tagNonConsent/ReluctanceCock of Ages Ch. 15

Cock of Ages Ch. 15

byCreamer©

Tampa, Florida
March 10, 1963

"Beware, the Ides of March," Cromwell said in a spooky voice as he slid into the booth across the table from me.

"You saying sooth on the side?" I asked, sipping the coffee. It was better than Baltimore's, I admit, but still a far cry from the delicate flavors a few decades would produce. But then again this was a "modern" coffeeshop, with a huge five-burner Bunn brewer that dominated the open kitchen like a pagan idol. This place had been lurking down the street from the hotel for weeks, now, but this was the first time I had bothered to eat here. Good omelets.

"Nah, just thought I'd be morose," he jibed, setting his notebook down next to his paper placemat. "The date is coming up, and I always remember it from High School. Besides, it suits my mood. More bad news from downstream."

He waited for me to say, "Like what?" or, "Oh, my God, tell me!" but I didn't give him the satisfaction. I raised an inquiring eyebrow instead. That would show him.

"Message came in from HQ amending the previous clean-up order: all teams are to return to base at the first available opportunity," he said.

"So what's happening?"

"Well, they didn't say, exactly, but then I got a private message from your favorite technician. He says that the divergence problem that emerged sometime in the mid-70s has its roots deeper than that – much deeper. And it's gotten worse. That's why the recall. Clean up squads are working on it, but the upshot is that more agents have left the service. Violently."

"More?" I asked, concerned. I knew about the accidents – getting shot in the back by a jealous husband is an occupational hazard after all – but we were well-trained, well-prepared, and well-resourced – and not one of us was stupid.

"Yeah, two more from our section. Austin was found dead in an alleyway of New Haven, in '33. Oscar was drowned in a pool in Palm Springs just downstream in '68."

"That could have been an accident," I insisted.

"Only if he often went swimming with a concrete block, tied around his neck."

"Oh. Probably murder, then," I conceded, sipping more coffee.

"Or a damn strange way to commit suicide. Something's seriously wrong. So how soon can you wrap up?"

I paused – I had a dilemma, here.

On the one hand, I'm terribly attached to my skin and everything contained therein. I'm a coward, I admit it. If it wasn't for my weakness for easy pussy and lots of it, I wouldn't be doing this job for any kind of money. The idea that at least three of my colleagues were now dead was disturbing, especially when I knew for a fact that there were unaccounted time travelers in this very temporal neighborhood.

But then there was my carefully-laid plan to get me carefully-laid. I had a final trick I wanted to pull in Tampa before I scooted, and I hated to abandon it. So did I tell Cromwell about my successful interview with Jennifer and flee back to base, or did I stall him and try to make it work out – and risk someone putting a bullet in me for no good reason?

In the end, my cock won out. It usually does. At least it's consistent.

"Give me eighteen hours," I said, finally.

"What? Boss, this is an

order! 'Earliest convenient transport' is bueracratese for 'get your sorry ass back to base', in case you were unaware!"

"Yeah, I got that, I got that. I just have a few loose ends – and wouldn't you like to come back early, job complete? It would look good on your record," I reminded him.

"Yeah, and being dead would look pretty shitty," he shot back. "You got your job, I got mine. You got twelve."

"Cromwell, I—"

"Twelve. Actually," he said, glancing at his watch, "I'll give you thirteen. The capsule will arrive right at midnight. Be in it or get used to lousy television for the next eighty years."

"Fine," I grumbled, secretly pleased with myself. I had expected him to cut back even more. "Make the arrangements. Um, does it have to land in that orchard?"

Cromwell shrugged. "No, we can put it down anywhere. Anywhere there aren't a lot of heavy metals," he amended. "Screws up the gyros."

"Good. Have it land at that house I've been looking at, Casa Nova. In the courtyard, I think. You know where it is."

"Yeah, no problem," he said, making a note on a pad. "Anything else?"

"Nope. Just be there at midnight. I'll go get this last piece, and we can get back home. Or a reasonable facsimile."

"Just . . . don't do anything stupid, okay?" he asked, half a smile on his face. "You bang her, we're out of here. No complications."

"No complications," I agreed. "I promise."

Of course, there were complications.

***

The first thing I did was contact my bookie, Milo, and make some arrangements. He was uncomfortable, of course, due to how much money he now owed me, and he was stalling. I ended up going over to the bar personally to sort it out.

He looked nervous when he saw me, no doubt expecting me to be belligerent. Instead I was cordial, which made him even more suspicious. People are rarely cordial to their bookie when he owes them.

"I'm good for it," he insisted. "I'm just having some trouble getting it together."

"I understand," I soothed. "No one was more surprised than I was. That's a lot of money – you'll probably have to go upstairs for that." He looked even more uncomfortable then. Tampa was a big town for organized crime, but mentioning that there was even an 'upstairs' made people nervous. "Tell you what," I said, finally. "How about you pay me in installments."

"Installments?" Milo asked, confused.

"Surely you've heard the term," I said, smiling.

"Yeah, sure, some of my clients pay that way. But when they win, they want it all up front, or they go to the competition next time. But I just ain't got a quarter mil under my goddamn pillow!" he complained bitterly.

"Oh, I understand, I understand – that's a lot to expect. But I'm feeling in a reasonable mood today. How much can you get me right now?"

He searched his mind, looking troubled. "Maybe twenty or thirty grand," he admitted. "That's cash-on-hand. I'll have to borrow the rest."

"That will do for a start," I agreed. "And then, let's say you give me ten grand a month until it's paid off."

"That's pretty goddamn generous of you," he said, suspiciously. "So what kind of vig am I looking at?"

"No vig, Milo," I said, shaking my head. His eyes bugged out.

"You want me to pay back a fucking quarter mil, without any goddamn interest?" he asked in disbelief.

"Yes, exactly," I agreed. "It's not the money, Milo, it's the trust. The vig on a quarter mil . . . that would put some fellas out of business."

"You're goddamn right about that," he swore, quietly.

"Well, I don't want you out of business, Milo. I want you to owe me a favor or two. This way, I know I can trust you to come through when I need you to. You get to pay me off without selling your kids, and everyone's happy. Can you appreciate that?"

"Yes. Hell, yes!"

"So, this is what I want you to do with the payment . . ."

***

I went back to the hotel about three o'clock and saw Lori for the last time.

She was still a little worn-out from the previous day's fun, but she was recovering quickly. I found her sunning on the balcony, and after luring her back into the room for a quickie blow job while I sat on the couch, I fired her.

"Ugh!" she said, after swallowing my load.

"Not as tasty as usual?" I teased.

"Just a little nauseous," she said, wiping her lips. "I didn't think I drank that much last night, but—" I stopped her before she could continue the thought – she was having morning sickness, too, but I didn't want her to even think about that until I was gone.

"It's 'nauseated', when you use it that way," I corrected her. "And today is your last day."

"What?" she asked, shocked.

"People feel 'nauseated', not 'nauseous'. It's a common—"

"No, the other thing! My last day?"

"Oh. Yeah, right. I've been called away. I need to hop a flight out of here at midnight, tonight. Family business." My tone told her not to ask about that business – not that she really cared.

"So you're just gonna dump me out in the street?" she demanded. "Just . . . leave me?"

"No, I'm retiring you," I insisted. "I need to go. I'll probably come back here at some point to conclude some business, but you probably won't be here."

She looked warily around at that. "Why? Have I seen too much? You . . . are you gonna have me 'bumped off'? Is that Cromwell creep going to kill me?"

"No, no, my dear," I said with a sigh. "Nothing like that. You have been a good and loyal employee, and I don't treat my staff like that. No, you won't be here because hopefully you'll be building a better life for yourself elsewhere." I dug into my jacket and pulled out a thick stack of cash and threw it in her lap. "That's everything I owe you, plus bonuses. Ten thousand dollars. After today, you can get the hell out of Tampa and go pretty much anywhere you want."

She looked at the bills in amazement. Then she unexpectedly rose on her haunches and kissed me, passionately – I could still smell my spooge on her breath. She realized this belatedly and pulled away, then sought out my dick with her fingers and began stroking it back to life with a shy, almost girlish expression on her face. I relaxed and decided to let her demonstrate her gratitude. She bent her head and engulfed me again, and this time her enthusiasm for the act was tangible: she sucked like a bride on her wedding night, a big improvement over the businesslike head she had given me just a moment before. It was an intriguing study in contrasts, and a testament to the power that filthy lucre has over the lusts of women.

She swallowed the second load greedily, and looked up at me smiling dreamily. "Thank you," she said, finally.

"You're welcome. And the room is paid for until the end of the week, so if you want to linger about after I'm gone, feel free."

"Thanks, again," she repeated. "Oh, by the way . . . who won?"

"Won?" I asked, confused.

"The wife derby," she reminded me. "You were looking for the biggest slut in Tampa to marry – who won? Yesterday that pathetic bitch from the Tiki Club showed up – Stephanie something? – anyway, she was crying and wanting to know if you had made a decision, yet. You never called her." She was probably throwing up now, too. Lot of that going around. Which meant it was time for me to get the hell out of town.

"I never called anyone. Game is suspended, Lori. My father is apparently close to death. If he kicks, then my strategy changes. I won't know for sure until I'm back in Chicago. But, confidentially, I'd probably have picked you. You're pretty, you're sexy, you perform like a seasoned whore, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. All admirable qualities in a wife. Or an assistant. Hell, why don't you take the Cadillac, too? After tonight, I won't need it. I'll leave the extra key at the front desk."

She beamed. She looked like she could have easily given me a third blowjob for that. I didn't bother to mention the first payment was due in about three weeks. Instead she just smiled dreamily. "You're one hell of a boss, Mike."

"I know, sugar," I said, with a contented sigh, "I know. Now, there's one last thing I want you to do for me . . ."

***

It was time.

I waited a good half-hour after Lori knocked on the door and handed her the tract – an identical tract she had seen when I did this the first time, down to the contact poison on the paper – gave her speech, and left. It would have been too obvious for me to hand her the mildly poisoned paper. Lori managed it without raising suspicions, and when I finally crossed the street and peeked into the window, Sister Shelly was laid out unconscious on the floor of the "narthex" of her storefront, her demure skirt in disarray about her – and her head only inches from a hard wooden table. After I let myself in I checked it – no sign of blood or swelling. Her guardian angel must be looking out for her.

I was a little disappointed that my ring was cold. I would have enjoyed knocking her up again. I would just have to enjoy fucking her body on its own merits – and the fucking with her head would be fun, too. I wrapped her in her coat and half-carried her unconscious body out to the Caddy, checking to make sure no one was watching. A plumber's truck rumbled by, but if the driver took notice of the pretty unconscious woman in my back seat, he didn't slow down.

Of course I couldn't resist another casual feel of her tits and pussy while she was asleep. There's just something about violating an unconscious woman like that that turns your crank. I gave her pantied twat one last squeeze and shut the back door. The drive out to Casa Nova took twenty minutes on the back roads, and getting her out and into the pre-prepared room was difficult, but I had her positioned and myself costumed long before she woke on her own.

Indeed, while she was still out, I went ahead and hit her with a triple-sized dose of the "fuck me now!" aphro, straight under her tongue, and then stuffed a cocktail featuring hallucinogens and MDMA and other euphorics into her pussy, where it melted and was absorbed into her mucous membranes almost instantly.

The little harp tattoo was still as clear and fresh on her breast as the day I put it there.

I watched her sleep for a while, noted how her unconscious body was responding to the drugs, and then I cued the subsonics and the heavenly music from the hidden speakers in the bedroom.

"Awake, Daughter Shelly," I commanded in my best stage voice.

"Huh?" she said, groggily, as she shook her head. She immediately felt the cool of the evening and realized she was naked. She bolted up, and her head swam. "Where am I?"

"Hast thou forgotten so quickly?" I lamented.

Her eyes shot open. "The tract – my Lord?" she whispered excitedly.

"Dost thou remember, now?" I asked, kindly.

"My lord Michael!" she said, closing her eyes. "At last! I prayed and prayed, daily, my lord, I prayed that you would visit!"

"And thy prayers were heard," I conceded. "Perhaps not as quickly as thou would have wished. But all things in their proper time, my child."

"You . . . you came to me the other day," she said, as my face swam before her. I had used just a touch of glowing makeup to give it that angelic halo effect. The backlighting helped, too. And of course the wings really made the costume. I nodded, sagely.

"Indeed, though the man whose form I took knows it not. It was time to test thee, Shelly, and see if thou hast kept my commandments fully."

"I have, Lord, I have!" she said, excitedly. "I turned away from my father, and did not let him touch me again. My mother was shamed by your blessing and threw me out of their home, but I did not despair: you had given me a command, and the Bible tells us to deny our mothers and fathers at the Lord's bidding."

"And you came to Tampa, as I instructed," I said, smiling warmly.

"I did, Lord, and I birthed the girl, just as you said!" she said, excitedly. "Praise God, I followed your command though the whole world was set against me! I ministered to those who gave the words, and I came to be ordained, and I have built you a church!"

"I have seen it," I reminded her. "Rough, perhaps, but sincere."

"It has been a hard thing, Lord," she said, biting her lip. The hormones in her system were torturing her loins, yet she restrained herself. She should be humping my leg and mewling like a kitten, but her piety over-rode her lust. Impressive. "People often don't trust a woman in the ministry. I've had problems with the local authorities. To be without a man . . . to be poor . . . I love my little gift from God so much, and . . ."

"Thy obedience shall be rewarded, child," I said, kindly. "All of thy suffering hath purpose, in God's eyes. Come, entertain me as I have bidden thee to." I pushed aside my robe and my turgid manhood sprung forth. Shelly's eyes got wider – no telling exactly how it looked to her through her drug-clouded mind. But I cued the music up a bit with my hidden remote, and I'm sure it was impressive. She crawled over to me and reverently began fellating me.

With Lori's grateful hummer still in my recent memory, it was interesting to compare techniques. Lori was enthusiastic and technically proficient, there's no doubt – but she couldn't compete with a woman for whom the act was no less than a blissful religious devotion. I don't think my cock has ever been so welcome and so well-treated in a lady's mouth before.

I let her take her time, suckling me gently but intently as I stood there, wings partially spread. Her head moved with a hypnotic rhythm while she serviced me, a worshipful look on her face. Nearly half an hour later I finally succumbed to her oral charms and painted her throat with my sacred seed. She swallowed complacently, as if she had been taking communion.

"W-was I pleasing to you, Lord?" she asked, shyly.

"Indeed, daughter," I intoned. "Now dance for me."

"What?"

"Dance, my child. Dance and seduce me into your love with your dancing. For I have many things to tell you, and many instructions for you to follow." She nodded, swallowing nervously, and then rose to dance.

She was horrible.

I suppose I should have expected it. Her father's flat-headed sect had outlawed dancing long ago, and she probably did not even do it in private – which I had supposed was a human universal. So when she began to swing her hips around clumsily, it was almost painful to look at. Still, it kept her busy as I instructed her.

I had prepared for this, of course. I told her to expect great reward for her obedience, and that it would come from a mysterious source. I told her that after she had received this reward she was to take her daughter and move to California, to the San Francisco area. She was to start another church, a small one, but one that preached a very special message. A far more pro-sex message than most.

I laid it on thick, then, railing about the blasphemy of sheltering the people from the God-given gift of human sexuality, and how the puritanical ways of the Church were demeaning God's word. I condemned the prudishness, the intolerance, and the modesty of man, and I damned the hypocrisy of the Church's teachings on masturbation, sodomy, homosexuality, oral sex, infidelity, all of my faves. I replaced it instead with a pro-sex, free-love ideology that placed the sexual experience on par with the divine. That would fly in the San Francisco that would be evolving so dramatically in the next few years.

While she danced her eyes grew wider, as my voice got louder and more insistent. I let some anger show – nothing drives the point home better than some angelic wrath, I noted. I invested her with the task of quietly preaching the word that pleasure was sacred and orgasm was prayer, how natural beauty and playful lustiness were mankind's birthright, and that it had been cheated of it by Satan's intervention. The rules of modesty were the devil's traps, leading to sins of lust, while the natural attraction between man and woman – and between like sexes – was divine in nature. Sex was sacrament, not sin.

In short, I outlined a religion the way I would have written it.

By the time I had come to a thunderous conclusion, her nipples were hard and her loins were hot – I could smell her musky aroma from where I stood. I held up a hand and she stopped dancing, noticing my resurgent prick once again. Unbidden she sunk to her knees and sucked me some more, then turned and presented her ass to me, leaning over the pristine white bedspread.

How could I resist so penitent a believer? I pushed my cock through the folds of her furry pussy and discovered how tight she was – clearly, this lady wasn't getting enough play. She trembled in ecstasy as I began my slow, powerful thrusts, and every time I bottomed out against her cervix she shuddered.

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