Coc of Ages

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.