is repaid as agreed, well . . . he would like some assurance that your husband takes this situation very seriously," I said, reasonably.

"Oh, well, Carl is a brilliant accountant, he has the best professional ethics—"

"Two million FUCKING dollars, Mrs. Mueller," I interrupted, rudely and forcefully. "This isn't cooking the books on a goddamned gas station or fruit stand. Two million dollars. I don't care how many fucking 'CPA of the Year' awards your cocksucking husband has on his fucking wall, Mrs. Mueller. All I am concerned with is that money getting to where it's supposed to. I'm sure you can understand how concerned my friend is?"

"Why, yes, of course," she said, even more confused and terrified. "I have no idea what—"

"My friend thought it might be a good idea to remind Mr. Mueller about his fiduciary responsibilities," I continued, my voice becoming increasingly full of menace. "It's simple courtesy, after all, especially when Mr. Mueller has had a hard time taking my friend's calls. You can understand how frustrating that might be, especially when there is two million dollars at stake, can't you, Mrs. Mueller?"

"Yes, I can see how—"

"So, my friend gave me a call and asked me to drop by and deliver a message. A courtesy message," I said, which was Cromwell's second clue. He drew the pistol and chambered a round with a devastatingly loud click.

"Oh, my God," Mrs. Mueller whimpered, her eyes wide with terror. "You're going to kill me, aren't you? And I let you in the house and everything . . . "

"Now, Mrs. Mueller, that would be an . . . extreme reaction to the situation," I said, reasonably. "Murder is not our standard operating procedure, despite what you might see in the movies. It's messy and expensive, and it rarely solves our problems completely. No, we reserve that sort of thing for much more serious situations. And this situation has about two weeks before it becomes that serious."

"Oh, thank GOD!" she said with a relieved sigh. 

"That doesn't mean we can't hurt you, though," I continued, in the same reasonable voice. "A couple of kneecaps, maybe, or maybe some internal injuries. Nothing life-threatening, just something painful. A reminder of how serious my friend takes his business dealings."

Her eyes returned to their previous size. "Oh, God, NO!" she wailed.

"Now, now, let's not let the situation get out of hand," I soothed. "There's no need to get fussy, here. I'm sure we can work something out. We're reasonable men, and I was given complete discretion in how I was to deliver the message. That should provide some comfort. Which would you prefer? Not being able to walk for eight to ten weeks while your knees heal, or three or four weeks in the hospital with constant, chronic pain, then a smooth recovery?"

"You can't do that! I'm supposed to be in my niece's wedding in three weeks!" she insisted, panicked.

"You might be regrettably detained in a lengthy convalescence," I said, with great patience. "I'm sorry. Nothing personal. Just doing my job. Now," I said, looking around, "where can we do this where we won't get blood everywhere? No need to make this messier than we have to . . ."

Her eyes were wide with shock as the reality of the situation sank in. I must have been pretty compelling – I was copying the character from Jenner Brinks' great flick from 2044, Gangworld. Great movie, classic characters. The calm, dispassionate way he proposes hideous violence in front of his victims made him one of the all-time greatest movie villains. Definitely worth copying. Mrs. Mueller certainly appreciated my performance, and Cromwell played along beautifully.

"Oh my GOD, you're SERIOUS!" she shrieked. 

"Well, unless you have a better idea how I can send your husband an appropriate message," I said, doubtfully. 

"There must be – I mean, I don't want to – God, I just wanted –"

"You could rape her, Boss," Cromwell offered. "Our friend might not object to that."

I considered. "I could," I said, hesitantly, watching her expression. I watched Mrs. Mueller debate with herself the unlikely idea of arguing in favor of me raping her. "It's not as to-the-point as a beating, though. I figured at least a broken nose, couple of cracked ribs—"

"I . . . that would . . . Okay," she finally said, defeated after struggling with the idea. "Yes, could you do that? Rape me? I'm sure it will send a message to my husband, and I'd still be able to go to the wedding."

I looked her up and down, skeptically. "I don't know . . . it wouldn't be a loving embrace. But if I fucked you good and hard a few times, really degraded you, he might be willing to wait a few more weeks before he put a bullet in hubby's brain . . ."

"Yes, let's do that!" she said, starting to get enthusiastic about the idea. "You can rape me, really hard, just fuck me silly! Even be rough about it – I can handle it. Just don't . . . hurt me," she pleaded. "Not really. No broken bones or bruises . . ."

"I don't know . . ." I said, toying with her. 

"Oh, God, please," she whispered. "I can't disappoint my niece! My sister will KILL me!"

I looked at her in silence for a while, the sighed. 

"All right, strip off. If you can make me happy, I'll leave and consider my job done. But you have to do everything I say, and if anything goes amiss, well . . . I like a good wedding as much as the next guy, and I'd love to be at your niece's." My tone was menacing enough. She nodded, silently, and began to reach behind her to unzip her dress.

It was almost comedic, watching her strip. She wasn't really into it, after all, she was just trying to keep from getting hurt. She peeled off her dress, letting it lie in a heap on the floor around her feet, and then started dismantling the horrendous structure that passed for a bra in 1963. Then she pulled her panties down to her ankles – where I stopped her.

"Turn around, but don't straighten up," I commanded, taking a seat on the sofa. She did, displaying her narrow ass. Bent over it wasn't too bad. "Spread your legs," I ordered, and she did so, spreading her ankles as far as the panties would let her. "Reach back and finger yourself, get yourself ready," I said, and silently she complied. I watched her left hand steal back and start frigging herself. Then her middle finger dipped between her furry folds and start moving in and out.

"Not bad," I admitted, as I unzipped my pants. "Mrs. Mueller, you ever suck a cock before?" I asked as she masturbated herself.

"O-only once," she confessed, blushing furiously. "On my wedding night. Then he . . . he . . . he did that thing, but IN MY MOUTH. It was horrible. I never did it again."

"Well, the great thing about a rape is you don't have to choose to do it," I said, calmly. "So turn around and get on your fucking knees and suck my cock." She startled at the rough language, but slowly complied. Her tits weren't anything to write home about – Lefty was bigger, and the nipples didn't quite match— but her shattered middle-class manner made this a delicious display. As she approached shyly, I looked down on her and growled. "A little faster, we have other things to do today! Or do I need to break your thumbs to speed you up? I can still fuck you with broken thumbs."

"Okay, okay!" she squealed, stuffing my erection in her mouth and sucking clumsily. I winced a bit at her vigor, but a firm hand on her head steadied her out, and in a few minutes her face was pumping dutifully up and down on my dick. I noted that my ring was very warm – she was primed for procreation. I let her suck me for a little while, just enough to get me going, before I pushed her down on the floor, climbed on top of her naked body, and pushed my thick cock into her only-slightly-damp middle-class box.

She grunted at the invasion, but like a good little wife she bit her lip and spread her legs and endured the assault.

Now, don't get me wrong: I prefer a woman who is hot, horny and ostensibly willing. Even if it's chemically induced, there's nothing like sliding your pecker into a properly warmed and deliciously wet pussy. But there is a singular thrill that you get when you fuck a woman who has agreed to the act, but isn't, technically, willing. Pamela was putting up a good show, but it was clear that she was both frightened and ashamed at the position she was being put in. And that made this ride all the more fun. 

I dominated the entire act, and it was made all the more humiliating by the fact that I was still fully clothed and she was fully naked. Cromwell made some appropriately crude noises at the right place, cheering me on and ordering her to put more enthusiasm in it. But I hammered her pussy like her husband never would have dared, using it for my own base pleasure and all but ignoring hers. I'm sure she was used to a three-minute miracle, but I was pushing ten minutes of steady, non-stop fucking into her abused hole when I stopped. She opened her eyes a bit.

"Are you . . . are you done?"

"Just warming up, honey lamb," I said. "Roll over."

"What?"

"Roll. The fuck. Over. I want to do you like a dog."

"You . . . can you do that?" she asked, hesitantly.

"What, you've never fucked that way before?" I asked, incredulously.

"I've only . . . made love . . . in this way," she confirmed. "You know, the proper way."

Cromwell and I both laughed at this, sounding mean and threatening. "You poor dumb bitch!" Cromwell chortled. "You only get laid missionary?"

"We never . . ."

"Never heard of the Kama Sutra, apparently," I chuckled, wryly. "Well, Mrs. Mueller, you're about to get an education." With that I flipped her over and positioned her to face Cromwell on her hands and knees. Then I got behind her, and she nervously squirmed while I positioned the head of my dick against her labia. "This is how real people do it," I confirmed, pushing into her from behind for the first time. She grunted with the intrusion, and tried for a moment to get away, then sagged back, resigned to her fate.

"Fuck 'er hard, Boss! Get those li'l titties to shake!" 

"Oh, I will!" I vowed. I grabbed her hips and commenced a fast, hard pace, brutally slamming against her labia. I could feel my balls swing forward and smack her clit audibly. Cromwell told me later that her eyes lit up like a pinball machine as I bottomed out.

I fucked her furiously for at least twenty minutes, driving her to two complete orgasms – something else she seemed mystified about. By the time I blasted my load against her fertile cervix, he was panting like a bitch in heat. She collapsed when I pulled out, and began weeping, curling up in a ball on the carpet.

"Oh, no," I said, warningly. "None of that! We aren't ready for you to cry, yet! Why don't you go ahead and suck Mr. Black's pecker while I recover?"

Cromwell pointedly adjusted his pistol. "And do a real good job," he instructed her. "REAL good." She obediently crawled over to him and put his now exposed dick into her mouth. I watched absently for a good ten minutes, until he grabbed the back of her neck and face-fucked her to a climax. He held her head in place as he spurted, forcing her to down every drop. By that time I was ready to go again, and I pulled her over to me and began crudely kissing her and pinching her nipples. Then I pulled her over on top of me and positioned her to ride me. She was confused by the whole thing, unsure of what I was doing, until the head popped in. Then she started weeping again as I pulled her down and impaled her cowgirl style.

"Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgodohgodohgod!" she moaned. "What are you doing to me?"

"Raping you," I whispered in her ear. "Your husband fucked up, and now you have to fuck. Probably the biggest cock you've ever had inside you, right?"

She nodded.

"And you just sucked a strange man's cock and swallowed his sperm," I added. 

She nodded again, fresh tears in her eyes.

"And now I'm fucking you like a whore, again, and you've already climaxed twice. That means you're enjoying it," I whispered. The great thing about the pre-sexual revolution era is the massive amount of misinformation about sexuality floating around. Of course she couldn't stop her body from a purely physiological reaction brought on by the appropriate amount of friction. But she apparently didn't know that. What little was whispered about rape in the 60s was factually incorrect, especially about what it meant when a woman had an orgasm during the encounter. In this dark age, that has actually been used to successfully defend against a rape charge: the old "she came, so that implies consent" theory was alive and well, here-and-now, poisoning the minds of an entire generation. Pamela evidently thought so.

"If you enjoy being raped, that means you're a deviant slut – doesn't it?" I asked, conversationally, as she bounced her pussy up and down on my cock. She struggled until I pinched her left nipple, hard. "Doesn't it?" I asked, more insistently. Mrs. Mueller nodded again, shameful and blushing. I focused on filling her to the rim with my dick for a while, enjoying the moans and grunts she was making in my ear as I pushed her dripping wet cunt up and down on my dick.

When she was nearing her third climax, I pulled her off of me and re-positioned her doggie—this time on the couch. She went compliantly, resting her tummy over the arm and sticking her narrow, suburban ass up in the air. I stuck my cock back inside her and continued stroking while she moaned and squirmed.

"Mind if I play through?" Cromwell quipped, waving his reviving cock around her face crudely. He was getting into this. I'd have to plan more episodes like this in the future. It was good for morale.

"I don't know, Mr. Black," I said, thoughtfully. "Mrs. Muller, do you mind if Mr. Black sticks his penis in your mouth and fucks your face again?"

Pamela hung her head and nodded, once, while her ass quivered with each forceful penetration. Cromwell stripped his pants completely off (My God, that man has bony knees!) and positioned his pecker in front of her lips once again. She felt it and took it in her mouth again without much enthusiasm.

Cromwell didn't seem to mind. He laid back against the couch, relaxing, while Mrs. Mueller serviced him like a dockside whore.

I took Pamela through another shame-inspiring orgasm before I decided to get rough. By this time the delicate, infrequently-used sides of her vagina were getting a little raw with the friction of my massive member. Sure, that made her more sensitive – and I was pounding the hell out of her yet-to-be-discovered G-spot – but I wanted to make her middle-class ass remember this day as she carried my brats to term. So I pulled out (causing her to sag in momentary relief) and then repositioned my slick cockhead at the dry entrance of her asshole (causing her to tense, wiggle, and protest loudly if inarticulately around Cromwell's cock).

She managed to pull free just long enough to shout, "No! That's my butt!"

"So it is," I noted, putting a little pressure on it while I steadied her hips with my hands.

"That's the wrong place," she said, breathlessly.

"You know, you would be right," I said, motioning Cromwell to stop her mouth with his dick again. "If we were husband and wife, for instance. Maybe even if you were a paid professional whore. But you're a housewife who has volunteered to get herself raped, and a deviant slut that's enjoying it. And it wouldn't be much of a rape if everything I did was subject to debate. So I'm just going to push my gigantic dick up your tiny, tight little asshole and really enjoy it, while you suck my friend's dick like a good little slut. OK?" I asked, over the sounds of her continued protests. "I thought you'd see it my way," I agreed, and pushed about a third of my dick past her sphincter in one steady thrust.




Cock of Ages Ch. 10



She went apeshit.

Most women don't like anal sex, and under the circumstances I was guessing that Mrs. Mueller wasn't feeling particularly experimental. But I hadn't counted on the extreme reaction she had to my dick in her ass. She bit Cromwell – not hard enough to break the skin, but his eyes went wide as he yelped – and she did her best to crawl her way through the floor, wrenching her hips from my grasp. I scrambled to recapture them, and spent the next three minutes or so just hanging on as she struggled. In the process, she wedged about half of my length in her rectum.

"Holy shit!" Cromwell yelped. He had grabbed both sides of her head to steady her, but between his hands and my hands she was still flopping around like a fish out of water. "They always do this?" he asked.

"Not usually this much," I admitted. I redoubled my efforts to get her still, and to make a point I forced as much cock in her butt as I could. She eventually calmed down, as the pain wore down to numbness and she realized she couldn't break free. She sobbed pitifully around Cromwell's cock, and it took him prompting her to get her head bobbing again. The sensation of her struggle was intense, and my dick was iron-hard now, so I was quite happy to fuck her ass with the same enthusiasm I had displayed in her cunt.

It took another ten minutes for me to get close to orgasm (Cromwell, unsurprisingly, moaned and squirted a second load down Pamela's throat well before then), and despite the allure of leaving a thick load of spooge leaking out of her asshole, I knew I had a duty. Those wrigglers would have much greater effect if they were pumped into her pussy, so just moments before I came I changed holes and brutally slammed back into her cunt. The reaction wasn't quite as pronounced as her anal assault, but it was quite impressive. After my climax I held myself still inside her, until she slumped down on the floor.

"Was that worth not getting hospitalized?" I asked, as I zipped up. I had to prod her with my toe to get a response, but she finally looked up and nodded. "All right, we're about done here. Get up and get dressed." We watched as she did just that – but I wanted to make certain my boys had a decent amount of time to do their job before she got into the shower. "Um, and we're kind of hungry. What have you got to eat around here?" I asked. 

Cromwell looked at me surprised, but I guessed what would happen. After such a stressful and traumatic situation Pamela's mind would seek the comfort of the familiar, and I assumed that meant the role of hostess. I wasn't wrong. She hopped up, pulled her underclothes and her dress back on without comment, and asked us if we preferred ham or corned beef?

"You just raped her in the ass," Cromwell said in disbelief, "and now she's making us sandwiches?" He shook his head. "You're amazing," he said, reverently.

"It's a gift," I conceded, smugly. "I'll bet you half of my corned beef on rye that she gets knocked up out of this."

"Two loads of your shit? No bet," he chuckled, pulling his pants back on. "That was incredible. The wife and I, we had a threesome once, but—"

"Oh, that was nothing. You should have seen what I made those three girls do last night. THAT was fun. This . . . well, rape is hardly my forte, even this kind, but every now and then it breaks up the monotony."

"You realize that you're a sociopath," he pointed out, dryly.

"We're all sociopaths," I countered. "I just happen to be a useful sociopath, at the moment. Now eat quickly – we've got to get back to the hotel, shower, change, and make my real estate appointment."

Pamela, still in a bit of a daze, came in with two plates with sandwiches piled high with thick slices of meat and cheese, and offered us each a cold beer. She was a most gracious hostess, even under duress. She would make a fine mother to my kid.

***

"I'm sure I can find . . . something you're interested in, Mr. Winthrop," purred Alice Glover as she slid into the back of the Caddy with me. Cromwell, freshly showered and shaved, was sitting in the front sporting shades and a smart chauffer's cap. Ordinarily he might have been grumpy, but after his tryst this morning with Mrs. Mueller, he seemed almost contented. 

Me? I was just warming up.

Alice Glover got to be one of the top real estate agents in the greater Tampa-Clearwater Metropolitan Area because she was smart and because she was pretty. I suspected her commitment to the client went even further, which was a theory I was about to test. 

You see, one of the nifty things the little computer data base in the back of my helpful Wealth of Nations book was a way to check out old bank records. Usually I give them a glance and move on, once I establish a mark's particular financial state. But in this case I devoted some serious study to it, and learned quite a bit about Miss Tampa, 1958.

It seems Miss Glover had a spending problem.

She made great money, no doubt about it. Even in 1963 standards, a real estate agent's commission was pretty generous. As Tampa and Clearwater became more affluent, her checks had gotten as big as the estates she was selling to snowbirds bent on escaping the hellish winters of the North. But while her income was pretty luxurious, her outgo was even more so. Manicures. Designer clothing. Wine merchants. Frequent vacations disguised as business trips. A Caddy twice as expensive as this one. A luxury home that she was perpetually behind in her payments. It's a common story.

Like stripping or high-end whoring, the life of a female Real Estate agent in Florida looks glamorous, but the reality is that most of the income has to be devoted to expensive fripperies to impress the clients, or they go elsewhere. So I knew with a reasonable degree of certainty just how much Miss Glover had in the bank, and I'd be willing to bet the other half of my delicious sandwich that Cammie the Souvenir Girl had more.

Indeed, I was counting on it.

I could tell upon short acquaintance that Alice Glover was the kind of woman who found erotic satisfaction in making large sums of money. The kind whose nipples harden at the thought of blue chip stock portfolios and cream their panties over financial reports. Which made her imminently manipulatable. A casual hand on her arm during those first few moments told me she was ovulating, or damn near it, right now, so I had ever confidence that she would bite.

"I hope so," I said, bored. "I've been looking around, and it occurred to me that for what I'm paying in hotel fees, I could be gaining equity in a more comfortable locale." I was laying on the Harvard accent pretty thickly, but she was eating it up like a kitten does cream. "And of course I want a fairly substantial home, something that will appreciate nicely."

"Have you decided upon a price range?" she asked, casually. But I heard the note in her voice. This was her big question – all else depended upon this.

"Oh, no limit," I said, equally as casually. "Show me something I like, I'll call Father, he'll set up the rest. Might take a few months to hammer out the details, but that's what lawyers are for."

"Of course, Mr. Winthrop," she said, smoothly. Her nipples got hard as rocks through her sheer white blouse.

I could have phoned the rest of it in.

Greedy women are actually a lot more rare than most men think – I mean, almost all women are looking for some sort of security in their lives, but they are usually satisfied with the modest amount most mortal men can provide. But the truly greedy are only happy when they are independently wealthy. No doubt Alice had aspirations of wealth, perhaps through an advantageous marriage with a rich client. Those would be the emotions I'd be playing upon.

"Let's start with the Breakers," she said, pulling a manila folder out of her valise. She took a map out and handed it to Cromwell, without speaking to him. "The one with the red 'X'," she said, showing me another copy of the map. "It's on the water, a quaint Victorian style nine bedroom home built by one of Tampa's historic figures in the 1930s. It's been on the market a while now, so it's a little dusty, but it really is a grand old place."

"Lead on," I murmured, staring into her eyes with interest. The car was already awash in pheromones, and I could see a few beads of sweat on her hairless and scarlet red lips. "Can I offer you a drink?" I asked, opening the little cooler we'd picked up and stocked. "I know it's early, but –"

"Not at all," she said, laughing attractively. "I keep my own hours, Mr. Winthrop."

Alice accepted the Cuba Libre I cobbled together very gracefully, and managed not to spill a drop on the long, dusty ride out to the Breakers. Of course I had dosed it with an aphro – one of the slow-working ones, no need to get arrested before we got there. She sipped daintily and told me about her girlhood, and I made up lies about prep school and Europe, revitalizing my fictitious yacht again for the purpose. She laughed at my stupid jokes, tossed her hair, mirrored me perfectly, squirmed in her seat, let me clandestinely look up her skirt, and gave me all the other signs that she was ready to put out for the sake of the sale.

We arrived at the dusty old wreck about two o'clock, and the view was pretty spectacular. The house itself needed some serious love, but was well-built and had withstood thirty years of storms. I sniffed as I got out of the car, surveying the grounds with a critical eye. Alice launched enthusiastically into her sales pitch, and I listened politely and even asked a few questions as we toured the interior.

"It is a grand place," I sighed. "But so . . . Victorian. The architecture is lovely for my father, perhaps, but I prefer something more . . . casual. Relaxing." I injected enough doubt in my voice to make her start to see the sale slipping. "No, while it's . . . charming," I said, in a pained sort of way, "it just isn't me. I think we're about done, then. I'll have my driver—"

"Mr. Winthrop, surely you don't want to stop with seeing just one property," she said, with a mockingly stern tone in her voice. "I would hate for you to get away from me thinking I didn't . . . satisfy you," she said, flirtatiously.

I almost laughed. True, she did it much, much better than the amateurs I had been boning, but the sexy vixen vibe was just a little over-the-top. Still, I had to bite, didn't I? I had a job to do.

"Well," I said, slowly. "I suppose I could be . . . convinced," I admitted, giving her a searching look. "If my agent was willing to . . . go the extra mile, to ensure customer satisfaction," I added. "Then I could look at another property today, perhaps."

"Oh, I'll do anything to keep my customers happy," she said, breathlessly, licking her lips afterwards. She slightly emphasized the word "anything". How cliché. It was almost comic.

"I'm feeling stressed, right now," I pouted. "Can you think of anything you could do to relax me?" I slightly emphasized the word "anything". It was a challenge, and she knew it. Put up or shut up. And she wasn't about to shut up.

"I think that I can," she admitted, coming in close for a kiss. The aphro was pumping through her system, now, and I'm sure her panties were drenched under her stylish skirt. I kissed her – or, more properly, allowed her to kiss me – and gave her some aggressive tongue up front. "Is that better?" she asked, sweetly, when we finally broke the kiss.

"Well, my lips are more relaxed," I pointed out, smugly. 

"What part of you is still stressed?" Alice asked, impishly.

"Well, some of my muscles are all . . . rigid with tension."

She reached out and grabbed my cock through my pants. "Like this one?"

"Oh, my, yes," I agreed. "It's terribly tense. Perhaps . . .?"

"Consider it done," she said, helpfully, sinking to her knees. 

She fished out my cock and made appreciative noises about the size. I'm sure she was impressed – no doubt most of the customers she blew were average and below. Small dicks have a way of motivating men to fortunes.

Alice was good – no, even great. She had enough experience to know her way around a cock and enough youthful enthusiasm left for the act to make it interesting. This was business, I knew, but she enjoyed her job. Alice went slowly but deliberately, tasting every inch of my shaft before finally taking in the head. She made adorable little moans as she eagerly licked the tip, her hands sweeping into my pants to keep my scrotum company. Nice touch.

She gave me the obligatory adoring stares as she sucked, playing alternatively the vixen and the coquette in her approach, and it felt marvelous. I put my hands on her hair not to direct her, actually, or force more of my cock past her lips (she was doing fine with that) but because I wanted to experience both sides of her pretty head bobbing against me. Alice didn't seem to mind. She continued sucking away eagerly, and I was able to stare down her blouse at her perfect tits lurking in her pretty (for 1963) bra and those gorgeous beauty-pageant eyes.

I thought about transitioning to something more intimate, but in the end I decided to give her her professional due and let her finish the blowjob. It was artful, and interrupting it would have been a crime. Besides, I knew I could get her to fuck at the very next dusty antique we looked at. I started pumping my hips ever so slightly as more and more of my dick slid down her throat, and then with a moan I slammed her head as far forward as I was able and erupted deep in her mouth. She swallowed uncomplainingly. She was a professional.

"Give me a moment to freshen up," she murmured to me, rising and wiping her mouth with a Kleenex. Obviously she didn't want to chance kissing me after she just took a mouthful of my semen because of how I might react. I wouldn't have minded – blowjob-fresh lips kiss better – but I found the gesture considerate.

"Take your time," I shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do."

She hurried, and in ten minutes we were rolling down yet another dusty Florida farm road towards her next property. I fixed her another drink and dropped in another aphro – I usually don't double-up, particularly when the lady in question hasn't had an opportunity to work through the first one – but I wanted Alice's crotch to be boiling by the time my trusty penis rode in to the rescue. 

"This one is called Casa Nova," she said, smugly. "Built by an Italian expatriate just before the War. A traditional Italian villa with a touch of Spanish influence. Tile roof. Thirteen rooms, six bedrooms, two baths. A pool. Fifty acres of wooded land, secluded driveway."

"That sounds more like my style," I said. "I've always been a fan of all things Italian. Was this gent Roman?"

"Neapolitan, I think," Alice said, wrinkling her pretty brow. "Why, does it matter?"

"Neapolitan is even better," I agreed. "Wild folk, the Neapolitans. They know how to enjoy themselves. This might have promise."

And, wouldn't you know it, it did. A long, low brick and stucco house with plenty of arches and colonnades and such. Outstanding landscaping, too. The place hadn't been lived in in about four years, Alice was telling me, and hadn't been lived in by the owner since he returned to a free, non-Fascist Italy in 1947. While Cromwell waited in the car reading a newspaper, we toured the partially-furnished house called Casa Nova.

"The owner took only his family heirlooms, and select pieces of furniture. Everything else comes with the house. Note the terra cotta tile floors," Alice said, smoothly, as we breezed through the dining room. "The main bath has a gorgeous mosaic over it, a copy of Bottacelli's Venus, and a custom tub big enough to fish in."

"I brought my rod," I quipped. "Nice chandelier."

"It has the wheel hub of a fourth century BC Etruscan chariot as its base. The crystal is from Milan," she said, knowledgably. "Also antique, but from the seventeenth century." Somehow I guessed I wasn't the first to take a look at this relic. No doubt Alice had stared up at that chandelier from the floor with more than one client.

"Bedrooms?" I inquired, innocently.

"Shall we begin with the Master?" she asked, impishly.

"Let's," I agreed. She led the way down an unlighted hallway, her ass moving enchantingly under her skirt. We passed a few interesting rooms along the way, but she didn't even slow down until we hit the big wooden door at the end of the hallway. 

"This," she announced dramatically as she opened the door, "is the Master bedroom. Fully equipped for all of your . . . Master needs."

It was nice – the kind of place you'd expect a Turkish heroin kingpin to own. Dark wood canopy bed, white marble fountain nearby, tiny decorative fireplace, an attractive Persian rug over terra cotta floors, and plenty of bronze fittings and doo dads. All of it was a little dusty, but it was nice.

"He had exquisite taste," I nodded. "I like the bed."

"It's comfy," Alice agreed, sitting her ass suggestively upon it. "But maybe you should take it for a test drive."

"Don't mind if I do," I said, lust pervading my voice. I crossed the room and covered her body with mine, my lips attacking her voraciously. She responded like a nymphomaniac, the aphros coursing through her system freely, now. I roughly ran my hand up her thigh, under her skirt, to discover her panties were drenched. I pushed past the legband and forced a finger into her wetness, then removed it to diddle her clit. I enjoyed the quick gasps of breath she made as my finger strummed across her most sensitive part. My other hand was busy, as well, pushing past the top of her dress to cup, squeeze, fondle, and tease her generous tits. 

I could see in her lust-stoked eyes that while she was no stranger to this position – missionary, under a client, with a big commission on the line – but she was afraid. Afraid of the sudden unexplainable arousal she was experiencing, and afraid of losing control of the situation. She had enjoyed the blowjob, but undoubtedly one of the things she enjoyed about it was her total control. That element was gone, in this encounter, as her body acted far beyond her usual boundaries. I found her nervousness erotically intoxicating, and plunged my fingers back into her warm, wet pussy again to inspire more.

"What are you doing to me?" she gasped in wonder as I found her G-spot and fluttered two fingers against it. Advanced Fingerbanging. It should be a mandatory class in every High School.

"I'm making you," I said, in a growl. "I'm making you wet, and I'm making you cum." And I'm making you pregnant, I added to myself. No need to bring up such a minor detail in the heat of the moment. I returned to her clit, and she squirmed mightily under my fingers. I kissed her hard and passionately, which somehow disconnects a woman's thought processes from the part of her brain that handles reason, when done properly. She moaned and writhed uncontrollably as I masterfully manipulated her past her first potent climax.

"Fuck me," she begged, heatedly. "Oh my God, I don't know . . . just fuck me, push that big prick of yours up into me . . ."

So I did. I tugged my business end loose from the confines of my slacks and manipulated it until it found her hot, ripe hole. Then I plunged in, making an audible squishing noise as I did so. Alice's eyes rolled back in her head, and she came a second time. I decided to dispense with the wind up and started slamming her sopping wet cunt with my rock-hard dick like a jackhammer.

I fucked her hard and thoroughly, and she came continuously the whole time. Thanks to the secluded nature of the villa, it was doubtful we disturbed any neighbors – I think – but there was no denying that Alice was a screamer. Cromwell must have gotten an earful.

I tore off her dress and bra, letting her boobs run free as nature intended, then continued pinioning her on that squeaky old bed. After a particularly brutal orgasm ripped through her, I blew her damn mind. I hoisted her in the air and pistoned her up and down on my cock, mixing her soul-shaking climaxes with primal terror. It takes strength and balance to do it properly, but when you do, it's a memory-making position. 




Cock of Ages Ch. 10



Finally, I laid her back on the bed and pounded her standing up for a while, then flipped her over for the finale. She had an impressively formed ass, two gorgeous globes of fun that bounced merrily as I pounded her from behind. Her tiny pink asshole winked at me, and for a moment I considered switching, but her pussy was like warm butter around my cock. I wanted to finish this job.

I pushed into her from behind and grabbed her hips, rocking her back again and again. She pushed her face into the dusty bedspread to stifle her screams, and her hands clutched wildly for purchase. I held out for one last massive orgasm before I poured forth my own creamy applause. It had been an outstanding fuck. 

"I'll take it," I said, breathing hard with the effort. At those words I felt Alice's cunt spasm around my cock. She looked back, face drenched with sweat, eyes wild.

"Huh?" she asked, dimly.

"The house. I like it. I'll give you a check today for a thousand in earnest money. Contact the owner and make the arrangements."

"But . . . but . . . I haven't even shown you the courtyard!" she complained. Her twat twitched around my dick again. That wasn't doing anything to make it soft.

"You want me to see the courtyard?" I asked, playfully, as my finger collected moisture from the base of my cock and started toying with her pink asshole. She nearly jumped off my cock, at the contact. The implication was clear, and despite her arousal, Alice was not prepared to explore an anal encounter this afternoon. She had cum her brains out and – apparently – made the sale. Time to stop while she was ahead.

"No, no, if you've made up your mind . . ."

"Sure. I'll have my lawyers look into it. How about I meet you next Monday, and we can make a more detailed inspection of the premises?" My finger didn't leave her ass. She knew what that meant. Continuing the deal meant surrendering her butt to me. Alice thought long and hard about it, for all of two seconds. "Three o'clock work for you, Mr. Winthrop?"

"Michael," I said, pushing just the tip of my finger through her sphincter. She gasped audibly. "Call me Michael."



Cock of Ages Ch. 11



Tampa, Florida
March 6th, 1963

"You bought a fucking house?" Cromwell asked, incredulously. "We're only here for two more weeks, remember?"

"Well, sure, for now," I agreed. "And I didn't actually buy it, per se, just put down some earnest money. Believe me, it will keep Alice's panties comfortably around her ankles for the next few weeks. I can knock her up good and hard. It also gives me a plausible reason for being in town. Background stuff," I pointed out, dismissively.

He shrugged. It wasn't like it was real money. "Well, the way you're going through marks, we should be done by Friday," he said. "That Mrs. Mueller was . . . and then Alice . . . wow, two in one day. Amazing."

"Oh, I hit the Tiki Club again last night," I reminded him. "Put another three freebies on my tab. But I've got two weeks to bag three marks. I think a little vacation time is in order, don't you?"

"Well . . . it is pretty nice here," he agreed, reluctantly. "No smog, complete ozone layer, clean beaches . . . OK, I'll bite. We can kick back a bit. Does that mean you don't want your last three yet?"

I shrugged. "Go ahead. No reason I can't get set up, if one of them proves difficult."

"They shouldn't," he said, opening his computer-disguised-as-a-book. "Lucy Bonner, Jennifer Ann Miller, Sandy Simmons. All young and single."

"Great. Probably butt-ugly, too. But go ahead and shoot me the files, I'll start work on them. Slowly. You go hang out at the beach, look at girls. It does wonders for your disposition."

"This is going to make going home to the wife a little hard," he admitted.

I shrugged. Not my problem. "And I'm going to need some more cash. I want to throw around some dough to back my story. A few thousand, maybe."

"Doc said you might," agreed my handler, pulling some bank books out of his pocket. "Three different spending accounts. Each has several grand in it. Enjoy."

"Outstanding," I agreed. "Okay, off you go. I don't want to see you back for two or three days. If I need you, I'll leave a message at the front desk."

"That's not SOP," he warned.

"Don't worry about it," I assured. "I can take care of myself."

Which I can. I know a fair amount about firearms, and due to quirky and quaint local laws they practically handed them out with a pack of cigarettes. And I'm fairly proficient in hand-to-hand fighting too, thanks to the Program's training. But I wanted to be free from scrutiny for a while. I work best when no one is watching. As helpful as Cromwell was, he was also represented the Program's interests, not my own.

I spent the morning walking around myself, looking at pretty girls in pre-bikini bathing suits. About mid-morning I wandered into the Buccaneer Gift Shoppe, once I saw there was no one else in the shop, and bought another newspaper from a very frightened Camilla. I paid for it with a twenty, which she also didn't have change for. She tried to get me to just take the paper, her eyes wide with horror at my face. I had had too much fun with the delightful young Latina, though, to let her brush me off. I pointed out that since she didn't have change again, she could either bring it by my hotel room again or we could settle up right here and now. 

Eyes guiltily downcast, she locked the shop door, put up a fake clock lunch sign, and pulled me back into the tiny storeroom. There she sat on a stool and fellated me clumsily while I held on to her pretty dark head and spilled my load across her tongue. She didn't even look at me when I left, chuckling. I knew where I'd be buying my papers in the future.

I was walking back to the hotel near lunchtime, the jaunty spring in my step that I get when I coerce a blowjob out of an unwilling girl, when I saw her in the lobby again.

Y'know. Her. The brunette.

She was dressed differently, of course, a little more dressy than before. She favored me with a bit of a smile, which looked even more mysterious and alluring while she was wearing a large, dark pair of sunglasses, and I returned it. Then I walked directly over to her. There was a subtle but gloriously feminine aroma of herbs and flowers that intoxicated me.

"I know this is forward of me," I apologized, "but this is the second time I've laid eyes on you, the first I noticed the absence of a ring, and the last time I want to go without knowing your name," I said, charmingly, stretching out my hand.

She smiled brilliantly – dimples – and seemed to be caught a little off-guard. She automatically took my hand and searched my face.

"Teresa," she finally managed. "Teresa McKenna. And you are . . .?"

"Outrageously forward," I quipped. "But my friends call me Mike. Mike Winthrop, if you want to be all official about it."

"So what can I do for you, Mr. Winthrop?" she asked, lightly. My ring hadn't warmed at her touch, but to hell with that. I wanted to take her right there in the lobby.

"You can do me the honor of going to dinner with me this evening," I pronounced. "Assuming, rather recklessly, that you have no other plans."

She considered. "I don't, really – nothing important, anyway – but I'm not generally accustomed to dining with strange gentlemen, Mr. Winthrop."

"Miss McKenna, I assure you, you've never dined with a stranger gentleman. Do you live in Tampa?"

"N-no," she admitted, a little confused. "I'm on . . . vacation."

"Then consider it part of the exotic charm of this former pirate's town," I insisted. "Not to mention the fact that no one need know. It will be quite scandalous, no doubt, and give you a fond and fuzzy memory for many years to come."

She grinned, despite herself. I love this kind of work. Chatting up a woman, cunningly moving past her defenses and grinding down her natural reserve is almost as much fun as sliding your cock into her wet, clasping pussy for the first time.

Almost.

"I suppose I should indulge myself a little in the . . . exotic charm of this former pirate's town," she admitted. 

"Pick you up at eight? Fine dining, tourist trap, or local color?" Keep them confused and off balance – always a good thing.

"Uh, eight, sure. And . . . local color?"

"Then dress casually. I'll meet you here," I said, with a warm smile and a slight bow. Then I shook her hand again and retreated while her head was still whirling. That's always a good idea – after you've made a good initial impression, get the hell out of there before you screw it up. The memory of a charming face will linger and magnify on its own. Every moment you spend after the deal is done is a chance to louse things up.

I was so pleased with myself that I decided to bag an easy one to celebrate. I took lunch at a nearby diner, introduced myself to the prettiest waitress in the joint, had a decent Reuben with a coke on the side, and convinced her to take a break with me out back with the aid of some mild pheromones, a flash of my ring, and a crisp twenty as a very special "tip". It was a hurried and unartful seduction, but satisfying nonetheless. 

Ten minutes of making out, a little fumbling under clothes, and a stand-up doggie fuck over a crate of cabbages, and I added another tick to my total. When we got to the post-orgasmic cigarette stage, I quizzed her on joints with local color – and far away from the horrors of the Tiki Club – and found out about a dive on the docks called Shrimp Boats. Just the kind of colorful hole-in-the-wall I was looking for. Good food, cold beer, sloppy service. Perfect.

I was back at the hotel for an hour before I realized that I didn't even get the waitress's name.

***

I was in the lobby early, about quarter 'til eight, and found a quiet corner where I couldn't easily be seen. She arrived about five 'til, looking around expectantly and nervously. She was in a very casual light summer dress in understated pastel orange and white, with a sassy scarf around her neck. She consulted her watch three of four times in the first few minutes, which made me happy – she was obviously nervous about the date. 

Me, I wasn't nervous, despite my unusual attraction to Teresa. Not only was I a consummate professional, I had my arsenal of little helpers arrayed about my person, and I had done the groundwork in preparation. I appeared two minutes after eight, looking spiffy in a white button down silk shirt that managed to be luxurious and casual at the same time, and sinfully soft slacks. I had a windbreaker jauntily cast over one shoulder – it could get chilly in Tampa at night in March. Best to be prepared.

"Hello, pretty lady," I said, my best dazzling smile radiating pure charm at her. My clothes were also soaked in pheromones, though I had dispensed with the subsonics for this date. I don't find them particularly useful, anyhow. "Hungry, I hope?"

"Michael!" she said, sounding relieved – did she really think I'd stand her up? "I'm famished, actually."

"Seafood okay?"

"Perfect," she agreed, "as long as its not soaked in rich sauces. Trying to watch my figure."

"Funny, I've been doing that for two days now," I said, boldly, and was rewarded with fluttering eyelashes and a blush. "I think you'll be happy. I heard about this place down by the docks. Our cab should be arriving shortly."

"The docks?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "Is it safe?"

"No one will attack you but me," I promised. "And I'm a pushover."

She warmed a bit more as we waited for the taxi, and I got as close as possible to her to let my manly scent do its work. I noticed the tell-tale flushing almost immediately, and the hand fidgeting followed in close order. Hair twisting came next, and when she presented her neck I knew I had her.

We exchanged background information – I trotted out the wealthy and spoiled scion of an old New England family thing again, though I toned down the dashing bad-boy yachtsman and played up the real estate tycoon – and I learned that she was originally from Philadelphia, that her father owned an ironworks plant there, that she was an only child, that she went to Mount Holyoke for a useless degree three years ago, had been engaged twice and broken it off, and now was getting interested in horse breeding. Good stuff to know. 

I complimented her profusely, but sincerely, on her appearance, and put an arm around her shoulders during the short cab ride over. She seemed flattered, and didn't reject it. Her nipples were hard as rocks, but I didn't try to push pass her reserve just yet.

The Shrimp Boat was a tawdry, dirty little concrete block honkey-tonk that stunk of rotting shrimp and briny water. The flickering neon advertised LIVE CRABS and RAW O-STERS, as well as admitting that the shop was OP-N. A haze of grease clung to the glass of the door as our entrance was heralded by a clanking cowbell. It was a testament to the popularity of the place that there were both Blacks and Whites intermingling. Something I'd noted in the historic South: segregation didn't hold up under superior cuisine. While Blacks had their restaurants, and Whites had theirs, there were some places where the common denominator of great food allowed the races to be free to mix, and this, evidently, was one of them. We grabbed the cleanest table in the joint and waited for the waiter to come by. 

"You wanted local color," I said, shrugging apologetically.

"No! This is great!" she insisted. "I love coming to places like this. You get a lifetime of white linen tablecloths. This is a welcome change."

"The food is supposed to be good," I said, looking at the chalkboard that served as a menu. "Although I am suspect of the wine cellar."

"More of a 'beer' girl, myself," she admitted.

We got two beers, moderately cold, a bucket of oysters, two greasy oyster knives that were lawsuit-bait, and a pound or so of steamed shrimp. The light was dim, there were flies all over the place, and it was one of the best dates I'd ever been on.

I mean, it wasn't substantially different from any other date I'd ever planned, but there was something about Teresa that captivated me. I'd screwed prettier women than her – and recently – but the way she carried herself, the confidence in her step, that was very compelling to me, for some reason. She wolfed down raw oysters with gusto, and peeled shrimp with no pretense of daintiness. She finished her first beer quickly, and was well into her second when she finally went to the bathroom.

And, of course, I didn't miss the opportunity to add an aphro (the slow-acting one – I was enjoying myself too much) to her beer before she returned. No need to take any chances on an attractive piece of ass like this. I wanted her loins to ache for me by the time we left. She returned and finished her beer quickly and ordered another, while I grinned at her gusto and drained mine as well.

It was a great date, and her sense of humor made it all the more enjoyable; there was little of the awkwardness that is usually thick in such circumstances, and we were behaving like goofy teenagers before the next round of beers was drained. I licked Old Bay sensuously off of her fingers, she slurped up oysters suggestively, and we danced in our seats to the static-plagued Wurlitzer that pumped out popular rock-and-roll and rhythm-and-blues – "negro music". It was the music that finally gave her away.

"Love Me Do", the poppy, soulful Lennon and McCartney tune came on in all of its monophonic glory. The Beatles were honored musical ancestors in my day and age, required listening in school and studied by academicians. Here and now they were just another bubble-gum phenom, a boy band before there were boy bands, a Brit novelty act with a paltry few hits. Beatlemania was still dormant – their fame was still largely ahead of them. Teresa gave me a wide-eyed stare when the first screeching harmonica notes blasted across the room.

"I love this song!" she declared, eagerly, and immediately started swaying.

"It's catchy!" I agreed, wanting to mirror her enthusiasm. "These are . . . the Beatles, right?"

"Yeah, from Liverpool," she said, nodding and closing her eyes while she mouthed the lyrics. 

"I can see why they're popular," I said, watching her breasts move magnificently under her sun dress as she bounced.

"More popular than Jesus," she agreed, her eyes still closed. Thankfully. Otherwise she might have seen my expression, and things might have gotten hairy. As it was I recovered before she opened them, and busied myself with ordering a third round of drinks.

When you're a time traveler, especially a time traveler in my line of work – world-saving by insemination – knowing your era is a major survival skill. Not just knowing who the president is, and the major news of the day, but really knowing your specific era. A casual word in the wrong ear can be trouble, if you speak out of ignorance. For example, in a few short months there would be a national tragedy when JFK gets offed in Dallas. It changed everything, one of those fundamental watersheds in the developing cultural life of America during a historically critical time. Mentioning Dallas or JFK or a grassy knoll or Lee Harvey Oswald or any of that is just the sort of thing that causes nasty waves of causality that can wreck havoc on the future. 

But just as important is being aware of the minor cultural elements whose later significance can't really be seen at the time. The Beatles are an interesting case in point. 

Like I said, here and now they were a Brit group who played rhythm and blues, a novelty act more than anything else, with a few catchy tunes that were starting to make the charts. Beatlemania wouldn't be a word in wide circulation for another year or so, though the haircut jokes were already being flung around by crew-cut flunkies on construction sites. 

And it would be months, yet, before John Lennon utters his infamous "More popular than Jesus" line that gets thousands of records burnt and launches the anti-Rock and Roll crusade by the nascent religious right. Afterward, it becomes a byword for the counterculture, a symbol of the "new thought" that will spend the next decade trying unsuccessfully to topple "the Establishment", and in a few score years it will be heralded as a representation of the triumph of American popular media culture over traditional small-town, church-based mores. By my time it is a legendary historical footnote. But for the next hundred years, it will be remembered, in precisely that manner.

But he hadn't said it yet. For Teresa to pick exactly that turn of phrase could have been an accident, I suppose – but I wasn't about to trust to that.

I was almost ready to give her the benefit of the doubt when I decided to test her a little more. While ordering the next round I thought of something, and I went back to being a charming studmuffin until the song finished with a mournful wail. 

"GOD, I love that song!" she sighed, giddily.

"Yeah, it makes you just want to twist and . . ."

"Shout? Yeah!" she said, her eyes sparkling. That cinched it.

Teresa wasn't from around here.

I mean, I was reasonably certain. It's still possible that it was a complete coincidence . . . but somehow I didn't think so. Why not 'twist and jump'? 'Twist and hop'? 'Twist and Shout' wasn't a natural expression in America, and wouldn't be until the song hit the charts. Everyone knows about the Beatles early hits. 'Twist and Shout' was just after 'Love Me Do', in most people's minds. Almost concurrent. But seducing teenage girls had encouraged me to be up on my pop culture, and I knew for a fact that Teresa hadn't heard 'Twist and Shout' because it would be released in the UK in just a few weeks, on March 22. Right now the only Beatles in America were the few thousand singles that had migrated over the pond. 'Twist and Shout' was on the Please Please Me album.

Busted.

I did my best to ignore the thousands of questions that sprang unbidden into my mind, then, and focus on making this chick. It wasn't easy, but if I didn't control this sudden anxiety, she'd pick up on it . . . and right now she was starting the squirm-in-her-seat-because-her-panties-are-wet move, and I needed to close this deal. 

"Let's get out of here," I said, as she drained the last of her third beer.

"My thoughts exactly," she agreed, eagerly. I had the staff call a cab and held her hand while we waited. She flowed easily into my arms in the back seat, and I chanced to steal a warm, soft, wet kiss in the night time gloom. All too soon the brightly lit hotel loomed, and I was forced to pull her out of the cab and into the hotel bar for a nightcap.

It didn't last long. She downed her brandy quickly, then politely requested that I walk her to her room. She was nearly quivering in excitement as she fumbled for her key, then unlocked her suite, inviting me in.

I pushed in, kissed her passionately, threw the key to the floor and moved her towards the bed while I caressed her. She returned my passion, hungrily devouring my lips and pushing her body at mine. When she landed on the bed she began unbuttoning my shirt. I pushed my hands up her skirt and found the waistband of her panties, and pulled them off in one swift motion. 

It was a passionate coupling, unencumbered by foreplay and fueled by pure lust. I pushed my cock into her sparsely-furred pussy and groaned into her mouth at the heat and tightness of it. She groaned back, arching her back and urging me to push in deeper.

It was a wild and frenetic fuck, animalistic in the best sense of the word. She was hot, as hot as a furnace, and she had outstanding pelvic muscle control – she could have wrung my dick out like a wet towel with those vaginal muscles. I pounded her pussy to two hard climaxes then flipped her over for some doggie, where I gave her two more. Her ass was incredible, full and apple shaped and so terribly eager. Then I pulled her on top of me for cowgirl, grinding her engorged clit with my pubic bone while I gave her the illusion of control.




Cock of Ages Ch. 11



I was on fire. Not only was I naturally attracted to her, but she was probably a time-traveler, too, and the intrigue of the thing was just too much to bear much restraint. I gave her the fucking of her life, stopping only once in a while to plaster my face against her swollen pussy and lick her out for a few minutes before I slid my cock inside once again. I kept at it for almost an hour before I finally splashed my sperm deep in her spasming cunt. But I didn't slow down. I kept pounding away after my orgasm and ended up fucking her near to unconsciousness. She finally passed out cold after I gave her her eleventh major orgasm, injecting her with a second load of my wrigglies.

I kissed her on the cheek and headed for the bathroom . . . where I carefully searched her stuff. 

It looked pretty typical, for a 1963 toilette. All fairly standard cosmetics, high end basics from France and New York. Pepsodent. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

I found it on the vanity, actually, among her hair things. The smallest little thing. A loose pile of change on a ceramic tray . . . with a 1964 penny in it. A very tarnished penny.

Did I bust her then? Of course not. I pocketed the offending coin as I considered my options. That was some quality ass, and as far as I knew she didn't know I was from down-stream, either. I wanted a return ticket as soon as possible – besides, I actually liked her. I cuddled with her a while, got her to sleepily promise another date, then slipped from her room about one in the morning. As far as she new, I was just some random handsome rich guy who could fuck like a satyr.

As I walked back to my own room, I had a thought and made a detour to Cromwell's. He had a standard room, not a luxury suite like my own, back in the dim recesses of the building. I knocked on his door and waited for him to answer, blearily.

"Problem, Boss?" he asked, in character.

"Might be," I agreed, coming in uninvited. If he was going to stay in character, so was I. "Anyone else working this burg right now?"

He looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"From the Project," I said, patiently, "or any other project, for that matter."

"Huh? No, not that I'm aware of. They usually send you a bulletin in your mission briefing."

"Then yes, there is a problem." I thumbed the anachronistic penny at him, and he caught it automatically. It took him a moment of study to appreciate the significance of it, but then he looked unhappy. 

"Where in hell did you get this?"

"Off of that brunette's nightstand. Also caught her in a couple of casual mis-steps. The kind that a down-stream girl might make, I'd guess."

"It's possible that the military . . . or maybe a corporation back home . . ."

"That's what I'm thinking," I said, evenly. "But I thought it worthy of note. Why don't you make some inquiries?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'll send it up tonight. Should have word by morning."

"Great. See you at breakfast."

With nothing else I could do about it, I tried to put it out of my mind as I made my way back to my room. Instead I considered my date, the curve of her back, the smell of her hair, the fire in her loins . . . 

When I got to my room, someone was waiting for me. Lori.

You may or may not remember the blonde faux Southern belle from the Tiki Club. She was pacing patiently outside of my door, purse in hand, all dolled up. She looked pissed, but as soon as she saw me she plastered a happy smile on her face.

"Hello, Mr. Winthrop," she said, smoothly and with a trace of nervousness. "Or is it Winslow, today?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demanded, crossly.

"I waited at the bar all night for you," she said without being pouty about it. "When you didn't show up, I figured something might have happened to you. So I found out where you were staying, and I thought I'd drop by to check on you."

"You're the whore from the bar," I said, feigning sudden recognition.

"Lori, Mr. Winthrop. But if you want to call me a whore, that's not a problem," she said, submissively. "I told you I was willing to do anything."

"You . . . stalked me back to my hotel at one thirty in the morning . . . just to suck my cock for me?" I asked.

"If that's what you want, Mr. Winthrop," she answered, eyes downcast. "Or anything else. I just want to prove myself."

"How the hell did you get passed security?" I demanded as I unlocked my suite. "Isn't the hotel detective around?"

She blushed, deeply. "I convinced him to let me wait for you," she said, looking away.

"On your fucking knees, no doubt," I growled. "You sucked him off, didn't you?"

"Y-yeah," she admitted, shamed-facedly. "It was a small price to pay for the chance . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, rich man's wife. God, you must hate Tampa," I said, opening the door and flicking on the light. I stopped and stared at her. "Well, you gonna come in? My cock isn't going to suck itself."

"Yessir," she said, following me in after glancing up and down the hallway. 

"Drink?"

"That would be pleasant, thank you," she said, politely. "Shall I fix them?"

"Rum and cokes," I decided. "Yeah, bar's over there." I flopped down on the ornate and largely uncomfortable sofa while she dropped her purse and busied herself making drinks. "You know, I've been out tonight," I said, after taking my shoes off."

"I figured," Lori answered. "You've gotten to be quite a hit at the Tiki Club, and when you didn't show tonight, it had to be because . . ."

"Yeah, I was fucking," I said, bluntly. "GREAT piece of ass, too. Quality. Ivy League ass. You just don't find much of that."

"I hope it was pleasant," Lori said evenly as she popped ice cubes into the glasses. In 1963, only the luxury suites had refrigerators.

"Damn fine," I agreed, dreamily. "Of course, my cock is all sticky now." I studied her as she handed me my drink. "Hope you don't mind." Lori took a quick swallow of her drink.

"No, I don't mind," she said, loftily. I was impressed. She really did want to be the lucky winner. "I've . . . tasted it before."

"And it tastes magnificent, too," I chortled. "You realize I'll want my slut of a wife to eat pussy?"

Another swallow. "Of course, darling. Any good wife would do that for her husband."

I laughed, wryly. "Don't I wish! Okay, hon, go ahead and take it out and suck it. I'm just gonna kick back and enjoy," I added, loosening my shirt.

She tried to maintain her grace as she smoothed out her skirt and squatted between my knees, looking up at me with fake adoration. This was eating at her, I knew, and I couldn't help but enjoy it. She pulled down my zipper sensuously and peeled back my boxers – I lifted up to help her out, being a gentleman – and let my well-used dick flop out into her palm.

She cooed over it, stroking it gently while she made approving noises. Her hands were gentle and firm – she knew her way around a cock, no doubt about it – and she delicately blew on my business, which was still damp from Teresa's juices. 

"Such a big boy," Lori whispered as she bent and took the shaft between her lips. Her tongue went immediately to work even as she gagged a bit on Teresa's pungent aroma. That didn't stop Lori, though, and she proceeded to lick every last centimeter of my cock and balls clean. She was very good. 

"So why do you want out of Tampa so badly?" I asked, conversationally, as she began to bob her pretty blonde head. It isn't usually fair to try to talk to a girl while she's blowing you, but this wasn't about fair. She came to me portraying an eager slut. I wanted to know her story. She paused, taking me only briefly out of her mouth.

"My family is here," she said, while her hand continued to stroke the shaft. "Dad and three older brothers. Three older, unmarried brothers," she said, bitterly.

I shrugged. "Everyone has family issues," I said. "I don't see the problem."

She stared me evenly in the eye. Dangerous territory, I could tell. "I cook for them. I do their laundry. They spend all day at the garage, and then come home and expect the house to be perfect, dinner on the table, the whole works."

"Doesn't seem so bad," I said, as she returned to tonguing me. She looked at me again, still absently sucking, then lifted off again.

"Last Christmas eve," she reported in a monotone, "they got drunk. They wanted to dance. I was the only girl there. Dad passed out, so my brothers danced with me. I didn't want to, but it was Christmas. Everyone got drunk, including me. They had such a good time that they bent me over the kitchen table and took turns raping me." She sucked a few more strokes. "After that, every chance they get me alone, I get fucked. Or I have to suck them off. At this point I either have to leave, or I'm going to kill them all."

"Didn't you tell your Dad?"

"I tried. Once he knew I wasn't a virgin any more, he didn't see any reason why he shouldn't get in on the fun." She continued sucking.

She made a compelling argument.

One of the most shocking things about my job is just how rampant such scenes are. The further back you go, the more you see this kind of thing. On one stint in the 1920s, as the guest of a Pennsylvania oil tycoon, I witnessed six of his servants in his Chicago mansion visiting the quarters of the nineteen-year-old maid in one night, one after another. Quite against her will. Among them were two of her brothers, an uncle, and her father. My host was amused by it, even encouraged it. 

SOP is not to get involved, so I didn't, but that doesn't mean I like it. It's one thing to trick a chick out of her panties in a bar, or seduce a horny housewife from her virtue while Hubby's away. It's quite another to prey on younger female relatives, girls who literally can't escape. Even a duct-tape job is less scarring to a woman, I've found. Lori had a hard-edged bitterness about her that could easily be explained by such abuse.

"So being a rich man's whore is preferable to that?"

"Hell yes," she said, adamantly. "No matter how depraved you might be, Mr. Winthrop, even if you dumped me out in the gutter I'd be in a better situation. I don't mind s-sex, Mr. Winthrop – I didn't lose my virginity on that table – but they're my goddamn brothers and father, my goddamn family! No girl should have to . . . get fucked in the ass by her Daddy while he's drunk, calling you your dead Mama's name. No one." She went back to fellating me, a tear in her eye.

OK, I felt sorry for her. Sue me. Just because I'm a professional rapist doesn't mean I'm without feelings. Sure, I used women – but not like that. I didn't use them up. And that's where Lori was heading, and fast. I didn't doubt she would eventually kill herself or her family or both, but it wasn't a pretty picture. In the same position, I might do just about anything to get out of town, too. What I offered her was hope, in a twisted sort of way. A false hope, since no marriage would ever take place.

"You seem distracted," she noted a moment later. Indeed, my cock was softening just a bit. "Did I . . .?"

"Keep sucking," I ordered. "It's late, and I've already fucked three or four times today. You won't be getting an easy one, but you just tend to your knittin', it'll come." She looked relieved, and dove back to work.

I tried to clear my head of things and focus on my id, where she was doing some very good work. Soon all thoughts of incestual gang rape left my head as her soft, spongy lips sipped strongly on my shaft. I could feel the head banging the back of her throat. "All right, you little whore," I said, grabbing the back of her head. "Here comes the reward . . . drink it down," I ordered, while she made gasping sucking noises as she attempted to accommodate my copious load. When she was done I kept her there until I started to feel her tongue move around, cleaning the head of the sticky residue. 

"Ahhhhhhh," I sighed. "That hit the spot. Better than a night cap."

"That was satisfactory, then?" she asked, anxiously. "You can fuck me, too, if you like."

"Maybe later," I said with a groan. "How would you like a job?"

"I thought I was trying out for one?"

"I meant a real paying-right-now job. Call it . . . an assistant. Just for a few weeks, of course, I can't hang out down here forever. But it occurs to me that it might be helpful to have someone around to help me with some business I'm conducting. Someone who knows when to keep her fucking mouth shut . . . and when to open it. Can you spare a few weeks?"

"I don't know . . ." she said, worried about something.

"I'll pay you five hundred a week, cash," I added.

"A thousand dollars would get me to Miami, at least," she figured. "Maybe even Atlanta. Or New Orleans."

"Whatever. It might even get you a wedding. It will certainly get you out of your family's house. But first things first. Can you do it?"

"I'd be happy to!"

"I'd want to have you available to me, sexually, whenever I wanted."

"Not a problem," she said, fervently. "Fuck me sideways, for all I care!"

"I'm sure we'll get to that point. You'd have to answer the phone, run some errands, don't ask any fucking questions about my business."

"I'm utterly reliable," she vowed.

"And . . . I've still got to do this marriage thing. There's a lot more to it than you know, and there are some pretty odd reasons I have to do it this way, but the fact is, I need to fuck more women. Part of your job will be to line some up."

"You want me . . . to find more women for you to fuck?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah, that'd be helpful. You know this town better than I do. You know where the loose women hang out. Line me up as many as you can."

"That's—" she began, doubtfully.

"Can you do it, or can't you?" I barked.

"Do they all have to be . . . pretty?"

"Try to keep the number of ugly ones to a minimum – and no real professional whores. I can call a service and get serviced, if I want to pay money for cunt. Other than that, they can be anyone with a vagina. Feel free to spread the rumor that I'm looking to wed. Lay it on thick. I don't give a damn what you tell them, just get me plenty of pussy. I'll even pay you a ten dollar commission."

It was a lot for her poor brain to take in, but the money cinched it. I could tell by the gleam in her eye. "I'll do it," she said, finally. "I'll start first thing in the morning."

"Hell with that," I snorted. "Get naked and get your ass in bed. You'll start now. I'm feeling like a little midnight sodomy, Lori."

She nodded, the gleam leaving her eye, and went obediently to the big bed, leaving a trail of clothing behind her.



Cock of Ages Ch. 12



Tampa, Florida 

March 7th, 1963

I awoke to the unpleasant sound of hysterical shrieking.

It wasn't the first time, of course. There have been plenty of women who freak out when they arise in the rosy glow of dawn and realize that they've just been had -- or their husband is in the driveway, home early -- or their sister discovers them in flagrante delicto -- or they just plain feel violated. This wasn't that kind of scream. This was the basic female 'intruder alert!' scream. I instinctively bolted out of bed, the dishwater blonde -- Lori? Lori -- holding the sheets up to her chin, staring wide-eyed at a very startled Cromwell. He was, in point of fact, looking pretty menacing. The shoulder holster didn't help.

"Calm the fuck down," I said, crossly. "Lori, Cromwell, Cromwell, Lori. Cromwell is my . . . bodyguard. Lori is my new temporary assistant."

"Charmed," Cromwell grunted, after some thought. "I'll be out on the veranda with breakfast, Boss. When you're ready."

"Yeah, yeah, be there in a minute," I said, waving him off.

"Why the hell do you need a bodyguard?" Lori asked, wide-eyed.

"What did I tell you about questions? I need to talk to him. Why don't you jump in the bath for a while. You smell like stale cum."

She got up without a word, and modestly wrapped the sheet around her while I looked around for my casually discarded boxer shorts. 

"Why the hell do you need an assistant?" Cromwell asked, pointedly, when I came outside. He had gotten a tray of danish and coffee from down stairs. "I thought I was your assistant?"

"Well, she's prettier and she'll suck my dick on command."

"You make a fair point," he laughed. "But is that wise?"

"Probably not. But I don't see the harm. She's going to line up more local talent for me. Probably a lot of choice left-overs hanging around." Put to him like that, Cromwell could appreciate my decision a little more. 

"Anyways, I just got news from down stream. Nothin' going on here 'cept us. That covers all temporal projects. They did caution me that that didn't mean that future projects wouldn't be using here-and-now, but they didn't know anything current."

"That stands to reason," I agreed, parsing it. "We only know what we did . . . will do . . . up to . . . when we left . . . I think. Fuck! Time travel is confusing!"

"If the Project decides to send someone back here again, sometime in the future -- the future, future, that is -- then we wouldn't know . . ." he trailed off as his brain tried to follow the logic. "Yeah, I see what you mean," he said with a grin.

"So how should I treat this?" I asked. "I mean, isn't there a code word? Protocol of some sort?"

"That makes some awfully big assumptions," Cromwell said, uneasily. "I mean, you'd think so, but . . ."

"Never mind," I dismissed. "Probably is someone from further downstream. Research trip, or something."

"Why here, though?" he asked, biting a donut cleanly in half. "I mean, Tampa isn't particularly important. Not for years, yet. Dallas, sure. Especially with . . . y'know."

"Yeah, that is an interesting question. Look, see what you can find out about Miss Teresa McKenna, will you? See if there's anything on her, specifically."

"Will do," he said, noting the name in a pad he carried in his shirt pocket. "Uh, you gonna be using the Caddy today?"

"No, I'll take a cab, if I need to. It's all yours. And you're on vacation, remember?" I pointed out. "I'm going to spend the day on the beach, I think. See what I can come up with."

"Got it," he agreed. "What about the slit. . . Lori? What do I do with her?"

"She's on retainer. I'll have her lounge around here, mostly. Maybe run some errands. Keep my bed warm. So keep in character around her, but I've already cautioned her against asking any nosy questions."

"Good. We don't need no undue attention, especially after what you -- we -- did to that accountant's wife." He sounded like he felt guilty.

"Her? Least of my problems," I said, dismissively. "She won't say a fucking word, I guarantee it. Too scared to."

"Yeah, whatever you say," he said, sounding unconvinced. He left after that, and I was pouring my second cup of coffee when Lori came out in one of the hotel's luxurious robes, toweling her hair dry.

"He seems . . . nice," she offered hesitantly, taking a seat uninvited.

"I hope not," I said, making a sour face. "He's not paid to be nice."

"Well then you got your money's worth. Is that coffee?"

"Have some," I encouraged. "Jamaican. It's incredible."

"So this is how rich people live," she said appreciatively, looking out over the waves.

"Same ocean view for poor people," I countered.

"Yeah, I guess. But the coffee is better. So when do I start finding you sluts?"

"As soon as possible. You can start after you run home and pick up a few clothes -- you'll be here for a few days. Oh, and I want to send flowers to someone, you take care of that, too. You can start after you blow me."

"You do get an early start on the day!" she said with a smile. Lori rose. "I'll be inside waiting!"

"No, you'll drop to your knees and do it right here," I said, firmly. "While I can enjoy the morning breeze."

"But . . . but people will see!" she protested. "We're outside! We'll get arrested!"

"Bullshit," I sneered. "Rich people don't get arrested. Not at the rates I'm paying for this room. At most we'd get a quiet and politely-worded warning about discretion. But I don't think even that is likely. So get to it, Lori. Earn your salary."

Still unsure of herself, she took a couple of glances around and then slid guiltily to her knees. As she burrowed her curly blonde head under my robe to find my stiffening penis, I leaned back and sighed. Coffee wasn't the only thing that was better when you were rich.

***

After I sent Lori on her way, stopping by the front desk to introduce her to the manager, I turned my attention to some business I wanted to do. I needed to find a bookie.

It took me three inquiries to find one that was considered trustworthy: Milo Holmes. I knew Milo was trustworthy because when I looked him up in the Wealth of Nations (the hardback book that concealed a clever computer display -- swanky 21st century tech) I saw that he would end up doing time intermittently between 1966 and 1972, then he retired to Miami to become a "made" guy. 

Tampa was full of Mafiosi, of course, both the Italian and Cuban varieties, so I knew he'd be reliable. Milo would end up face down in the manicotti at "a local Miami Italian eatery" a dozen years later, in 1984, but right now he was just young and hungry. And that's just what I wanted.

He hung out at a bar downtown, Mike's or Pat's or something Irish, non-descript and smoky. I sidled up to him and bought a warm beer. 

"Lookin' for Milo," I told the bartender as I paid him.

"That's his hand on your thigh," the unshaven slab of Irishman said, nodding to the young guy next to me reading the racing form. He turned an eye towards me. 

"I'm Milo," he said, softly. "You a cop?"

"Nope," I said. "I got a friend who says you're good with numbers."

"Could be," he said cautiously. "Who's your friend, and what kinda numbers?"

"My friend is Lawrence, doorman at the Palms. Numbers I'm lookin' for are number seven to win in the fifth." 

Milo scanned the paper in front of him and whistled. "That's a toughie, champ. Seventeen to one? You sure?"

"It's my mother's name," I said, off the top of my head.

He glanced back at the paper, then back at me. "Your mom's name is Rhubarb Pie?"

"I learned how to fight early," I said, defensively. "Look, you want my money or not?"

"At seventeen to one? Hell yes. How much do you want to lose?"

"Three large," I said, putting an envelope casually at his elbow. He took a surreptitious glance around and slid it under his racing form.

"You got a tip or something?"

"Just a lucky feeling," I admitted.

"Got to love those. And I'm always happy to have another player around. Where shall I bring by your winnings, in the unlikely event every other goddamn horse in the race breaks a leg?" I gave him my name and my hotel address, paid for his beer, and left after another few sips.

Three grand, at seventeen to one, yields just over fifty grand. That's fifty grand the Project didn't know about. And if I played this right, by the time I left I'd have two or three similar lucky strikes before I departed scenic Tampa . . . all of which would accrue interest nicely until I retrieved it, some time in the future.

Now, the perks of the job were enough -- but I had to plan for my retirement, didn't I? The Project did monitor my actions, mostly through Cromwell, and I had gotten him used to my ways to the point where I could slip away and do some business like this. I mean, what's the point of time travel if you couldn't use your knowledge for personal gain? I wasn't messing with the stock market or anything -- yet -- just placing a few low-level bets with a local bookie. The proceeds would go into one of my accounts, and no one would be the wiser. Eventually I'd have enough off-books cash to retire someplace, sometime, and remember the days when I worked hard.

I did spend most of the rest of the day at the beach. It was still just a little too cool to swim, but that didn't keep the snowbirds who were just discovering Florida from peeling down and laying on the beach like pale and flabby whales. Those, I expected. The large number of young women in bathing suits that had seemed to arrive overnight -- it took a moment for me to realize what was happening.

"I love Spring Break!" one winsome young lass said, big goofy sunglasses on her face and a large drink in her hand, as I passed by a spread out towel.

Spring Break -- young college girls getting seriously drunk in a strange place. It would be years before the party reached legendary proportions, with Ft. Lauderdale gaining the first great rep as a Spring Break destination, but Tampa did pull plenty of tourist business from regional universities. Schools all over the South were letting out for Break, and the well-heeled and the lucky managed to make it as far as here. 

I walked around a while and listened in to the conversations and eventually found the perfect mark for a mid-morning mattress mambo: a sweet young thing, crying her eyes out behind the drink stand, drunk off of her ass and freshly dumped.

Rebound pickups are almost too easy. A woman gets rejected, for whatever reason, and her first instinct is to re-affirm her desirability. This usually leads her to making stupid choices about men, which was good news for millions of nerds who wouldn't have gotten laid otherwise. It was also good news for me. 

Her name was Cindy, and she was a Home Ec major at the University of Georgia. Her boyfriend, Joe, had brought her all the way down here to the beach for a romantic weekend. She had come to his room this morning to discover some evil slut whore from Alabama all over him like white on rice. Distraught, she had taken solace in a bottle of cheap rum and was now wandering around asking everyone if she was pretty.

Oh yes, Cindy. You are very pretty.

I produced a hanky, asked her her name and what was wrong, and then for the next twenty minutes I didn't say another blessed word as she poured out her life story. That twenty minutes meant I was "easy to talk to", the first step towards the redemption of men in her eyes. The second was the three weak jokes she laughed uproariously at, and when I invited her to lunch to discuss things, she was all mine. I walked her to one of the outdoor cafes all the trendy hotels were sporting, brightly striped umbrellas and all, and bought her a chicken salad and a rum-and-coke -- complete with a do-me-now! aphrodisiac tab.

By the time we had finished lunch she had transformed from a pathetic drunk college chick on the rebound into a sophisticated, intelligent, and worldly drunk college chick. Using a subtle combination of gentle teasing and serious innuendo I made it clear that her best course of action was to do unto Joe what he had done unto her. My suggestions left no questions about with whom she should do this, and a flash of my bankroll and my Harvard ring (which was so hot it might have glowed in the dark -- fertility time for Cindy!) combined with the dose of hot-pants in her drink made her lead the way.

We went back to her shitty cinderblock motel, into the mildewed room she shared with three other girls, and I fucked her silly. I mean completely insensible. She had never had an orgasm before, so I gave her as many as I could in forty-five minutes, leaving two loads and a thoroughly incoherent Cindy behind.

Three hours, from start to finish. Two dollars and sixty-cents for lunch. For a sweet, near-virginal nineteen-year-old pussy, knocked-up to order. You've got to love that.

I was walking back towards the main strip when I saw it: a faded poster on a painted but peeling wooden sign advertising fresh oranges. I don't know what made me stop and look -- maybe the crudely drawn figure at the top of the poster. 

It was an angel. I read further down.

Get The Spirit Of The Lord In Your Life!

SISTER SHELLY MONTGOMERY'S ALL-GOSPEL NON-DENOMINATIONAL HOUSE OF ANGELIC PRAYER!

SUNDAY SERVICES: 9:30 and 11:00

PRAYER MEETINGS: MON., WED., FRI. 7:30 PM SALVATION AVAILABLE ANY TIME!

There were directions to a storefront church about two miles away. The whole thing looked decidedly low-budget, the very cheapest of print jobs. It all came back to me -- Baltimore, sweet-assed little Shelly, the angel suit, the farmhouse . . . and my command to go to Tampa. It looked like she had listened. A devilish grin crossed my face as I decided to see if good little Shelly had truly kept faith.

Time for sinful Mikey Winslow to go to church.

* * *

Lori was back in the room by the time I returned, about three o'clock. She had changed into something a little less flashy and more businesslike -- but still thoroughly middle-class. She also wore glasses, which got me aroused immediately. 

"Welcome back, Mr. Winslow," she said, courteously. "Or is it Winthrop, today? Can I fix you a drink?"

"No, I'm good," I said with a sigh. "Remind me to send you shopping. Can't have you looking like that every day."

She looked down at her dress and started to protest, then realized I was offering to buy her clothes. She shut up. Smart girl.

"I ordered those flowers, and an hour ago this was delivered from the front desk," she said, handing me an envelope with an elegant female script on the front. I took it and whiffed perfume. It was from Teresa. Grinning despite myself, I yanked it open and quickly read the note -- written on hotel stationary.

My darling Michael,

I adored our evening out, last night, but this morning has brought some news from my family, and now I must go back home for a while. It shouldn't take more than a few days, at most, and then I shall return. I hope you will consider another fun evening when I get back -- I truly enjoyed your company. 

Sincerely, Teresa

"Isn't that interesting?" I asked myself. Lori overheard me and cocked her head curiously. "Nothing," I muttered when I noticed her. "Just an oddity. Still, she was an outstanding fuck. She's the one that you licked off of me, last night."

"The Ivy League Pussy?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"As a matter of fact, yeah," I agreed. "Wasn't it tasty?"

She made a face. "Oh, yeah, best Ivy League Pussy I've ever had," she said, sarcastically.

"Wanna try some University of Georgia?" I asked, unzipping my fly.

"What?"

"Time to suck dick again, sweetheart. And I just dipped it in some first-rate freshman cooze. Be nice if it was all tidied up for later."

"You . . . want it again?" she asked, mystified. "And you just fucked someone? Didn't I just take care of you this morning?"

"I'm sorry, you have something else to do?" I asked, pointedly.

She saw my point, and scooted between my knees in record time. She still didn't seem very enthusiastic about it, but she started licking the freshman's juices daintily off of my shaft while I considered my options. 

"Oh, while I'm thinking about it," she said, between sucks, "keep your calendar open tonight. I arranged . . . some fresh pussy for you. She'll be here when you get in."

"That was fast," I said, appreciatively.

"I know a lot of people," she said, simply, and went back to work.

I stopped her before I came, then bent her over, hiked her dress -- no panties -- and slipped into her from behind. She didn't quite cum as I fucked her, frenetically squirting my juice up in her as fast as possible, but that was fine. That would probably keep her hot for later, after I got back from the Tiki Club. But before then, I wanted to make another stop.

An hour and a shower later I got out of a cab in front of the storefront church. I was well-dressed, in a light-weight brown cotton suit, a dapper and slightly anachronistic white fedora, and a small attaché in my hand: all the tools of my art ready to deploy. The church was sandwiched between a decrepit laundry and a long-abandoned radio repair shop. It had a green door and a crudely painted angel on the window. The sign said OPEN.

When I went in, a cheap set of brass chimes rattled, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke and human sweat mingled with incense and coffee. There were five lines of ten wooden chairs that had seen better days, and a small stage at the front of the room. A vivid-looking cross was painted on the back wall, and a beat-up old piano stood next to the door to the back. No microphone. No air conditioning. Indeed, the only thing that indicated the shop had electric power at all was the dangerous-looking chandelier of light bulbs that was suspended from the ceiling. A big plywood box painted white with black letters that read LOVE OFFERING stood on the wall near the door, the size a symbol of optimism. 

I didn't see anyone, but I stood, head bowed reverently, as I waited. I heard her before she entered the room.

"Blessed day, brother!" the feminine tenor sang melodiously as the door opened. "What can I do for you on God's day?" She came in briskly, in a faded checkered dress of black and white with a white knitted shawl over her shoulders. Her large boobs were decently hidden beneath, but only just. The years had treated her well -- she was still a beauty, but the shine of youth had been replaced by the luster of maturity. There were a few wrinkles, maybe, and a certain worldliness in her eyes. But her hair was the same golden shower of silk I remembered.

"Are . . . are you Sister Shelly?" I asked, cautiously.

"I am, Brother," she agreed, pleasantly. "What might I do for you in the service of the Lord?"

"I . . . I need you to heal my pain," I said, softly, giving her an intense and meaningful stare at the same time. I watched her carefully. There was a sudden intake of breath as the phrase lit up in her mind, and then an even bigger gasp as she recognized my face under the hat. She swallowed nervously, and nodded once. 

"Right this way," she said, quietly. She paused only long enough to turn the bolt on the door and flip the sign over, and then she led me through the door into the back of the church. She moved cautiously, like her feet weren't really touching the floor, but Shelly took control of herself and led me to a battered over-stuffed chair near a metal Army Surplus desk. I took a seat, as she took my hat.

"Sister Shelly has a mandate from the Lord to heal all who ask it," she said, carefully. "Would you care to confess your sins in prayer before we begin?"

I studied her in the dim light. "Not really," I admitted. "There's just too many to go into, right now."

She nodded, as if understanding. "Right. Confess in your own time, in your own manner, my brother. Let us pray. Dear Father, who sent thy only—"




Cock of Ages Ch. 12



It was a short prayer, and to the point, and I kept my head bowed reverently through it. She was good. In my limited experience with professional religious folk, she more than held her own in intensity and sincerity. "—Amen," she said, finally.

"Amen," I echoed. 

"Are you a cop?" she asked, directly.

"A what? A . . . cop?" I asked, genuinely surprised. "Um, no. I'm a gentleman of leisure. Why?"

"I've had some . . . encounters with the minions of Satan in the uniform of the police," she said. "Nothing to worry about. My faith was stronger than their law. I just like to ask," she shrugged. She got on her knees, and I half expected her to pray again. And she did . . . at the altar of Priapus.

She stared me in the eyes, enchanted, as her fingers nimbly worked the zipper and reached inside. Instead of working my rapidly-hardening dick out of my pants, she felt it, massaged it, took in every bit of it by touch. Her eyes closed and she hissed slightly as she settled in on her knees. Then with an air of expectation she unbuttoned my pants with one hand and hauled my cock and balls out over the waistband with the other. My dick stood rigidly in front of her, like a fleshy microphone, and she eyed it with wonder.

"It's . . . very big," she said, finally, her fingers touching it gently. "It's as big as . . ." she trailed off. Her eyes shot to mine. "What did you say your name was, brother?"

I cleared my throat. "Mikey. Michael. Michael Winslow. Why? You aren't going to tell—"

"No, no, Brother Michael," she soothed, still stroking my cock between both hands. "I'm ordained. What is said here -- and done here -- is legally as discreet as a Catholic priest's confessional. So fear not, my brother, and let Sister Shelly take away your pain," she pronounced, and swooped down on my cockhead with her lips before I could say another word.

It was as if she were drinking nectar. The beatific expression on her face, the noises of hungry lust and admiration in her throat, all of it made her look enraptured as she sucked my cock. Most women can at least fake enthusiasm when they give head, but sweet Shelly had taken her enthusiasm to religious heights. 

She moved slowly and deliberately, making quite a show out of it as she devoured my preseminal fluids. Her fingers slowly and exquisitely massaged my scrotum -- my boys were pretty happy to be in church -- while her tongue darted like a busy bee over the shaft. 

As Shelly built up speed, she began humming (always a good feeling in a blowjob) a hymn, keeping time by the rhythm of her bobbing blonde locks. Her hand joined her lips on my shaft and she began a stroking counterpoint. As I neared my ejaculation, though, she suddenly left me high and dry, only a slow stroking to keep me interested.

"Michael Winslow, cast out thy pains and frustrations," she intoned, her eyes closed. "Cast from thee the bitterness of earthly life, the taint of petty sins, and welcome the wholesome virtue of the Lord!" 

"Amen!" I gasped, her hand twisting the base of my cock expertly.

"Cast from thee the wickedness of lust, the destruction of rage, the craving for gluttony! Cast it out, Michael, and let Sister Shelly heal thee!" She plunged her head back down on my dick, her mouth sucking furiously, her tongue flailing away as she did her best to blow my mind out of the back of my head. I filled her mouth to overflowing with my seed, and she struggled to take every drop. But she did, her nimble tongue chasing after a stray spurt across her cheek, and I felt a lurch in her throat as she swallowed it all down.

Sister Shelly was doing the Lord's work, after all.

"Oh . . . my . . . dear . . . sweet . . . Lord!" I gasped, as she delicately licked the residue of my load from my cock. "Oh, God! That was . . . healing," I said, choosing my words carefully.

"Are you sure your last name is 'Winslow', Brother?" she asked, between licks, never taking her eyes off of me.

"What? Of course it is. I was born in Rhode Island. My parents are— hey, what is this?"

"Nothing, Brother, nothing at all," she soothed, her voice liquid love. "You just . . . remind me of someone."

"Look, I'm grateful, I really am," I said. "I . . . that did a world of good. Thank you, Sister," I said, as I zipped up my fly. "Thank you kindly. Uh, I'll just be going now," I said, guiltily. It was all an act, but I had to be credible, didn't I? 

"Sunday service is tomorrow morning! Come on by!" she sang after me as I headed for the door. I was about to drop a ten in the offering box when the door chimes rang, startling me.

In ran a little girl in a clean(ish) pink dress, carrying a paper sack full of groceries. She looked up at me with big, beautiful eyes, and smiled. Hell of a smile on that kid. She looked kind of familiar, and then I realized where I had seen those eyes before.

In my mirror.

This had to be my kid. I did the math quickly, and confirmed it. She was probably eleven years old, now. Blonde hair like her mom, slightly chubby, and gorgeous eyes.

"Hi, darling!" Shelly called out to her. It was a decidedly "mom" voice, cheerful and happy and utterly unlike the voice of someone who had just sucked off a stranger in the back room of her church.

"Hi, Mommy! Hi, Mister!" the precious little tyke said, beaming.

"Mr. Winslow, this is my daughter, Angela," Shelly said, pulling her shawl around her. "Mr. Winslow was just getting some spiritual counseling, honey. Did you go by the store like I asked?"

"Yes ma'am, they had lots on the day-old shelf, so I stocked up!" she said, excitedly. "God bless, Mister!"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, kid, God bless you," I muttered. I looked back at Shelly and raised my eyebrows. Then I threw three hundred dollar bills in the love offering box and got the hell out of there.

That was the first time I had ever run into one of the products of my assigned liaisons, and it was eerie. I mean, I had just knocked up her mother a few weeks before, and here was a fully formed, perfect little girl. A little girl with my eyes. 

I have to admit, it kind of haunted me.

Look, I don't have a deep moral center. Far from it. You have to be a particular kind of sociopath to get off on what I do. I take the baser nature of man's lustful longings and blatantly exploit the weaknesses in the feminine reproductive defense. The only reason I'm not in prison is because my government had a need for my particular brand of sociopathy. I can fuck a hundred women a month and don't give a rat's ass, usually, if they got hit by a bus the next day or not. Even my desire to bring as many kids into the future as possible is due to a perverse need to compete, to excel at my art, to be the best.

But for the first time I got a glimmer of what my carefree attitude with my augmented DNA did to the real world. Yes, I knocked up hot chicks . . . but that meant I had kids. Lots of kids. Kids with my eyes.

I went out and had a few too many drinks with my lonely steak dinner that evening. I talked to my waiter, found a brief haven in a dark bar, and ended up stumbling back to my hotel room unlaid and none the wiser, about eleven o'clock. Early, for me. 

But Lori and her mark were already there, waiting for me. Lori was sitting on the couch, when I got in, as attractively dressed and made up as she had been in the Tiki Club. She had a nervous smile on her face, and a drink waiting. Nice. I gave her a peck on the cheek and looked around. 

"I thought . . ."

"She's in the other room," she assured me. "She's . . . well, she's my cousin, Monica. She kind of looks like me . . . I hope you don't mind . . ."

"Why would I?" I asked, taking the drink. "You're gorgeous."

The compliment took her by surprise. "You-you really think so?" she asked, blushing just a bit.

"Hell, yes, I think so," I said, my buzz lubricating my inhibitions. "I don't hire ugly women, Lori. You're very beautiful. And if your cousin looks like you, I'm in great shape."

"Thanks, Boss," she said, smiling. "She does. And she's . . . experienced. She'll do anything you want. Anything I tell her to."

"I take it that you told her about the marriage thing?" I asked, allowing a subdued tone to infect my voice. 

"No, actually," she said, looking away. "I . . . she'll do what I want. Trust me. Anything I want. She owes me."

"She . . . owes you?" I asked, intrigued.

"Yes," Lori said firmly. "And I'm cashing in. For your benefit. Monica, why don't you come out here?" she called. From the dim bedroom a buxom blonde in a long flowing off-white satin gown floated into the picture, and I was impressed. She did look like Lori -- a little taller, a little less topheavy, a year younger, and her face was slightly different, but you'd have to see them side by side to tell. Otherwise, they could have been sisters.

"Hi, I'm Monica," she said, smiling nervously. "Lori has told me a lot about you, Mr. Winslow."

"But not everything, apparently. Just as well. You ready to get fucked, little girl?" I asked, crudely. She took it like a trooper, saucily swinging her hips forward as she took a step closer.

"I wanna get fucked," she agreed. "I wanna get fucked, and fucked hard."

I glanced at Lori. "I like her!" I said. "Let's go to bed and forget about the consequences of our actions for a while, shall we?"

An hour later I was riding Monica doggie style over the edge of my bed as her face was buried in her cousin's furry blonde twat, busily licking her from one powerful orgasm to another. She wasn't thrilled with it, but she performed with the familiarity that told me she'd been nose-deep in bush before now.

Apparently Monica really would do anything Lori told her to. 



Cock of Ages Ch. 13



Tampa Florida

March 8, 1963

I took all Sunday that week to rest, and no, I didn't go to church. Instead I sat around and leisurely fucked my two near-identical cousins until lunch time, then turned them loose with a pocket full of cash to go get themselves something pretty. Then I crashed out. 

I'd been at it, fucking like a god, for a while now, and even my batteries need re-charging upon occasion. I mostly slept, took a little walk on the beach, swam, ate healthy, made a few phone calls, did a little research. I haunted the hotel bar for a few peaceful hours, and then returned to my room just in time to watch Lori try on a few things. A simple doggie fuck in the shower and I was ready to crash again.

The next morning found me up at dawn taking a run on the beach in the cool March air. You have to do a little maintenance on the instrument from time to time, after all. I'd been living a rich, full life, and a little clearing of toxins was only wise. I jogged back to the hotel about seven and met Cromwell in the restaurant for breakfast. No need waking Lori up and kicking her out so we could talk business. She was pretty tired, too.

"All right, vacation's over," he said with a sigh. "Hope you enjoyed it. I see you've added a few more to your tally," he said, glancing over the list of the women I'd fucked over the weekend. I had omitted Shelly from it, of course -- no need to discuss my private business. She was a bit of an experiment in temporal dynamics, after all, and something our boss would definitely frown upon. "You ready to finish up the list so we can go the hell back to base for a few days?"

"Too much sun, sand, and sin?" I teased, taking a whole wheat bagel from the bread plate. Tampa had great bagels.

"Just want a little civilization. These Dark Ages are fun for a few days while you get used to the 'quaint', but there's no substitute for real . . . sophistication."

"You're just spoiled," I chided. "Just because you only have three channels, and not a thousand . . ."

"Enough," he said, sounding just the tiniest bit crabby. "We've got to get on with it. There's . . . stuff happening back home. Word has come down that we are to complete all assignments and return to base at the earliest opportunity."

"What's up?" I asked, concerned. 

"Not sure," he admitted. "But the priority code was pretty high. Something to do with the divergences."

"Ah," I said, nodding sagely, having only the tenderest of clues about what he meant.

I may have given the impression in this document that Cromwell was a mere flunky, an uneducated and unsophisticated gopher that fetched me what I needed. It may come across that way because that is, usually, how my interactions ran with him. But the truth is, Cromwell was a highly trained, very adept agent of the Project, and had a far, far better grasp of both the technical and the philosophical underpinnings of temporal displacement than I ever would. Consider him having a doctorate in the subject of temporal mechanics. Add that to his impressive Army record, his ability to blend in to virtually any era, his knowledge of history, and the balding, funereal sidekick you've seen is actually a highly competent professional. He was part actor, part secret agent, a professional liar in the service of humanity. My life was, literally, in his hands.

So when he started throwing around technical terms like divergences, I took note.

Let me back up and explain a little about the confusing and impossible-to-understand science of Time Travel. You pervs who are just reading for amusement can skip over this part and come back for the next sex scene -- the rest of you nerds pay attention. 

When you go back in time, you change the future -- that's basic causality. Assassinate Hitler or Einstein as a boy or perform some equally world-changing event and you have forever locked the timeline into an alternate track from what you grew up with -- a "divergence". The only way to fix it is to travel back to the cusp point and un-do whatever it is that got done to screw things up. Usually that fixes it. Mostly.

We can't help making divergences -- it's actually the whole point of what we do. Just showing up and standing around someplace in the past can have an unanticipated effect. That's why we were almost always sent away from the epicenters of big, important events -- like the assassination of JFK in Dallas a few months from now. Sure, we could stop a tragedy from happening, but the fact is that the world would have diverged so much from what we had known as to be nearly unrecognizable to the time traveler in question.

The thing is, the only one who notices anything different is the time traveler. Every trip back is evaluated in detail to determine mission success, said success being measured in terms of the number of people saved in the point of departure, against the average temporal "drift" the divergence caused. But all of those people who suddenly flash into being when I fill some tight 20th century twat full of sperm don't know that they are divergent from the "control" time line, because from their perspective they've "always" been there. But to me, those are thousands of people who would not have lived, had I not gone backwards in time.

They call it Basic Temporal Relativity, and it will make your brain hurt just thinking about it. Basically, it states that if you go back in time and change something, you as a time traveler can only access the future in which those things happened. 

The difference between the "control" time line and the "new" timeline is measured every mission by comparing about twenty thousand irrelevant facts -- little things, like the number of jumbo-sized diapers purchased at the Columbus, Ohio A&P in 1982, or the attendance numbers at the 2004 Rose bowl; or big things, like the list of the presidents, or when Puerto Rico joined the Union, or the exact number of Polish immigrants who came to America in 2012. The aggregate of differences between the control list and the post-mission assessment is called the "divergence". 

Over time, these divergences were cumulative, quantified by a percentile. The theory was that if we kept the divergences under 10% or so, we'd be able to finish our business and return to a happier, healthier utopia in the future that we'd created in the past, one shag at a time. 

Only things don't always work out so well in time travel. It's all very well and good to say, arbitrarily, that 10% of our reality is expendable . . . but which 10%? I mean, I don't much care whether or not I have to order my pizza by phone, fax, email, smoke signal or telepathy . . . but I do care if pizza is invented or not. Everyone (at least when I grew up) knows about "sensitive dependence on initial conditions" -- the cornerstone of Chaos Theory -- but until suddenly you've popped into a future where Rock and Roll never became popular and Daniel Boone is black, well, you haven't lived it, baby.

We had been lucky, so far, from what the Downstream Brains said. Minor divergences had yet to sunder our evolving timeline from a world we'd recognize, largely due to careful planning, cautious research, and the subtle intervention of a few astute temporal "clean up" squads that worked to rectify untenable divergences. Total Aggregate Divergence (TAD -- another great acronym brought to you by the Technological Military Industrial Complex Department of Impressive Acronyms -- aka TMICDIA) was still less than 3%. From what the reports said, the only major elements missing from our culture were minor. I had caught up on some of them when I was last back at the Base, and they amused me.

Some subtle shifts in musical tastes ("Heavy Metal" Rock & Roll of the 70s through the 90s had inexplicably combined with some folk music in rural Brazil, for example, and the resulting craze had swept across South America in the late 1990s), a few small technological changes (electrical outlets and plugs were shaped differently), and what I had grown up learning as the 'Happy Birthday' song now had a slightly different tune. No biggie. Rated by our analysts on the cost/benefit scale they had put together, those were acceptable divergences.

But some other divergences, well, they had required extensive clean-up. We weren't supposed to talk about it, of course, but the Project is a small place and people will talk about work there just like they will anywhere -- especially about other people's spectacular fuck-ups. 

There was the time where Charles Lindbergh wasn't the one who crossed the Atlantic. Divergence went to an amazing 12%, and Hitler had taken Britain before being atom-bombed to the peace table. That fuck-up was legendary.

Or the era in which the amazing hitter Fidel Castro had led the Boston Red Sox to their first pennant in fifty-five years in 1967, while the far right-wing Cuba Coalition provided bargain-basement mercenaries for the American war effort in Vietnam. That one took the cleaners seven trips to fix, all because of one crucial screw-up that they had a hard time identifying. And that one was just wrong. The Sox have to have their full share of Bambino Curse in order for the sports gods to be appeased. I may not be much of a baseball fan, but I know Fate at work when I see it.

For the most part, our divergences were carefully scrutinized by highly trained Project analysts at a base further upstream than even I was, somewhere back in a remote area of prehistory, who decided whether or not they should be included in that 10% aggregate, or fixed. I was gratified to know that everyone in our cozy little end of the Time Travel biz had been responsible for just five major fixes in our illustrious history, contributing less than a full percentile to the aggregate.

If all of this is boring and tedious and confusing to you, I am completely empathetic. This is why I've glossed over most of it in favor of all of my brilliant sexual shenanigans. But trust me when I say I bring it up now because it was going to become very, very important to me. I just didn't know it at the time.

"What kind of divergences?"

"They were understandably vague in the communiqué," he said, pouring some freshly squeezed orange juice. "But word on the temporal street is that we have a fifteen percent divergence in progress, and that the analysts can't decide on what to do."

I raised my eyebrows. "Anything to do with us?"

He shrugged. "Not that I know of. The cusp area is someplace in the mid-1970s, from what I understand. We haven't been there in a while."

"Interesting," I lied. "Okay, on to business, then. Let's go over my three horny maidens again."

"I wouldn't exactly call them that," Cromwell smirked, pulling out the era-appropriate file folder he had printed of all of my marks. "But let's start with number seven: "Lucy Bonner. Age 20, unmarried, lives with parents and brother at a small dairy just outside of town. Works part time for her folks, part time at the County Library. Records say she marries later in life, no mention of kids . . . but she does take a ten-month sabbatical from the County next year. No explanation given. Not too bad lookin', either," he remarked, flipping me a photo made to look like a newspaper clipping.

Dark brown hair, slightly hippy, small boobs under all of that polyester, complacent expression. Cats-eye glasses. That's what got to me -- a Sixties librarian with glasses. She would be fun. I noted her branch's address and motioned for him to move on.

"Jennifer Ann Miller, 24, works in the steno pool of the Gulf States Insurance Company, downtown. Also not too bad," he added, handing me the picture. Tall girl, lanky, even, with a lonely look in her eye. The photo was almost a year old, but I could already see the desperation beginning to burn as her twenty-fifth year approached without a wedding ring. "Not a drinker, not a smoker, not a . . . well, she doesn't do much of anything but go to work."

"Maybe I need a secretary," I smirked.

"I thought that's what . . . whatshername, Lori was for."

"She's a personal assistant, not a secretary. Besides, she can actually help me a bit with this, I think."

"Careful with the local talent, Boss," he reminded me. "We don't need any additional complications right now."

"Relax! Trust me!" I said, shrugging. "I've got her pegged. Who's number nine?"

"Our final future mom is Miss Sandy Simmons, 19. She's the easy one. And I mean that literally. She pops up all over the Tampa scandal sheets in a few years, connected to three or four prominent local businessmen in ways they'd rather not contend with. But right now sweet, wholesome Miss Sandy is working in a bakery in West Tampa. She works the front counter. Enjoy."

Her photo was two years in the future, and she was a looker. A little exercise, a few hundred dollars of make-up, a real wardrobe, and she'd make someone a dynamite second wife someday. Coke-bottle shape with long blonde hair -- she reminded me a little of a local real-estate agent I knew.

"Yum. I'll save her for last. I'll get right on these. And keep me informed of any downstream issues too, will you? Oh, and remember that angel stuff from Baltimore? See if you can't have that sent. I've got another idea . . ."

"That stuff?" Cromwell asked, confused. "Why? I don't see . . ."

"Leave the seduction stuff to me, OK?" I asked. "I know what I'm doing. I'll have this in the bag soon, I promise. I will need the keys to the Caddy, though."

"You're the Casanova," he agreed, handing them over with a sigh. "Good luck."

When I got back to the room, Lori was awake and dressed, already, and had a few messages for me. From my bookie, Milo, for one. Apparently I had won my longshot, and he was eager to pay me off . . . or take another bet. I gave him a call and made some, using my winnings, which he was eager to get back. Actually, I made five bets based on my research, two of them low-yield and reasonable, two of them wildly unlikely and hugely profitable, one stinker. The reasonable bets, of course, I'd lose money on, but Milo would find that the two wild bets would pay out far more than the three losers, and come tomorrow he'd owe me around a quarter of a million bucks.

All part of my sneaky plan.

The other message was from my real estate agent, about the house. I'd stop by and pay her a visit, personally.

I reviewed the files for my marks while Lori puttered around the place. When she started to annoy me I had her sit in the chair opposite me and masturbate while I read. It was pointless, of course, from an operational standpoint, but it got me in the zone to watch this young woman get herself off as part of her normal business day.

Looking at my three marks, I could tell which one would be easiest -- the librarian. It took two calls to establish when she'd be working next -- that afternoon, in the rare document collection, no less. I suddenly had a burning need to explore Tampa's collection of civil war letters. 

The other two I'd lay some ground work for, today, but I didn't plan on making a move on either until later. After Lori made herself shudder in pleasure, I gave her a list of things I wanted done -- a very strange list, from her perspective. But I handed her a few hundred bucks and a withering stare, when she started asking questions, and she kept to herself after that. I also reminded her of her bonus opportunities, and told her I'd check in with her in the afternoon.

In the meantime, I needed to discuss my new house.

I arrived at her office at about ten thirty. Alice was there, of course, on the phone back in her personal office, her pretty young secretary (Betty, I quickly discovered) falling all over herself to offer me coffee and tea -- ten more minutes and I would have had the brainless little darling bent over her desk without chemical assistance. Alice quickly got rid of whomever she was talking to and came out. She was wearing a lovely cream-colored spring suit today, conservative but undeniably sexy, with a pink coral necklace and elegant gold watch. She was clearly surprised and unprepared to see me in person -- which was my design. In seduction or in business, you never want a woman to feel too complacent in the relationship. She was also very wary, I noted with amusement, no doubt wondering if something was imperiling the sale. I had written her a big check that had cleared with no problem. It was likely burning a hole in her escrow account, and she was troubled by my sudden appearance.

"Mr. Winthrop! What a pleasant surprise! I had just called you, this morning—"

"Yes, my assistant gave me the message," I answered smoothly. "I was out on business, anyway, and figured I would just drop by. No problems, I hope?" I asked, arching my eyebrow. 

"Um, well, not as such," she said. "I've contacted the seller, and he's interested in your offer. I just . . ."

"Well, I had a few . . . concerns," I said, ominously. "Perhaps we could discuss them in your office?"

She glanced at Betty and then her watch. She understood my intentions, of course, and I could tell she wasn't thrilled with my timing. But she was anxious to not jeopardize the sale. "Certainly, I have a while before my next appointment. Come on back and we can discuss them. Betty, no calls," she said, airily, and led me back.

It was an opulent office, and by later standards it was condescendingly feminine. Tastefully expensive junk cluttered every shelf; lots of fru-fru artwork and kitsch, and there were no less than three fresh floral arrangements. As soon as she closed the door, I forcefully embraced her, giving her little room for maneuver. Either she accepted my advances gracefully, or she pulled back, rejecting me, and imperiled the sale.

She was a smart businesswoman. After a moment's hesitation, she relaxed and feigned enthusiasm for my kissing. I took that as a positive and pushed relentlessly forward, my hands all over her breasts. I wasn't quite crude, but I was clearly adamant, and she just had to stand there and be pawed.

"Mister . . . Winthrop . . . I'm so happy . . . you dropped by . . ." she said, trying to segue the discussion back to business. 

"I thought you might be," I said in a low, husky voice as my hand found the hem of her skirt and rose under it. My fingers sought out her panties like a guided missile. "I really enjoyed our little tour the other day," I added as I found her barely-moist entrance. 

"So did I," she said reluctantly. "I'm flattered by the attention." She put her hand on the outside of my fly, casually squeezing my cock through my pants. 

"Good. I so enjoyed your lips around my dick, I thought I'd take the tour again." I pushed her into a dainty leather chair, which brought her almost eye-level to my cock. Then I backed off. She would have to complete the transaction. Either she proceeded with the blowjob and proved herself a greedy whore, or she retained her dignity by gently declining. And possibly lose the commission.

She proved more greedy than virtuous. Her fingers sought out my zipper and lowered it, releasing my expanding man muscle into the morning air. She gave me a slightly uncomfortable look before bending her head to suck my business all the way into her mouth. Her manicured hands found my scrotum and began rubbing it gently as her lips measured my shaft.

I was really enjoying this. I was fucking up her day, which was clear -- she hadn't anticipated sucking a client's cock at 10:30 in the morning, obviously, and her enthusiasm was entirely feigned. But she took it like a champ, slithering those delicious lips down the length of my pole with restrained urgency. She wanted the job done as quickly and quietly as possible. A glance at the door and a few more subtle clues let me know that she was concerned about her secretary overhearing. 

I might have been content with a quickie blowjob, had I not seen that. But then I had to take it all the way. I thrust a couple of times as deep as I could into her throat, then pulled away completely with a loud and unexpected "pop!". 




Cock of Ages Ch. 13



"That's amazing," I said, earnestly.

"Let me finish up so we can discuss your concerns," she said, smoothly.

"I have to have you," I said, my voice edged with passion. I pulled her standing, then turned her around and bent her over the back of the chair. Her face was only inches away from the door, and she let out a small noise in surprise. It was followed by a barely suppressed whimper.

"That's it," I whispered. "That's what I want: that ass, that sweet, sweet ass." I caressed it through her skirt as she quivered. "That was some outstanding pussy, Alice. I've been thinking about it for days." With that I pulled her skirt up abruptly -- badly wrinkling it in the process -- and peeled down her white panties. It only took a moment for my cock to locate her entrance, which was still relatively dry, and I spared no time for preparation before I pushed deeply inside. She stifled a long, low moan of pain as I seated myself within her, and she braced herself the best she could on the chair. Her knees were shaking.

"That's the stuff," I groaned, a little louder than she would have preferred. "That's what I like." She wiggled to present a better angle for my thrusts, but I ignored it. This was about me, after all. I pushed deeper into her pussy and then began some long stroking. She just lay there, bent over her own chair in her own office, being raped in all but name.

She did get wet after a dozen or so painful strokes, and the going was smoother after that. I pumped her powerfully, slamming all the way forward into her cervix, then withdrawing almost to the head before returning. It was a hard, relentless, savage fuck, and all she could do was grit her teeth and take it. 

I rode her unenthusiastic cunt for fifteen minutes and made it clear that I wasn't going to finish until I was convinced she was enjoying it. Despite herself she began making exaggerated sighs -- sighs that could no doubt be overheard by Betty. I added my own exaggerated moans, and before long both of us were panting and groaning like horny teenagers.

"I'm cumming!" I bellowed, at last. "I'm cumming in your goddamn tight wet pussy, Alice!" I accelerated my thrusts until my belly was banging up against her generous ass cheeks like a kettledrum, my cock slamming through the length of her pussy. I grasped the sides of her expensive skirt in white-knuckled fists, and she couldn't help but wail in a mixture of pain and pleasure as I ruthlessly fucked her. There was no way that Betty was not going to hear us. 

At last I squirted a prodigious loud deep within her, slowing down to a slippery, squishy cadence before I dismounted. Alice sagged her head and shoulders over the back of the chair, her pink ass cheeks glistening with the residue of my spunk that escaped on my cock. 

I had fucked her hard. What was more, I had humiliated her in her professional sanctuary. One thing that I knew she prided herself on was her discretion, and there was no way she could have kept our noisy coupling a secret.

"That," I pronounced, loudly, as I tucked my pecker back in, "was a first class piece of ass!"

She didn't say anything as she slowly pulled her panties up over her butt and tried to smooth her skirt down over it. She turned around and gave me a smile -- a very little smile -- and cleared her throat.

"That was . . . refreshing," she lied, sweetly. "I always like to begin my day on a high note. Thank you."

"Oh, it was my pleasure," I assured her. "I woke up this morning with a fierce woody, and immediately thought of you."

"I'm flattered," she said, and had the grace to blush. "I try to provide a full-service agency to my clients."

"As to that," I said, as if it was an afterthought. "I was wondering whether or not the owner would be willing to let me try the property out -- spend the night, have a few friends over, that sort of thing. So I can evaluate its appeal more thoroughly." 

"I . . . I don't see why not," she said, a little startled by the request.

"Nothing elaborate," I promised. "Just a few friends. I'd be more than happy to pay a fee for the night, however -- say, five hundred dollars?"

"I'll be happy to make that proposal," she nodded. "I'll be speaking with him sometime today, I think . . ." I could almost hear the wheels turning. Certainly she would mention the proposal -- but she wouldn't bother to mention the fee. That would go right into her very expensive Italian leather pocketbook. "I don't think there will be a problem, though, not if I put it forward as a precondition of sale."

I nodded. "Thanks, I appreciate it. That will give me an opportunity to appreciate the finer points of the place," I said, meaningfully, as I ran my hand over her face and tucked a stray blonde strand behind her ear. It didn't help much. She still looked like she'd just been had. "Anyway, call me at the hotel and let me know. Ciao!" 

I let her walk me out through the front office, taking my arm like an old dear friend and making up some crappy lines about easements as we passed her secretary's desk. From the furious way Betty was blushing, and the flustered way she was busily filing and determinedly NOT looking at us, it was clear that she had overheard the entire sordid encounter. I couldn't help the smallest of smirks as I left.

Real estate is fun!

***

I had run Alice without the aid of anything more than a fairly-benign pheromone cologne, partly because I enjoyed her humiliation at being essentially unwilling and partly because I knew she was a sure thing. Miss Lucy Bonner, however, would likely need the assistance of my pharmacopeia to drop her panties. I made sure I was fully loaded as I entered the public library that afternoon. 

I had added some fake glasses to increase my studious appearance, and had traded in the silk blazer for a light tweed jacket, and had added a pipe and tobacco at the last minute for effect. A battered brown leather attaché, a slightly dazed expression, and I could have been a visiting scholar from anywhere.

I scoped out the premises and spied on Lucy awhile before I made my approach. She wasn't particularly attractive -- the kind of woman cosmetics empires were built upon -- but she was shapely and she had a sweet smile. She was as demure and soft-spoken as you might expect a librarian would be. If she wasn't a virgin, then it was her deep dark secret, but that look of longing she had when no one else was looking told me she was looking for love -- and that made her a prime target.

Five minutes in the bathroom to perfect my appearance, look up something in Wealth of Nations, and splash fuck-me-NOW pheromones all over myself, and I was ready to go. I approached the reference desk where she was sitting, nervously, and stammered out a request to see the Civil War era documents in the rare books room. She raised an eyebrow, curiously, as I did so -- then the pheromone hit her, and I watched one visible sign of arousal after another pop up on her. 

"I'm -- I am Professor Winthrop," I stuttered, clearing my throat twice in the process. "I'm a historian. I'd be most appreciative if I could possibly gain access to your rare book room," I managed, at last. I could tell she was amused and enchanted already. 

"Certainly, Professor Winthrop . . . we often have visiting historians look over our collection," she said, trying to look professional. "I'll just have to get the keys from the head librarian . . ."

"You're most gracious," I said with a small nervous grin and a bow. 

She disappeared into the little office, and I was able to overhear a little bit of her conversation with the older woman, who was reluctant to let Lucy escort me. Lucy finally admitted to her in a whisper that I was gorgeous and that she'd owe her a big favor. In moments I heard the keys jingle.

I eagerly followed her into a dimly lit passageway that led past storerooms and closets. She asked me a rash of respectful questions on the journey, and I was able to inform her of my status -- singe -- my position -- Associate Professor -- and my University (Yale -- although I mentioned it apologetically, showing her my Harvard ring -- which told me she was ovulating furiously). I let her do the talking, playing the recalcitrant professor to the hilt.

We finally made it back to the Rare Books room, and she turned to me, apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but library policy is to not permit the study of our original manuscripts without a member of the staff present. Security," she added, sorrowfully, doing her best to push her breasts in my face. 

"I, I quite understand," I agreed. "I'll be glad of the company, actually -- I'll only be taking a cursory look at the collection now, of course. If I find what I'm looking for, I'll arrange to have it photographed for my Department."

"Can I . . . get you anything?" she asked, trying to be sultry. "Coffee, maybe? Or a glass of tea?"

"I'll have a glass of tea if you join me," I said, nodding. "It will take me a while just to look at your catalog index -- I swear I won't open a single portfolio until you're back," I vowed.

She smiled and dimpled and scurried away. I pulled out the index and waited, pretending to look for some bit of antebellum correspondence. Lucy returned soon, and handed me a glass.

"I've grown quite fond of iced tea," I noted appreciatively, after taking a sip. "Not something we get very often, in the North."

"Yes, it helps with the heat," she said, with just a trace of suggestiveness.

"Can you get me . . . Folio 199? I think I'll start there," I said, getting right to work. She nodded and dove into the shelves to find it. The moment her back was turned I dropped one of the fast-acting aphros into her tea and pulled a blank yellow legal pad and a freshly sharpened pencil out of my attaché. She carefully cradled the cracked leather portfolio and assisted me in opening it (taking several opportunities to touch my hands along the way) and then respectfully waited while I read.

Ten minutes later, after she had consumed most of her tea, I reached past her for the legal pad, brushed her breast with my arm, and that's pretty much all it took. She turned towards me as I mumbled a startled apology and smiled.

"I didn't mind," she said, softly. "I actually rather enjoyed it."

"Nonsense!" I insisted. "Clumsy of me. If I had meant for you to enjoy it, I would have done this," I said, and boldly cupped her left tit in my palm. She closed her eyes and forced it more fully into my hand, and then I was kissing her passionately. She kissed . . . poorly, no doubt from lack of practice. But her enthusiasm was infectious, and I took a moment to introduce her to the fine art of kissing until she was tolerable, and less like a gagging goldfish. 

Meanwhile my hands had attacked her breasts, snaking inside the top of her plain dress and rubbing them vigorously through her bra. I felt her nipples harden like steel nibs, and I was merciless as I twisted and pulled on them. If it hurt, she didn't say so -- indeed, she did her best to push them into my hands all the more. 

After a good five minutes of lip-lock I stole a hand under her skirt -- and her hand landed reflexively on top of it. A little distraction with her nipple, a little more intensity on the kiss, and her hand retreated, allowing mine to go forward, up and to glory. Her plain cotton panties were soaked -- and I mean really soaked, with streams of her lubrication running down her leg long before my deft fingers found her entrance. She ceded the valley between her legs without a fight and with only a token protest. Finding her clit was easy: it was erect and waiting for me, and I tormented it with my fingers until she was nigh a powerful orgasm.

I'm no fool, though -- little Miss Lucy was acting against her demure nature, abandoned to a moment of insane passion. While a thunderous orgasm would no doubt be welcome, it might also shake her out of her erotic fog and make her question her actions before she got good and fucked. Couldn't let that happen. I drove her nearly over her peak, then backed off.

"I'm on fire," I gasped, my eyes filled with feigned wonder. "You are a magnificent creature, Lucy!" She blushed and damn near purred with the compliment. 

"I . . . I don't . . ." she began, as the heat in her loins began to fade.

"I know," I reassured her. "One doesn't usually find tramps in the Reference section," I smiled. "Those hussies hang out in Returns!"

That caused her to crack a wide smile, which was a perfect opportunity to ply her with more kissing, keeping that hot wet cunt drenched and simmering. I also took the opportunity to bring my dick into play, which proved to be an enchanting element for Lucy. I pulled her hand to it, and she was very hesitant about touching it. With murmurs of encouragement and only slightly exaggerated sighs, I convinced her to explore it with her fingers. She even knelt for a closer look -- which, ordinarily, might be an invitation to fellatio, but this girl was far more naïve than that. She was running on pure instinct, now.

"The . . . hole is all wet," she noted.

"So is yours," I whispered.

She looked up at me guiltily. "Too wet?"

Poor ignorant dear. I shrugged. "Only one way to find out," I said, lifting her up on the desk with the tiniest of yelps. She was still showing some reluctance as I flipped up her skirt and tugged down her cotton panties. She didn't shave her legs, and of course (that bit of feminine neurosis wouldn't be wide-spread until later in the decade) and her bush looked like an abandoned lot, but there was no disguising her arousal. The crotch of her underwear was dripping, literally.

"I've never . . ." she admitted, biting her lip.

"You've never . . . made love?" I asked, feigning shock. "But . . . but . . . you act like such a natural lover!" I said, reverently. She ate it up, and stripped off the top of her dress and her bra as wantonly as she was able.

While she was doing that, I spread her thighs and bent to inspect her gooey pussy. Dark blonde fur split crookedly, revealing a dark pink cavern that seemed to visibly invite my attentions. I couldn't resist -- daring a premature orgasm, I licked her throbbing clit and engulfed it between my lips, introducing her most sensitive spot to the expertise of my fluttering tongue. 

"OHMYGOD!" she shouted in a whisper. Her eyes were wide when I glanced up, and filled with wonder. Grinning to myself I took her to the brink, once again, before straightening and positioning the head of my dick between her lips. I paused before I plunged in. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked, teasingly.

She looked at me, stricken. "Yes! Oh, my God! Yes! Don't stop now!"

"I thought all of you Southern girls saved it for marriage," I quipped, pushing forward almost imperceptibly. She felt my girth spread her entrance, though, and her eyes rolled back a bit before she recovered. 

"Just shut up and do it!" she whispered harshly. "This is perfect! Don't ruin it!"

I chuckled to myself and slid home, past the remaining shreds of her hymen. "You're beautiful," I moaned quietly in her ear. "You feel so hot and wet!"

"And you're, you're h-h-hard," she agreed. "Oh, do it, do it, take me, take me!"

Ah, the Sixties! "Take me" was about as naughty as any respectable woman could get away with, now, and it was considered pretty racy. Only the lower class sluts would use the 'f-word' -- or their Ivy League counterparts. Little Lucy was firmly middle-class, though, and such words only popped up in her mind. So I 'took' her, pistoning my hard cock deeper and deeper into her virgin cunt, enjoying her inaugural screw with relish. She was living out a fantasy, here, fucking a handsome visiting professor in the rare book room . . . her ass, as she would later learn, planted firmly on a priceless portfolio of authentic Civil War correspondence. It's the type of fantasy only a truly bookish nerdling girl can muster, but I was filling it as thoroughly as I was filling her freshly broached pussy.

"Oh, yes, that's not too wet at all," I grunted as I planted the very last few inches between her thighs. She gave me an answering grunt as I battered her cervix, but she didn't shy away -- her legs crossed behind my back and urged me ever deeper into her cleft. "I'm not going to deep, am I?" I teased.

"GOD, no," she gasped. "I want you inside . . . me!"

It would be a shame to make this anything less than a completely memorable experience, so I captured one of her bright pink nipples in my mouth and sucked on it hard as I slammed into her. She pushed her pelvis towards me in eagerness. The nipple stimulation helped, though, and in moments she was riding through a cascade of pleasure as her first cock-induced orgasm overwhelmed her.

I didn't even slow down. While she was preoccupied with her own massive orgasm, I worked for my own, ignoring her as anything but a receptacle for my spooge. And a few minutes latter I pumped what felt like a gallon of hot sticky cum inside her swampy pussy. She collapsed on my shoulder as the last spasms wracked her body and she was finally still.

"Oh my God," she whispered into my ear. "I just lost my virginity in the Rare Books room!"

"It appears you have," I agreed, the least bit of regret infecting my voice. 

"I can't believe it! I just got . . . got had, in the Rare Books Room! Twice!"

"But, we've only done it once," I said, confused. Yes, of course, I knew what she was doing. But she was sweet and it was her first time. I owed her a little romantic leeway.

"Well, professor, you aren't leaving today without doing it again," she purred into my ear as my softening prick suddenly began swelling again.



Cock of Ages Ch. 14



Tampa, Florida 
March 9, 1963

"I have an errand for you today. A kind of secret mission," I noted to my live-in personal assistant – which is a polite, upscale word for "private whore" – Lori. She was just emerging from the spacious bathroom after "making herself pretty" which took over an hour. 

Her head tilted inquisitively. "More victims?"

"One in particular. I want you to go downtown and make the acquaintance of a girl I saw. I found out her name and where she works, but I want you to find her and make friends with her. Take her to lunch, or something."

"And the point of this secret mission?"

"I want you to extend to her a job offer, pending an interview with myself. I'm thinking about taking on a personal secretary. I'd like to scope her qualifications for that position."

"Which means about four different positions, unless I'm mistaken. All right, I'll do it. When do you want to interview her?"

"Tomorrow, after work. Here's a hundred bucks and the directions. Make it look classy, okay?"

"I'm always classy," my whore said, indignantly.

"Be sure to talk about what a great guy I am to work for," I added. 

"When you aren't putting your big cock up my butt," she pointed out. I had done so last night, in the middle of the night. Lori didn't seem to appreciate it, but she gritted her teeth and took the barely-lubed intruder into her rectum as part of her job. That made her Employee of the Month in my book. 

She took the money and scampered. Me, I was setting up my final mark for the Tampa trip. But I had a little excursion to take, first.

It had been a few days since I picked up a newspaper, so after Lori was gone I sauntered down the strip to my favorite little boutique. I passed by twice, beforehand, to make sure she was working. She was, I discovered, although her boss was buzzing around. I had to wait until damn near 11:00 am, when the old biddy left with the deposit, before I made my move.

The cowbell clanked as I came through the door, and dark flashing eyes saw me, did a double take, and then filled with horror. She was wearing a pretty yellow top today, and a hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

"Hello, Cammie," I said, my voice just above a whisper. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"H-hi," she said, swallowing nervously. 

"You remember me, don't you?" I asked in a friendly voice.

"Y-yes, I remember you, Mr. Winthrop," she finally admitted, her eyes downcast. 

"Good," I said with a smile. "I remember you, too, Cammie. Our usual place?" I asked, breezing past her tiny counter and into the storeroom/office in the back of the shop. "You might want to lock the door."

I waited back there for almost five full minutes, and I kept waiting to hear the bell ring as she ran away, but instead I heard the bolt click, and listened to her put out the "Out To Lunch" sign. A few moments later she appeared, biting her lip nervously.

"I, um, I threw up this morning," she said, guiltily.

"Must be a touch of something," I grunted, pulling down my zipper.

"I m-might be . . ."

"What, pregnant?" I finished, hauling out my hardening cock.

"Y-yeah," she said, quietly, staring at her feet. "I think I'm late."

"Well, if you are – and it's mine – then I'll take care of you," I said, gently. "I'm wealthy, like I said. I could pay for you and our child until college. No need to worry."

"It's yours," she assured me. "Has to be. If, I, mean."

"If," I agreed. "All you have to do is bring me a paternity test, I'll forward it to my lawyers, and we'll set up an account for you. And make you sign a bunch of papers saying that you'll never reveal the kids' real parentage. Say . . . three hundred a month, to start? Five hundred?"

That was five times what she was making now. She nodded enthusiastically, and looked a little relieved.

"See, that wasn't so hard," I smiled. "Now, can we do this, soon?"

"R-right, Mr. Winthrop," she said, seeing my hard dick dance in front of her like it was her very first time. She walked over to me, took a deep breath, and got on her knees. She took the head of my cock in her mouth almost gratefully.

That was quite a rush, actually. I had pretty much raped this waif, stolen her innocence, filled her belly with my seed which was almost guaranteed to ruin her young life, and then made her feel well enough about the whole situation with a well-placed lie that she was going to suck my cock anyway. I'm a very bad man.

And she was getting very good at sucking my cock. I watched, entranced, as her teen-aged bronzed lips slid up and down my pole, her hand cupping my testicles gingerly. She looked up once or twice while she did it, looking for approval, for sympathy, for . . . something. I groaned and put my hand on her head, giving her my lust. And eventually my good-sized load, which she struggled to take. She swallowed it down, made a bit of a face, and got up, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

"Thanks," I said, zipping up. "Can I get a paper, too, please? And a pack of Luckies."

"Sure," she said, dazed. That had to be a surreal experience for her.

She rang me up on the clutzy old mechanical register and I left her a twenty for a tip – then turned around and added a fifty, just because she hadn't been a bitch about any of it. Not too bright, perhaps, but she hadn't even cried. Her eyes lit up when she saw the big note on the counter. I got the hell out of there before her boss came back.

That bit of fun over with, I turned my attention to my final mark, Miss Sandy Simmons. 

Sandy worked at a high-end bakery in West Tampa, one that did lots of catered affairs. Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, you get the picture. Cakes, breads, some pastries. Sandy worked the front counter, displaying her fetching bosom most attractively. She also handled catering calls.

When I got back to my room, I called the bakery and then hung up and called back until I got a female voice on the line.

"West Side Bakery!" she sang. "How can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm going to be needing a caterer for a private affair. Actually, it's a kind of trial run for my sister's wedding this summer. Probably no more than four, five hundred people. Is that the sort of thing you do?"

"Oh, yes sir," she said, enthusiastically. "Our cakes are the best. But the wedding isn't until summer?"

"Yes, but I'm going to have a small engagement party first," I said, trying to let the Harvard flow into my accent. "I'd like someone to come out and look over the site, meet with me personally. Your name is . . .?"

"Oh, I'm just Sandy," she said, dismissively. "I just work the counter. You'll want to talk to Antonio or Juan – those are the Costanzas. They're the brothers who own the bakery," she explained. 

"Actually, I'd rather not deal directly with . . . the management," I said. "Um, is there any way you could meet me out there? I mean, I just want someone who has some sort of experience with this sort of thing to look over the site, y'know, tell me what I need to feed five hundred people. Price isn't an object," I added.

"Well . . ." she said, hesitantly. "I suppose I could – I've priced out jobs before. Never one this big . . ."

"I'll be generous," I promised, "I just have a hard time dealing with . . . Hispanics. There always seems to be some misunderstanding. We have a Portuguese maid back home, and I couldn't figure out what she was saying half the time."

"I know what you mean," she said, and I could almost hear her eyes rolling. "When do you want to meet?"

"Are you available this afternoon?" 

"Um, sure, it's a delivery day, so things are pretty slow after I make the run. And where do you want me to meet you?"

"Casa Nova," I said with a grin, and gave her directions.

***

I'm sure Sandy guessed something was up, but perhaps that's crediting her with too much. She was pretty and ambitious, but she lacked both Alice's intelligence and her style. Still, I could see why she would be a homewrecker in a few years – she still had a bit of babyfat to lose, and definitely had the aroma of a home town girl on her, but she was a beauty. I waited for her in front of the house, where Alice had wasted no time in putting an "Under Contract!" addition to the faded "FOR SALE" sign. Sandy pulled around the circle in the delivery truck, parked behind the Caddy, and hopped out a moment later wearing a robin-egg blue colored apron over a slightly tacky dress. 

"Mr. Winthrop?" she asked, hesitantly.

"Yes, Michael Winthrop," I said warmly, while still emphasizing my social superiority by the way I took her hand. "How do you like the house? I'm in the process of purchasing it. Winter home, I think. I quite fancy it."

"It's beautiful!" she agreed, looking out over the faux Mediterranean garden that needed a lot of very expensive love. "I didn't even know this place was back here."

"Its seclusion was one of its attractions," I said loftily. "Please, come inside."

She followed obediently as I led her into the magnificent foyer, and then immediately into the courtyard. I continued a fast-paced explanation the entire way. "My sister Annette will be getting married to her long-time fiancé this August – they've been engaged for four years, now, and we never thought it would happen. I was purchasing this estate anyway, and they live in New York – ugly, crowded place, I prefer the country life—so naturally I volunteered to hold the ceremony here. I'm also lending them my yacht for a Carribean honeymoon. He's a doctor, which is only what Annette deserves, but he went into research – research! Can you believe it? Instead of specializing like any intelligent young man. So they're poor as churchmice, and I think it's only proper that they have a wedding worthy of a Winthrop, so we're holding it here. Five hundred, maybe six hundred people, mostly out-of-towners. It's a huge affair and I'll likely bring in professionals from the Northeast to handle the hard parts, but we'll need a local caterer – oh, and we'll have the bridal luncheon, the rehearsal dinner, and likely a few other pre-nuptial events beforehand, so we'll need a good caterer. I was told that you are full service caterers – am I correct?"

"Oh, um, yessir, we're a bakery but we front for several prominent restaurants in the Tampa-Clearwater area. We have plenty of experience in this sort of thing," she assured me.

I smiled. "Excellent, because we'll need one. We'll pay a premium, no doubt about it – we're Winthrops, after all – and this dreary affair will cost plenty. Father has given me a budget of ten thousand dollars to play with, then told me not to go over fifteen, the scoundrel, so I need to find a good place to spend most of that. If your little bakery can fulfill all my needs –"

"Oh, yes, sir! Of course, sir!" she said, enthusiastically. I could hear the dollar signs going off in her head like fireworks. "We do weddings all the time. We did Congressman Adams' daughter's wedding last year. Beautiful." 

"Well, good. But as I said, I need to find someone who can handle all of my needs, someone local, someone who knows this town. Let's see, I'm envisioning the bridal luncheon here, in the courtyard . . ."

I went on for half an hour about the fictitious wedding, my plans becoming more and more grandiose with every breath. I was also seducing Sandy, without her knowledge. Small, subtle things, how I talked, caught her eye, mirrored her movements, etc. As we walked from one room to the next, she split her time being impressed by the house and faking interest in my plans. By the time we had come back to the foyer, she had also walked through two areas I had bathed in strong pheromones. I led her out to the car, and opened my trunk as I finished painting a picture of the most expensive wedding in history. Her eyes were wide in disbelief.

"Ten thousand! He wants me to do it for ten thousand!" I complained as I retrieved a very nice wicker picnic basket and opened it, displaying a basic bar set-up complete with self-contained ice bucket. I carefully poured ice and ingredients into a shaker, shook briefly, and then poured two drinks, railing about the Austin family I was theoretically related to, and how they were guaranteed to fuck up any Winthrop function they attended. I handed her a glass without giving her a chance to refuse, and then asked her a few rapid-fire questions about the local area.

She answered clumsily. She was clearly out of her element and just trying to hold on to the conversation. She sipped her drink – liberally spiked with aphros in the glass before I even poured it – to cover up the awkwardness.

I love awkwardness. It motivates people to do things all the time.

"And have you seen the bedrooms here?" I asked, after three rapid-fire segues in a row. "Come on, you HAVE to see this, you just have to," I said, taking her unoccupied hand in mine and pulling her gently back through the house. "I'll show you the pool, first, and then the bathroom, but you HAVE to see the bedroom – it's the whole reason I'm buying this place."

"Uh . . . sure," she said, hesitantly but obediently. 

Ten minutes later, I had her in the same bedroom I had taken Alice in, her tacky dress pushed up to her waist as I pushed my cock into her unkempt bush and watched her eyes go from wide-eyed astonishment to tightly closed in pleasure.

"God, I like it when I get good service," I groaned, lustfully. "I'm definitely going to use your company if you treat your customers like this!"

Poor Sandy didn't know what came over her, but she had leapt into my arms like a nympho at the first innuendo. I skipped right to the good parts, eschewing foreplay under the circumstances, and hammered her young, tight cunt while she hung on for dear life. It took me twenty minutes, during which she thrashed out two impressively loud orgasms, but I eventually filled her up with spooge while she swooned in lust. I'm good at what I do.

When she was done, I lay next to her and lit her a cigarette and made post-coital small-talk. I didn't know if she smoked or not, but it was the sort of thing you do in the Sixties. I was surprised when she climbed on top of me ten minutes later and began wiggling her furry bush over my dick until it began to revive. Then she slid on for a long, sensuous cowgirl screw I was only too happy to enjoy.

She left twenty minutes later, after freshening up in the bathroom, having agreed on her bakery doing a very special catering gig for me as a trial for the "wedding". She even gave me a bit of a discount. 

I did a little more planning after she left, taking out the box of faux angel gear and setting up the bedroom properly. It took a few hours, but I enjoyed the work – it was a lot like stage dressing. After all, I was going to be performing one of the greatest come-backs of all time.

I returned to the hotel about early evening. Lori was there, having spent most of the day at the hotel pool after setting up my "interview" with the secretary. I was feeling pretty well-disposed to her, so after I wrote up a quick report to Cromwell I took her out someplace nice.

I wanted mellow and relaxing, so I didn't pick anyone up right away and focused on Lori. She told me a lot about herself (she was still pushing for the fictitious proposal I had been using as bait) and flirted shamelessly, and I decided by the end of the meal that she deserved something a little special for her trouble. I made a note to give her a big wad of cash before I left. Then I slipped my hand under the tablecloth and up her skirt and masturbated her to orgasm just as the busboy came by to fill up our water. She was mortified, but complacent.

In the parking lot I pushed her head into my lap and enjoyed her improving fellatio technique as I rode around town. I stopped her before I came – just as we pulled into the Tiki Club.

I was getting pretty fond of the place, I admit. It had turned into a seething pit of sexuality while I was here, and I wanted one last big go before I left this era. To that end I pocketed a few of the wide-area pheromone sprays and activated them as soon as I could. Lori joined me (after fixing her makeup) at the bar though she wasn't crazy about my plans. She expected me to flaunt her status as front-runner, but I shot that notion down pretty damn quick.

"Back again," I sighed. "Go cruise the crowd and bring me a couple of likely ones. One at a time, of course. No need to start a fight."

Humiliated by the task of procuring fresh pussy, she mumbled a terse agreement and went to work. It wasn't hard – the Tiki Club had a growing reputation, thanks to me, and the place was packed with cooze. And no one recognizes a slut like another slut. 

I traded crude comments with the bartender, who was glad to see me – since word had spread, he had been deluged by eager young things who were willing to be a whore for the chance to be a rich man's wife. Someone had spread the rumor that Lori had won out already (probably started by Lori herself) but that didn't stop the number of ladies who wanted a chance to knock her out of first place. 

Lori returned a few moments later with a lithe little blonde, almost pixie-like, who had a child-like innocence about her. My ring almost burned me when I touched her, and a few well-placed compliments had her purring before we were even in the back room. I was already wound up from Lori's previous oral attention, so I skipped the foreplay, laid her back on the dusty table, moved aside her plain white cotton panties, and gave her ten minutes of the hardest fucking of her life – and knocked her up in the process. 

Just to add to my rep as a perv, I made her recite her earliest sexual experience (two summers before, three guys after a party) and then had her suck me clean. It was obvious from her face that this was the first time she'd ever had a dick in her mouth, and the novelty of the situation was the only thing that made it noteworthy. When it came to sucking, this chick sucked.

My second date of the evening was a healthy, buxom young slut who sported a dishwater-blonde hairdo held into place by a gallon of Aquanet. Still, from across a crowded room the effect was interesting. She had big, full pouty lips and bedroom eyes, and after introducing herself – no shit – as Candy, she dragged me back to the back room. I let her play aggressor as she ravished my lips and neck and ears, and soon my cock joined the fray. Candy was much, much better at giving head than the first waif. Those big puffy lips were like two warm, wet pillows, and I enjoyed every stroke. 

She offered to let me cum in her mouth, assuring that she would swallow every drop, but I declined. She was fertile – probably a couple of days past ovulating – and I wanted a chance at her twat. With a smile she shucked off her panties and bent over, displaying a magnificent ass that I could already tell would be fat by the time she was forty without some serious dietary intervention. I plugged her cunt with my cock and rode her methodically, listening for her cooing sounds as I pistoned my groin into hers. She was faking it, but was doing a convincing job. I let her display her best faux climax before I splashed her cervix with my seed.

I fucked seven women that night, not including Lori. By waiting between bouts, and insisting on plenty of oral before and afterwards, I was able to keep going like a stud horse all night. I didn't vary the routine much until number Six – Evelyn, I think her name was, a brunette with curly hair and eyes that seemed to look surprised all the time – because she said (unconvincingly) that she was willing to be as nasty as I could dream of. 

Oh, I'm sure her heart was in the right place, but I hate it when a girl tries to play it cool when I'm fucking her . . . so I took her up on the challenge and stuffed my larger than average dick up her virgin ass.  




Cock of Ages Ch. 14



Evelyn yelped, looked at me accusingly over her shoulder like I was insane, and saw the look on my face. Whatever thought it inspired she kept to herself, turned back around, and put her face down while I plundered her asshole. Then I forced her to her knees to clean up the sticky mess that clung to my cock. She vomited in a corner, called me a pervert, and stomped out. You almost couldn't notice how funny she was walking.

All in all, it was a successful night. Seven more freebies to add to my total, and at least five of them had a decent shot at getting pregnant. I didn't even make Lori perform for me that night, unless you count taking the bartender into the back and letting him fuck her doggie style, to thank him for his hospitality. After seven fucks in four hours, even I was bushed. And I still had a secretary and a secret plan to get through.

***

I took it easy the next day, making more preparations for my big evening. I had told Cromwell I needed just one more day to take care of my last assignment, and while he was feeling antsy about it, he didn't see the harm. Reports from downstream were becoming more and more ominous, it seemed. He gave me the supplies I needed without comment, merely telling me to hurry the fuck up. I thanked him and went out to Casa Nova to get ready.

I was back in the hotel room by one o'clock, and ready for the interview soon after that. We would conduct it in my room, I decided, and I procured a few props beforehand to make me look like a real businessman. At about six o'clock Lori led Miss Jennifer Miller into the sitting area of my suite and waited with her for me to appear. I was on the phone to my bookie, Milo, in the other room, trying to calm him down about how much money he now owed me. 

I tried to keep it cordial, and make it sound like a business deal. In the meantime, Lori served a very nervous Jennifer some very doped-up iced tea, allowed her to inhale plenty of pheromones, and soothed her about the whole thing by mentioning how much money she could make if she got the job. I have to admit, Lori did a first-rate job of prepping her. By the time I was done, Jennifer was bound and determined to do whatever it took to get the job.

Finally, after getting the bookie calmed down, I hung up the phone and came out, all smiles and handshakes. I introduced myself and dismissed Jennifer for an hour, then sat down and began the interview.

Jennifer was winsome, if tall, a lanky babe nearly five-eight with just enough up top to give her a feminine shape. She had big sorrowful eyes that were only slightly sparkling with the prospect of changing jobs. Her voice was low and deliberate, and while I could tell she was no rocket scientist she wasn't an idiot, either. 

"So, Jennifer, let's get to business," I began, clapping my hands together eagerly. I think I startled her, which was good. I wanted her a little off-balance. "I've recently invested in some property here in Tampa, and I have a few other business deals I'd like to see to fruition, once I've moved in. So I'm going to need an office and a secretary. Have to have a secretary. And you come very highly recommended."

Her eyes widened slightly. 

"By whom?" she asked, clearing her throat.

"A business associate," I assured her. "Someone who knows good talent when he sees it, and someone who doesn't want a reputation for sniping his colleagues' staff, so he shall remain anonymous. But you've been with Gulf States . . ."

"Three years," she finished, swallowing. "I started out in the steno pool, and then was assigned to Mr. Lucas for six months, and in June of last year I was permanently assigned to Mr. Carter. We handle all the property claims above $50,000," she said, smugly.

"And may I ask how much you made last year?"

"I, uh, I don't usually talk about money, but . . . I made about $12,000 last year." She sounded hesitant about the figure, so I assumed that she was inflating it, probably around 10%. As it was, that kind of money was outstanding in a clerical position in 1963. 

I looked aghast, and for a moment she was worried that the figure was too high. "I've blown more than that at the track in a long afternoon!" I laughed. "This position starts at . . . say, twenty five? With raises every six months or so. Oh, and full health insurance coverage, including dental."

"Dental?" she asked, still in shock over the high number. Health insurance was rarely a perquisite in the clerical field in '63, but then again most health care here was a barbaric joke. People still died of syphilis in 1963. Executives, professionals, and highly-paid union manufacturing jobs got health insurance as an incentive, but almost no one covered dental.

"You do have teeth, don't you?" I asked, amused. That won me a smile, proving my point. She looked a lot better when she smiled.

"What would I have to do?" she asked, the hook firmly set. She was comfortable at twelve. At twice that much she would be far more than comfortable. 

I shrugged. "Virtually nothing," I admitted. "Oh, the odd letter, some light filing, and answering the office phone. But most of the real work will be done by attorneys and accountants. You will have to keep my schedule, but considering I'll be out of the country much of the time I don't think that will be an arduous task," I said loftily in my homemade Harvard accent. "But I will need someone in the office, more or less, every day. Oh, except for vacation – you'll get two weeks, plus two sick days a month." I swear I saw her nipples go erect through the bullet-proof monstrosity from Maidenform she wore. 

"And we'll contract an answering service for after-hours, lunch breaks, and the like. Oh, and you'll get a clothing allowance – say an extra $100 a month? You'll be representing me when I'm abroad, after all, doesn't pay to dress like a . . . " I waved dismissively at what she was wearing, which was no doubt a blow to her womanly ego.

"I'm . . . very interested in this position," she said, shifting in the seat. The aphros were starting to work, as was the lure of easy money. 

"I'll warn you now, I treat my employees like family – family," I repeated for emphasis. "I'm very loyal to those who work for me. If you give good service, and prove my trust in you, I am apt to be very . . . generous," I said, the first hint of suggestiveness in my voice. She missed it completely.

"Oh, yes, Lori said you were a great boss to work for," she nodded, enthusiastically. "She told me about the shopping spree you sent her on, and dinner last night, and . . . well, lots of stuff!"

"Exactly," I nodded. "I like to keep my people happy . . . when they keep me happy. A sound business principal, no?"

"Uh, of course!" she agreed, nodding vigorously. I thought there was a glimmer of recognition, somewhere far back in her head, as the aphros turned up the heat in her loins. "But, Mr. Winthrop, you haven't even asked me how fast I type," she noted. "Or which system of shorthand I use."

"Anyone can type," I dismissed. "And shorthand . . . I don't give a rat's ass which one you use. I'm far more interested in your . . . other . . . skills," I said, as deliberately as possible. I fixed her with a long, serious stare.

Bingo. The light went on.

"You don't mean my, um, my filing, I take it," she said, meekly.

"Not particularly, no," I said, matching her tone. "My secretary will be sharing all of my secrets, Jennifer. ALL of my secrets. I have to know I can trust my people . . . utterly. And the easiest way to ensure that, I've found, is to make certain I am keeping a secret for my people." I leaned forward expectantly towards her. She hadn't grabbed her purse, yet, which was a good sign, but neither was she cooperating as well as I would have liked.

"Um, Mr. Winthrop, sir, I . . . I'm a good girl," she burst out. "I mean, I know that sometimes you have to . . . do things for your job . . ."

"Exactly," I said, nodding. "Very discrete things," I added.

"Right. Well, I, uh, I haven't done anything like that—"

Oh God, was she a virgin? I asked myself. That would change the dynamic significantly. 

"—since I was in the steno pool," she whispered. 

"Tell me about it," I said, leaning a little closer – and breathing a sigh of relief. I hadn't prepared for a virgin.

"Oh, God, do I have to?" she whimpered.  I nodded. "Consider it part of your qualifications," I said, knowingly. Thankfully, the whole concept of sexual harassment in the workplace was a decade or two away. Gotta love the Sixties.

She swallowed, and looked away. "Okay, here it goes," she said to herself. "When I first came to Gulf Coast, I was in the steno pool, where all the new girls start out. It was pretty easy, really, just transcribing letters and taking dictation and typing. Every now and then one of the real secretaries would go out on vacation or maternity leave or something, and one of us girls would be dispatched to substitute for her until she came back. 

"Well, the first time that happened to me I was sent to the small satellite office over in Clearwater. Only two agents over there, and one was almost always out on sales calls while the other stayed at the office and wrote policies. It was just them and me," she said, shamefully blushing.

"Go on," I coaxed.

"I . . . I did everything they asked and I thought that I was doing a good job the first day or so.  Then late Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Haney – he was on office duty that day – locked the door at four-thirty and asked me to come to his office. I thought he just wanted to dictate a letter, but when I came in . . . he had his pants off." Jennifer looked mortified, and couldn't look me in the eye.

"Continue," I urged.

"I didn't know what to do – there he was, sitting in his chair with his . . . thing sticking up. I couldn't say anything. I couldn't move. I should have screamed or something, I suppose, but . . ."

"He was your superior," I supplied.

"Exactly. He was my boss. One call from him back to my supervisor, and I'd be out on the street. So I asked him, 'what is going on?' and he just looked at me . . . he looked at me like I was stupid or something."

"Had you never seen a man's penis before?" I asked, matter-of-factly.

"N-no—yes," she admitted, her face a sheet of scarlet. "I . . . there was this boy in high school, and he was going into the Army, and . . ."

"Say no more," I said, sparing her revealing the details of the loss of her virginity. For now. "Just tell me what happened in Clearwater. What did Mister . . ."

"Mr. Haney," she supplied, helpfully. "He just told me that part of the duties of the branch secretary included . . . entertainment of the agents," she said, venturing a bit of a wry chuckle. "I asked him what sort of entertainment, and he looked at me like I was stupid again. Then he told me that no secretary ever got out of the steno pool without 'proving' herself. I—I tried to keep calm, but he lost patience and pulled me over to him, and then pushed me down. On my knees. In front of him," she whispered. 

"And . . .?"

"And . . . I entertained him. With my . . . with my mouth. I put his thing in my mouth."

"You became . . . a cocksucker, I believe the term is," I suggested.

"I—no—y-yesss," she hissed, finally, a tear leaking from her eye. "I . . . sucked his thing. Until he . . . went, in my mouth. He made me swallow it!" she revealed, shamefully. "He pushed my head up and down and when he did his business, he told me that all the senior secretaries swallowed. So I did. I didn't want to be in the steno pool forever – this was my big chance."

"You were right to be so far sighted," I agreed, gravely. Her nipples were poking out magnificently. Her breathing was deep and measured, and her eyes were just a bit dilated. Between the aphros and the tale of her shame, she was getting horny as hell. "Was that the sum total of that kind of experience?"

"Uh, no, no it wasn't," she admitted. "The next day I almost didn't come to work, but I did. I was late, but Mr. Haney didn't say anything. It was raining that day, and Mr. Stewart was there with Mr. Haney, so I thought I would be okay. He wouldn't try anything with Mr. Stewart right there, and besides, they were in a meeting writing a policy all day. But about four o'clock Mr. Haney told me to lock up early, because it was 'hump day'. I thought he was being crude, but I knew some of the satellite offices have looser rules than the main branch.

"So I locked up. That's when Mr. Stewart told me to join them in his office, the big one in the back. I asked him why, and he just said that it was hump day. So I went back, trying to figure out what 'hump day' meant.

"Well, when I got back there, both agents were looking at me . . . expectantly. They had a bottle of bourbon out, and both were drinking it out of coffee cups – which is expressly against Company policy!" she said, a trifle shrill-ly. "But they were drinking, and they asked me if I knew what day it was. I said 'hump day', and they asked me if I knew what that meant. I said I didn't, and that's when they told me that every Wednesday they got to . . . hump the secretary. It was tradition, they said. I guess I looked a little shocked. Who wouldn't be?"

"So . . . what did you do?"

"I . . . they asked me to show them my underthings," she said, her voice wavering, now. "My panties. I almost didn't – I wasn't raised that way, you understand Mr. Winthrop. My family may not have been affluent, but . . . well, we weren't trash, either. My mother always taught me that . . . good girls wait for, for marriage," she choked out. "But . . . well, I knew, Mr. Winthrop, I knew that if I didn't . . . 'play ball', that they might not even let me go back to the steno pool. I had to, you understand, Mr. Winthrop. I had to. I had no other choice."

"It must have been very hard for you," I said sympathetically, putting my hand on her knee. "That first time," I added. She didn't contradict me.

The idea that every cute young secretary was being used for sex back here in the dark ages might seem naïve – but historical research indicates that it happened a LOT more than most people suspected. While rape was, of course, still on the books as a serious crime, acquaintance rape, date rape, workplace rape, and the like were considered more of a legal gray area. This was the Golden Age of the executive, when white men enjoyed the perks of power, and those perks often included bagging all the young stuff in the office. I could get used to that. Jennifer's story seemed to support this conclusion, and despite the fact that I was sporting a raging boner, now, I wanted her to continue. Besides, she was clearly getting worked up, too.

"It was," she agreed, tearfully. "They had me raise my skirt and show them my, my privates, and then they took off my panties. Didn't even ask, just took them right off me and left me exposed to God and everyone. Then . . . then they had me sit on the desk, the big desk, and they looked at me, y'know, down there, and put their fingers inside me. They accused me of being a slut because I didn't have a maidenhead. A slut! Me! I had only been with one man before then, and . . . well, they kept putting their fingers in me, really fast, and something came over me, something like a fit. I think I might have fainted. Whatever happened, when they put their . . . things in me, I didn't even try to fight. Not really. I let them, like I was stupid or something."

"Did they squirt their semen into you?" I asked, trying to sound clinical about it.

"N-no, I was spared that, at least. I know where babies come from. They pulled out and squirted on my belly," she admitted. "That time. The next . . . 'hump day', they made me kneel and . . . take it in my mouth again." The thought was clearly humiliating to her, I could tell. It also aroused her, which I could also tell. She continued without prompting, "And then the next day I came in and they acted like nothing had happened. Nothing! Until lunch time. 

"I brought my lunch that day, and was going to eat at my desk, but then Mr. Stewart brought me in his office and I had to put his thing in my mouth again. That happened every day, after that, the whole two weeks I was there. Whomever was tending the office that day, I had to service them at lunch. And if the other agent came in at four, like they often did, then the agent on duty watched the desk while I had to service the other agent."

"What happened after the assignment?" I asked.

"I got promoted. That was when I was made Mr. Lucas' secretary. He's in claims. He didn't touch me, he's a kindly old gent, but he had this claims adjuster who would get me in the supply room and put his hands under my skirt. He just laughed when I protested. And now, with Mr. Carter, he . . . well, he was fine until the Christmas party a few months ago. Then he caught me going downstairs for more ice, and he pulled me into the mimeograph room. That place always makes me woozy, and I had already had a smart eggnog. So I didn't struggle much when he . . . took me. But that was special, I guess, he was drunk. After that, he just looks embarrassed, although he did grab my breast a few weeks ago."

"So, you know your way around the business," I said, matter-of-factly. "Hate to tell you this, Jennifer, but that is how the business world works. The only difference with working for me is that you know up front that that's how it's going to be. And I am very, very discrete. But please understand that a man of my means has the resources to enjoy a number of pleasures, and a secretary who fucks him is one of them." She gasped a little at the f-word, but her nipples didn't fail. "I expect sex from my employees, if I want. Good sex, too. And very, very discreet."

"L-lori has sex with you?" she asked, doubtfully.

"On demand," I agreed. "Any time I want. And she makes . . . well, significantly more than a steno girl at Gulf Coast. So I want you to think very carefully about this: I want to 'interview' you and assess your skills. Your bedroom skills. And if I'm happy with them, then we'll proceed. If I'm disappointed in either your attitude or your performance, well, there are a lot of pretty girls in this town who can type and would leap at a job like this. You come recommended."

She thought about it, I give her credit for that. She thought for the better part of a minute before she sighed and closed her tear-stained eyes and nodded. 

"I'll do it," she sniffed. 

"Do what, Jennifer?" I asked, toying with her.

"I'll . . . have sex with you."

I unzipped my slacks and let my hard as stone cock out. "Let's get started then," I said, evenly, and nodded toward my cock.

Her eyes were wide. "I've never . . . I didn't . . . I didn't know they got that big," she whispered.

"Family inheritance," I said, dismissively. "Now show me what you can do, Jennifer. With your mouth." She nodded, walked around the coffee table, and sat slowly on her knees in front of me. She didn't look me in the eye at all, just grabbed my dick gingerly and stooped to put it between her lips.

She was a mediocre fellatrix at best, but the kinkiness of the situation made it pretty erotic. I let her slobber on my bone for ten minutes or so, making plenty of noise (which embarrassed her greatly) and called her all sorts of nasty names while she did so. She leaked a tear or two, but soon got into it. Great things, those little aphrodisiacs.

Finally, I pulled her standing again, then raised her demure skirt to reveal her very unattractive panties. Paneled cotton, as romantic as an army tent. I pulled them down perfunctorily and examined her twat. It had plenty of fur, of course, a slightly darker shade than her hair, and it grew across her thighs and up to her navel. While I'm not a fetishist about hair I can appreciate a healthy bush. I ran my fingers through her curls a few times, eliciting an accidental moan, and then pushed two of them into her pussy. She almost fainted when I did – she was soaked. I finger banged her for a few moments until she started to sway, and just as she began to abandon herself to the feeling I pulled out abruptly and found her clitoris. When my finger hit that sensitive little bud, her knees nearly gave out. I grinned at the wide-eyed response, and then turned her around.




Cock of Ages Ch. 14



"Don't you want to . . . y'know . . . do it?" she asked, confused. I laughed.

"Oh, I shall," I said, as I pushed her down, exposing her ass. "Haven't you ever seen dogs do it, Jennifer?"

She didn't answer, but I could feel her blush.

"That's right: I'm going to mount you like a bitch is mounted. I'm going to stuff this really big cock deep into your tight cunt. And then I'm going to ride that fresh pussy like it's a thoroughbred race horse," I informed her. She shook a little, but didn't move away. I noted that my ring was quite warm – time to get to it.

I stood and used the head of my cock to trace the length of her crack from behind, and where I sensed the most heat and wetness, I pushed in suddenly, holding her hips against mine with intense purpose. Her knees buckled again, but in this position she didn't have far to go. I buried the length of my shaft deep inside of her, and she began moaning almost instantly.

I took it slow, wanting to savor the moment. That took her by surprise, too, I think, because she glanced back a few times over her shoulder with a quizzical expression. I wanted her to cum, though – which should be pretty easy for her, considering the chemical cocktail coursing through her system. So I rodded her deliberately and slowly and built her slowly to a momentous climax. I timed it perfectly, so while she was writhing in pleasure under a man for perhaps the first time in her life, I was spilling my seed on her cervix. I did pull out when I was almost done, though, and left a goodly smear of jizz on her bare back.  "You didn't . . . squirt in me, did you?" she asked, her voice nearly panicked. 

"Of course not, that would be rude," I chuckled as I zipped up. "Don't you feel the wet spot on your back?"

"Um, yes," she admitted, reaching around and getting my cum on her fingers. "I just feel so . . . wet down there."

"A woman gets that wet when she's properly excited," I explained. "If it hasn't happened to you before, perhaps you just haven't been with the right man?"

"Maybe," she considered. "I . . . I know you must think—"

"—that you're a decent screw? Yes, you are. With a little work you might even be exceptional. And we'll need to work on your skills as a cocksucker – easily done, I imagine, that's one of my favorite things. But your credentials seem to be in order," I admitted with a grin. "I'll be leaving town the day after tomorrow, and won't be back for about three weeks. That should leave you enough time to work out a notice with Gulf Coast. I'll get back in touch with you when I return, and you can start setting up my office. It will be at my house, at first, but we'll probably find spaced downtown, eventually." I dug into my pockets and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. Her eyes opened dramatically at the sight. I put it into her hands.

"What's this?" she asked, dumbly staring at the bill.

"That depends," I said, shrugging. "If you take the job, then it's a signing bonus, like baseball players sometimes get. If you don't take the job, then it's payment for you sucking my cock and getting fucked like a whore. Your choice."

"I'll . . . I'll take it," she said, blushing again. 

"I thought you might," I said, condescendingly. "And try to work on your cock sucking while I'm gone. It would be nice to have someone accomplished in the art."

"Work on my . . .?" she asked in disbelief.

"I don't care who you practice with, just get better at it," I said, tersely. That should make some random guy very happy, I thought. Something else occurred to me, too. "And trim that bush, too, while you're at it. Other than that, you'll do fine." I stood up and offered her my hand. "Welcome aboard!"



Cock of Ages Ch. 15



Tampa, Florida
March 10, 1963

"Beware, the Ides of March," Cromwell said in a spooky voice as he slid into the booth across the table from me.

"You saying sooth on the side?" I asked, sipping the coffee. It was better than Baltimore's, I admit, but still a far cry from the delicate flavors a few decades would produce. But then again this was a "modern" coffeeshop, with a huge five-burner Bunn brewer that dominated the open kitchen like a pagan idol. This place had been lurking down the street from the hotel for weeks, now, but this was the first time I had bothered to eat here. Good omelets.

"Nah, just thought I'd be morose," he jibed, setting his notebook down next to his paper placemat. "The date is coming up, and I always remember it from High School. Besides, it suits my mood. More bad news from downstream." 

He waited for me to say, "Like what?" or, "Oh, my God, tell me!" but I didn't give him the satisfaction. I raised an inquiring eyebrow instead. That would show him.

"Message came in from HQ amending the previous clean-up order: all teams are to return to base at the first available opportunity," he said.

"So what's happening?"

"Well, they didn't say, exactly, but then I got a private message from your favorite technician. He says that the divergence problem that emerged sometime in the mid-70s has its roots deeper than that – much deeper. And it's gotten worse. That's why the recall. Clean up squads are working on it, but the upshot is that more agents have left the service. Violently."

"More?" I asked, concerned. I knew about the accidents – getting shot in the back by a jealous husband is an occupational hazard after all – but we were well-trained, well-prepared, and well-resourced – and not one of us was stupid. 

"Yeah, two more from our section. Austin was found dead in an alleyway of New Haven, in '33. Oscar was drowned in a pool in Palm Springs just downstream in '68."

"That could have been an accident," I insisted.

"Only if he often went swimming with a concrete block, tied around his neck."

"Oh. Probably murder, then," I conceded, sipping more coffee.

"Or a damn strange way to commit suicide. Something's seriously wrong. So how soon can you wrap up?"

I paused – I had a dilemma, here.

On the one hand, I'm terribly attached to my skin and everything contained therein. I'm a coward, I admit it. If it wasn't for my weakness for easy pussy and lots of it, I wouldn't be doing this job for any kind of money. The idea that at least three of my colleagues were now dead was disturbing, especially when I knew for a fact that there were unaccounted time travelers in this very temporal neighborhood.

But then there was my carefully-laid plan to get me carefully-laid. I had a final trick I wanted to pull in Tampa before I scooted, and I hated to abandon it. So did I tell Cromwell about my successful interview with Jennifer and flee back to base, or did I stall him and try to make it work out – and risk someone putting a bullet in me for no good reason?

In the end, my cock won out. It usually does. At least it's consistent.

"Give me eighteen hours," I said, finally.

"What? Boss, this is an 

order! 'Earliest convenient transport' is bueracratese for 'get your sorry ass back to base', in case you were unaware!"

"Yeah, I got that, I got that. I just have a few loose ends – and wouldn't you like to come back early, job complete? It would look good on your record," I reminded him. 

"Yeah, and being dead would look pretty shitty," he shot back. "You got your job, I got mine. You got twelve."

"Cromwell, I—"

"Twelve. Actually," he said, glancing at his watch, "I'll give you thirteen. The capsule will arrive right at midnight. Be in it or get used to lousy television for the next eighty years."

"Fine," I grumbled, secretly pleased with myself. I had expected him to cut back even more. "Make the arrangements. Um, does it have to land in that orchard?"

Cromwell shrugged. "No, we can put it down anywhere. Anywhere there aren't a lot of heavy metals," he amended. "Screws up the gyros."

"Good. Have it land at that house I've been looking at, Casa Nova. In the courtyard, I think. You know where it is."

"Yeah, no problem," he said, making a note on a pad. "Anything else?"

"Nope. Just be there at midnight. I'll go get this last piece, and we can get back home. Or a reasonable facsimile."

"Just . . . don't do anything stupid, okay?" he asked, half a smile on his face. "You bang her, we're out of here. No complications."

"No complications," I agreed. "I promise."

Of course, there were complications.

***

The first thing I did was contact my bookie, Milo, and make some arrangements. He was uncomfortable, of course, due to how much money he now owed me, and he was stalling. I ended up going over to the bar personally to sort it out. 

He looked nervous when he saw me, no doubt expecting me to be belligerent. Instead I was cordial, which made him even more suspicious. People are rarely cordial to their bookie when he owes them.

"I'm good for it," he insisted. "I'm just having some trouble getting it together."

"I understand," I soothed. "No one was more surprised than I was. That's a lot of money – you'll probably have to go upstairs for that." He looked even more uncomfortable then. Tampa was a big town for organized crime, but mentioning that there was even an 'upstairs' made people nervous. "Tell you what," I said, finally. "How about you pay me in installments."

"Installments?" Milo asked, confused.

"Surely you've heard the term," I said, smiling.

"Yeah, sure, some of my clients pay that way. But when they win, they want it all up front, or they go to the competition next time. But I just ain't got a quarter mil under my goddamn pillow!" he complained bitterly.

"Oh, I understand, I understand – that's a lot to expect. But I'm feeling in a reasonable mood today. How much can you get me right now?"

He searched his mind, looking troubled. "Maybe twenty or thirty grand," he admitted. "That's cash-on-hand. I'll have to borrow the rest."

"That will do for a start," I agreed. "And then, let's say you give me ten grand a month until it's paid off."

"That's pretty goddamn generous of you," he said, suspiciously. "So what kind of vig am I looking at?"

"No vig, Milo," I said, shaking my head. His eyes bugged out.

"You want me to pay back a fucking quarter mil, without any goddamn interest?" he asked in disbelief. 

"Yes, exactly," I agreed. "It's not the money, Milo, it's the trust. The vig on a quarter mil . . . that would put some fellas out of business."

"You're goddamn right about that," he swore, quietly.

"Well, I don't want you out of business, Milo. I want you to owe me a favor or two. This way, I know I can trust you to come through when I need you to. You get to pay me off without selling your kids, and everyone's happy. Can you appreciate that?"

"Yes. Hell, yes!"

"So, this is what I want you to do with the payment . . ."

***

I went back to the hotel about three o'clock and saw Lori for the last time.

She was still a little worn-out from the previous day's fun, but she was recovering quickly. I found her sunning on the balcony, and after luring her back into the room for a quickie blow job while I sat on the couch, I fired her.

"Ugh!" she said, after swallowing my load. 

"Not as tasty as usual?" I teased.

"Just a little nauseous," she said, wiping her lips. "I didn't think I drank that much last night, but—" I stopped her before she could continue the thought – she was having morning sickness, too, but I didn't want her to even think about that until I was gone.

"It's 'nauseated', when you use it that way," I corrected her. "And today is your last day."

"What?" she asked, shocked.

"People feel 'nauseated', not 'nauseous'. It's a common—"

"No, the other thing! My last day?"

"Oh. Yeah, right. I've been called away. I need to hop a flight out of here at midnight, tonight. Family business." My tone told her not to ask about that business – not that she really cared.

"So you're just gonna dump me out in the street?" she demanded. "Just . . . leave me?"

"No, I'm retiring you," I insisted. "I need to go. I'll probably come back here at some point to conclude some business, but you probably won't be here."

She looked warily around at that. "Why? Have I seen too much? You . . . are you gonna have me 'bumped off'? Is that Cromwell creep going to kill me?"

"No, no, my dear," I said with a sigh. "Nothing like that. You have been a good and loyal employee, and I don't treat my staff like that. No, you won't be here because hopefully you'll be building a better life for yourself elsewhere." I dug into my jacket and pulled out a thick stack of cash and threw it in her lap. "That's everything I owe you, plus bonuses. Ten thousand dollars. After today, you can get the hell out of Tampa and go pretty much anywhere you want."

She looked at the bills in amazement. Then she unexpectedly rose on her haunches and kissed me, passionately – I could still smell my spooge on her breath. She realized this belatedly and pulled away, then sought out my dick with her fingers and began stroking it back to life with a shy, almost girlish expression on her face. I relaxed and decided to let her demonstrate her gratitude. She bent her head and engulfed me again, and this time her enthusiasm for the act was tangible: she sucked like a bride on her wedding night, a big improvement over the businesslike head she had given me just a moment before. It was an intriguing study in contrasts, and a testament to the power that filthy lucre has over the lusts of women.

She swallowed the second load greedily, and looked up at me smiling dreamily. "Thank you," she said, finally.

"You're welcome. And the room is paid for until the end of the week, so if you want to linger about after I'm gone, feel free."

"Thanks, again," she repeated. "Oh, by the way . . . who won?"

"Won?" I asked, confused.

"The wife derby," she reminded me. "You were looking for the biggest slut in Tampa to marry – who won? Yesterday that pathetic bitch from the Tiki Club showed up – Stephanie something? – anyway, she was crying and wanting to know if you had made a decision, yet. You never called her." She was probably throwing up now, too. Lot of that going around. Which meant it was time for me to get the hell out of town.

"I never called anyone. Game is suspended, Lori. My father is apparently close to death. If he kicks, then my strategy changes. I won't know for sure until I'm back in Chicago. But, confidentially, I'd probably have picked you. You're pretty, you're sexy, you perform like a seasoned whore, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. All admirable qualities in a wife. Or an assistant. Hell, why don't you take the Cadillac, too? After tonight, I won't need it. I'll leave the extra key at the front desk." 

She beamed. She looked like she could have easily given me a third blowjob for that. I didn't bother to mention the first payment was due in about three weeks. Instead she just smiled dreamily. "You're one hell of a boss, Mike."

"I know, sugar," I said, with a contented sigh, "I know. Now, there's one last thing I want you to do for me . . ."

***

It was time. 

I waited a good half-hour after Lori knocked on the door and handed her the tract – an identical tract she had seen when I did this the first time, down to the contact poison on the paper – gave her speech, and left. It would have been too obvious for me to hand her the mildly poisoned paper. Lori managed it without raising suspicions, and when I finally crossed the street and peeked into the window, Sister Shelly was laid out unconscious on the floor of the "narthex" of her storefront, her demure skirt in disarray about her – and her head only inches from a hard wooden table. After I let myself in I checked it – no sign of blood or swelling. Her guardian angel must be looking out for her.

I was a little disappointed that my ring was cold. I would have enjoyed knocking her up again. I would just have to enjoy fucking her body on its own merits – and the fucking with her head would be fun, too. I wrapped her in her coat and half-carried her unconscious body out to the Caddy, checking to make sure no one was watching. A plumber's truck rumbled by, but if the driver took notice of the pretty unconscious woman in my back seat, he didn't slow down.

Of course I couldn't resist another casual feel of her tits and pussy while she was asleep. There's just something about violating an unconscious woman like that that turns your crank. I gave her pantied twat one last squeeze and shut the back door. The drive out to Casa Nova took twenty minutes on the back roads, and getting her out and into the pre-prepared room was difficult, but I had her positioned and myself costumed long before she woke on her own.

Indeed, while she was still out, I went ahead and hit her with a triple-sized dose of the "fuck me now!" aphro, straight under her tongue, and then stuffed a cocktail featuring hallucinogens and MDMA and other euphorics into her pussy, where it melted and was absorbed into her mucous membranes almost instantly.

The little harp tattoo was still as clear and fresh on her breast as the day I put it there.

I watched her sleep for a while, noted how her unconscious body was responding to the drugs, and then I cued the subsonics and the heavenly music from the hidden speakers in the bedroom.

"Awake, Daughter Shelly," I commanded in my best stage voice.

"Huh?" she said, groggily, as she shook her head. She immediately felt the cool of the evening and realized she was naked. She bolted up, and her head swam. "Where am I?"

"Hast thou forgotten so quickly?" I lamented.

Her eyes shot open. "The tract – my Lord?" she whispered excitedly.

"Dost thou remember, now?" I asked, kindly.

"My lord Michael!" she said, closing her eyes. "At last! I prayed and prayed, daily, my lord, I prayed that you would visit!"

"And thy prayers were heard," I conceded. "Perhaps not as quickly as thou would have wished. But all things in their proper time, my child."

"You . . . you came to me the other day," she said, as my face swam before her. I had used just a touch of glowing makeup to give it that angelic halo effect. The backlighting helped, too. And of course the wings really made the costume. I nodded, sagely.

"Indeed, though the man whose form I took knows it not. It was time to test thee, Shelly, and see if thou hast kept my commandments fully."

"I have, Lord, I have!" she said, excitedly. "I turned away from my father, and did not let him touch me again. My mother was shamed by your blessing and threw me out of their home, but I did not despair: you had given me a command, and the Bible tells us to deny our mothers and fathers at the Lord's bidding."

"And you came to Tampa, as I instructed," I said, smiling warmly.

"I did, Lord, and I birthed the girl, just as you said!" she said, excitedly. "Praise God, I followed your command though the whole world was set against me! I ministered to those who gave the words, and I came to be ordained, and I have built you a church!"

"I have seen it," I reminded her. "Rough, perhaps, but sincere."

"It has been a hard thing, Lord," she said, biting her lip. The hormones in her system were torturing her loins, yet she restrained herself. She should be humping my leg and mewling like a kitten, but her piety over-rode her lust. Impressive. "People often don't trust a woman in the ministry. I've had problems with the local authorities. To be without a man . . . to be poor . . . I love my little gift from God so much, and . . ."

"Thy obedience shall be rewarded, child," I said, kindly. "All of thy suffering hath purpose, in God's eyes. Come, entertain me as I have bidden thee to." I pushed aside my robe and my turgid manhood sprung forth. Shelly's eyes got wider – no telling exactly how it looked to her through her drug-clouded mind. But I cued the music up a bit with my hidden remote, and I'm sure it was impressive. She crawled over to me and reverently began fellating me.

With Lori's grateful hummer still in my recent memory, it was interesting to compare techniques. Lori was enthusiastic and technically proficient, there's no doubt – but she couldn't compete with a woman for whom the act was no less than a blissful religious devotion. I don't think my cock has ever been so welcome and so well-treated in a lady's mouth before.

I let her take her time, suckling me gently but intently as I stood there, wings partially spread. Her head moved with a hypnotic rhythm while she serviced me, a worshipful look on her face. Nearly half an hour later I finally succumbed to her oral charms and painted her throat with my sacred seed. She swallowed complacently, as if she had been taking communion.

"W-was I pleasing to you, Lord?" she asked, shyly.

"Indeed, daughter," I intoned. "Now dance for me."

"What?"

"Dance, my child. Dance and seduce me into your love with your dancing. For I have many things to tell you, and many instructions for you to follow." She nodded, swallowing nervously, and then rose to dance.

She was horrible.

I suppose I should have expected it. Her father's flat-headed sect had outlawed dancing long ago, and she probably did not even do it in private – which I had supposed was a human universal. So when she began to swing her hips around clumsily, it was almost painful to look at. Still, it kept her busy as I instructed her.

I had prepared for this, of course. I told her to expect great reward for her obedience, and that it would come from a mysterious source. I told her that after she had received this reward she was to take her daughter and move to California, to the San Francisco area. She was to start another church, a small one, but one that preached a very special message. A far more pro-sex message than most. 

I laid it on thick, then, railing about the blasphemy of sheltering the people from the God-given gift of human sexuality, and how the puritanical ways of the Church were demeaning God's word. I condemned the prudishness, the intolerance, and the modesty of man, and I damned the hypocrisy of the Church's teachings on masturbation, sodomy, homosexuality, oral sex, infidelity, all of my faves. I replaced it instead with a pro-sex, free-love ideology that placed the sexual experience on par with the divine. That would fly in the San Francisco that would be evolving so dramatically in the next few years.

While she danced her eyes grew wider, as my voice got louder and more insistent. I let some anger show – nothing drives the point home better than some angelic wrath, I noted. I invested her with the task of quietly preaching the word that pleasure was sacred and orgasm was prayer, how natural beauty and playful lustiness were mankind's birthright, and that it had been cheated of it by Satan's intervention. The rules of modesty were the devil's traps, leading to sins of lust, while the natural attraction between man and woman – and between like sexes – was divine in nature. Sex was sacrament, not sin.

In short, I outlined a religion the way I would have written it. 

By the time I had come to a thunderous conclusion, her nipples were hard and her loins were hot – I could smell her musky aroma from where I stood. I held up a hand and she stopped dancing, noticing my resurgent prick once again. Unbidden she sunk to her knees and sucked me some more, then turned and presented her ass to me, leaning over the pristine white bedspread.

How could I resist so penitent a believer? I pushed my cock through the folds of her furry pussy and discovered how tight she was – clearly, this lady wasn't getting enough play. She trembled in ecstasy as I began my slow, powerful thrusts, and every time I bottomed out against her cervix she shuddered.




Cock of Ages Ch. 15



I gave her a rodding that kept her at the brink of orgasm for ages, then let her tumble off of that sweet cliff and into the icy depths of pleasure. She was cumming, and cumming hard. She was also praying and casting plenty of hallelujahs, which I found a little disconcerting. But I was in character, and I encouraged her pious pleas for salvation the same way I'd encourage a dockside whore to talk filthy while she was getting fucked that hard. Everyone has their kink: Shelly's just involved archaic religious scripture. I've seen weirder.

I rode her hard for what seemed like hours, but after her fourth or fifth major orgasm I eased back, slowing my pace significantly, and began to question her about her actions in the last decade. I asked who she had coupled with, who she had orally serviced, and whether or not she continued her daily masturbation. She adamantly agreed that she had done all of it – she was very devout. 

Finally, I spilled my seed deep in her clasping cunt, a sheen of sweat on her back and thighs. She lay panting in a witless heap until I withdrew. Then she quickly spun around and recaptured my cock between her lips and tenderly sucked away our combined juices. And here I was pretending to be the angel . . . 

"Enough, child," I said, pushing her gently away. I sat back on my "throne" – a massive Italian wooden chair I had borrowed from one of the other rooms – and she sat attentively on the bed, head slightly bowed, eyes glowing from a combination of drugs, orgasmic high, and religious ecstasy. "What would your greatest joy be, child?" I asked her.

"Lord? To serve you, and God," she said, as if it was obvious.

"Clearly, and thou hast done well in His sight," I sighed. "Can thou build this church? Art thou ready to spread this new word?"

"I can only try, Lord," she said, doubtfully.

"He shall grant thee strength," I assured her. "And what ever else you need. Thy child shall be well provided for."

"She is my greatest earthly joy," Shelly confirmed. "I often wonder whether my love for God is greater, or my love for my child. I pray I never have to face Abraham's dilemma."

"Thou shalt be spared that, at least," I smiled. "No, it is the Lord's wish that thou raiseth her up as a cherished daughter, and that she be kept well and safe. It is His wish that all children be kept so . . . and His great disappointment that they are not."

"Yes, Lord," she said, obediently. 

"Now demonstrate to me the singular sacrament I have commanded thee to perform daily," I said, trying to steer the conversation away from my daughter – my only daughter I knew of – and back to the gutter, where it belonged. Shelly smiled demurely and parted her thighs, giving me a splendid view of her furry bush. I watched as her fingers began to comb through the fur, seeking her clitoris, and soon it was moving with the speedy rhythm of a flamenco guitar. She brought herself off in less than five minutes – understandable, in light of her condition. It was no surprise that her show also put some more lead in my pencil. By the time she crash-dived into another climax, I was hard as a rock again.

"Exquisite," I commented, appreciatively. "Thou hast mastered the art. Perform it daily, as I have bid thee, for it is Holy in the eyes of the Lord."

"It shall be done," she said, reverently, as she wiped away the beads of sweat that had collected on her brow. 

"Now, the time hath come to undertake the third holy office, completing the trinity of the carnal sacraments. Turn thyself over and present thy fundament."

It took her a moment to parse what I had said, but then she obediently flipped over and prepared herself for me. If she had any reluctance about the act, she didn't show it. I took a moment myself to admire her gorgeous ass, still as tight as it had been a decade ago (a few weeks, from my perspective) but with just a little extra padding around the edges. Womanly, I'd call it. I stroked her cheeks for a while, watching her shudder at the sensation, while I poured lube all over her crack. I wanted this ride to last a while.

When my index finger sank into her butt without resistance, I knew she was ready. I positioned the head of my dick at her sphincter, then pushed ever millimeter of my peter deep into her bowels. She moaned loudly, partially in pain, partially in drug-induced ecstasy. Then she settled down to take the most ferocious assfucking of her life.

I enjoyed that to no end, and took the time to change the background music to something a little more intense. I enjoy a nice piece of sodomy, especially if its under false pretenses. This was absolutely exquisite. 

Every bit of pain she felt from the friction of my large cock going through her very tight anal ring she was mentally and emotionally transforming into religious ecstasy. The rougher I was, the more holy she felt. The hallelujahs had stopped, to be replaced by one long undulating moan of intensity. 

Shelly pushed back at me, too, driving her hips back to impale her ass on my dick. She was cumming in one long anal orgasm, which only added to my own excitement. I started quoting something in Latin I had memorized once (I think it was Winnie the Pooh – my Latin was a little elementary) and I brought the music up as my pace quickened. I was headed towards orgasm. 

Just to push it over the top, I leaned over her back, seating my dick deep within her ass, and reached around with my tiny but powerful vibrator. When it hit her clit she went wild, squirming madly at the sensation, which made her ass tighten spasmodically around my cock. I took her through three quick climaxes that way, and then withdrew my hand in favor of a full-bore buggering, hands on her hips, until I filled her bowels with my spunk.

When at last I withdrew, it only took a nod to have Shelly on her knees, worshipping my fouled dick with her mouth again. She didn't mind one bit. I mused on my plans while she worked: how she would wake up in this bed, miles from home, naked . . . with new little wings surrounding her harp tattoo. 

How my bookie would drop twenty thousand dollars in cash into her little church's "love offering" box in a few days. How she would move to California with our daughter and start a new life, and a new church. How I would visit her in the future and send her off on other quests. I touched her head while she suckled me, gently stroking her neck. In a few minutes she'd be unconscious from the drugs and the orgasm and I could start my exit strategy. 

But for now I let her suck my cock clean, humming happily as she loved it with her mouth. She was sucking an angel, after all, and had been given divine permission to promote her sexuality as a sacrament. 

Religion does weird things to people.



Cock of Ages Ch. 16



Tampa, Florida

March 10 , 1963

It was twenty minutes to midnight when Cromwell finally arrived, carrying his suitcase and wearing a decidedly sour expression. 

Apparently the cabbie he'd hired had wanted to know too much about why he was being dropped off in the middle of nowhere. Cromwell hates that kind of nosiness.

"You finished?" was all he said when he came in.

"Yeah," I sighed. "She's passed out in the other room." Which she was -- she just wasn't the she that Cromwell thought she was. I had positioned Shelly on the bed, naked, with her hands folded over her breasts in repose, like Sleeping Beauty. Cromwell thought that it was my last mark, but I didn't correct him. He wouldn't have approved of me re-visiting a mark from an earlier mission, and I know for a fact that our boss, Dr. Weems, would have flipped out.

"I brought your crap," he added, dropping a suitcase. "Not the clothes, but all the other shit you bought. What's that?" he asked, nodding towards the cardboard box at my feet.

"Angel wings," I offered. "Worked like a charm."

He snorted. "I really can't believe women are that stupid."

"Not all of them, and not all of the time," I explained. "But you get them fucked up enough and play into their base fantasies, they'll often do things they never would do, otherwise."

"How many does that make this trip?"

"Besides the nine on the mission? At least twenty seven or so freebies, give or take. Might not be a record, but it's still impressive. Help me carry this out to the courtyard. Where's the capsule coming in?"

"North corner," he grunted, grabbing the box and letting me take my suitcase. I glanced at my watch as I did so. Quarter 'till.

We dragged everything out to the center of the courtyard to wait. I lit up a smoke while we waited, the sweet cloying aroma of cigarette tobacco stinging my nostrils. They just didn't make them like this in the future. Not that cancer was a danger, anymore, but the regulations on such things were so bad that no matter which brand you bought they all tasted pretty much the same. Progress. I had tucked a carton of Luckies in the suitcase with my other souvineers, just so I wouldn't have to face two weeks at that cheerless base smoking Waldorfs or Crowns. Crowns really sucked -- Canadian brand.

"Y'know, I'm gonna miss Tampa," I mused, looking up at the night's sky.

"Me, not so much," Cromwell grunted. "It was fun for a few days, and then it's just another goddamn mildewed hotel room with roaches."

"I think Mr. Winslow -- Winthrop, whatever -- I think he cut quite the figure in town, if I do say so myself."

"He's gonna be real sought after in a few months," Cromwell laughed, evilly. "All of those full bellies."

"I'd like to think I had more of an impact on the place by what I did, culturally speaking, than just the kids I leave behind."

"You aren't supposed to have an impact," Cromwell reminded me. "Get in, fuck 'em, knock 'em up, leave quietly."

"I know, I know," I complained. "But there is some art to it. Look, the capsule."

Sure enough, a vague silvery shadow with the whirling spiral in the middle began to form in front of us. It was our standard transposition capsule, about big enough for four people to stand up in. About the size of an elevator, only covered with silver mesh and with two microscopic black holes whirling around each other in its innards. We waited until the red light on the face of the capsule turned greened and the door hissed as pressure regulated.

"After you," I offered, catching something out of the corner of my eye.

Cromwell was faster, and suddenly his .45 was in his fist and he was pointing it towards the roof. "Get down!" he screamed, and I noticed tiny puffs of dust erupting from the patio where bullets were missing my body. No gunshots -- they must be using silencers. That got my attention.

Oh, dear lord. We were under attack.

"Fuck!" I shouted, grabbing my stuff and pulling it over me to shield me from the bullets. I'm a coward, in case I haven't mentioned that. 

"Get down! Get to the fucking capsule!" Cromwell bellowed into my ear, while he returned fire noisily -- that .45 was loud! I didn't argue: the capsule door was open. As I tried to jump in, pulling my luggage behind me as a shield, a black-clad figure wearing a mask - kind of like a ski-mask but without eye or mouth holes and with a sheen of metallic running through it that you just don't see in 1963 - was in my face. There was a gun in his hand -- also not a 1963 model -- and for the briefest moment he hesitated. 

I didn't. I slammed my suitcase down on the pistol, sending it across the courtyard, pushing my attacker against the side of the capsule with my shoulder. All hesitation was gone now as I fought for my life . . . with a suitcase.

He didn't waste any time going looking for the pistol, more's the pity, electing instead to draw a long slim knife from some where. Before he could use it I charged again, grinding my shoulder into his chest and kneeing him in the balls.

Only my shoulder hit a lot more padding than I anticipated, and the groin strike didn't have the effect I'd predicted. Oh, it hurt, no doubt of that, but either the bastard was wearing a cup or . . . 

He was a she. I inhaled sharply as I pushed her aside, catching the barest hint of something herbal. And feminine. She could disguise her eyes and her face and her figure, but my nose had been in hundreds of coochies, in thousands of heads of soft, feminine hair. It was a woman or a very convincing tranny. I even kind of recognized the scent, although I didn't place it at the time. I was too busy diving into the capsule, my chest pounding and my lungs heaving with adrenaline.

Cromwell shot twice more before he did a very smooth and professional roll that left him right-side up, inside the capsule. I slammed the button that closed the door and as soon as the green light on the simplified control panel lit up, I hit the other button that started the transposition process, taking us out of phase with temporal reality -- and, hopefully, out of range of their bullets.

"Jesus, who were they?" Cromwell asked, panting. He still had his pistol out, and it was smoking. 

"Fuck, I didn't see anyone!" I insisted. "No faces, anyway. I think there were three of them."

"Four," he corrected. "Two snipers on the roof, with small-caliber silenced automatic pistols, and two assassins on the ground. I shot one point blank in the chest. You got the other one, it looks like. From the way the fucker fell, though, I'd swear they were all armored."

"No doubt," I agreed. "Cromwell, where the hell did they come from? Not 1963?"

"Fuck, no," he nodded. "Those were special-ops trained -- although they were a little sloppy. I think they were going for a snatch, not a kill. And that armor won't be around until the late 1980's, at the earliest."

"Those masks -- did you recognize those masks? Completely covered the face -- no eye holes, no mouth holes. Just blank faces, like Kabuki dancers."

"Yeah, some of the black ops guys use something like that. Built in night vision, air filters, armored against penetration. That's some high-tech shit!"

"Damn! We got hit!" I repeated, amazed. I'd been in fights before -- even faced down a gun or two -- but I'd never actually fought for my life. "And we got away," I added, when I realized we were safe. I started shaking. "We got away without a fucking scratch!"

"Uh . . . not quite," Cromwell said, quietly.

"Did you get hit?" I asked, suddenly far more concerned for his welfare than I thought I would be.

"No, I'm fine," he said, carefully. "But unless you were hiding a bottle of ketchup in your jacket . . ."

He pointed to my pants. I looked down -- they were covered with blood. Somewhat dispassionately I looked for the source, and found it -- much to my dismay. There was a four-inch slice into the left side of my abdomen. My attacker's knife had apparently slashed me before I left, and I hadn't noticed. Six inches to the right and I'd be out of business. As it was there was a prodigious amount of blood oozing into a puddle on the capsule floor.

"Oh, dear," I said, in a whisper.

"Just relax and keep calm," Cromwell said, breaking out the capsule's First Aid kit. "It's not bad. Even if it hit something serious, it would take you hours to die."

"Damn, that's cold," I complained, the pain suddenly hitting me like a truck. "Where did you get your bedside manner?"

"Army," he grunted, pulling out a package of morphine patches. "They didn't train me to give out suckers to brave little boys, either, so don't bother asking. Here," he said, slapping the patch on my arm. It stung for just a moment, then a warm rosy glow seemed to seep out from it and into the rest of my body. It took a moment, while he fiddled around for a dressing, but my spine finally relaxed from the pain. By the time he slapped the adhesive dressing, liberally impregnated with antibiotics and coagulants to promote wound closure, I couldn't feel a thing. The next thing I remember was Cromwell tucking the silvery emergency thermal blanket under my chin.

"For shock," he explained. "Got to keep you warm."

"Getting stabbed hurts," I observed, sagely.

"Yeah it does," he agreed, finally settling back into his seat. "Been stabbed four times, shot three times. I'd much rather be shot. Hurts a lot less."

"But . . . why did they do it?"

"Don't fret about that," he insisted. "That's for the Brains to work out. We just need to get you back to base and into the infirmary."

"Yes, mommy," I said, blearily.

"Close your eyes and rest," he ordered. "We still have twenty minutes of transit time. Stay still, or the bandage will come off and you'll piss off the techs that will have to clean up all the blood."

"Wouldn't want to do that," I agreed, and fell asleep.

I had a long, tangled nightmare that seemed to go on and on way past the twenty minutes he promised. I was supposed to be fucking my marks, and every time I'd get close they'd have a headache, or penises, or their faces would vanish and they'd stab me. A lot of the women I fucked in Tampa popped into my head, too -- Lori, of course, and Shelly, but also Stephanie, Alice, Candace, Lacy, Cammie, Lisa, Pamela, even Mary popped up, Mary the Betty Crocker housewife I seduced way back in 1951, weeks and weeks ago. And Teresa. For some reason Teresa kept swimming into my drugged mind's eye. The way she looked, her exotic eyes, her beautiful nose, the way her pussy felt around my cock, her laugh, her dark, luxurious hair, her perfume . . . 

. . . her perfume, the herbal scent with floral overtones, so subtle yet so feminine . . . 

. . . her perfume, which had engulfed me in a warm, glowing cloud of erotic bliss, as I buried my nose in her hair. I hadn't smelled it since . . . 

. . . the night we were together? No, it had been on her note . . . 

. . . no, it had been . . . 

I knew who attacked us.

Teresa. The un-accounted for time traveler. My attacker had worn the same scent. But it was more than that -- two women can wear the same perfume, and their natural chemistry will make it smell differently. No, it wasn't a woman wearing her perfume, it was Teresa. The nose knows. The olfactory sense is the one most closely hooked into our memory, and when I thought about it, there was no doubt in my drug-hazed mind. Communicating it as coherent thought, however, was beyond me.

"Heeeyyy," I said, in slow motion, trying to get Cromwell's attention. He was staring anxiously at some dials on the board. We couldn't use regular electronics here, I remembered, because of the singularities. 

"Shush, save your strength," Cromwell cautioned paternalistically. "We're almost there."

"I know . . ." I said, knowing that I knew something I wanted to say, but the rest of the sentence, the ". . . who attacked us and which bitch stabbed me" wouldn't pass my lips. I couldn't keep my brain working like that.

"Shhh! We're slowing down!" he said, holding up his hand.

"I know . . ."

Technically we weren't "slowing down", we were just emerging into reality, a transition that took a couple of minutes. But there was decided wind-down of the gyros, or whatever that sounded like "slowing down". I didn't bother to correct him.

"All right, we're here," he said, exhaling gratefully. "As soon as the field clears and I pop the door, I'll get a medical team in here."

"Riiiigght," I agreed, also grateful that the door was opening. Cromwell pulled my arm over his shoulders and stood, and the moment that the door was all the way up, he dragged me through, shouting for a medic.

There wasn't anybody there.

Usually, there's a technician on duty -- always. And a security guard who usually plays cards with the technician, because there's not much security you need in the middle of the Pacific in the 19th century. But there was no one -- the control board was vacant. Cromwell was immediately alarmed, and after sitting me in the control chair, he drew his gun and ran out of the room. Me? I appreciated all of the pretty lights on the board, and amused myself by counting the capsules. A few were missing, I noted idly.

Cromwell was back in a few moments -- or an hour -- I couldn't tell for sure.

"There's no one here," he said, breathlessly.

"What? Where'd they go?"

"I don't know. I'm guessing there's been some kind of attack. I saw impact marks, some carbon scoring, some shell casings, and three or four bloody spots. But no bodies. Just . . . no one."

"You . . . sure?"

"Yes, I'm . . . no, I'm not," he admitted, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I need to get up to Security and find out what happened. There should be logs there. Even if they erased them, there's bound to be back-ups."

"Um . . . got a little . . . hole in me," I said, calmly.

"I know, I know, but you're stable," he reasoned. "And it won't do much good to patch one if I make a mistake and let you get punctured again. So I'm going to make a quick run up to the control center, you stay here. Here," he said, pressing the gun into my hand. I smelled the powder and gun oil, and my hand curled around the grip of its own accord. "Try not to shoot me when I get back."

"What about . . . you?" I asked, dully. "I can't take . . . your only gun . . ."

"I'm good," he assured me. "I'll stop by the armory and pick up something on the way. You stay here. Okay?"

"She's safe with me," I agreed, to no one in particular. Then he was gone.

That allowed me a very, very long time, subjectively speaking, to catch up on my regretting. All the women I'd fucked, throughout the ages. All of the lies I'd told. The pure, shallow, singlemindedness of it all, my sociopathic nature, my dashing good looks. It all swam before me, all of my identities swirling around my head until I couldn't remember what my own real name was.

"Tom!"

Tom, that was it. I was Tom. Tom . . . well, last names didn't matter. Not when I was bleeding. And I could see that I was bleeding now -- the dressing had come loose, and there was a largish pool of blood in my chair. No need for formalities when there was this much blood. Death is a casual affair, after all . . . 

"Tom!" Cromwell repeated, slapping my face. My pistol came up of its own accord, but he was prepared for that, taking it gently away from me and laying me out on the floor. "Tom! I got a crash-cart. I'm going to do my best to fix you up on my own," he said. "But you've got to stay with me!" 

I opened my eyes and watched him for a moment, wearing a stethoscope around his neck and a submachine gun slung from his shoulder. He was stripping off my jacket and shirt and tearing away the spoiled dressing. He jabbed a needle in me and started giving me fluids. Then I saw the wound and felt woozy again. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them next, I could start feeling the pain creep back in, albeit at a more muted volume. Cromwell was smoothing another, more permanent dressing on me. He had also changed a new bottle of fluids. Which was good, because I was feeling a little thirsty.

"You awake again?" he asked, as my eyelids fluttered. "Good. I was getting tired of talking to myself. Won't last long, though -- gave you some good stuff, painkillers. You'll be in happy-happy land in a little while. And the cut didn't even nick your intestines or your kidneys. You'll be fine."

"What . . . happened?"

"I checked the logs -- they were attacked. From outside. Whoever did this transposed in outside of the building and came in through the emergency exits. Used some sort of stunning weapon. Everyone was captured, apparently. The blood is from their side, I think, our people defending themselves. But it must have happened a few days back, from the logs."

"At last," I said, in a whisper, "we're alone."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, frowning. "We're fucking alone. Real alone. 'Cause I got no clue where they hid the main base -- need-to-know, only admins and techs knew the coordinates. And if we've been compromised, then they'd likely just abandon us, let the base blow up on schedule."

"So . . . what about us?"

"I have no fucking clue," he admitted. "I'm just a soldier."

"And I'm just a gigolo," I answered. "Every where I go . . ."

"Got no protocols for this," he said, sullenly.

". . . people know the part . . . I'm playin'," I sang. It seemed appropriate.

"Never figured on some bullshit like this," he continued to himself.

"Paid for ev'ry dance . . . something something romance . . ."

"A goddamn contact number would have been nice!"

"Ev'ry night some heart . . . betrayin' . . ."

"Stuck with a goddman pervert in a shit hole island in the 1800s . . ."

"There . . . come a day . . . youth . . . pass away . . ."

"No fucking clue who did this. They're gonna goddamn PAY for this bullshit . . ."

"Then what will they say . . . about me?" I sang.

"That you're a goddamn pervert genius," he spat back at me. "Great job, genius. We're officially fucked!"

"End comes, I know . . . say, 'just a gigolo' . . ."

"I need to eat," he said, scratching his neck with the barrel of his gun as he slumped next to me. "I haven't had anything since dinner."

"LIFE GOES ON . . . WITHOUT ME!" I finished, the pain just a fleeting afterthought under the onslaught of the drugs.

"What the fuck?" Cromwell said, as a light on the control panel began flashing. "Incoming?"

I thought I could see it, there where an empty space was. A silvery glow, just a bit blurry through my eyelids. Someone was transpositioning in. Cromwell picked up his gun and cocked it, then crouched behind the console, his eyes and the barrel just peeking out over it. He didn't seem all that concerned with me or my welfare. Somehow, that didn't bother me. I watched with great interest as the capsule materialized, and Cromwell tensed.

"I . . . " I said, loudly, as the capsule door started to open. Cromwell prepared to fire. There was someone inside, they had a gun -- I could see that much.

"Quiet, asshole!" Cromwell hissed. The door was fully open. I expected a hail of gunshots, the smell of gunpowder, the clean release from consciousness that didn't seem so bad, all things considered. In fact, I decided to favor the occasion with a song.

"I . . . AIN'T GOT NO-BOOOOOOODY!"

Everything went dark.

End of Book One