Cock of Ages Ch. 01

"Jesus, Tom, you just fucking got here this morning! You fucked her already?" he asked in disbelief.

"Dumped in her doggie over the kitchen table," I said proudly. "Took about three hours. And I did it right, too. No potential cry of rape, there."

"I don't know how you guys fucking do it," he said, shaking his head sadly. "I can't get laid in real life, and you go to work and fuck."

"Hey, you get to watch us," I protested. "That's got to count for something." He scowled -- they didn't really get to watch us, but they got to hear the reports. I had no doubt he whacked off to them, too.

The waitress approached, a slightly fleshy blonde in her thirties who had that widowed look. Probably in the war. Lots of widows after the war. But she was attractive, and had a deep warm voice with more southern accent than you usually see around Baltimore. I ordered some pie and some horse piss. I always kept it light when I'm working. Last thing you need is to fart in some housewife's face at an inopportune moment and blow your case. But the sugar was good, and the pie was loaded with it.

"Anyway, you bag . . . Sarah? Sarah again, you can move on to the other four in the neighborhood. No reason you should go back to her, anyway, if you did the job right the first time," He said with some bitterness.

"Hey, I get two days per, that's the SOP. If I can do her in one day, that will free up some time if one of the others is . . . reluctant."

"So why go back? Move on to the next one."

"Because she's an outstanding lay, that's why. Young, nubile, first blush of adult sexuality . . . it's like fucking an American icon, Cornwall. And SOP says if I can arrange twosies, I should. And I set this one up proper."

"Yeah, you can do no wrong," he said, sourly. "The guys back home love you. Highest success rate of any of the group. Your kids are popping up all over the radar, and the recovery rates are starting to inch up."

"Not precisely my kids," I reminded him. That's right; the boys in the bag were augmented clones. My natural testicles were somewhere, somewhen, in a laboratory freezer, probably next to the janitor's lunch. The ones I was currently sporting were cued to pump juice in the ways they had wanted, plus they gave me about twice as much testosterone as I had, naturally. I could get my own nuts back when I retired, if I wanted -- but I had to admit, these boys were doing the job nicely.

"Eighty percent," he said, gruffly. "And mostly stuff that don't mean squat. My heart bleeds for you. You've got more than fifty kids, so far. Me an' Angie tried for years."

"I know," I sighed. "There's a lot of that going around."

"Anyway," he said, changing the subject, your next one after this icon you're fucking is one Mrs. Amy Hunter. Another brunette. Twenty-one, an orphan who married a soldier boy who just left for Korea. And I mean just left, so you've got to strike quick."

"Natch," I shrugged. "What does Mrs. Amy Hunter do? Another housewife?"

"She works for a florist," Cornwall said, shoveling more pie into his pie hole. "Downtown."

"Any ins, up front?"

"She drinks. A lot."

I sighed. "You'd think the future mother of my children would have more respect."

"She was brought up in an orphanage during the Depression," Cornwall said, rolling his eyes. "I'd probably drink, too."

"Good point," I agreed. "She a loner, or does she have a bar she frequents?"

"Little of both. Buys from her local liquor store. Two bars she hits, good neighborhood places . . . just packed to the gills with her husband's friends."

"Hey, I like a challenge," I said nodding. "Okay. I'll probably tone down the wholesome image a bit, play a returning vet, talk about the war. If she's a soldier's wife, she'll be sympathetic, probably depressed. Get me some good filler material, will ya? Get her drunk, pump her full of happy smells, I'll be between those thighs like lightning, leaving only a sticky after-image in my wake."

Cornwall studied me. "You really bug the crap out of me, you know?" he said, finally.

"It's just business," I assured him. "I know what I'm doing. Mrs. Amy will wake up in the morning with a splitting hangover and a sticky crotch and swear to never drink that much again. She might not even notice the wet spot until she does laundry. Nine months later, hubby comes home to his bouncing baby and adoring wife."

"No, actually," Cornwall said, grimly. "Hubby ain't coming home. KIA at Imjin River. In about two months."

"Damn," I said, wincing. "That's a shame."

"She'll always have a piece of him -- or you masquerading as him," Cornwall said mockingly. "She'll get by. Trust me, the guys back home know what they're doing. You do your part, they will do their part. But try not to take so long, will ya? I saw the schedule for the next couple of months. We do Tampa in 1963, next. A lot of 'em, too. You still got Shelly Montgomery, Patricia Ryan, and Lisa Horcek to do, here, too. Time's wasting," he said with a grin. "They've got plenty of work ahead of you."

"Cornwall, you can't rush these things. It's an art," I insisted. "You do it wrong, you get heat. Heat is bad for business. Remember Chicago?"

"Look, just fuck 'em and forget 'em, okay?" he said, disparagingly. "Quit being so goddamn emotional about it. You're a fucking stud gigolo, so stick it in, drop your load, and be done with it. Jesus, why does everything always got to be a production with you, Tom?"

I studied him for a moment. "You really bug the crap out of me, y'know?" I sighed.

"You should talk to my wife," he said sourly.

"Who knows?" I said, mischievously, as I slurped down the last of the coffee. "Maybe someday I will?"

***

I was right. Three candles. I chuckled as I glanced around, then stepped quietly up the walk. A single rap on the door, and she opened it. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown that was doubtlessly part of her trousseau, and she looked sexy as hell in it. Gone was the proper housewife. The sultry seductress was trying to come out.

Well, I'll give her points for trying.

The truth is, most American women in this era, despite an innate belief that having a vagina somehow made them naturally skilled and talented lovers, are mediocre at best in bed. They have some very inflated -- and sometimes amusing -- ideas about romance and passion and all of that, and expect the emotional moment to make up for the utter lack of poise or technique.

I mean, she was pretty; she wore a pretty gown. She was wearing appropriate make-up (if inexpertly applied) and definitely had sex on the brain. But she was hesitant and jerky in her motions, didn't know what to do with her hands, she didn't present herself as well as she could have. But she was trying. Poor little thing just didn't know how.

I ignored her clumsiness and moved in to kiss her, passionately. She returned it in kind, and we locked tongues for over five minutes, there in her foyer.

She led me into the parlor and sat me down, handing me a drink without asking. I slurped it quietly while I eyed her hungrily.

"I've never felt this way before," she breathed. "About my husband, about . . . about anyone."

"It's pretty novel for me, too," I lied, boldly. "You are a beautiful woman, Sarah." She blushed right down to her nipples and looked away.

"Do you . . . want me to . . . do that thing . . . you made me do earlier?" she asked, guiltily.

"Yes, Sarah. I want you to put your mouth on it. Suck it like a piece of hard candy, nice and slow. And I want you to look at me while you do, my darling. Look at me while you suck . . . my . . . cock," I annunciated. She blushed furiously, and only the synthetic hormones raging in her system kept her from getting up and running from the room, I think.

But Sarah was a complacent, obedient little wife. She sank to her knees in front of the settee and began unbuttoning my slacks. She stared at me the entire time, her eyes dazed. With a great deal of fumbling she finally released my dick from my boxers, and stroked it clumsily for a while. She examined it thoroughly, as if she'd never seen one properly before.

"I can't believe all of this . . . fits inside me," she confessed with a lusty sigh a moment before she tentatively took the head between her lips. She was very hesitant, her tongue almost timid as it explored the head, finding the slit and encountering the first drop of dew.

"It's sweet," she said, surprised, when she backed off of it.

"That's what I hear," I agreed. "Keep going," I encouraged. "You're doing well."

She went back to sucking me, a little more confidently. The whole head, now, between her dark red painted lips, and her tongue was beginning to be bolder. I had to instruct her to play with my balls and stroke my shaft, but once prompted she did a fine job. I let her fellate me for a good twenty minutes -- a more experienced woman would have gotten me off by then, but Sarah was a newbie. I cut her some slack.

When I finally pulled her up, I pushed her back onto the sofa and dove under the silky skirt to devour her Fifties twat. It smelled freshly bathed, if over-perfumed -- like most Fifties Americans, Sarah suffered under the impression that her cunt stank. I tried to ignore the overly floral presentation and found her throbbing little clit with my tongue. Then I rang her bell three times in a row, just to make her senseless.

It was a testament to how far I had corrupted this demure little minx when she grabbed my ears and ground her pussy against my mouth. When I finally turned loose, I sat back on the couch, let her catch her breath a little, then pulled her over on top of me.

"Wha—?" she asked, confused. "I thought . . ."

"Shhhhhh, Sarah, trust me," I insisted. "You'll enjoy this." It took a moment to make the connection between my cock and her pussy, through all of that cloth, but I did, finally. With a little wiggling I forced the head past the lips and deep inside, impaling the housewife securely. Her eyes went wide when she bottomed out, and she bit her lip in pain.

"That's it, that's my girl," I encouraged her, rocking her hips slowly on my cock. It took her a few moments to get the hang of the novel angle, but when she realized what kind of control and power she had in the cowgirl position, she went nuts.

I held on to her hips to guide her -- she was fucking kind of all over the place and needed my direction -- but when she came explosively I took a risk and stood, hoisting her into the air and allowing me to control the action, now. The standing position is a strain, of course, and requires practice, balance, and endurance, but I had all three. While I stared into her eyes my hands pumped her small body up and down on my cock until she went out of her mind with orgasm. I sat back down when she was finished, and let her fall off my body naturally. She tried to curl up in a fetal ball, but I'd have none of it -- I prompted her to get back down between my legs and suck me again.

She was reluctant, of course, due the sticky mess she had made, but I enjoyed compelling her, and she took it like a good little wife. Then I got behind her as I pushed her manfully across the seat of the sofa and raised the hem of her skirt.

"I feel like such an animal when we do it like this," she confessed deliciously.

"It's how they do it," I agreed. I positioned my cock at her entrance and pushed in hard. I waited for her moaning to subside before I started the slow, deliberate fucking I planned for her. I suppose she expected something more brisk and more brief, but I wasn't going to let her off the hook that lightly. I wanted her to engrave this fuck into her mind as the best one she'd ever had, and I'd like to think I was successful. I made her feel every hard, throbbing inch of meat as it pushed through the tight walls of her vagina.

She wiggled nicely, I'll give her that. Some of it was lust-inspired, some of it was just an involuntary attempt to avoid the thick intruder. But the end result was great, for me. I enjoyed watching her pretty ass move beneath her lingerie as my cock moved in and out.

I made her cum four times like that, never increasing my pace more than marginally. I was tagging the G-spot exclusively, but her clit was rubbing up against the couch and poor little Sarah just couldn't stop climaxing. Then I put on the gas, increasing the strength and frequency proportionately, until I was slamming into her hard and she was cumming continuously, gasping into a dainty little couch pillow someone had thoughtfully embroidered with the date of her marriage.

You had to love that.

I finally came, hosing down the inside of her spasming pussy with my life-giving seed. If the squirt earlier in the day didn't knock her up, this probably would do the trick. But I had to give the wrigglers a chance to do their work, not get interrupted by an untimely douche.

So I just held her there, half-collapsed over her back while I caught my breath. She was whimpering timidly into the cushion, trying to recover her sanity. Me? I was still hard. Three minutes of rest, and I was ready to go again. I signaled her as much when I straightened, grabbed her narrow waist, and began thrusting my cock inside her again.

"N-n-n-no!" she begged. "Please! I . . . I . . . I can't! I can't any—"

Time for a reach-around. I dug my right hand under her nightgown and found her soaking, throbbing little clit, and masterfully started diddling her. That silenced her protests, and in moments she was actively pushing back at me. Just what I wanted.

Because I couldn't resist one last little humiliation. I'm a bit of a sadist -- you kind of have to be in my line of work, where your job is essentially abusing the trust of your marks. And as much as I had already ruined her life by forcing -- okay, strongly encouraging -- her to commit adultery and get pregnant by a passing stranger, I wanted to add one last little testament. I waited until she was near her next peak, then withdrew suddenly.

"H-hnuh?" she grunted in surprise, completely out of breath. I didn't say anything, just grabbed my dick and fumbled around with it a little. She relaxed a bit as I tried to get re-seated.

Of course, it quickly became clear that I was not searching for her pussy's soaking entrance. I placed the head carefully against her rosebud, and shoved a third of it up her ass before she clued in.

She screamed -- of course she screamed. She reared up, eyes wide, mouth open, arms flailing as she struggled to unseat me. I was having none of it. If you're going to fuck June Cleaver, you really don't need much cooperation. I pushed her back down on the couch and began pushing the rest of my tool up her rectum. She still moaned and sobbed, but she stopped trying to stop me.

God, I love the Fifties!

I plundered her sweet, virgin asshole for at least ten minutes, even leaning over as I sodomized her and whispering to her what a hot little slut she was. I really laid it on thick, too, telling her I knew she was a cheating whore when I first laid eyes on her, how I knew she couldn't be faithful to her husband, and how I knew I was just the first in a long line of tawdry affairs she'd have. I called her every name in the book as my hips drove my cock deep inside her bowels. She sobbed hysterically into her marriage pillow while I did it -- and when she came, hard, a few minutes later, she was bathed in the warm glow of shame.

I took it as a sign, and I quit my taunting so I could get back to the business of injecting her with synthesized RNA. She was deliciously tight, and I no longer had to worry about her comfort, so I fucked her ass brutally. Oh, I didn't do any real damage -- the human rectum is remarkably resilient -- but it hurt, I knew. I didn't care. I fucked her ass with gay abandon until the friction was hot and my cock was ready to explode. Then I unloaded deep in her gut, painting her insides with my seed.

I left her there, bent over the couch, my semen trickling from her ass and pussy, sobbing quietly. I had raped her ass -- but whom could she tell about it?

"When your husband gets home," I said, casually, as I lit a cigarette and started to put myself together, "I suggest you fuck the daylights out of him. Really hard. Hell, try some of the new stuff, too. Tell him you missed him, and maybe he won't see the shame in your eyes. Men are easy, that way. You fuck them and they'll forget about everything else."

"How, how could you?" she accused, tearfully. "You put it . . . you put it in my, in my BOTTOM!"

"Your ass hole," I corrected. "Yeah, nice and tight, too. Your hubby will enjoy the hell out of that, let me assure you."

"I'll NEVER—" she began, defiantly.

"Yes, you will," I countered, firmly. "You see, Sarah, you're going to start to lose his favor. Oh, you're in the honeymoon period, still, but in a year or two you'll have children, you'll lose your figure, and he isn't going to be that attracted to you anymore. Oh, he'll fuck you occasionally, but only for relief. He'll turn to the attractive women he meets in his travels to sate his lusts. So your only hope is to give him something . . . a little extra," I said, amused.

"A little extra? Buggery?" she asked, astonished. "No proper woman would EVER—"

I interrupted her with a chuckle. "Not in my experience. Everyone does it, Sarah. Every wise wife, at least. Put your ass in the air and beg him to take it. That's what the older women do to keep their husbands at home. Oh, they'd never admit it, but they do."

I left her there, sobbing on the couch, with one last thought. "Oh, and I hope you don't mind if I call on you again the next time I'm in town," I mentioned. "You're a great fuck, and I can't wait for another piece of that."

"You will NEVER darken my door—"

"The hell I won't," I shot back. "Indeed, perhaps I should see the man of the house about those carpet swatches. I'm sure he'd be interested—"

It was her turn to interrupt. She saw where I was going with this and was mentally watching her pristine little world crumble around her as the scandal enveloped her and her family. She sat back on her heels and looked at me with big, pleading eyes.

"Oh, God, NO! Okay, I'll . . . let you have me," she said, shamed at the words. "Just don't ever talk to my husband. Ever. Please!" she begged.

"See you next time, then, Darling," I said, blowing her a kiss and walking out into the night.