Cock of Ages Ch. 03

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.

The entire room was painted with five cans of Fadeaway White, a nifty invention from the far future. The "paint" started out white, then faded into transparency over time. Don't ask me what exactly it was used for, but it did make a great background for what I was doing. I had painted it over every square inch inside the farm house, which turned the whole thing into a glowing, pure-looking temple.

My attire? I was dressed in a white tunic complete with biblical sandals and robotic angel wings. Yes, as hokey as it sounds, I had twenty pounds of mechanical feathers strapped to my back. They twitched and moved on a pre-programmed schedule, so they looked alive. I also wore a golden headband inscribed with some kind of Hebrew letters. I didn't know what it said, and it served no real purpose save that I look really fucking cool in a golden headband.

I had a remote about the size of my thumb in one hand. As soon as I saw her eyelids flicker, I cued the song I wanted -- a triumphant fanfare that wouldn't be penned for thirty years -- and stood at the foot of the featherbed, waiting patiently for Shelly to fully awaken.

It took her a moment. Then she startled, staring up at me with awe and wonder. I had rigged the lights so I was bathed in a warm glow. Plus a backlight that shone right into her eyes, making me difficult to see from her angle.

"Shelly Ethel Montgomery," I intoned, the amplifier in my collar giving extra subsonic oomph to my words.

"Y-yess?" she asked, meekly. "What . . . who . . ."

I smiled, serenely. "Do you not know who I am?" I asked.

"You . . . you . . . are you . . . a . . ."

"Behold!" I said, loudly, unfurling my wings dramatically. "For I am an archangel of the Lord, sent unto thee to bear a message and instruction!"

She eeped, turning away. Can't have that.

"Fear not," I demanded, bringing the wings back down. "For thou hast been chosen for a special destiny. Not since Mary has a woman been so honored by the Lord."

She was speechless, of course, and I plowed through to get to the point quickly. The drugs would last a few hours, but I needed to make an impression. I pulled the music back to a reasonable level and changed it to something a little mellower.

"Dost thou accept this great commission of thy own free will, Daughter of Eve?" I asked, intently. More subsonics made this an oppressively heavy moment. I think I stole the 'Daughter of Eve' thing from Narnia.

"If, if I have the strength, Lord," she said, shielding her face.

"Of course thou dost," I chided. "The Lord does not make mistakes. Man, however, is replete with them. Among them is the conceit that Man can speak on behalf of the Lord."

"That, that's folly," she agreed, wide-eyed.

"Thou have been blessed, Shelly," I said kindly. "I am here on His behalf to instruct thee in the secret ways that the Lord desires of his most devout. Are thou willing to hear the instructions of the Lord?"

"I am, Lord," she said, prostrating herself.

"Then . . . shed thy garments, so that thou art as you were on the day of thy birth," I commanded. She was slow to do it, of course, but we angels are a patient lot. Still, best to hurry the process.

"There is no shame in baring thy breast to me," I said, sternly. "For I have known thee since before thou were born. To the Lord, thou art always naked."

She swallowed, and nodded, clearly overwhelmed by my presence. It was a heady feeling, but I couldn't let it get away from me. Even with the drugs, one slip-up and I'd be the spawn of Satan in her eyes. That might be hard to fix.

Finally, she had shucked off the last of her elaborate undergarments. I approached her, and while she looked away, she did not cover herself. I reached out and touched her breast -- the electroshock device ensured a tingle when I did so. She looked away.

"These were provided for thee, to suckle thy children, and delight thy mates," I said, casually. She perked up at the mention of mates. The aphrodisiac was working.

"Yes, Shelly, mates -- for it is fated that thou shalt have many, many men to minister to over the course of thy life, in many diverse ways. For with thy body, thou shalt sanctify the souls of those thou shalt minister to. Thus sayeth the Lord," I said, earnestly.

"So sayeth the Lord," she said, absently. Here eyes were fluttering a bit as I expertly played with her pretty little nipples.

"The First Lesson thou shalt learn, Shelly, is to enflame the soul of thy mates and receive their sins. What parts of thy body are the most profane?" I demanded.

"M-my . . . my fanny . . .?" she offered in a whisper, blushing.

I nodded. "Indeed. As it is for thou, so it is for others. Yet I shall bless thy lips with the power to extend God's holy grace unto thy mates."

"Lord, I am not worthy," she protested, shivering at what I was doing to her boobs. I'm good with boobs.

"That is for thy Lord to decide," I chided. "Not thou. Whenever the Lord moveth a man . . . or woman . . . to come unto thee and utter this phrase . . . 'I beg you to heal my pain', then this is what thou shalt do: take thee them into a place of uttermost privacy, bless them, then perform thee this ritual." I traced her lips with my thumb, while the other hand moved aside the tunic and released my cock -- which was hard as a bone, of course. This was over-the-top, even for me. Shelly watched in awe as it moved slowly toward her face, mesmerized by it.

"Hast thou seen the generative organ before?" I asked.

"Yes, Lord," she said, her lip quivering. "My father has shown me his."

Oh ho?

"Pray tell me, in what context hast he shown thee his weapon?"

"He showed it to me first when I was sixteen," she admitted. "And he . . . later, he bid me . . . to tend it . . . he has told me that it is a wife's duty . . . to tend it . . . and that my mother . . . has neglected her duty." So, the pious old perv was a child molester. As pissed off as I was about that -- even time-traveling rapists have some rules -- it would likely make this next part easier.

"Showeth me what he hast bid thee to do," I commanded. She closed her eyes and nodded. I watched enrapt as she leaned forward and took the head of it between her lips, and shivered as her nimble tongue cautiously probed the glans. There was a slight electric tingle, as the microtransformer I had hooked up under my wings provided a trace current that, in her addled state of mind, would make the experience of touching me "magical" somehow. Slowly she pushed forward, plunging her lips down over the head of my shaft until half the length was buried in her mouth. The little angel's tongue became quite animated, and I put my hand on her head to steady her.

"Indeed," I murmured, "thy sire has trained thee well in the wifely arts." She looked up at me. 'Pleased' wouldn't cover the expression on her face -- "enraptured" is more like it. "It is my command, and the Lord's, that thou shouldst perform this blessing in secret to all who say to thee those words: 'I beg you to heal my pain'. And thou shouldst do this until thy lips are covered in their emissions, be they male or female, and swallow thee all that thou canst; for so shall thou cleanse them of their sins, in the name of the Lord," I said, as piously as I could. I couldn't believe she was buying it, but she was.

"It shall be done," she said, innocently, pulling away for just a moment. "I am a servant of God."

"The more thou shalt do this, the more blessed shall thee be in the eyes of the Lord," I intoned, as her sweet mouth moved back to my shaft. "Both thee, and thy child," I added. That caused her to gasp and pull away.

"Lord?" she asked, confused. "I have no child! I don't even have a husband!"

"Nor shall ye!" I commanded, struck by a perverse piece of inspiration. "Thou shalt conceive of a child by the Lord, through me, and refuse all who seek to take thee to wife. Reject all men, though your sire beseecheth you greatly, but stand steadfast with thy Lord's command. For thy child shall have a special place in the work of God, Shelly, and thy ministry to the sinners shall prosper."

"Yes, Lord," she moaned, pulling her head away again. I pushed it back, urging her back to work. I was nearing orgasm, and she was giving me, hands down, the best blowjob I'd had in the Fifties. Her adorable face was priceless, her innocent looks of religious awe as her lips worked my cock were perfect. I kept my hands on her head and rocked it faster and faster onto my dick. With a mighty shout -- because I had cued to subsonics to trigger to the button remote concealed in my palm -- I erupted a gallon of angelic sperm into Shelly's mouth. She drank it down like it was nectar.

"Was . . . was I properly wifely, Lord?" she asked, hesitantly, when she was finished.

"Indeed," I agreed, trying to regain my composure. "No better wife a man could have -- yet no man shall wed thee, until he tell thee this: that he hast been visited by the Archangel Michael, minion of the Lord, and that I hast commanded him to seek thee out and that I bless the union. The man shall bear the token of a white rose. Of this thou shalt not speak to any living man or woman."

"Yes, my Lord," she agreed, meekly, wiping her lips.

"Now shall we conceive thy child," I said. Despite the superb hummer she had just given me, I was already rising again in anticipation of her ravishment.

"Lay thee on thy stomach, with thy posterior elevated," I commanded. She hesitantly turned to do so. She acted confused. Apparently her daddy had been satisfied with merely using his daughter's mouth in which to relieve his tensions.

When she was in this state of religious bliss, she was pliant and submissive and did what I said. I parted her thighs gently, fondling her furry cleft and noting with distaste that leg shaving was still considered too "liberal" here-and-now, especially amongst the daughters of missionaries. Still, that ass was magnificent, two pale halves of paradise, her blond bush burning between them. I started fingering her clit immediately.

"Hast anyone touched thee here, Daughter of Eve?" I asked.

"No, my Lord! I am chaste!"

Except for sucking off daddy, I added, mentally.

"Dost thou touch thyself in this place?" I asked. I could see her blush down her back.

"Yes, my Lord!" she finally said, her head hanging.

"It is the command of the Lord that thou shalt touch thyself each day," I said forcing back a grin, "between the dawn and twilight. Dost thou hear?"

"I d-do, my Lord!" she moaned as my finger wormed into her from behind. No hymen. Which wasn't unusual, of course, but I found it interesting.

"Touch thyself thus until thou shalt feel the blessings of the Lord wrack thy body in ecstasy," I pronounced.

"I w-will, my Lord!" she agreed enthusiastically. She was soaked due to the aphrodisiac but I think she would have had plenty of native enthusiasm for the spiritual discipline I had instructed her without it. Without further ado, I positioned my cockhead at the entrance of her furry cunt and lunged forward, impaling her.

Now, I'm not gargantuan -- the docs back at base had made sure I wasn't quite hung like a bear before loosing me on their grandmothers -- but I'm not small, either. A good eight-and-a-half inches, well over average and impressive in just about any time period. But when you're a functional virgin, the sudden introduction of that much man-meat in your most sensitive part for the first time is going to get a reaction. In this case, it was a near ecstatic scream as my cock burrowed into her soft, hot depths. I grabbed her hips to keep her from pulling away, then and began a ruthless plundering of her tight, virginal pussy.

"Oh, dear Lord, praise God, oh, it hurts, praise Jesus, praise God, halleluiah, praise Him," she chanted as I fucked her. As much as I reveled in her discomfort, I didn't want this to be a totally one-sided experience. I was experimenting, here, and it was essential from a scientific point of view that she enjoy the experience -- hell, not just enjoy it, but for it to be the perfect spiritual-sexual experience. Doggie style works the G-spot, but it does little for the clit. I pulled a stylish clear-plastic vibe, complete with twinkling LEDs, from under my wings and reached around to bring it between her legs. It only took a moment to find her clit, and another for her to blast off on her first heavenly orgasm. I let her have two more in rapid succession before I dropped the wand on the mattress and went back to work, fucking her as hard as I could while she writhed in pleasure.