Coc of Ages

Tampa Florida

March 8, 1963

I took all Sunday that week to rest, and no, I didn't go to church. Instead I sat around and leisurely fucked my two near-identical cousins until lunch time, then turned them loose with a pocket full of cash to go get themselves something pretty. Then I crashed out.

I'd been at it, fucking like a god, for a while now, and even my batteries need re-charging upon occasion. I mostly slept, took a little walk on the beach, swam, ate healthy, made a few phone calls, did a little research. I haunted the hotel bar for a few peaceful hours, and then returned to my room just in time to watch Lori try on a few things. A simple doggie fuck in the shower and I was ready to crash again.

The next morning found me up at dawn taking a run on the beach in the cool March air. You have to do a little maintenance on the instrument from time to time, after all. I'd been living a rich, full life, and a little clearing of toxins was only wise. I jogged back to the hotel about seven and met Cromwell in the restaurant for breakfast. No need waking Lori up and kicking her out so we could talk business. She was pretty tired, too.

"All right, vacation's over," he said with a sigh. "Hope you enjoyed it. I see you've added a few more to your tally," he said, glancing over the list of the women I'd fucked over the weekend. I had omitted Shelly from it, of course -- no need to discuss my private business. She was a bit of an experiment in temporal dynamics, after all, and something our boss would definitely frown upon. "You ready to finish up the list so we can go the hell back to base for a few days?"

"Too much sun, sand, and sin?" I teased, taking a whole wheat bagel from the bread plate. Tampa had great bagels.

"Just want a little civilization. These Dark Ages are fun for a few days while you get used to the 'quaint', but there's no substitute for real . . . sophistication."

"You're just spoiled," I chided. "Just because you only have three channels, and not a thousand . . ."

"Enough," he said, sounding just the tiniest bit crabby. "We've got to get on with it. There's . . . stuff happening back home. Word has come down that we are to complete all assignments and return to base at the earliest opportunity."

"What's up?" I asked, concerned.

"Not sure," he admitted. "But the priority code was pretty high. Something to do with the divergences."

"Ah," I said, nodding sagely, having only the tenderest of clues about what he meant.

I may have given the impression in this document that Cromwell was a mere flunky, an uneducated and unsophisticated gopher that fetched me what I needed. It may come across that way because that is, usually, how my interactions ran with him. But the truth is, Cromwell was a highly trained, very adept agent of the Project, and had a far, far better grasp of both the technical and the philosophical underpinnings of temporal displacement than I ever would. Consider him having a doctorate in the subject of temporal mechanics. Add that to his impressive Army record, his ability to blend in to virtually any era, his knowledge of history, and the balding, funereal sidekick you've seen is actually a highly competent professional. He was part actor, part secret agent, a professional liar in the service of humanity. My life was, literally, in his hands.

So when he started throwing around technical terms like divergences, I took note.

Let me back up and explain a little about the confusing and impossible-to-understand science of Time Travel. You pervs who are just reading for amusement can skip over this part and come back for the next sex scene -- the rest of you nerds pay attention.

When you go back in time, you change the future -- that's basic causality. Assassinate Hitler or Einstein as a boy or perform some equally world-changing event and you have forever locked the timeline into an alternate track from what you grew up with -- a "divergence". The only way to fix it is to travel back to the cusp point and un-do whatever it is that got done to screw things up. Usually that fixes it. Mostly.

We can't help making divergences -- it's actually the whole point of what we do. Just showing up and standing around someplace in the past can have an unanticipated effect. That's why we were almost always sent away from the epicenters of big, important events -- like the assassination of JFK in Dallas a few months from now. Sure, we could stop a tragedy from happening, but the fact is that the world would have diverged so much from what we had known as to be nearly unrecognizable to the time traveler in question.

The thing is, the only one who notices anything different is the time traveler. Every trip back is evaluated in detail to determine mission success, said success being measured in terms of the number of people saved in the point of departure, against the average temporal "drift" the divergence caused. But all of those people who suddenly flash into being when I fill some tight 20th century twat full of sperm don't know that they are divergent from the "control" time line, because from their perspective they've "always" been there. But to me, those are thousands of people who would not have lived, had I not gone backwards in time.

They call it Basic Temporal Relativity, and it will make your brain hurt just thinking about it. Basically, it states that if you go back in time and change something, you as a time traveler can only access the future in which those things happened.

The difference between the "control" time line and the "new" timeline is measured every mission by comparing about twenty thousand irrelevant facts -- little things, like the number of jumbo-sized diapers purchased at the Columbus, Ohio A&P in 1982, or the attendance numbers at the 2004 Rose bowl; or big things, like the list of the presidents, or when Puerto Rico joined the Union, or the exact number of Polish immigrants who came to America in 2012. The aggregate of differences between the control list and the post-mission assessment is called the "divergence".

Over time, these divergences were cumulative, quantified by a percentile. The theory was that if we kept the divergences under 10% or so, we'd be able to finish our business and return to a happier, healthier utopia in the future that we'd created in the past, one shag at a time.

Only things don't always work out so well in time travel. It's all very well and good to say, arbitrarily, that 10% of our reality is expendable . . . but which 10%? I mean, I don't much care whether or not I have to order my pizza by phone, fax, email, smoke signal or telepathy . . . but I do care if pizza is invented or not. Everyone (at least when I grew up) knows about "sensitive dependence on initial conditions" -- the cornerstone of Chaos Theory -- but until suddenly you've popped into a future where Rock and Roll never became popular and Daniel Boone is black, well, you haven't lived it, baby.

We had been lucky, so far, from what the Downstream Brains said. Minor divergences had yet to sunder our evolving timeline from a world we'd recognize, largely due to careful planning, cautious research, and the subtle intervention of a few astute temporal "clean up" squads that worked to rectify untenable divergences. Total Aggregate Divergence (TAD -- another great acronym brought to you by the Technological Military Industrial Complex Department of Impressive Acronyms -- aka TMICDIA) was still less than 3%. From what the reports said, the only major elements missing from our culture were minor. I had caught up on some of them when I was last back at the Base, and they amused me.

Some subtle shifts in musical tastes ("Heavy Metal" Rock & Roll of the 70s through the 90s had inexplicably combined with some folk music in rural Brazil, for example, and the resulting craze had swept across South America in the late 1990s), a few small technological changes (electrical outlets and plugs were shaped differently), and what I had grown up learning as the 'Happy Birthday' song now had a slightly different tune. No biggie. Rated by our analysts on the cost/benefit scale they had put together, those were acceptable divergences.

But some other divergences, well, they had required extensive clean-up. We weren't supposed to talk about it, of course, but the Project is a small place and people will talk about work there just like they will anywhere -- especially about other people's spectacular fuck-ups.

There was the time where Charles Lindbergh wasn't the one who crossed the Atlantic. Divergence went to an amazing 12%, and Hitler had taken Britain before being atom-bombed to the peace table. That fuck-up was legendary.

Or the era in which the amazing hitter Fidel Castro had led the Boston Red Sox to their first pennant in fifty-five years in 1967, while the far right-wing Cuba Coalition provided bargain-basement mercenaries for the American war effort in Vietnam. That one took the cleaners seven trips to fix, all because of one crucial screw-up that they had a hard time identifying. And that one was just wrong. The Sox have to have their full share of Bambino Curse in order for the sports gods to be appeased. I may not be much of a baseball fan, but I know Fate at work when I see it.

For the most part, our divergences were carefully scrutinized by highly trained Project analysts at a base further upstream than even I was, somewhere back in a remote area of prehistory, who decided whether or not they should be included in that 10% aggregate, or fixed. I was gratified to know that everyone in our cozy little end of the Time Travel biz had been responsible for just five major fixes in our illustrious history, contributing less than a full percentile to the aggregate.

If all of this is boring and tedious and confusing to you, I am completely empathetic. This is why I've glossed over most of it in favor of all of my brilliant sexual shenanigans. But trust me when I say I bring it up now because it was going to become very, very important to me. I just didn't know it at the time.

"What kind of divergences?"

"They were understandably vague in the communiqué," he said, pouring some freshly squeezed orange juice. "But word on the temporal street is that we have a fifteen percent divergence in progress, and that the analysts can't decide on what to do."

I raised my eyebrows. "Anything to do with us?"

He shrugged. "Not that I know of. The cusp area is someplace in the mid-1970s, from what I understand. We haven't been there in a while."

"Interesting," I lied. "Okay, on to business, then. Let's go over my three horny maidens again."

"I wouldn't exactly call them that," Cromwell smirked, pulling out the era-appropriate file folder he had printed of all of my marks. "But let's start with number seven: "Lucy Bonner. Age 20, unmarried, lives with parents and brother at a small dairy just outside of town. Works part time for her folks, part time at the County Library. Records say she marries later in life, no mention of kids . . . but she does take a ten-month sabbatical from the County next year. No explanation given. Not too bad lookin', either," he remarked, flipping me a photo made to look like a newspaper clipping.

Dark brown hair, slightly hippy, small boobs under all of that polyester, complacent expression. Cats-eye glasses. That's what got to me -- a Sixties librarian with glasses. She would be fun. I noted her branch's address and motioned for him to move on.

"Jennifer Ann Miller, 24, works in the steno pool of the Gulf States Insurance Company, downtown. Also not too bad," he added, handing me the picture. Tall girl, lanky, even, with a lonely look in her eye. The photo was almost a year old, but I could already see the desperation beginning to burn as her twenty-fifth year approached without a wedding ring. "Not a drinker, not a smoker, not a . . . well, she doesn't do much of anything but go to work."

"Maybe I need a secretary," I smirked.

"I thought that's what . . . whatshername, Lori was for."

"She's a personal assistant, not a secretary. Besides, she can actually help me a bit with this, I think."

"Careful with the local talent, Boss," he reminded me. "We don't need any additional complications right now."

"Relax! Trust me!" I said, shrugging. "I've got her pegged. Who's number nine?"

"Our final future mom is Miss Sandy Simmons, 19. She's the easy one. And I mean that literally. She pops up all over the Tampa scandal sheets in a few years, connected to three or four prominent local businessmen in ways they'd rather not contend with. But right now sweet, wholesome Miss Sandy is working in a bakery in West Tampa. She works the front counter. Enjoy."

Her photo was two years in the future, and she was a looker. A little exercise, a few hundred dollars of make-up, a real wardrobe, and she'd make someone a dynamite second wife someday. Coke-bottle shape with long blonde hair -- she reminded me a little of a local real-estate agent I knew.

"Yum. I'll save her for last. I'll get right on these. And keep me informed of any downstream issues too, will you? Oh, and remember that angel stuff from Baltimore? See if you can't have that sent. I've got another idea . . ."

"That stuff?" Cromwell asked, confused. "Why? I don't see . . ."

"Leave the seduction stuff to me, OK?" I asked. "I know what I'm doing. I'll have this in the bag soon, I promise. I will need the keys to the Caddy, though."

"You're the Casanova," he agreed, handing them over with a sigh. "Good luck."

When I got back to the room, Lori was awake and dressed, already, and had a few messages for me. From my bookie, Milo, for one. Apparently I had won my longshot, and he was eager to pay me off . . . or take another bet. I gave him a call and made some, using my winnings, which he was eager to get back. Actually, I made five bets based on my research, two of them low-yield and reasonable, two of them wildly unlikely and hugely profitable, one stinker. The reasonable bets, of course, I'd lose money on, but Milo would find that the two wild bets would pay out far more than the three losers, and come tomorrow he'd owe me around a quarter of a million bucks.

All part of my sneaky plan.

The other message was from my real estate agent, about the house. I'd stop by and pay her a visit, personally.

I reviewed the files for my marks while Lori puttered around the place. When she started to annoy me I had her sit in the chair opposite me and masturbate while I read. It was pointless, of course, from an operational standpoint, but it got me in the zone to watch this young woman get herself off as part of her normal business day.

Looking at my three marks, I could tell which one would be easiest -- the librarian. It took two calls to establish when she'd be working next -- that afternoon, in the rare document collection, no less. I suddenly had a burning need to explore Tampa's collection of civil war letters.

The other two I'd lay some ground work for, today, but I didn't plan on making a move on either until later. After Lori made herself shudder in pleasure, I gave her a list of things I wanted done -- a very strange list, from her perspective. But I handed her a few hundred bucks and a withering stare, when she started asking questions, and she kept to herself after that. I also reminded her of her bonus opportunities, and told her I'd check in with her in the afternoon.

In the meantime, I needed to discuss my new house.

I arrived at her office at about ten thirty. Alice was there, of course, on the phone back in her personal office, her pretty young secretary (Betty, I quickly discovered) falling all over herself to offer me coffee and tea -- ten more minutes and I would have had the brainless little darling bent over her desk without chemical assistance. Alice quickly got rid of whomever she was talking to and came out. She was wearing a lovely cream-colored spring suit today, conservative but undeniably sexy, with a pink coral necklace and elegant gold watch. She was clearly surprised and unprepared to see me in person -- which was my design. In seduction or in business, you never want a woman to feel too complacent in the relationship. She was also very wary, I noted with amusement, no doubt wondering if something was imperiling the sale. I had written her a big check that had cleared with no problem. It was likely burning a hole in her escrow account, and she was troubled by my sudden appearance.

"Mr. Winthrop! What a pleasant surprise! I had just called you, this morning—"

"Yes, my assistant gave me the message," I answered smoothly. "I was out on business, anyway, and figured I would just drop by. No problems, I hope?" I asked, arching my eyebrow.

"Um, well, not as such," she said. "I've contacted the seller, and he's interested in your offer. I just . . ."

"Well, I had a few . . . concerns," I said, ominously. "Perhaps we could discuss them in your office?"

She glanced at Betty and then her watch. She understood my intentions, of course, and I could tell she wasn't thrilled with my timing. But she was anxious to not jeopardize the sale. "Certainly, I have a while before my next appointment. Come on back and we can discuss them. Betty, no calls," she said, airily, and led me back.

It was an opulent office, and by later standards it was condescendingly feminine. Tastefully expensive junk cluttered every shelf; lots of fru-fru artwork and kitsch, and there were no less than three fresh floral arrangements. As soon as she closed the door, I forcefully embraced her, giving her little room for maneuver. Either she accepted my advances gracefully, or she pulled back, rejecting me, and imperiled the sale.

She was a smart businesswoman. After a moment's hesitation, she relaxed and feigned enthusiasm for my kissing. I took that as a positive and pushed relentlessly forward, my hands all over her breasts. I wasn't quite crude, but I was clearly adamant, and she just had to stand there and be pawed.

"Mister . . . Winthrop . . . I'm so happy . . . you dropped by . . ." she said, trying to segue the discussion back to business.

"I thought you might be," I said in a low, husky voice as my hand found the hem of her skirt and rose under it. My fingers sought out her panties like a guided missile. "I really enjoyed our little tour the other day," I added as I found her barely-moist entrance.

"So did I," she said reluctantly. "I'm flattered by the attention." She put her hand on the outside of my fly, casually squeezing my cock through my pants.

"Good. I so enjoyed your lips around my dick, I thought I'd take the tour again." I pushed her into a dainty leather chair, which brought her almost eye-level to my cock. Then I backed off. She would have to complete the transaction. Either she proceeded with the blowjob and proved herself a greedy whore, or she retained her dignity by gently declining. And possibly lose the commission.

She proved more greedy than virtuous. Her fingers sought out my zipper and lowered it, releasing my expanding man muscle into the morning air. She gave me a slightly uncomfortable look before bending her head to suck my business all the way into her mouth. Her manicured hands found my scrotum and began rubbing it gently as her lips measured my shaft.

I was really enjoying this. I was fucking up her day, which was clear -- she hadn't anticipated sucking a client's cock at 10:30 in the morning, obviously, and her enthusiasm was entirely feigned. But she took it like a champ, slithering those delicious lips down the length of my pole with restrained urgency. She wanted the job done as quickly and quietly as possible. A glance at the door and a few more subtle clues let me know that she was concerned about her secretary overhearing.

I might have been content with a quickie blowjob, had I not seen that. But then I had to take it all the way. I thrust a couple of times as deep as I could into her throat, then pulled away completely with a loud and unexpected "pop!".