Cock of Ages Ch. 08

Almost.

Art students are easy. Young, easily led, sometimes stupid, and always either idealistic or cynical or both. Daisy -- or Katherine, as she insisted upon being called now that she was a serious woman instead of a rambunctious teen -- was going to be easy.

Sent to school on the Redneck Riviera by her notable Atlanta family, Katherine was a young hellion, soaking up beat culture like a sponge and eager to add her own bit of infamy to the mix. I found her down by the port, where old and decrepit warehouse space was cheap.

I re-did my Mike Winslow persona to deal with her. Mike transformed from the Ivy League yacht-monkey to the anti-establishment beatnik rebel with a trust-fund. Katherine grew up affluent. Money or power wasn't what she wanted out of life. She had security in spades -- all she had to do was call Daddy for more of his filthy money. No, what Katherine Ramone wanted was respect.

Respect and recognition, that's what feeds the artist's ego. I straightened my beret and called Cromwell's room. He appeared a few moments later.

"Whatcha need, Boss?"

"A big bag of weed, Cromwell. Local, if that's all you can get. But if you can get me some down-stream kind bud, that would work best."

He whistled. "All those fancy pheromones and aphrodisiacs, and you want humble pot?" he asked, sarcastically. "Not what I'd thought Mrs. James would be in to."

"It's a prop," I explained. "And Mrs. James is in the can. Twice in the twat, once down the throat. She might be ovulating, might not be, but either way I covered her. Miss Daisy, on the other hand, is an artist, which means, here and now, that you smoke weed and drink wine. Cheap red wine. I can get that anywhere, but if you can put in an order for something amazing and hydroponic, all the better."

He shrugged. "I'll put up the smoke signal. I'm sure the boys back at base can come up with something." He left. I don't know exactly how he contacted our people and arranged for delivery, but he was back ten minutes later with a baggie of thick, glistening green buds, so aromatic I could smell it through the bag. He looked genuinely proud. "Late Eighties Purple Haze, straight from Amsterdam. I hope you don't mind -- snagged a little for myself."

"Natch," I shrugged. "Only one problem."

"What?" he asked, offended.

"The zip-lock bag won't be invented for another seventeen years or so," I pointed out. He started to argue and then looked sheepish. "I'll handle it. Thanks, Boss. Nice get-up, by the way."

Twenty minutes later I was taking a cab towards Miss Ramone's "studio", a cigarette dangling from my lip. I stopped for a bottle of cheap red wine, put it in my duffle bag, and wished I hadn't showered. The beats were known for many things, but hygiene wasn't one of them. Hopefully the smell of stale cigarette smoke would cover my distinct lack of BO. To compensate, I put my pheromone dispersal equipment on high. There'd be a lot of horny little beat chicks in the bar tonight.

The place her file said she frequented was a nameless bar two blocks away from the docks. It was as big a hole-in-the-wall as I'd seen, with garish Indian tapestries and a beaded doorway and Chinese calligraphy and Marxist posters and hot tea for a nickel, beer for a quarter, a bottle of wine for a dollar. The cloying smell of sandalwood and patchouli mingled with cigarette smoke and a little of the primitive grass available here-and-now. I found my way to one of the dimly lit tables and ordered a bottle from the goatee behind the bar.

This stage of the game is always fun. Like the Tiki Club the previous night, I enjoyed surveying the room and picking out the easy marks. The skinny waitress who'd probably suck you off in the bathroom for five bucks, if you asked her; the pudgy chick with the sandals and dirty toes who wore all black and chain smoked Luckys and who hadn't gotten laid in a few months; the terminally sensitive willowy blonde who looked fragile and bit her fingernails impulsively and was trying so hard to prove to herself that she wasn't a lesbian that she'd fuck any dick offered to her. A few more. It wasn't the candy shop of cooze that the Tiki Club had been, true, but it was a lot more interesting.

Within twenty minutes the willowy blonde came by, introduced herself as Fury (no, really, that's what she called herself) and asked me if I was new in town. I didn't see my mark lurking anywhere, so I decided to knock one out before she arrived. Fury was kind of cute, in an anorexic kind of way, and I was intrigued by her. Besides, her nail biting was cute, in a self-conscious sort of way.

So I bought her a drink and started telling lies about myself. I stuck as much as possible to my original script, with some embellishments. I was the youngest son of a rich cryptofascist family of oligarchs, and was rejecting the bourgeoisie trappings of affluence while I scoured the world for revolutionary art for my new New York gallery.

Fury hung on every word, letting me overwhelm her with the force of my personality. She was young, too, no more than twenty, and easily impressed by my worldly ways. I was enjoying teasing her and watching her get worked up despite her attempts at coolness. One of the new insta-horny tabs in her wine when she wasn't looking, and I was set.

"What would you do," I asked, after she had finished the cup, "for a chance to smoke some of the best grass, ever?" I asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Grass?" she said, looking around as if the cops were about to raid the joint. "You have grass?"

"Grass doesn't begin to describe it. This is one-hit wonder. You'll be higher than any time in your life, doll-baby. What would you do to have that?"

"Anything," she said, eyes wide. "I love to smoke."

"Give me head in the alley?" I offered.

She shrugged, and her nipples stood out through her turtleneck. "Sure."

"Let's go."

Fury was a little gawky, but as I predicted, she was a weed whore. I could sense the aphro was working on her even as we left the bar, and a stroll to deserted alley a block away convinced me without a doubt. Her cupcake-sized boobs were all pointy, and she kept looking at me expectantly and then looking away.

When we got to the alley I expertly rolled a joint and let her smell the bag (now in a contemporary baggie) which made her nipples even harder. One last glance around the neighborhood and I sparked it up. She took a couple of hits and then stared at me.

"Wow. Oh, wow. This is . . . this is amazing!" she murmured as her eyes dilated. "You were right. I've never been this high," she admitted with a hysterical giggle. I shushed her and made her take another hit, then without a word I pushed her to her knees.

She was already in a stupor, but I didn't mind. I pulled my own cock out through my dungarees and placed it at her lips. Absently she began to suck the tip. Then, as if realizing what she was doing for the first time, she began to enthusiastically suck. The aphro was in full effect, and despite any confused sexuality issues she might have had, she was enjoying the erotic feel of my cock in her mouth. Her tongue was busy caressing the head even as she struggled to get more than a third of it in her mouth. Her long nimble fingers were busy stroking the shaft the whole time. Not a bad blowjob, all things considered.

I petted her short hair affectionately as she sucked. There are few things as pure and sublime as a late teen blowjob. She didn't even bother looking up at me most of the time, not until I warned her I was going to cum and telling her I expected her to swallow every drop. I did and she did, although she clearly wasn't happy with it.

"Thanks," I said, pulling her up and passing her the roach. "I feel much better, now."

"God, so do I," Fury swore. "I mean, not because I . . . but because of the grass, man. That was . . . I've never had it so good before."

"Plenty more where that came from, if you play your cards right. Keep the roach for later. Maybe you can introduce me to a few of the local artists tonight."

"Oh, hell yes, I know everyone from here to Clearwater," Fury assured me.

"I'm not interested in stuffy crap," I added. "I'd like to put together a collection of brilliant female artists, actually. No one is doing that in New York. That Warhol guy and his pack have mentioned it a few times—"

"Warhol? You know Andy Warhol?" She was shocked.

"Yeah, squirrelly little fucker. He's trying to get a show up at Paul Bianchini's whorehouse of a studio, whole bunch of commercial crap. Someday someone's going to shoot that little fucker. He mentioned doing an all-girl show last year, but nothing ever came of it. I want that kind of thing for my gallery."

"Then . . . I'll try to introduce you to a few. There are a few here, I guess. Let's go back to the bar, see who wanders in."

We did, and the crowd was at least a little larger. I sat with Fury and enjoyed being stoned and recently blown and waited for Katherine to come in. Just around eleven she did, and immediately made a bee-line to Fury's table.

Katherine was about average height, yellow-blonde hair cut just under her ear, with sharp eyes and a button nose. She would have been cute in high school -- now she was intriguing, young, brash, and ready to take on the world.

"Hey, Katherine, man, this is Mike," Fury began, clearly enjoying the attention. "He's an art dealer from New York. He knows Andy Warhol."

"I know a bunch of people," I said, reluctantly. "Bunch of fakes, you ask me. Not a goddamn bit of real talent in all of Soho."

"I'm Katherine," the cute girl said, and I knew immediately that I was going to enjoy this. She had some very nice titties under all that black, and they seemed both pert and completely unencumbered by a brassier. She fixed me with a serious stare -- like I said, she wanted respect and recognition. "I do art."

"What's your medium?" I asked, lighting a cigarette and motioning her to sit down.

"Acryllics. Oils. Collage. Whatever," she said, dismissively.

"I'm looking to buy, if it's good. Looking to show if it's great."

"Mike is putting together an all-female show," explained Fury, excitedly.

"Then why is he in a shit-hole like Tampa?" Katherine asked, accusingly.

"Because the shit-holes are where you find the diamonds," I explained. "Next year I plan on doing some good Negro art."

"That's cool," Fury said, her eyes narrow.

"Yeah, but who the hell has ever heard of you?" Katherine said, belligerently.

"My friends are my business," I shot back. "They have money and I tell them what kind of taste to have. Billy Apple ring a bell? Robert Watts?"

"How about Mary Inman?" Katherine responded.

"I've fucked her," I shrugged. "She fucks better than she creates, I'll give her that."

"Okay, Daddy, you talk some talk. You wanna come back to my studio and gaze at my magnificence?"

"You gonna smoke some pot with me if I do?"

"Sure," she said, shrugging -- but she couldn't hide the excited twinkle in her eye. "Let's get some wine on the way, too," she added.

"Already have some. But Fury has to come with -- if I buy, she gets the commission. And I'm interested in talking to any other female artists you know. Young ones -- I'm done looking at wallpaper painters."

We talked some more, then the three of us got up and walked the three blocks to Katherine's "studio". It had a big wooden door that had seen plenty of squalls, and a dark and eerie appearance that was almost calculated to be sinister. Katherine slid it open and ushered us inside, turning on two low-wattage light bulbs and lighting some candles.

I actually made a show of looking at her stuff while I rolled another joint, and it wasn't too bad. I'm no artist, or even an art critic, but it was clear she had talent, if not a shred of discipline. I picked out three that weren't too awful and offered her five hundred for the three of them.

Katherine hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then agreed. I paid her in cash on the spot -- and paid an excited Fury fifty for her help. When the average weekly wage in 1963 was less than a hundred bucks, that was big money for a beatnik.

"Let's celebrate," I said, after I had launched Katherine's professional career. "You have wine goblets?"

"Three mason jars do?" Katherine asked, skeptically.

"Just the thing," I assured, charmingly. "I'll pour. You light that joint, baby."

Of course I dropped some more aphro in each of their cups. I didn't think I'd really need it, of course, but I like to amp things up in such a situation. The pot was really the key. I'm sure these ladies were well experienced in smoking the lawn clippings that masqueraded as weed here in the dark ages. What we were smoking had been painstakingly cultivated and professionally bred to be potent even by 1980s standards. Back here in prehistory, it was literally the most powerful weed on the planet. And I had about an ounce and a half of it. Things were going to get freaky.

Half an hour later both ladies were half-drunk and twice as stoned as they'd ever been in their lives. Katherine dominated the conversation, of course, while Fury kept glancing excitedly between her and me and tried to add the occasional comment. I could tell both were squirming in their seats (okay, their pillows -- Katherine's studio was pretty primitive) and aroused even before the weed really kicked in. A few minutes after I poured them a second glass, I looked over at Fury.

"Take your shirt off," I commanded.

She blushed and stammered a bit, but I persisted. "Come on, it's hot in here. All these candles. I know you're hot. Go ahead and cool off some."

Katherine looked at me strangely, but I had Fury's eyes locked with mine. She bit her lip, and like a kid playing truth or dare she looked at Katherine for some sort of permission. Katherine shrugged, so Fury pulled her shirt off to reveal her teacup titties.

"Nice," I said, approvingly. "How about you, baby?"

Katherine didn't look as convinced, yet -- she had a strong personality. But the weed, wine, and hormones coursing through her system were impairing her judgment, and after a moment she shrugged again and pulled off her own shirt. "Nice," I repeated. I leaned over and fondled one. I could see her tense a bit, but then again I had just handed her five hundred bucks, got her high, and was considering an art show. She put up with me pinching her nipples.

As I fondled Katherine's tits, I leaned over and kissed Fury forcefully. She was reluctant, too, but our earlier intimacy melted her resolve, and soon she was pushing her tongue into my mouth eagerly. My other hand stole up to play with her tits, and I changed to kissing Katherine.

"Lets get naked," I suggested, when I came up for air.

I had fun that night. With two young women eager to rebel against the establishment, a big bag of weed, and a cock that wouldn't quit, how could I not? I took charge, too, despite Katherine's natural tendency to lead. Fury was a follower, and she followed my orders to suck my cock again while her friend sat on my face. I licked her sparse bush to three quick but hard orgasms, then pushed her off. Then I ordered Fury on her hands and knees in front of Katherine, and while I entered her from behind her face was in very close proximity of Katherine's slit. I fucked Fury for a good ten minutes, through one crashing orgasm, when I leaned over and whispered in her ear:

"Go ahead. You know you want to. Tonight is the night to try it," I suggested. She looked up at Katherine's spasming twat and started inching her body forward. I followed her enough to push her face in Katherine's crotch and watched with relish as Fury got her first taste of pussy.

Katherine might have been upset about it if she had been sober, but she wasn't. All she knew is that there was another tongue on her clit and it was driving her wild. Fury looked like she was in heaven, literally praying at the altar of pussy while I pumped her tight twat. Katherine came twice more before I dismounted the skinny girl and crawled on top of the curvy one.

"Ugh!" she grunted as I sheathed myself inside her. It was probably a little uncomfortable and unexpected, but I didn't mind. Her juicy boobs were flattened against my chest, and I had a grand old time fucking her missionary style while Fury waited her turn. It only took twenty minutes or so for me to shoot her full of spooge, and then I sat back and rolled another one while we recovered.

Of course, Fury hadn't been truly satisfied, yet, so I encouraged the girls to kiss and make out. It took just the smallest bit of encouragement, and soon both blondes were writhing around, their fingers buried in each other's snatches. I pointed out that Katherine hadn't dined at the Y yet, and dared her to do so, calling the bourgeoisie rejection of homosexuality a patriarchal plot to consign the proletariat into easy categorization. Hell, it sounded good. Katherine finally acquiesced and headed south until her face was between Fury's thighs. I took the opportunity to sink my cock into Katherine from behind, then feed our combined juices to Fury in between her climaxes.

I fucked them both that night, repeatedly. By the third joint they were little more than torpid dolls that did what I asked without question. And I pushed their sexual envelopes, too, making Katherine eat out her willowy friend while I fucked her plump asshole for the first time, then fucking Fury while Katherine rode her face. I dumped at least two or three loads in each girl, and at four in the morning I started walking back to the hotel, the girls passed out in a lezzie puppy pile.

It had been a sweet experience, and I wished I had had a camera to capture them sleeping that morning. It would have made a pretty picture, a moment of pure sapphic innocence that I would have loved to frame and hang on my wall back at the Base. "Late Beatnik Pussy Party Aftermath", 1963. Warhol would have liked it, I'd like to think.

I don't know art. But I know what I like.