(Author's note: When reading this story, be aware that when confronted with a very attractive person of the opposite sex, we all respond as we have been conditioned to from our previous experience, or lack of it. The virgin, or a small town women who has only had sex with two men, and who has been with only her husband for the last five years is not in any way as well equipped to parry the carefully crafted seductive efforts of five handsome men to excite her libido so that she becomes sexually receptive, as the big-city, street-wise women who stopped counting the men that she has bedded at number twenty-two is.)
The year was 1993. The stock market was red hot.
There were five of them. David Heller, Peter Bentley, Tom Moss, Don Stoner, and Bruce Churchill, who is the brains of the group. And, oh, yeah; he is the great grandson of that Churchill, the one with the big cigar, who waved the "V" sign during World War two. About as shy as the great man was too.
This all started when they were all students at good old Harvard. They were discussing flying Churchill's Piper Aztec, a lumbering, reliable, six-passenger, workhorse, twin, to Nova Scotia to do some salmon fishing. Sitting with them was a little French guy by the name of Rene' Blanchard, who they ended up calling the "French Connection."
Blanchard came to Churchill's room the next day. He seemed to be nervous. "Yo, Church, what would you think if I had an idea for you and your friends to pocket a lot of coins after your trip?"
Churchill, who sometimes had a somewhat stuffy English accent, said, "I say, a few coins, well what I say is that I am always looking for easy money or easy pussy."
They both laughed. Churchill knowing that whatever Rene' had in mind probably was not legal was interested nonetheless. "Let's hear it Rene', without the bullshit?"
"You don't have to do anything until you come back to the States. Clear customs at Bangor, and then land at Hanscom Field, over near Belmont. Stay with the plane until a guy dressed in a green windbreaker comes up to you. He will say, "Come down the coast?" You will say, "Had a great view."
On your cell phone, you will call the Great London Investments, in the Bahamas. You have an account there, 144,973,591,066. They will inform you that the ten million dollars that you wired to them from Spain has arrived.
Bruce Churchill sat back, with both hands together, with his fingertips touching his chin. He had an uncle who was a member of M 5, British intelligence. Many a story he had heard about international criminal organizations. What he had just heard had organized crime written all over it.
He was savvy enough to know that such an organization would not want a Churchill to be put in prison for smuggling, nor would they not pay what was owed. Imagine if this Churchill went to his uncle with enough information to stir up a hornet's nest. It was another reason, of course, to offer ten million, instead of a hundred thousand or two which would be enough to tempt the average sucker.
"I'm thinking... You're betting, of course, that customs will rubber stamp the plane of a Churchill?"
Rene added, "You won't see or know anything. As soon as you confirm the payment, the contact will hand you a bank check in the amount of three hundred,sixty two thousand dollars in exchange for the title of your plane. He will then fuel the plane and take off for parts unknown."
"Sounds clean and neat. I'll do it with the understanding that I am going to split the money five ways."
"Your trip lands you in Nova Scotia on June twenty-third?"
"Correct. And Rene', I will set it up so that if anything goes wrong, any accident at all, that some Rangers will find you in the dark of the night."
Rene's eyes met his. It was no bluff, and he knew it. Sweat formed on his brow. This was not his show, after all, he too was a middleman, doing it for money.
After the deal had gone down, Bruce used his connections to find growth stocks to invest in. By 1996, each of the guys was worth a cool seven million. Bruce, who had engineered their good fortune, was still very much the leader of the group. His advice was to keep a low profile, no showy spending. Each guy received a check in the amount of nine thousand dollars from their own account every three months, which didn't raise any flags with the IRS.
When the summer of ninety-six came around, they were lodged in a rental condo on the Cape, with activities which consisted mainly of keeping in shape, playing basketball, sunning themselves nude, and screwing the ladies. Got boring as hell after a while.
It was Bruce, again, who came up with the bright idea. He had been to a downtown Boston comedy club. A comedian had a dialogue about women's reaction to male strippers, how wet, horny, excited, out-of-control they became. He went on to describe the difference in the reactions between young women at a bachelerette party, and the reaction of a mature group of teachers away from their home area. Both groups were portrayed as being very unladylike.
Great minds want to know? It is commonly said. Heller, Bentley, Moss, and he had the bodies to play that game. Between six foot and six foot three, and each equipped with presentable cocks, especially Bentley's. Bruce laughed thinking of how appropriate Bentley's name is. He had what the others called a banana cock.
Sitting around sipping lemonade, he tossed out his idea of them putting on a male stripper act. At first, they thought that he was nuts. It was Dave Heller who changed the tone of the conversation. "I saw a male stripped show last year in Miami during spring break. I remember thinking at the time that each of those guys had his choice of who he wanted to screw. Plus, they had a great time poking their cocks into ladies faces. By the time the show ended, the ladies were drunk, aggressive, and were doing things that you would not believe."
"Such as?" Tom asked.
"Showing their tits, mooning the guys and each other, and admitting to doing things that sober you would not have got out of them with the threat of death."
All eyes turned to Bruce. It was understood that they wanted to give it a go, as the British say. They knew that Bruce would have conjured a plan before broaching the subject.
"Okay, my wayward subjects, we practice four dance routines, buy lights, sound system, fancy cock covers, gold gloves, and shoes, plus cock pumps. When we are ready to go on the road, we contact all the talent agents in New England, and put ads in Bridal magazines. Last, but not least, we buy an instant camera.
Dave, Pete, Tom and I will be the primary dancers, while Don will have the toughest job of announcer, running the sound, lights, and camera all at once. Don, how often we each get laid will be dependant on how well you do your jobs."
Each guy broke out with laughter, while throwing his head back. Bruce Churchill was at it again. At a different time, at a different place, Bruce Churchill would have made one bright, hard-charging general; there was no doubt about that.
Their first gig was at a roadhouse, with an attached motel in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. The group that they were to entertain was the women's twilight league members from a small country club at Baymond, New Hampshire, a bedroom community for the so-called route 128 geeks in Boston. The parking lot filled with Cadillacs, BMW, and Baby Benzs cars. From the balcony in front of their rooms, Tom said to David, "Looks like a target rich environment." A line that he had heard in Tom Cruise's movie, "Top Gun."
"If you like mature pussy, we've got a slew of it, for sure."
Bruce approached the head bartender, a tough old bird called, Charlie. "Yes, Charlie, we need some assistance on your part?"
Without opening his mouth, and with the high pitched nasal tone common to Hampshire folks, he intoned, "Ahya, I'll be happy do it, I will."
"Here in three hundred for the owner, and two hundred for you. The drinks that you give the ladies tonight need to be dandy ones. No driving worries. All the ladies are registered here at the motel."
Charlie eyed Bruce. There were to be forty women here soon. Charlie shook his head thinking of them all gunned. "Do a good job for you."
"Thanks mate."
The ladies had their awards presentation first, so it was after an hour of strong drinks before the club president, Betty Fowler announced the show, which was what they really all came here for.
"Ladies, I have the great pleasure of presenting for your enjoyment the "The Golden Boy toys."
Out they came to the Motown beat of the Temptations, "Just My Imagination."
They were wearing gold masks, gloves, shoes, and black skin fitting shorts. There bodies were oil covered, and of course deeply tanned.
Their next routine was to "Ain't No Woman," by the Four Tops. During it they dropped the shorts to reveal small black pouches which hardly covering their cocks. It should be noted that each had used a cock pump just before they went on stage to puff out their cocks, by at least double.
As they bowed, every one of them took off his facemask. The women's eyes went from man to man as they determined just which of these hunks was their choice of hottest.
The guys stayed in place doing a slow dance to some traveling music, as Don said to all via the speakers, "Now Ladies, we have some questions for you. Raise your hand if you would like to know one of these guys better?"
There was a lot of laughing. Hands rose. One gal stood, while waving both arms. A voice could be heard saying, "In your dreams, Ethel?"
The guys gave several hip thrusts. Female voices could be heard saying, "Over here, with that."
"How many of you sultry gals would like to see what is under the black covers?"
Too many voices were raised to understand any. Slowly, each guy in turn slipped off his cock cover, and pumped himself just enough so that his cock started to fill, but was not erect.
Several female voices softly said, "Whoa, whoa. Hmm." Don noticed a lady to his left; with over a full caret diamond in each ear form the words, "One Time." His judgment was, a little heavy, nice tits, refined. I would not kick her out of bed. He took her picture.
The guys had now taken up positions among the tables so that every gal in the audience was close enough to at least one guy to see his equipment.
"How many of you gals have not, I say again, have not, taken a beautiful cock into your mouth?"
Now that is one hell of a ballsy question, which if asked to these same women while sober would have royally pissed them off.
But they weren't sober, and they had thirty minutes of high stimulation to their libidos,
Surprisingly, only four hands went up. The other women looked around the room and then at their tablemates with knowing, sexually glance. Each woman knew several of the other women's husbands, so the unsaid was, Bill, Marty, Fred, or whoever gets blowjobs, huh, by you?
Laughter broke out, easing the tension. Then giggles. A bleached blonde, in a light blue blouse, wearing dark blue slacks, said, "So, we are all cock suckers." They went wild. Don took her picture.
The guys still danced just out of reach of the ladies.
"Now ladies, I know that you will be honest with me now? Raise your hand if you have had sex with two or more men in the last year?"
The information that Don had just asked for, if it was a printed document would have had a letter clearance, with "Top Secret," "Classified" "Eyes only," stamped all over it, and it would be in a brief case, hand cuffed to each woman. That is if they had not been subjected to Bruce Churchill's mind control program.
Twenty-six of the women raised their hands. The blue blouse gal put both hands just above her head, as she waved both first fingers back and forth. Don took pictures of whom the women were who had just admitted to fucking someone other than her husband.
