Cock of Ages Ch. 14

Tampa, Florida
March 9, 1963

"I have an errand for you today. A kind of secret mission," I noted to my live-in personal assistant – which is a polite, upscale word for "private whore" – Lori. She was just emerging from the spacious bathroom after "making herself pretty" which took over an hour.

Her head tilted inquisitively. "More victims?"

"One in particular. I want you to go downtown and make the acquaintance of a girl I saw. I found out her name and where she works, but I want you to find her and make friends with her. Take her to lunch, or something."

"And the point of this secret mission?"

"I want you to extend to her a job offer, pending an interview with myself. I'm thinking about taking on a personal secretary. I'd like to scope her qualifications for that position."

"Which means about four different positions, unless I'm mistaken. All right, I'll do it. When do you want to interview her?"

"Tomorrow, after work. Here's a hundred bucks and the directions. Make it look classy, okay?"

"I'm always classy," my whore said, indignantly.

"Be sure to talk about what a great guy I am to work for," I added.

"When you aren't putting your big cock up my butt," she pointed out. I had done so last night, in the middle of the night. Lori didn't seem to appreciate it, but she gritted her teeth and took the barely-lubed intruder into her rectum as part of her job. That made her Employee of the Month in my book.

She took the money and scampered. Me, I was setting up my final mark for the Tampa trip. But I had a little excursion to take, first.

It had been a few days since I picked up a newspaper, so after Lori was gone I sauntered down the strip to my favorite little boutique. I passed by twice, beforehand, to make sure she was working. She was, I discovered, although her boss was buzzing around. I had to wait until damn near 11:00 am, when the old biddy left with the deposit, before I made my move.

The cowbell clanked as I came through the door, and dark flashing eyes saw me, did a double take, and then filled with horror. She was wearing a pretty yellow top today, and a hooded sweatshirt and jeans.

"Hello, Cammie," I said, my voice just above a whisper. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"H-hi," she said, swallowing nervously.

"You remember me, don't you?" I asked in a friendly voice.

"Y-yes, I remember you, Mr. Winthrop," she finally admitted, her eyes downcast.

"Good," I said with a smile. "I remember you, too, Cammie. Our usual place?" I asked, breezing past her tiny counter and into the storeroom/office in the back of the shop. "You might want to lock the door."

I waited back there for almost five full minutes, and I kept waiting to hear the bell ring as she ran away, but instead I heard the bolt click, and listened to her put out the "Out To Lunch" sign. A few moments later she appeared, biting her lip nervously.

"I, um, I threw up this morning," she said, guiltily.

"Must be a touch of something," I grunted, pulling down my zipper.

"I m-might be . . ."

"What, pregnant?" I finished, hauling out my hardening cock.

"Y-yeah," she said, quietly, staring at her feet. "I think I'm late."

"Well, if you are – and it's mine – then I'll take care of you," I said, gently. "I'm wealthy, like I said. I could pay for you and our child until college. No need to worry."

"It's yours," she assured me. "Has to be. If, I, mean."

"If," I agreed. "All you have to do is bring me a paternity test, I'll forward it to my lawyers, and we'll set up an account for you. And make you sign a bunch of papers saying that you'll never reveal the kids' real parentage. Say . . . three hundred a month, to start? Five hundred?"

That was five times what she was making now. She nodded enthusiastically, and looked a little relieved.

"See, that wasn't so hard," I smiled. "Now, can we do this, soon?"

"R-right, Mr. Winthrop," she said, seeing my hard dick dance in front of her like it was her very first time. She walked over to me, took a deep breath, and got on her knees. She took the head of my cock in her mouth almost gratefully.

That was quite a rush, actually. I had pretty much raped this waif, stolen her innocence, filled her belly with my seed which was almost guaranteed to ruin her young life, and then made her feel well enough about the whole situation with a well-placed lie that she was going to suck my cock anyway. I'm a very bad man.

And she was getting very good at sucking my cock. I watched, entranced, as her teen-aged bronzed lips slid up and down my pole, her hand cupping my testicles gingerly. She looked up once or twice while she did it, looking for approval, for sympathy, for . . . something. I groaned and put my hand on her head, giving her my lust. And eventually my good-sized load, which she struggled to take. She swallowed it down, made a bit of a face, and got up, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

"Thanks," I said, zipping up. "Can I get a paper, too, please? And a pack of Luckies."

"Sure," she said, dazed. That had to be a surreal experience for her.

She rang me up on the clutzy old mechanical register and I left her a twenty for a tip – then turned around and added a fifty, just because she hadn't been a bitch about any of it. Not too bright, perhaps, but she hadn't even cried. Her eyes lit up when she saw the big note on the counter. I got the hell out of there before her boss came back.

That bit of fun over with, I turned my attention to my final mark, Miss Sandy Simmons.

Sandy worked at a high-end bakery in West Tampa, one that did lots of catered affairs. Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, you get the picture. Cakes, breads, some pastries. Sandy worked the front counter, displaying her fetching bosom most attractively. She also handled catering calls.

When I got back to my room, I called the bakery and then hung up and called back until I got a female voice on the line.

"West Side Bakery!" she sang. "How can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm going to be needing a caterer for a private affair. Actually, it's a kind of trial run for my sister's wedding this summer. Probably no more than four, five hundred people. Is that the sort of thing you do?"

"Oh, yes sir," she said, enthusiastically. "Our cakes are the best. But the wedding isn't until summer?"

"Yes, but I'm going to have a small engagement party first," I said, trying to let the Harvard flow into my accent. "I'd like someone to come out and look over the site, meet with me personally. Your name is . . .?"

"Oh, I'm just Sandy," she said, dismissively. "I just work the counter. You'll want to talk to Antonio or Juan – those are the Costanzas. They're the brothers who own the bakery," she explained.

"Actually, I'd rather not deal directly with . . . the management," I said. "Um, is there any way you could meet me out there? I mean, I just want someone who has some sort of experience with this sort of thing to look over the site, y'know, tell me what I need to feed five hundred people. Price isn't an object," I added.

"Well . . ." she said, hesitantly. "I suppose I could – I've priced out jobs before. Never one this big . . ."

"I'll be generous," I promised, "I just have a hard time dealing with . . . Hispanics. There always seems to be some misunderstanding. We have a Portuguese maid back home, and I couldn't figure out what she was saying half the time."

"I know what you mean," she said, and I could almost hear her eyes rolling. "When do you want to meet?"

"Are you available this afternoon?"

"Um, sure, it's a delivery day, so things are pretty slow after I make the run. And where do you want me to meet you?"

"Casa Nova," I said with a grin, and gave her directions.

***

I'm sure Sandy guessed something was up, but perhaps that's crediting her with too much. She was pretty and ambitious, but she lacked both Alice's intelligence and her style. Still, I could see why she would be a homewrecker in a few years – she still had a bit of babyfat to lose, and definitely had the aroma of a home town girl on her, but she was a beauty. I waited for her in front of the house, where Alice had wasted no time in putting an "Under Contract!" addition to the faded "FOR SALE" sign. Sandy pulled around the circle in the delivery truck, parked behind the Caddy, and hopped out a moment later wearing a robin-egg blue colored apron over a slightly tacky dress.

"Mr. Winthrop?" she asked, hesitantly.

"Yes, Michael Winthrop," I said warmly, while still emphasizing my social superiority by the way I took her hand. "How do you like the house? I'm in the process of purchasing it. Winter home, I think. I quite fancy it."

"It's beautiful!" she agreed, looking out over the faux Mediterranean garden that needed a lot of very expensive love. "I didn't even know this place was back here."

"Its seclusion was one of its attractions," I said loftily. "Please, come inside."

She followed obediently as I led her into the magnificent foyer, and then immediately into the courtyard. I continued a fast-paced explanation the entire way. "My sister Annette will be getting married to her long-time fiancé this August – they've been engaged for four years, now, and we never thought it would happen. I was purchasing this estate anyway, and they live in New York – ugly, crowded place, I prefer the country life—so naturally I volunteered to hold the ceremony here. I'm also lending them my yacht for a Carribean honeymoon. He's a doctor, which is only what Annette deserves, but he went into research – research! Can you believe it? Instead of specializing like any intelligent young man. So they're poor as churchmice, and I think it's only proper that they have a wedding worthy of a Winthrop, so we're holding it here. Five hundred, maybe six hundred people, mostly out-of-towners. It's a huge affair and I'll likely bring in professionals from the Northeast to handle the hard parts, but we'll need a local caterer – oh, and we'll have the bridal luncheon, the rehearsal dinner, and likely a few other pre-nuptial events beforehand, so we'll need a good caterer. I was told that you are full service caterers – am I correct?"

"Oh, um, yessir, we're a bakery but we front for several prominent restaurants in the Tampa-Clearwater area. We have plenty of experience in this sort of thing," she assured me.

I smiled. "Excellent, because we'll need one. We'll pay a premium, no doubt about it – we're Winthrops, after all – and this dreary affair will cost plenty. Father has given me a budget of ten thousand dollars to play with, then told me not to go over fifteen, the scoundrel, so I need to find a good place to spend most of that. If your little bakery can fulfill all my needs –"

"Oh, yes, sir! Of course, sir!" she said, enthusiastically. I could hear the dollar signs going off in her head like fireworks. "We do weddings all the time. We did Congressman Adams' daughter's wedding last year. Beautiful."

"Well, good. But as I said, I need to find someone who can handle all of my needs, someone local, someone who knows this town. Let's see, I'm envisioning the bridal luncheon here, in the courtyard . . ."

I went on for half an hour about the fictitious wedding, my plans becoming more and more grandiose with every breath. I was also seducing Sandy, without her knowledge. Small, subtle things, how I talked, caught her eye, mirrored her movements, etc. As we walked from one room to the next, she split her time being impressed by the house and faking interest in my plans. By the time we had come back to the foyer, she had also walked through two areas I had bathed in strong pheromones. I led her out to the car, and opened my trunk as I finished painting a picture of the most expensive wedding in history. Her eyes were wide in disbelief.

"Ten thousand! He wants me to do it for ten thousand!" I complained as I retrieved a very nice wicker picnic basket and opened it, displaying a basic bar set-up complete with self-contained ice bucket. I carefully poured ice and ingredients into a shaker, shook briefly, and then poured two drinks, railing about the Austin family I was theoretically related to, and how they were guaranteed to fuck up any Winthrop function they attended. I handed her a glass without giving her a chance to refuse, and then asked her a few rapid-fire questions about the local area.

She answered clumsily. She was clearly out of her element and just trying to hold on to the conversation. She sipped her drink – liberally spiked with aphros in the glass before I even poured it – to cover up the awkwardness.

I love awkwardness. It motivates people to do things all the time.

"And have you seen the bedrooms here?" I asked, after three rapid-fire segues in a row. "Come on, you HAVE to see this, you just have to," I said, taking her unoccupied hand in mine and pulling her gently back through the house. "I'll show you the pool, first, and then the bathroom, but you HAVE to see the bedroom – it's the whole reason I'm buying this place."

"Uh . . . sure," she said, hesitantly but obediently.

Ten minutes later, I had her in the same bedroom I had taken Alice in, her tacky dress pushed up to her waist as I pushed my cock into her unkempt bush and watched her eyes go from wide-eyed astonishment to tightly closed in pleasure.

"God, I like it when I get good service," I groaned, lustfully. "I'm definitely going to use your company if you treat your customers like this!"

Poor Sandy didn't know what came over her, but she had leapt into my arms like a nympho at the first innuendo. I skipped right to the good parts, eschewing foreplay under the circumstances, and hammered her young, tight cunt while she hung on for dear life. It took me twenty minutes, during which she thrashed out two impressively loud orgasms, but I eventually filled her up with spooge while she swooned in lust. I'm good at what I do.

When she was done, I lay next to her and lit her a cigarette and made post-coital small-talk. I didn't know if she smoked or not, but it was the sort of thing you do in the Sixties. I was surprised when she climbed on top of me ten minutes later and began wiggling her furry bush over my dick until it began to revive. Then she slid on for a long, sensuous cowgirl screw I was only too happy to enjoy.

She left twenty minutes later, after freshening up in the bathroom, having agreed on her bakery doing a very special catering gig for me as a trial for the "wedding". She even gave me a bit of a discount.

I did a little more planning after she left, taking out the box of faux angel gear and setting up the bedroom properly. It took a few hours, but I enjoyed the work – it was a lot like stage dressing. After all, I was going to be performing one of the greatest come-backs of all time.

I returned to the hotel about early evening. Lori was there, having spent most of the day at the hotel pool after setting up my "interview" with the secretary. I was feeling pretty well-disposed to her, so after I wrote up a quick report to Cromwell I took her out someplace nice.

I wanted mellow and relaxing, so I didn't pick anyone up right away and focused on Lori. She told me a lot about herself (she was still pushing for the fictitious proposal I had been using as bait) and flirted shamelessly, and I decided by the end of the meal that she deserved something a little special for her trouble. I made a note to give her a big wad of cash before I left. Then I slipped my hand under the tablecloth and up her skirt and masturbated her to orgasm just as the busboy came by to fill up our water. She was mortified, but complacent.

In the parking lot I pushed her head into my lap and enjoyed her improving fellatio technique as I rode around town. I stopped her before I came – just as we pulled into the Tiki Club.

I was getting pretty fond of the place, I admit. It had turned into a seething pit of sexuality while I was here, and I wanted one last big go before I left this era. To that end I pocketed a few of the wide-area pheromone sprays and activated them as soon as I could. Lori joined me (after fixing her makeup) at the bar though she wasn't crazy about my plans. She expected me to flaunt her status as front-runner, but I shot that notion down pretty damn quick.

"Back again," I sighed. "Go cruise the crowd and bring me a couple of likely ones. One at a time, of course. No need to start a fight."

Humiliated by the task of procuring fresh pussy, she mumbled a terse agreement and went to work. It wasn't hard – the Tiki Club had a growing reputation, thanks to me, and the place was packed with cooze. And no one recognizes a slut like another slut.

I traded crude comments with the bartender, who was glad to see me – since word had spread, he had been deluged by eager young things who were willing to be a whore for the chance to be a rich man's wife. Someone had spread the rumor that Lori had won out already (probably started by Lori herself) but that didn't stop the number of ladies who wanted a chance to knock her out of first place.

Lori returned a few moments later with a lithe little blonde, almost pixie-like, who had a child-like innocence about her. My ring almost burned me when I touched her, and a few well-placed compliments had her purring before we were even in the back room. I was already wound up from Lori's previous oral attention, so I skipped the foreplay, laid her back on the dusty table, moved aside her plain white cotton panties, and gave her ten minutes of the hardest fucking of her life – and knocked her up in the process.

Just to add to my rep as a perv, I made her recite her earliest sexual experience (two summers before, three guys after a party) and then had her suck me clean. It was obvious from her face that this was the first time she'd ever had a dick in her mouth, and the novelty of the situation was the only thing that made it noteworthy. When it came to sucking, this chick sucked.

My second date of the evening was a healthy, buxom young slut who sported a dishwater-blonde hairdo held into place by a gallon of Aquanet. Still, from across a crowded room the effect was interesting. She had big, full pouty lips and bedroom eyes, and after introducing herself – no shit – as Candy, she dragged me back to the back room. I let her play aggressor as she ravished my lips and neck and ears, and soon my cock joined the fray. Candy was much, much better at giving head than the first waif. Those big puffy lips were like two warm, wet pillows, and I enjoyed every stroke.

She offered to let me cum in her mouth, assuring that she would swallow every drop, but I declined. She was fertile – probably a couple of days past ovulating – and I wanted a chance at her twat. With a smile she shucked off her panties and bent over, displaying a magnificent ass that I could already tell would be fat by the time she was forty without some serious dietary intervention. I plugged her cunt with my cock and rode her methodically, listening for her cooing sounds as I pistoned my groin into hers. She was faking it, but was doing a convincing job. I let her display her best faux climax before I splashed her cervix with my seed.

I fucked seven women that night, not including Lori. By waiting between bouts, and insisting on plenty of oral before and afterwards, I was able to keep going like a stud horse all night. I didn't vary the routine much until number Six – Evelyn, I think her name was, a brunette with curly hair and eyes that seemed to look surprised all the time – because she said (unconvincingly) that she was willing to be as nasty as I could dream of.

Oh, I'm sure her heart was in the right place, but I hate it when a girl tries to play it cool when I'm fucking her . . . so I took her up on the challenge and stuffed my larger than average dick up her virgin ass.