Baltimore, Maryland
April 17th, 1951
"God, you're a good fuck, Sarah," I gasped as I heaved my cock into the moaning young wife of another man. She had a frightened and ecstatic look on her face as the second cock in her young life plumbed the tight depths of her cunt. Of course she was frightened -- she was a married woman committing adultery with a virtual stranger, and enjoying the hell out of it. But here, that could get you killed. By here, I don't mean Baltimore. I mean 1951.
She didn't have a chance. I loved working the Fifties, everyone was so incredibly gullible and willing to believe a handsome stranger. Always a kind smile and a gracious host, a whole country full of June Cleavers. And a whole country full of horny beavers. The average young housewife of 1951 was pathetically undersexed, usually completely ignorant of her own body, and has almost never had an orgasm on purpose. But you have to go after the young married ones here and now, because having a child out of wedlock will get them socially ostracized -- and we didn't want to do that.
Yes, me fucking the shit out of this young woman over the gleaming space-age formica of her kitchen table was not mere whim -- although I would have done it anyway -- it was calculated. She was on my List. She was mine to find, fuck, and impregnate.
Sarah had been easy -- she was naturally amorous, and had been woefully neglected for the last few months by her traveling salesman husband. Some of the more "virtuous" ladies in the Fifties you had to practically rape. But Sarah was a pin.
I met her in the children's section of the downtown bookstore -- ironically, one that would be a triple X porno palace in just a few decades when the downtown area dried up -- ostensibly shopping for my fictitious niece's ninth birthday. Sarah was looking for herself, and I recognized the wistful look in her eye. She wanted children, but her husband wanted to wait until he could be at home more. That's what the profile in her file said.
Sarah, it's your lucky day.
I hit her with both barrels, figuratively speaking, a concentrated barrage of synthetic pheromones wafted from the daisy in my coat, and subsonic subliminals poured forth from my briefcase like a shower of gold. Sarah was mesmerized. For the next forty minutes, we chatted and talked like giddy schoolchildren. I admit, I prolonged it. The seduction is always one of my favorite parts, and I drew it out much longer than necessary. Truthfully, I could have hustled that little honey into the back room and fucked her ten minutes after I laid eyes on her, but that wouldn't be proper. And it wouldn't be as much fun.
I toyed with her, alluding to my single status, my love of children, my hope to meet someone just like her some day and settle down. I told myself off as a carpet salesman, and my briefcase was stuffed with samples. And I was interested in carpet: the one between her legs. I watched in fascination as her chemical-inspired lust warred with her sense of propriety. Her loins wanted me -- and why wouldn't they?
I was a tall six foot one, sandy hair, dimples, the most attractive chiseled chin money can buy, brilliant blue eyes, and a smile that could sell Colgate. I was broad shouldered, good natured, carried myself with supreme confidence. I knew exactly what to say -- I'd studied the complex interplay of the male/female romantic dynamic for years. I knew what she was thinking, what she was going to say, before she did. She really had no chance.
I found out where she lived -- I knew, already, of course, but I had to hear it from her own too-red lips. 1503 Oak Avenue, the little brick one with the yellow shutters and the (I'm not making this up) white picket fence. I asked if she had considered the advantages of modern stain-resistant carpeting. She hadn't. Would she be interested in seeing my swatches? Why yes she would. Later that afternoon.
Which is why two hours later my face was buried in the nape of her neck while my hands massaged her bra-less breasts and my cock was already to break out of my pants.
Sarah hadn't put up much of a fight. She flashed those pretty blues at me, lashes batting like butterflies, asked if I'd like some lemonade, let me get out my briefcase and everything, and was the perfect model of hospitable decorum. I amped up the subsonics -- they were fucking with her cognition -- and had set the pheromones at maximum. They had pleasant, cucumber scent that isn't overtly sexual, just to encourage her to inhale deeply. But it turns the most mild-mannered, coy little Fifties princess into a seething cauldron of lust. They can't help it, poor dears. Over a century of science has made the subtle of allure of Chanel No. 5 obsolete. I sat and I watched all the classic signs -- feet and thighs twitching beneath her perfectly-laundered yellow skirt, her cheeks turning crimson under her make-up, her pupils dilating, her bust thrust unconsciously towards me. Every word I spoke was a programmed suggestion that she could trust me -- and she did.
No one would know.
Her husband wouldn't be home for days.
It had been so long.
I seemed like such a nice man.
I took my time and launched my close within a half an hour -- long enough to simmer her panties but good -- and finally laid it out.
"Sarah," I said, gently.
"Huh? Yes?" she asked, dazed.
"I think we can skip the rest of the presentation, don't you?"
"I . . . I suppose, if you're --"
"I think we both know why we're here."
"What? We do?"
"Yes," I said, almost whispering. "The bedroom."
"What?" she asked, shocked and dazed, now. She caught the innuendo. She could either maintain her virtue, and profess offense -- or she could capitulate to what her body was telling her she needed to do. "The bedroom?"
"Yes, my dear. I think we both know the answer."
"We do?" she asked, breathlessly.
"Yes, Sarah. The Harvest Gold. The Berber."
"The . . . Harvest Golβ?" I moved in before she could complete the sentence. My lips caught her at just the right moment, and her addled little brain went into near-orgasmic overload. As I pulled away, slightly, she pressed forward, her tongue dancing desperately over mine as she kissed me in return. She was hooked.