tagNonConsent/ReluctanceCock of Ages Ch. 01

Cock of Ages Ch. 01

byCreamer©

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.

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