Coc of Ages

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.