tagNonConsent/ReluctanceCock of Ages Ch. 07

Cock of Ages Ch. 07

byCreamer©

Tampa, Florida

March, 1963

The night was waxing with possibilities at the Tiki Club. A trendy dive a few blocks away from the Palms where I was staying, the Tiki had that certain special charm that attracted pretty young girls who wanted to dance, fall in love, and find some visiting rich young stud to marry. They flocked to it like bees to sugar.

In 1963, that was probably your best shot at a bright future, for a young woman. The domestic ideals of the Fifties sill lingered, and most women had yet to enter the workforce on a permanent basis. The common ideal was the husband with a good job, nice house, two cars. Find the right man and spend the rest of your days getting drunk on the sly and breezing through middle-age. Their educations were largely focused on "home economics" -- that is, how to be a wife and mother. As ideals go, it wasn't that bad, and their bright young faces were filled with the hope of romance and prosperity. Security.

Little did they know what was ahead: the ramifications of the Sexual Revolution and liberalized divorce laws would turn the once-straightforward mating ritual into a hellish spiral of serial monogamy and ever-diminishing expectations. By the time these fresh young flowers hit thirty-five, about a third would have ex-husbands, little or no alimony, dependent children, and be forced to take jobs. But for now, at least, they were hopeful that their femininity could be their ticket to the good life. And the boys were taking advantage of it.

Me? I was masquerading as a rich young stud: Mike Winslow. Or Winthrop. Or Winwood. I had three different but completely authentic identifications available. I found it handy to be able to switch them around a little, give different names to different girls, especially in a tangled situation like this. And it was tangled -- it was the height of the evening, and the dance floor was filled with young lovelies careening around the dance floor to the strains of Jazz and Rock and Roll and other, more esoteric forms of "Negro music." Actual Negroes, of course, weren't allowed. This was a respectable joint, after all.

After fucking one fine little filly in the back room already, I wanted to pace myself. It was still early, after all.I rested an hour or so, dancing occasionally, but mostly presiding at the bar, before I hit on another chick.

This one was a small, slightly-Hispanic-looking girl in her early twenties, named Rosa. She had small tits but pretty eyes, and when we danced my ring heated up instantly. I asked her if she would join me for a drink, and she demurely agreed, after she went to the ladies' room. While I waited, I had Donald make something a little fruity and popped the insta-aphro in it while he wasn't looking. Sure it was artless -- the air was thick with pheromones already -- but I was on a schedule, and Latinas, while hot, often take a little more coaxing to overcome their Catholic upbringing.

Rosa was sweet and polite and bore my boorish behavior beautifully. She smiled at my awful jokes and made impressed noises when I told her about my fictional parent's fictional home in the Hamptons -- and then it dawned on her that I was filthy stinkin' rich and she was in way over her head. By the time she had drained her drink, the drugs had started acting on her, and her eyes were getting dilated.

"So," I said, when I had drained mine, "You want to go back to the back room?"

"Why?" she asked, affecting confusion.

"To see some dusty old bottles and count the bags of chips," I explained, a lusty growl in my voice. "Why do you think?"

It amused me to watch her decide if I was serious -- and what I was being serious about. Luckily, her artificially-energized clitoris made up her mind for her. There were enough pheromones in there to rouse a retirement home, and her central nervous system had but one goal in mind: get fucked.

"Okay," she said, finally, tossing her hair back bravely. She hopped down off the stool and went back, not even looking around to see if someone was watching. Cary was, of course, and out of the corner of my eye I caught her looking daggers at Rosa, but when she saw my eye on her, she was all smiles.

Rosa apparently knew the way back to the storeroom as well. So much for Catholic innocence. She nearly attacked me when I closed the door behind me, and suddenly I had a double armful of horny Latina on my hands.

She kissed enthusiastically, with some rudimentary knowledge of the art, but not well. She smelled wonderful, however, and whatever she was using on her hair was enough to give a dead man wood. I inhaled a few times, then pushed her uncomplainingly to her knees.

She knew what to do. She gobbled my meat for a good five minutes before she hopped up of her own accord and sat on a case of glasses, pulling her light summer skirt up over her hips. She wore no panties, and her jet-black beaver glistened in the dim light.

"I need you in me," she said, intensely. "There's something about you . . ."

"Yeah, and here it is," I said, muscling between her dusky thighs and planting my root into her with a single thrust. She was dripping wet, and took the whole thing without a whimper -- no fainting virgin, then. I pounded her with the same urgency I had taken Cary, but without the need for humiliation. This girl didn't need it. She knew she wanted to be fucked, and she didn't seem to mind that I knew. She came quickly, and then again, and a third time as I spilled my seed deep into her hot box. Then she collapsed a few moments on my shoulder.

When I withdrew, I just looked at her. "I'm here to find a wife," I said, bluntly. "Here's the deal: My family is wealthy and I want to piss off my parents by bringing home the biggest slut I can find. If you can be this nasty all the time, you're on the list. Marriage, kids, a huge pile of money. If not . . . let me know now."

"I'm your girl," she assured me, eyes wide with the possibilities.

"Show me," I said, glancing at the floor. She took my hint and cleaned me off pleasantly with her mouth. We parted without another word, but she watched me like a hawk the rest of the night.

Ten minutes later I was back at the bar, sipping Scotch, and trading lies with the bartender. It was still relatively early, and on a school night. But I knew if I waited long enough my mark would appear.

And, wouldn't you know it, she did.

Stephanie Anne Bristow. Age twenty-five. Brunette. She looked just like her photo in her file (which wouldn't be taken for another eighteen months), only with slightly shorter hair. Long, thin nose, pencil thin eyebrows, dark blue dress that was just a little too snug over her boobs. Not that I minded. She was pretty, and those jugs were pretty tempting. She sidled up next to --surprise! -- Cary, and within five minutes she knew the scoop. She glanced at me, then stared, as Cary filled her in on my situation.

She started all the attracting signals at once -- lip-licking, hair toss, framing her boobs with her arms, darting glances, she pulled out all the stops. I made her wait at least twenty minutes or so before I finally had Donald bring her a drink and invite her over to my end of the bar.

"Hi, I'm Stephanie," she said with a girlish giggle that she was just a little too old to pull off completely.

"Mikey," I grunted. "You're pretty," I added out of the side of my mouth.

"Thank you, sir," she said, dimpling. "So what do you do?"

"I pick up loose women in bars, when I'm not sailing," I muttered. "Are a loose woman?"

She shrugged. "Depends on the size of the yacht," she said with a flirtatious tilt of her head. "How big is yours?"

"Thirty-five feet," I said. "But she's in dry dock in Greece right now because my asshole ex-captain couldn't steer her past the biggest fucking rocks in the Mediterranean. Tore a nine-foot rent in the bow. She'll be out all season," I grumbled bitterly. I'd never been sailing in my life, but I'd used the 'dashing wealthy yachtsman' line since long before I came to work for the Project. Read The Yachtsman's Omnibus, scan a few issues of yachting magazines, hang around the Admiral's Club at a ritzy marina for a few days, and you pick up enough basics to fake it admirably. For a small but dedicated percentage of the female population, that was sufficient to get them to part their legs with enthusiasm. With Stephanie, however, I couldn't delve too deeply into my limited knowledge of seamanship, because she knew enough to bust me. So I invented a fictitious boat and a fictitious disaster and played the stranded sailor.

"So, is my yacht big enough to qualify you as a loose woman?" I added.

"My limit is usually twenty nine feet, so you just make it," she giggled again. "What's her name?"

"The Wet Pussy . . . cat," I said, being deliberately crude. "My old man named her Candace after my grandmother, but when he bought his fucking barge of a boat I got her, so I re-named her. Father was not impressed."

"Parents are like that," she said, smiling too broadly and showing just too much teeth. "My Daddy is bugging me to get married all the time. Says it's unseemly for a young woman of my age to not have a husband."

"My Father just wants heirs. So he's given me a deadline. So I'm auditioning the local talent for the gig. Biggest slut wins. You game?"

She seemed to consider the matter, but she'd already decided before she even came over. Couldn't put out without at least pretending to struggle, though. Her "virtue" was at stake. Finally, she bit her lip and whispered, "What would I have to do?"

I shrugged and knocked back my drink. "Anything I tell you to."

She swallowed hard -- I'd added just a hint of menace in my voice to push those 'bad boy' buttons she had. "Should we go back to your place, then?"

"I'll end up taking someone, probably, when I leave," I assured her. "That's for the first cut, though. You have to earn that. So far," I said, nodding towards the blonde, "Mary -- Cary? Cary seems to be in the lead. Roas's doing pretty well, too -- Mother hates Spics, and the slut sucks cock like a dream. But I'll be here all week, if you want to try another night."

"No, no, I can -- I'll -- I want to—" she stammered, finding herself in the unexpected position of basically begging me to fuck her in the back room of a bar. I grinned to myself, and if a little of that grin actually ended up on my lips, it just played into my image. Stephanie was so predictable. Wave the bait under her nose, then point out the younger, blonde, ostensibly prettier bar slut was ahead of her, and she rose to the competition like a washed-out champion on a come-back tour. She took a deep breath. "You just tell me where you want me," she finally got out, a determination in her voice.

"Back room," I grunted. "Ten minutes." She swallowed again and nodded, then kissed me briefly on the cheek and retreated to the ladies room to prepare her warpaint. That gave me time to finish my drink and my cigarette -- and it was only then that I realized I hadn't even dosed her. Miss Stephanie was apparently very hungry.

By the time I sauntered back to the storeroom, she was waiting eagerly. I came in and locked the door behind me, looking at her with a certain restrained lust. She was attractive, but I had to make her work for it. She did. She rushed forward and kissed me gently but passionately, played with my shirt buttons a little, and said, shyly, "So what do you want to tell me to do?"

"Take out my cock, get on your knees, and suck it like a whore until I cream in your mouth. Then swallow. Got it?"

"Aye aye, captain!" she grinned, and sank to her knees. She fished my dick out of my pants with a minimum of fumbling, and if she detected the presence of pussy from my earlier shenanigans she had the good grace not to mention it. She quickly caught my cock between her lips and began her best First Date head.

Stephanie was a trifle older than most of the chicks in the club, so her technique was a little more self-assured. She nibbled the head, and nuzzled my balls, and stroked me daintily with her fingers while her warm, wet mouth covered the head and her tongue flicked against my glans. She looked up at me adoringly. "Am I loose enough for you?" she asked, wickedly (and with just a bit of desperation in her voice). I noted with part of my mind that my ring was warming some, but not a bunch -- if I wanted to knock her up, it might pay to wait a few hours or so and let he cycle catch up.

"It's a good start," I conceded, pulling her head forcefully back to my shaft. She took it up again eagerly, and started making long wet strokes with her mouth. She got more than two thirds down her gullet, which was admirable for this day and age, and didn't complain a bit when I grabbed the back of her head and skull fucked her deeply for a few moments. She made some moans and groans as I plumbed the depths of her throat, but she took it like a champ. Then I let up a bit, and let her work for my third load of the evening.

It took a while, and all of her skill as a fellatrix, but after twenty minutes or so she finally made me spurt across her tongue. She took it all, swallowing gratefully while I pumped her face. When at last I sighed and leaned back, she stood, wiping her lips.

"So, did I make the cut, Captain?" she asked, imploringly.

I sighed. "That was pretty good," I said. "But just how badly do you want to go home with me tonight?"

"I want you so badly that my cunt is leaking like a wet sponge," she said, earnestly. I didn't doubt that. But I decided to play with her just a little bit more.

"But what if I want your ass, Stephanie?" I asked. "What if I want to bend you over and fuck your tight little asshole. Could you do that for me, Steph?"

She swallowed nervously -- surely she was an ass-virgin. "Um, yes, I'll do that," she said, blushing furiously.

"What if I want you to do . . . other things?" I continued, evilly. "Perverted things."

"Whatever you want," she agreed, with strained enthusiasm. "I love . . . sex," she confessed.

"How about if I ask you to eat pussy, Steph? Would you eat another girl's pussy for me?"

She swallowed again, and her nose wrinkled just a bit. "If that's what you want . . ."

I considered. "Okay, let's give you a little test. You ready for a little test, Steph?"

"Just try me," she agreed.

"Okay, here's the stakes: you do this, and you go home with me tonight and I'll fuck the shit out of you and put you on the short list. It's still early in the week, yet, so I'll be auditioning others . . . but you will have made the first cut. Winner gets a mansion, a yacht, complete financial security, a husband guaranteed to fuck around on you, and the most pretentious in-laws in the galaxy. Agreed?"

"Whatever it is, just tell me," she said firmly, no doubt getting wet all over again at the thought of the high life I was dangling in front of her.

I took a moment to keep her in suspense while I lit a cigarette. "Okay," I said, finally, as she stared at me in wild anticipation. "You've got ten minutes to go out there, find someone at least as pretty as you, and send them back her for me to fuck. No teasing, no bullshit. Find me a girl to fuck, and you can sleep at my place tonight." Her eyes grew big as I gave her her kinky quest.

"But --" she began. "What about me? I'll be—"

"I'm auditioning, remember?" I asked, pointedly. "I'm already going to fuck you -- I want some new pussy before I take you home. You must know those girls pretty well, know which ones will screw. Find me one, tell her whatever you need to to get her back her, but find her. Because you now have nine and a half minutes, and once I walk out that door, our deal is off."

She nodded once and bolted. I chuckled evilly to myself as the door closed behind her. I'm not a nice man, sometimes. Poor little Steph was thinking one hummer and I'd sweep her off her feet -- and now she was put in the position of lining up new cooze for me (and new competition for her). I wondered which way she'd go: bringing in an ugly chick to keep the odds in her favor, or try to appease me by bringing in a pretty girl. If she was able to accomplish it at all, I noted, glancing at my watch at the half-way mark.

I was just stubbing out my third smoke when she skated in just under deadline, giggling her way through the door with another girl in tow -- to my surprise, it was April, the babe I had scared off earlier. She was blushing furiously and wouldn't meet my eye, but she was here, completely nervous.

"Well, we meet again, April," I said in an amused voice.

"I . . . well, I . . . Steph said . . ."

"Have you changed your mind? Are you ready to suck my cock?"

She nodded, still not looking at me. Stephanie started edging towards the door. I shot her a glance. "You stay. I want you to watch. Might need your help. So, April, what did Stephie tell you to get you to change your mind?"

"She said . . . she said you were rich," she whispered, looking at her feet.

"Filthy fucking rich," I agreed. "But you knew that. What else did she tell you?"

"That you . . . wanted to find the biggest slut in Tampa," she said, still looking away.

"Is that you, April?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'm . . . I'm kind of shy."

"Apparently not so shy as to suck off a guy in the back room of a bar," I pointed out. "Which makes you, if not the biggest slut in Tampa, at least in the running. Is Steph a friend of yours?"

"Y-yes," she nodded.

"How good a friend?"

"Real good."

"Great. So what did she promise you if you did this?"

"She said . . . she said that I could borrow her yellow angora sweater, and that she would set me up with her cousin Bill."

"So the price of my dick on your lips was a sweater and a date," I shrugged. "Sounds like a heck of a deal, sweetheart."

"M-maybe this was a mistake," she said, starting to move towards the door. Before I could say a word, Stephanie was blocking her exit.

"You said you'd do it, April," she said, accusingly. "You promised!"

"I . . . I changed my mind," she squeaked.

"The hell you did!" Stephanie growled. "You made a deal, you bitch, and you're going to stick to your end of it or I will destroy you!"

April wasn't expecting such a strong attack from her friend Stephanie, and physically stepped back away from her, eyes wide with shock.

"I didn't mean—"

"You get down there on your knees right now, you little whore, or I'll spill every last filthy secret about you! I'll tell everyone how you sucked off Brett and Steve your senior year while his girlfriend was sick, how you slept with Amanda's husband the night before they got married, how you let Mr. O'Malley cornhole you on the bus on the way back from Orlando -- all of it! I own your ass, April, so you just get on your knees and open your mouth and take it!" Stephanie said, vehemently.

April was in tears now, as I cleared my throat. "Is there a problem, ladies?" I asked, sharply.

"No!" Stephanie said, instantly, and looked at the sniffing little brunette. "Is there, April?"

"No," the younger girl said, sullenly, tears still coming down her cheeks prettily. "No problem." And with that she came over and knelt in front of me, defeated.

"Go on," I urged. "Take it out and get to sucking. No need to piss off your girlfriend, is there?"

Still weeping, April reached out and unfastened my fly for the fourth time that evening. I stared Stephanie in the eye as I sank to the back of her little friend's throat, and kept my attention on the older girl even as the younger one struggled to take me. I watched as various emotions warred for control of her -- guilt, lust, greed, self-recrimination, resolve, shock, it was all there, covered by a thin veneer of desperate eagerness. She had to win this little Prince Charming contest, now that she had essentially blackmailed her young friend into whoredom.

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