Cock of Ages Ch. 10

She went apeshit.

Most women don't like anal sex, and under the circumstances I was guessing that Mrs. Mueller wasn't feeling particularly experimental. But I hadn't counted on the extreme reaction she had to my dick in her ass. She bit Cromwell – not hard enough to break the skin, but his eyes went wide as he yelped – and she did her best to crawl her way through the floor, wrenching her hips from my grasp. I scrambled to recapture them, and spent the next three minutes or so just hanging on as she struggled. In the process, she wedged about half of my length in her rectum.

"Holy shit!" Cromwell yelped. He had grabbed both sides of her head to steady her, but between his hands and my hands she was still flopping around like a fish out of water. "They always do this?" he asked.

"Not usually this much," I admitted. I redoubled my efforts to get her still, and to make a point I forced as much cock in her butt as I could. She eventually calmed down, as the pain wore down to numbness and she realized she couldn't break free. She sobbed pitifully around Cromwell's cock, and it took him prompting her to get her head bobbing again. The sensation of her struggle was intense, and my dick was iron-hard now, so I was quite happy to fuck her ass with the same enthusiasm I had displayed in her cunt.

It took another ten minutes for me to get close to orgasm (Cromwell, unsurprisingly, moaned and squirted a second load down Pamela's throat well before then), and despite the allure of leaving a thick load of spooge leaking out of her asshole, I knew I had a duty. Those wrigglers would have much greater effect if they were pumped into her pussy, so just moments before I came I changed holes and brutally slammed back into her cunt. The reaction wasn't quite as pronounced as her anal assault, but it was quite impressive. After my climax I held myself still inside her, until she slumped down on the floor.

"Was that worth not getting hospitalized?" I asked, as I zipped up. I had to prod her with my toe to get a response, but she finally looked up and nodded. "All right, we're about done here. Get up and get dressed." We watched as she did just that – but I wanted to make certain my boys had a decent amount of time to do their job before she got into the shower. "Um, and we're kind of hungry. What have you got to eat around here?" I asked.

Cromwell looked at me surprised, but I guessed what would happen. After such a stressful and traumatic situation Pamela's mind would seek the comfort of the familiar, and I assumed that meant the role of hostess. I wasn't wrong. She hopped up, pulled her underclothes and her dress back on without comment, and asked us if we preferred ham or corned beef?

"You just raped her in the ass," Cromwell said in disbelief, "and now she's making us sandwiches?" He shook his head. "You're amazing," he said, reverently.

"It's a gift," I conceded, smugly. "I'll bet you half of my corned beef on rye that she gets knocked up out of this."

"Two loads of your shit? No bet," he chuckled, pulling his pants back on. "That was incredible. The wife and I, we had a threesome once, but—"

"Oh, that was nothing. You should have seen what I made those three girls do last night. THAT was fun. This . . . well, rape is hardly my forte, even this kind, but every now and then it breaks up the monotony."

"You realize that you're a sociopath," he pointed out, dryly.

"We're all sociopaths," I countered. "I just happen to be a useful sociopath, at the moment. Now eat quickly – we've got to get back to the hotel, shower, change, and make my real estate appointment."

Pamela, still in a bit of a daze, came in with two plates with sandwiches piled high with thick slices of meat and cheese, and offered us each a cold beer. She was a most gracious hostess, even under duress. She would make a fine mother to my kid.

***

"I'm sure I can find . . . something you're interested in, Mr. Winthrop," purred Alice Glover as she slid into the back of the Caddy with me. Cromwell, freshly showered and shaved, was sitting in the front sporting shades and a smart chauffer's cap. Ordinarily he might have been grumpy, but after his tryst this morning with Mrs. Mueller, he seemed almost contented.

Me? I was just warming up.

Alice Glover got to be one of the top real estate agents in the greater Tampa-Clearwater Metropolitan Area because she was smart and because she was pretty. I suspected her commitment to the client went even further, which was a theory I was about to test.

You see, one of the nifty things the little computer data base in the back of my helpful Wealth of Nations book was a way to check out old bank records. Usually I give them a glance and move on, once I establish a mark's particular financial state. But in this case I devoted some serious study to it, and learned quite a bit about Miss Tampa, 1958.

It seems Miss Glover had a spending problem.

She made great money, no doubt about it. Even in 1963 standards, a real estate agent's commission was pretty generous. As Tampa and Clearwater became more affluent, her checks had gotten as big as the estates she was selling to snowbirds bent on escaping the hellish winters of the North. But while her income was pretty luxurious, her outgo was even more so. Manicures. Designer clothing. Wine merchants. Frequent vacations disguised as business trips. A Caddy twice as expensive as this one. A luxury home that she was perpetually behind in her payments. It's a common story.

Like stripping or high-end whoring, the life of a female Real Estate agent in Florida looks glamorous, but the reality is that most of the income has to be devoted to expensive fripperies to impress the clients, or they go elsewhere. So I knew with a reasonable degree of certainty just how much Miss Glover had in the bank, and I'd be willing to bet the other half of my delicious sandwich that Cammie the Souvenir Girl had more.

Indeed, I was counting on it.

I could tell upon short acquaintance that Alice Glover was the kind of woman who found erotic satisfaction in making large sums of money. The kind whose nipples harden at the thought of blue chip stock portfolios and cream their panties over financial reports. Which made her imminently manipulatable. A casual hand on her arm during those first few moments told me she was ovulating, or damn near it, right now, so I had ever confidence that she would bite.

"I hope so," I said, bored. "I've been looking around, and it occurred to me that for what I'm paying in hotel fees, I could be gaining equity in a more comfortable locale." I was laying on the Harvard accent pretty thickly, but she was eating it up like a kitten does cream. "And of course I want a fairly substantial home, something that will appreciate nicely."

"Have you decided upon a price range?" she asked, casually. But I heard the note in her voice. This was her big question – all else depended upon this.

"Oh, no limit," I said, equally as casually. "Show me something I like, I'll call Father, he'll set up the rest. Might take a few months to hammer out the details, but that's what lawyers are for."

"Of course, Mr. Winthrop," she said, smoothly. Her nipples got hard as rocks through her sheer white blouse.

I could have phoned the rest of it in.

Greedy women are actually a lot more rare than most men think – I mean, almost all women are looking for some sort of security in their lives, but they are usually satisfied with the modest amount most mortal men can provide. But the truly greedy are only happy when they are independently wealthy. No doubt Alice had aspirations of wealth, perhaps through an advantageous marriage with a rich client. Those would be the emotions I'd be playing upon.

"Let's start with the Breakers," she said, pulling a manila folder out of her valise. She took a map out and handed it to Cromwell, without speaking to him. "The one with the red 'X'," she said, showing me another copy of the map. "It's on the water, a quaint Victorian style nine bedroom home built by one of Tampa's historic figures in the 1930s. It's been on the market a while now, so it's a little dusty, but it really is a grand old place."

"Lead on," I murmured, staring into her eyes with interest. The car was already awash in pheromones, and I could see a few beads of sweat on her hairless and scarlet red lips. "Can I offer you a drink?" I asked, opening the little cooler we'd picked up and stocked. "I know it's early, but –"

"Not at all," she said, laughing attractively. "I keep my own hours, Mr. Winthrop."

Alice accepted the Cuba Libre I cobbled together very gracefully, and managed not to spill a drop on the long, dusty ride out to the Breakers. Of course I had dosed it with an aphro – one of the slow-working ones, no need to get arrested before we got there. She sipped daintily and told me about her girlhood, and I made up lies about prep school and Europe, revitalizing my fictitious yacht again for the purpose. She laughed at my stupid jokes, tossed her hair, mirrored me perfectly, squirmed in her seat, let me clandestinely look up her skirt, and gave me all the other signs that she was ready to put out for the sake of the sale.

We arrived at the dusty old wreck about two o'clock, and the view was pretty spectacular. The house itself needed some serious love, but was well-built and had withstood thirty years of storms. I sniffed as I got out of the car, surveying the grounds with a critical eye. Alice launched enthusiastically into her sales pitch, and I listened politely and even asked a few questions as we toured the interior.

"It is a grand place," I sighed. "But so . . . Victorian. The architecture is lovely for my father, perhaps, but I prefer something more . . . casual. Relaxing." I injected enough doubt in my voice to make her start to see the sale slipping. "No, while it's . . . charming," I said, in a pained sort of way, "it just isn't me. I think we're about done, then. I'll have my driver—"

"Mr. Winthrop, surely you don't want to stop with seeing just one property," she said, with a mockingly stern tone in her voice. "I would hate for you to get away from me thinking I didn't . . . satisfy you," she said, flirtatiously.

I almost laughed. True, she did it much, much better than the amateurs I had been boning, but the sexy vixen vibe was just a little over-the-top. Still, I had to bite, didn't I? I had a job to do.

"Well," I said, slowly. "I suppose I could be . . . convinced," I admitted, giving her a searching look. "If my agent was willing to . . . go the extra mile, to ensure customer satisfaction," I added. "Then I could look at another property today, perhaps."

"Oh, I'll do anything to keep my customers happy," she said, breathlessly, licking her lips afterwards. She slightly emphasized the word "anything". How cliché. It was almost comic.

"I'm feeling stressed, right now," I pouted. "Can you think of anything you could do to relax me?" I slightly emphasized the word "anything". It was a challenge, and she knew it. Put up or shut up. And she wasn't about to shut up.

"I think that I can," she admitted, coming in close for a kiss. The aphro was pumping through her system, now, and I'm sure her panties were drenched under her stylish skirt. I kissed her – or, more properly, allowed her to kiss me – and gave her some aggressive tongue up front. "Is that better?" she asked, sweetly, when we finally broke the kiss.

"Well, my lips are more relaxed," I pointed out, smugly.

"What part of you is still stressed?" Alice asked, impishly.

"Well, some of my muscles are all . . . rigid with tension."

She reached out and grabbed my cock through my pants. "Like this one?"

"Oh, my, yes," I agreed. "It's terribly tense. Perhaps . . .?"

"Consider it done," she said, helpfully, sinking to her knees.

She fished out my cock and made appreciative noises about the size. I'm sure she was impressed – no doubt most of the customers she blew were average and below. Small dicks have a way of motivating men to fortunes.

Alice was good – no, even great. She had enough experience to know her way around a cock and enough youthful enthusiasm left for the act to make it interesting. This was business, I knew, but she enjoyed her job. Alice went slowly but deliberately, tasting every inch of my shaft before finally taking in the head. She made adorable little moans as she eagerly licked the tip, her hands sweeping into my pants to keep my scrotum company. Nice touch.

She gave me the obligatory adoring stares as she sucked, playing alternatively the vixen and the coquette in her approach, and it felt marvelous. I put my hands on her hair not to direct her, actually, or force more of my cock past her lips (she was doing fine with that) but because I wanted to experience both sides of her pretty head bobbing against me. Alice didn't seem to mind. She continued sucking away eagerly, and I was able to stare down her blouse at her perfect tits lurking in her pretty (for 1963) bra and those gorgeous beauty-pageant eyes.

I thought about transitioning to something more intimate, but in the end I decided to give her her professional due and let her finish the blowjob. It was artful, and interrupting it would have been a crime. Besides, I knew I could get her to fuck at the very next dusty antique we looked at. I started pumping my hips ever so slightly as more and more of my dick slid down her throat, and then with a moan I slammed her head as far forward as I was able and erupted deep in her mouth. She swallowed uncomplainingly. She was a professional.

"Give me a moment to freshen up," she murmured to me, rising and wiping her mouth with a Kleenex. Obviously she didn't want to chance kissing me after she just took a mouthful of my semen because of how I might react. I wouldn't have minded – blowjob-fresh lips kiss better – but I found the gesture considerate.

"Take your time," I shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do."

She hurried, and in ten minutes we were rolling down yet another dusty Florida farm road towards her next property. I fixed her another drink and dropped in another aphro – I usually don't double-up, particularly when the lady in question hasn't had an opportunity to work through the first one – but I wanted Alice's crotch to be boiling by the time my trusty penis rode in to the rescue.

"This one is called Casa Nova," she said, smugly. "Built by an Italian expatriate just before the War. A traditional Italian villa with a touch of Spanish influence. Tile roof. Thirteen rooms, six bedrooms, two baths. A pool. Fifty acres of wooded land, secluded driveway."

"That sounds more like my style," I said. "I've always been a fan of all things Italian. Was this gent Roman?"

"Neapolitan, I think," Alice said, wrinkling her pretty brow. "Why, does it matter?"

"Neapolitan is even better," I agreed. "Wild folk, the Neapolitans. They know how to enjoy themselves. This might have promise."

And, wouldn't you know it, it did. A long, low brick and stucco house with plenty of arches and colonnades and such. Outstanding landscaping, too. The place hadn't been lived in in about four years, Alice was telling me, and hadn't been lived in by the owner since he returned to a free, non-Fascist Italy in 1947. While Cromwell waited in the car reading a newspaper, we toured the partially-furnished house called Casa Nova.

"The owner took only his family heirlooms, and select pieces of furniture. Everything else comes with the house. Note the terra cotta tile floors," Alice said, smoothly, as we breezed through the dining room. "The main bath has a gorgeous mosaic over it, a copy of Bottacelli's Venus, and a custom tub big enough to fish in."

"I brought my rod," I quipped. "Nice chandelier."

"It has the wheel hub of a fourth century BC Etruscan chariot as its base. The crystal is from Milan," she said, knowledgably. "Also antique, but from the seventeenth century." Somehow I guessed I wasn't the first to take a look at this relic. No doubt Alice had stared up at that chandelier from the floor with more than one client.

"Bedrooms?" I inquired, innocently.

"Shall we begin with the Master?" she asked, impishly.

"Let's," I agreed. She led the way down an unlighted hallway, her ass moving enchantingly under her skirt. We passed a few interesting rooms along the way, but she didn't even slow down until we hit the big wooden door at the end of the hallway.

"This," she announced dramatically as she opened the door, "is the Master bedroom. Fully equipped for all of your . . . Master needs."

It was nice – the kind of place you'd expect a Turkish heroin kingpin to own. Dark wood canopy bed, white marble fountain nearby, tiny decorative fireplace, an attractive Persian rug over terra cotta floors, and plenty of bronze fittings and doo dads. All of it was a little dusty, but it was nice.

"He had exquisite taste," I nodded. "I like the bed."

"It's comfy," Alice agreed, sitting her ass suggestively upon it. "But maybe you should take it for a test drive."

"Don't mind if I do," I said, lust pervading my voice. I crossed the room and covered her body with mine, my lips attacking her voraciously. She responded like a nymphomaniac, the aphros coursing through her system freely, now. I roughly ran my hand up her thigh, under her skirt, to discover her panties were drenched. I pushed past the legband and forced a finger into her wetness, then removed it to diddle her clit. I enjoyed the quick gasps of breath she made as my finger strummed across her most sensitive part. My other hand was busy, as well, pushing past the top of her dress to cup, squeeze, fondle, and tease her generous tits.

I could see in her lust-stoked eyes that while she was no stranger to this position – missionary, under a client, with a big commission on the line – but she was afraid. Afraid of the sudden unexplainable arousal she was experiencing, and afraid of losing control of the situation. She had enjoyed the blowjob, but undoubtedly one of the things she enjoyed about it was her total control. That element was gone, in this encounter, as her body acted far beyond her usual boundaries. I found her nervousness erotically intoxicating, and plunged my fingers back into her warm, wet pussy again to inspire more.

"What are you doing to me?" she gasped in wonder as I found her G-spot and fluttered two fingers against it. Advanced Fingerbanging. It should be a mandatory class in every High School.

"I'm making you," I said, in a growl. "I'm making you wet, and I'm making you cum." And I'm making you pregnant, I added to myself. No need to bring up such a minor detail in the heat of the moment. I returned to her clit, and she squirmed mightily under my fingers. I kissed her hard and passionately, which somehow disconnects a woman's thought processes from the part of her brain that handles reason, when done properly. She moaned and writhed uncontrollably as I masterfully manipulated her past her first potent climax.

"Fuck me," she begged, heatedly. "Oh my God, I don't know . . . just fuck me, push that big prick of yours up into me . . ."

So I did. I tugged my business end loose from the confines of my slacks and manipulated it until it found her hot, ripe hole. Then I plunged in, making an audible squishing noise as I did so. Alice's eyes rolled back in her head, and she came a second time. I decided to dispense with the wind up and started slamming her sopping wet cunt with my rock-hard dick like a jackhammer.

I fucked her hard and thoroughly, and she came continuously the whole time. Thanks to the secluded nature of the villa, it was doubtful we disturbed any neighbors – I think – but there was no denying that Alice was a screamer. Cromwell must have gotten an earful.

I tore off her dress and bra, letting her boobs run free as nature intended, then continued pinioning her on that squeaky old bed. After a particularly brutal orgasm ripped through her, I blew her damn mind. I hoisted her in the air and pistoned her up and down on my cock, mixing her soul-shaking climaxes with primal terror. It takes strength and balance to do it properly, but when you do, it's a memory-making position.