Chapter Three
Baltimore
April 19th, 1951
Shelly Ethel Montgomery. 19 years old. Unmarried. Sounded perfect -- I love the young and fresh stuff almost as much as I like the old and experienced stuff. I figured it would be easy . . . until I saw the rest of the file. Particularly the "occupation" blank.
Shelly Montgomery was an Evangelical Christian Missionary, full of holy fervor and chastity. She would die in August of 1993, and there was nothing in the file to convince me she wasn't a virgin when she died. She led a number of prominent groups in her more mature years, and her youth group sermons were all about the evils of masturbation and premarital sex. What were the guys downstream thinking? Assholes.
Shelly would be a problem. I'd have to just about rape her. That took me back, at first, but then I grinned good-naturedly and began to whistle. I love a challenge. It allows one to approach one's work with creativity . . . and fuck up other peoples' realities.
Look, most normal, red-blooded American girls -- or girls of any nationality, for that matter -- pay lip service to their moral and religious upbringing and then immediately find every way they can to get around it so that they can have sex the way their bodies want them to. It's human nature, a much-maligned but terribly important component of humanity. Girls like to fuck. Almost as much as guys. Some moreso.
Some you can seduce with a look, or a suggestion. Some take persuasion and liquor and money and flattery to make them cross that barrier. And some take their religion seriously, and wouldn't spread their legs for you without a signed order from Jehovah.
Shelly Ethel Montgomery was like that.
She was the only child of two missionaries, and probably the result of the only sex they ever had together. She had been spoon-fed the anti-sex propaganda from an early age, and believed it with all of her soul. She was destined to die pure, a virgin, unless I intervened. I looked at her picture and sighed. What a waste.
At nineteen she was a vision of loveliness -- slender, blonde, high cheekbones, delicate features, just the hint of breasts and the promise of more in the very near future. She still lived with her parents in a humble two-story home on the edge of town, an inheritance from her sainted grandparents, and in two weeks she would be leaving for Africa on a two-year mission. She could quote the Bible chapter and verse, she could testify endlessly, and she knew sermons of hellfire and brimstone by heart.
But she was on my List. So Shelly was going to get fucked.
I'm not a huge fan of rape -- it denotes a lack of skill in the operator. But I will indulge in it if the situation is called for, and in this case I honestly didn't see any other way into her panties. But there is rape and then there is rape. This wasn't a duct-tape job (since duct tape hadn't been invented yet). It would require far more finesse with that. That meant more work, but if properly played it could also mean more fun.
I requisitioned a bunch of special equipment and got it almost instantly -- handy thing about time machines: deliveries are always on time. I chuckled as I went through the box that arrived at my hotel room and started to get hard in anticipation of deflowering and impregnating this holy virgin.
I had a plan.
I started by visiting her father's church that Sunday, dressed in a handsome white raw-silk suit and matching hat. I had my best pheromones on, and naturally I attracted the attention of every double-X chromosome in the joint. I made a point of thanking her daddy for his lame-ass sermon, shaking his hand, and letting my gaze linger on her for just long enough to attract her attention. I almost got out of there after that, but some old biddy accosted me and inquired as to my name. With a hint of irony in my voice, I introduced myself as Michael Angel. Then I disappeared.
I pursued one or two personal efforts the rest of the day, but only after I had located and hired a remote farmhouse I could use as a temporary base. It was close enough to Shelly's, yet far enough away from anyone else to preclude unwanted attention. A few hours work transformed the central room into the little love-nest I wanted. By Monday night I was ready.
I still waited until Wednesday night prayer meeting. I didn't mind -- the Fifties are pleasant if you are white and affluent. I bagged two other girls while I was waiting, two sluts who hung out at the low-rent theater on the edge of town and listened to Negro music. But Wednesday was when Amy's church really got to praying. Her parents presided, of course, leaving Shelly at home alone to continue the ministry's paperwork. That's where I found her.
I was tempted to just sneak up and thump her in the head and ravage her there on the floor, but that would hardly be artful, now, would it? Instead, still in my pristine whites, I knocked on her door about dusk . . . proselytizing.
"Yes, may I help you?" Shelly asked cheerfully when she opened the door. I gave her my million-dollar smile and pushed a tract towards her. I had had it specially printed, a full-color rendering of an angel in the process of delivering a passionate sermon. Of course, the angel looked exactly like me.
"Good evening, Miss," I said, respectfully. "I was wondering if you would be interested in hearing about the Word of God as relayed in the Gospel of Jesus Christ?"
She had the grace to giggle prettily. "What a coincidence!" she said. "I'm preparing tracts myself! My father is the pastor at St. Luke's, down by the rail yard. My, that's a lovely printing job you did, too! Beautiful! May I . . . may I have one? As a sample? And for . . . inspiration for devotions, of course," she added, without a trace of innuendo.
I handed it to her with both hands, which gave me the opportunity to touch her skin ever-so-briefly. In doing so she activated a very mild but perceptible electric shock. Totally harmless, and completely meaningless, except that it would register me in her brain as somehow special. She even startled slightly when the current passed between us.
"What church are you from?" she asked.
"I . . . my church is everywhere, Miss. Wherever the Lord calls me. You could say I have a special mission," I said, smiling to myself at the irony.
"I know what you mean," she nodded, sagely. "I, too, sometimes feel as if the Lord has special things in store for me." Oh, he does, Shelly, I told her in my head. "You can try the next block up -- there are a lot of Jews and Catholics over there. Not easy to witness to, but when they convert it's pretty serious business."
"Thank you, Miss," I said, gratefully, tipping my hat. "Perhaps we will meet again on our respective missions. God Bless!" I said, and walked away with just a hint of expectation in my voice. She waved to me as I progressed down the street in the direction she had indicated, and then went inside. I turned the corner and then waited.
The contact poison in the paper I had given her was potent. She had about fifteen minutes before she passed out. I circled around and quietly searched the place, finding her slumped over in the outhouse, my tract still in her hand. That was perfect. I stuffed her in a soft cloth bag (I admit, I copped a feel -- those tits were divine!), slung her over my shoulder, and hotfooted it out of there under cover of darkness. She sagged in the back seat of the Ford I had hired from a jitney, and didn't stir a bit the entire way. She was out cold.
Half an hour later she was laying, still clothed, on a featherbed mattress in the middle of the floor of my rented farmhouse. I had given her a whole cocktail of psychoactive drugs, a little mix of aphrodisiacs, MDMA, other euphorics to distort her sense of time and place but ensuring a serene feeling of well-being. I didn't want her scared.
