tagNonConsent/ReluctanceCock of Ages Ch. 05

Cock of Ages Ch. 05

byCreamer©

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."

Report Story

byCreamer© 4 comments/ 114428 views/ 11 favorites

Share the love

Report a Bug

Next
2 Pages:12

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar:

   Cancel