Cock of Ages Ch. 11

Tampa, Florida
March 6th, 1963

"You bought a fucking house?" Cromwell asked, incredulously. "We're only here for two more weeks, remember?"

"Well, sure, for now," I agreed. "And I didn't actually buy it, per se, just put down some earnest money. Believe me, it will keep Alice's panties comfortably around her ankles for the next few weeks. I can knock her up good and hard. It also gives me a plausible reason for being in town. Background stuff," I pointed out, dismissively.

He shrugged. It wasn't like it was real money. "Well, the way you're going through marks, we should be done by Friday," he said. "That Mrs. Mueller was . . . and then Alice . . . wow, two in one day. Amazing."

"Oh, I hit the Tiki Club again last night," I reminded him. "Put another three freebies on my tab. But I've got two weeks to bag three marks. I think a little vacation time is in order, don't you?"

"Well . . . it is pretty nice here," he agreed, reluctantly. "No smog, complete ozone layer, clean beaches . . . OK, I'll bite. We can kick back a bit. Does that mean you don't want your last three yet?"

I shrugged. "Go ahead. No reason I can't get set up, if one of them proves difficult."

"They shouldn't," he said, opening his computer-disguised-as-a-book. "Lucy Bonner, Jennifer Ann Miller, Sandy Simmons. All young and single."

"Great. Probably butt-ugly, too. But go ahead and shoot me the files, I'll start work on them. Slowly. You go hang out at the beach, look at girls. It does wonders for your disposition."

"This is going to make going home to the wife a little hard," he admitted.

I shrugged. Not my problem. "And I'm going to need some more cash. I want to throw around some dough to back my story. A few thousand, maybe."

"Doc said you might," agreed my handler, pulling some bank books out of his pocket. "Three different spending accounts. Each has several grand in it. Enjoy."

"Outstanding," I agreed. "Okay, off you go. I don't want to see you back for two or three days. If I need you, I'll leave a message at the front desk."

"That's not SOP," he warned.

"Don't worry about it," I assured. "I can take care of myself."

Which I can. I know a fair amount about firearms, and due to quirky and quaint local laws they practically handed them out with a pack of cigarettes. And I'm fairly proficient in hand-to-hand fighting too, thanks to the Program's training. But I wanted to be free from scrutiny for a while. I work best when no one is watching. As helpful as Cromwell was, he was also represented the Program's interests, not my own.

I spent the morning walking around myself, looking at pretty girls in pre-bikini bathing suits. About mid-morning I wandered into the Buccaneer Gift Shoppe, once I saw there was no one else in the shop, and bought another newspaper from a very frightened Camilla. I paid for it with a twenty, which she also didn't have change for. She tried to get me to just take the paper, her eyes wide with horror at my face. I had had too much fun with the delightful young Latina, though, to let her brush me off. I pointed out that since she didn't have change again, she could either bring it by my hotel room again or we could settle up right here and now.

Eyes guiltily downcast, she locked the shop door, put up a fake clock lunch sign, and pulled me back into the tiny storeroom. There she sat on a stool and fellated me clumsily while I held on to her pretty dark head and spilled my load across her tongue. She didn't even look at me when I left, chuckling. I knew where I'd be buying my papers in the future.

I was walking back to the hotel near lunchtime, the jaunty spring in my step that I get when I coerce a blowjob out of an unwilling girl, when I saw her in the lobby again.

Y'know. Her. The brunette.

She was dressed differently, of course, a little more dressy than before. She favored me with a bit of a smile, which looked even more mysterious and alluring while she was wearing a large, dark pair of sunglasses, and I returned it. Then I walked directly over to her. There was a subtle but gloriously feminine aroma of herbs and flowers that intoxicated me.

"I know this is forward of me," I apologized, "but this is the second time I've laid eyes on you, the first I noticed the absence of a ring, and the last time I want to go without knowing your name," I said, charmingly, stretching out my hand.

She smiled brilliantly – dimples – and seemed to be caught a little off-guard. She automatically took my hand and searched my face.

"Teresa," she finally managed. "Teresa McKenna. And you are . . .?"

"Outrageously forward," I quipped. "But my friends call me Mike. Mike Winthrop, if you want to be all official about it."

"So what can I do for you, Mr. Winthrop?" she asked, lightly. My ring hadn't warmed at her touch, but to hell with that. I wanted to take her right there in the lobby.

"You can do me the honor of going to dinner with me this evening," I pronounced. "Assuming, rather recklessly, that you have no other plans."

She considered. "I don't, really – nothing important, anyway – but I'm not generally accustomed to dining with strange gentlemen, Mr. Winthrop."

"Miss McKenna, I assure you, you've never dined with a stranger gentleman. Do you live in Tampa?"

"N-no," she admitted, a little confused. "I'm on . . . vacation."

"Then consider it part of the exotic charm of this former pirate's town," I insisted. "Not to mention the fact that no one need know. It will be quite scandalous, no doubt, and give you a fond and fuzzy memory for many years to come."

She grinned, despite herself. I love this kind of work. Chatting up a woman, cunningly moving past her defenses and grinding down her natural reserve is almost as much fun as sliding your cock into her wet, clasping pussy for the first time.

Almost.

"I suppose I should indulge myself a little in the . . . exotic charm of this former pirate's town," she admitted.

"Pick you up at eight? Fine dining, tourist trap, or local color?" Keep them confused and off balance – always a good thing.

"Uh, eight, sure. And . . . local color?"

"Then dress casually. I'll meet you here," I said, with a warm smile and a slight bow. Then I shook her hand again and retreated while her head was still whirling. That's always a good idea – after you've made a good initial impression, get the hell out of there before you screw it up. The memory of a charming face will linger and magnify on its own. Every moment you spend after the deal is done is a chance to louse things up.

I was so pleased with myself that I decided to bag an easy one to celebrate. I took lunch at a nearby diner, introduced myself to the prettiest waitress in the joint, had a decent Reuben with a coke on the side, and convinced her to take a break with me out back with the aid of some mild pheromones, a flash of my ring, and a crisp twenty as a very special "tip". It was a hurried and unartful seduction, but satisfying nonetheless.

Ten minutes of making out, a little fumbling under clothes, and a stand-up doggie fuck over a crate of cabbages, and I added another tick to my total. When we got to the post-orgasmic cigarette stage, I quizzed her on joints with local color – and far away from the horrors of the Tiki Club – and found out about a dive on the docks called Shrimp Boats. Just the kind of colorful hole-in-the-wall I was looking for. Good food, cold beer, sloppy service. Perfect.

I was back at the hotel for an hour before I realized that I didn't even get the waitress's name.

***

I was in the lobby early, about quarter 'til eight, and found a quiet corner where I couldn't easily be seen. She arrived about five 'til, looking around expectantly and nervously. She was in a very casual light summer dress in understated pastel orange and white, with a sassy scarf around her neck. She consulted her watch three of four times in the first few minutes, which made me happy – she was obviously nervous about the date.

Me, I wasn't nervous, despite my unusual attraction to Teresa. Not only was I a consummate professional, I had my arsenal of little helpers arrayed about my person, and I had done the groundwork in preparation. I appeared two minutes after eight, looking spiffy in a white button down silk shirt that managed to be luxurious and casual at the same time, and sinfully soft slacks. I had a windbreaker jauntily cast over one shoulder – it could get chilly in Tampa at night in March. Best to be prepared.

"Hello, pretty lady," I said, my best dazzling smile radiating pure charm at her. My clothes were also soaked in pheromones, though I had dispensed with the subsonics for this date. I don't find them particularly useful, anyhow. "Hungry, I hope?"

"Michael!" she said, sounding relieved – did she really think I'd stand her up? "I'm famished, actually."

"Seafood okay?"

"Perfect," she agreed, "as long as its not soaked in rich sauces. Trying to watch my figure."

"Funny, I've been doing that for two days now," I said, boldly, and was rewarded with fluttering eyelashes and a blush. "I think you'll be happy. I heard about this place down by the docks. Our cab should be arriving shortly."

"The docks?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "Is it safe?"

"No one will attack you but me," I promised. "And I'm a pushover."

She warmed a bit more as we waited for the taxi, and I got as close as possible to her to let my manly scent do its work. I noticed the tell-tale flushing almost immediately, and the hand fidgeting followed in close order. Hair twisting came next, and when she presented her neck I knew I had her.

We exchanged background information – I trotted out the wealthy and spoiled scion of an old New England family thing again, though I toned down the dashing bad-boy yachtsman and played up the real estate tycoon – and I learned that she was originally from Philadelphia, that her father owned an ironworks plant there, that she was an only child, that she went to Mount Holyoke for a useless degree three years ago, had been engaged twice and broken it off, and now was getting interested in horse breeding. Good stuff to know.

I complimented her profusely, but sincerely, on her appearance, and put an arm around her shoulders during the short cab ride over. She seemed flattered, and didn't reject it. Her nipples were hard as rocks, but I didn't try to push pass her reserve just yet.

The Shrimp Boat was a tawdry, dirty little concrete block honkey-tonk that stunk of rotting shrimp and briny water. The flickering neon advertised LIVE CRABS and RAW O-STERS, as well as admitting that the shop was OP-N. A haze of grease clung to the glass of the door as our entrance was heralded by a clanking cowbell. It was a testament to the popularity of the place that there were both Blacks and Whites intermingling. Something I'd noted in the historic South: segregation didn't hold up under superior cuisine. While Blacks had their restaurants, and Whites had theirs, there were some places where the common denominator of great food allowed the races to be free to mix, and this, evidently, was one of them. We grabbed the cleanest table in the joint and waited for the waiter to come by.

"You wanted local color," I said, shrugging apologetically.

"No! This is great!" she insisted. "I love coming to places like this. You get a lifetime of white linen tablecloths. This is a welcome change."

"The food is supposed to be good," I said, looking at the chalkboard that served as a menu. "Although I am suspect of the wine cellar."

"More of a 'beer' girl, myself," she admitted.

We got two beers, moderately cold, a bucket of oysters, two greasy oyster knives that were lawsuit-bait, and a pound or so of steamed shrimp. The light was dim, there were flies all over the place, and it was one of the best dates I'd ever been on.

I mean, it wasn't substantially different from any other date I'd ever planned, but there was something about Teresa that captivated me. I'd screwed prettier women than her – and recently – but the way she carried herself, the confidence in her step, that was very compelling to me, for some reason. She wolfed down raw oysters with gusto, and peeled shrimp with no pretense of daintiness. She finished her first beer quickly, and was well into her second when she finally went to the bathroom.

And, of course, I didn't miss the opportunity to add an aphro (the slow-acting one – I was enjoying myself too much) to her beer before she returned. No need to take any chances on an attractive piece of ass like this. I wanted her loins to ache for me by the time we left. She returned and finished her beer quickly and ordered another, while I grinned at her gusto and drained mine as well.

It was a great date, and her sense of humor made it all the more enjoyable; there was little of the awkwardness that is usually thick in such circumstances, and we were behaving like goofy teenagers before the next round of beers was drained. I licked Old Bay sensuously off of her fingers, she slurped up oysters suggestively, and we danced in our seats to the static-plagued Wurlitzer that pumped out popular rock-and-roll and rhythm-and-blues – "negro music". It was the music that finally gave her away.

"Love Me Do", the poppy, soulful Lennon and McCartney tune came on in all of its monophonic glory. The Beatles were honored musical ancestors in my day and age, required listening in school and studied by academicians. Here and now they were just another bubble-gum phenom, a boy band before there were boy bands, a Brit novelty act with a paltry few hits. Beatlemania was still dormant – their fame was still largely ahead of them. Teresa gave me a wide-eyed stare when the first screeching harmonica notes blasted across the room.

"I love this song!" she declared, eagerly, and immediately started swaying.

"It's catchy!" I agreed, wanting to mirror her enthusiasm. "These are . . . the Beatles, right?"

"Yeah, from Liverpool," she said, nodding and closing her eyes while she mouthed the lyrics.

"I can see why they're popular," I said, watching her breasts move magnificently under her sun dress as she bounced.

"More popular than Jesus," she agreed, her eyes still closed. Thankfully. Otherwise she might have seen my expression, and things might have gotten hairy. As it was I recovered before she opened them, and busied myself with ordering a third round of drinks.

When you're a time traveler, especially a time traveler in my line of work – world-saving by insemination – knowing your era is a major survival skill. Not just knowing who the president is, and the major news of the day, but really knowing your specific era. A casual word in the wrong ear can be trouble, if you speak out of ignorance. For example, in a few short months there would be a national tragedy when JFK gets offed in Dallas. It changed everything, one of those fundamental watersheds in the developing cultural life of America during a historically critical time. Mentioning Dallas or JFK or a grassy knoll or Lee Harvey Oswald or any of that is just the sort of thing that causes nasty waves of causality that can wreck havoc on the future.

But just as important is being aware of the minor cultural elements whose later significance can't really be seen at the time. The Beatles are an interesting case in point.

Like I said, here and now they were a Brit group who played rhythm and blues, a novelty act more than anything else, with a few catchy tunes that were starting to make the charts. Beatlemania wouldn't be a word in wide circulation for another year or so, though the haircut jokes were already being flung around by crew-cut flunkies on construction sites.

And it would be months, yet, before John Lennon utters his infamous "More popular than Jesus" line that gets thousands of records burnt and launches the anti-Rock and Roll crusade by the nascent religious right. Afterward, it becomes a byword for the counterculture, a symbol of the "new thought" that will spend the next decade trying unsuccessfully to topple "the Establishment", and in a few score years it will be heralded as a representation of the triumph of American popular media culture over traditional small-town, church-based mores. By my time it is a legendary historical footnote. But for the next hundred years, it will be remembered, in precisely that manner.

But he hadn't said it yet. For Teresa to pick exactly that turn of phrase could have been an accident, I suppose – but I wasn't about to trust to that.

I was almost ready to give her the benefit of the doubt when I decided to test her a little more. While ordering the next round I thought of something, and I went back to being a charming studmuffin until the song finished with a mournful wail.

"GOD, I love that song!" she sighed, giddily.

"Yeah, it makes you just want to twist and . . ."

"Shout? Yeah!" she said, her eyes sparkling. That cinched it.

Teresa wasn't from around here.

I mean, I was reasonably certain. It's still possible that it was a complete coincidence . . . but somehow I didn't think so. Why not 'twist and jump'? 'Twist and hop'? 'Twist and Shout' wasn't a natural expression in America, and wouldn't be until the song hit the charts. Everyone knows about the Beatles early hits. 'Twist and Shout' was just after 'Love Me Do', in most people's minds. Almost concurrent. But seducing teenage girls had encouraged me to be up on my pop culture, and I knew for a fact that Teresa hadn't heard 'Twist and Shout' because it would be released in the UK in just a few weeks, on March 22. Right now the only Beatles in America were the few thousand singles that had migrated over the pond. 'Twist and Shout' was on the Please Please Me album.

Busted.

I did my best to ignore the thousands of questions that sprang unbidden into my mind, then, and focus on making this chick. It wasn't easy, but if I didn't control this sudden anxiety, she'd pick up on it . . . and right now she was starting the squirm-in-her-seat-because-her-panties-are-wet move, and I needed to close this deal.

"Let's get out of here," I said, as she drained the last of her third beer.

"My thoughts exactly," she agreed, eagerly. I had the staff call a cab and held her hand while we waited. She flowed easily into my arms in the back seat, and I chanced to steal a warm, soft, wet kiss in the night time gloom. All too soon the brightly lit hotel loomed, and I was forced to pull her out of the cab and into the hotel bar for a nightcap.

It didn't last long. She downed her brandy quickly, then politely requested that I walk her to her room. She was nearly quivering in excitement as she fumbled for her key, then unlocked her suite, inviting me in.

I pushed in, kissed her passionately, threw the key to the floor and moved her towards the bed while I caressed her. She returned my passion, hungrily devouring my lips and pushing her body at mine. When she landed on the bed she began unbuttoning my shirt. I pushed my hands up her skirt and found the waistband of her panties, and pulled them off in one swift motion.

It was a passionate coupling, unencumbered by foreplay and fueled by pure lust. I pushed my cock into her sparsely-furred pussy and groaned into her mouth at the heat and tightness of it. She groaned back, arching her back and urging me to push in deeper.

It was a wild and frenetic fuck, animalistic in the best sense of the word. She was hot, as hot as a furnace, and she had outstanding pelvic muscle control – she could have wrung my dick out like a wet towel with those vaginal muscles. I pounded her pussy to two hard climaxes then flipped her over for some doggie, where I gave her two more. Her ass was incredible, full and apple shaped and so terribly eager. Then I pulled her on top of me for cowgirl, grinding her engorged clit with my pubic bone while I gave her the illusion of control.