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 . . .