“Hey, lay off, would you?” Lloyd folded his newspaper and swatted Julia’s foot away from his crotch.
“Aw, you’re no fun,” Julia huffed, leaning back in her seat but rubbing his calf with her bare foot. She glanced at the countryside speeding by, then back at him. “What’s so fascinating that you don’t want a little footsie?”
“Municipal bonds.”
Julia gave a theatrical yawn, the diamond pendant nestled between her breasts flashing in the sunlight. “Be still my beating heart.”
“Some are paying six percent annual interest,” he replied, eyes back on the page, “instead of the usual four and a half or five.”
“Six percent?” Julia wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound like much.”
“Not at first, but with compounding, it starts to add up,” Lloyd countered. “There’s a trick called The Rule of 72—divide 72 by the interest rate to estimate how long it’ll take to double your money. At 6%, that’s 12 years.”
“Okay, but why 72?”
“It’s convenient because it’s divisible by a lot of common numbers: 2, 3, 4, 6, 8…”
“All right, Einstein, I get it.”
“The actual number is based on the natural logarithm of 2, which is approximately 0.69; it would more accurately be called The Rule of 69.”
Julia arched one eyebrow. “You don’t say. The rule of sixty-nine.”
“Er, yes,” Lloyd replied, confused. “What’s so special about that?”
“Never mind,” Julia giggled. “So what you’re saying is, 6% interest would take twelve years to double, but 7% interest would knock that down to around ten years?”
“You got it,” Lloyd smiled. “Again, it may not seem like much, but if you have a sizable investment or plenty of time on your hands, an extra one percent, or even half a percent, can really pay dividends. An 8% rate would bring it down below nine years, and so on.”
“Probably better to make 23% interest and double your money in three years,” Julia observed drily.
“Well, sure, if you can guarantee that rate of return,” Lloyd conceded.
“I think I’ve heard of people making over twenty percent annually.”
“Oh, yes, easily. There’s been rampant speculation since the end of the war, both at home and in Europe.”
“But it isn’t all good news. I remember seeing a photograph of someone in Germany buying bread with a wheelbarrow full of cash.”
“Oof,” Lloyd groaned. “They got by for a few years but then boom—hyperinflation in ‘23. And you know, Maynard Keynes predicted it all in his book, The Economic Consequences of the Peace.”
“Do tell,” Julia said with a wry smile, knowing that Lloyd couldn’t help himself.
“France was demanding everything—coal, railroad cars, horses, millions of francs in reparations. The new government got stuck with a bill it couldn’t possibly pay. Keynes walked out of the conference; he knew it was doomed. America’s been propping up Germany’s economy with loans, but it’s a fragile situation. If some right-wing kook comes along and starts demanding satisfaction for past wrongs, he might find an audience that’s willing to listen.”
“Uh-huh. And here at home?”
“Everyone’s making huge profits on paper, then leveraging those phantom assets at ten to one to get in on the next get-rich-quick scheme.”
“And are they? Getting rich?”
“Yes, sometimes beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. But the trick is to cash out before anything goes wrong and you’re left holding the bag. It’s a house of cards; one little bump and everything’s going to collapse.”
“So,” Julia gestured at the newspaper. “These municipal bonds pay a guaranteed six percent, no risk?”
“Yes, unless the city goes bankrupt, which isn’t going to happen. These cities on the rise are desperate for investors. Scranton, Akron, Terre Haute… They need liquid capital if they hope to become the next Pittsburgh or the next Cleveland. Municipal bonds are a nice safe place to park some assets while you’re gambling with house money on other ventures.”
“Next stop, Saratoga Springs!” the conductor called out as he slowly walked down the aisle, gold pocketwatch in hand.
Julia rose from her seat, crossed to Lloyd’s seat facing her, and parked her assets on his lap. “And now, Mr. Campbell,” she breathed in his ear, “When we get to the hotel, I’d like to leverage the liquid capital you’re carrying in your undershorts. You’ve certainly raised my interest.”
—
The Empire State Express chugged out of Saratoga bound for Fort Edward, Whitehall, and all points north, leaving our six travelers on the platform with a jumbled pile of suitcases and hatboxes.
“I’ll find a redcap,” Harvey Davenport volunteered, pushing his straw fedora back and mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. His hair and beard were graying, but even at fifty years old he retained a spring in his step.
“I’ll come with you,” Tommy Culligan offered.
“That’s not necessary, but I’ll accept the company.”
“I need the washroom anyway,” Tommy remarked as they walked inside the station.
“That’s what you get for finger-fucking my daughter on the train,” Harvey chortled with a sly look out of the corner of his eye.
Tommy’s ears turned crimson, and he jammed his hands in his coat pockets as he hastened away. After washing his hands and doing some deep soul-searching in the lavatory mirror, he returned to the platform where the luggage was being loaded onto two handcarts.
“Did you miss me, loverboy?” Daphne Davenport giggled as she squeezed his arm.
Tommy grimaced. “You have no idea how glad I am to be back.”
They made an attractive pair, one had to admit. He was tall and lean, wearing a blue seersucker suit, with his light red hair peeking out from below a boater hat set at a rakish angle. She wore her black hair in a short bob, and her beaded blue dress accented her figure perfectly—especially when it had been bunched up around her waist between Rensselaer and Saratoga.
“The hotel is just around the corner,” Delilah Davenport sang out, taking her husband’s elbow and leading the way. Two redcap porters followed with the luggage, occasionally sneaking glances at her expansive ass. She wore a gauzy floral print dress, and her hair was styled in a black bob like her daughter’s. “I thought we could all take some time in our rooms to freshen up before going to bet on the ponies,” she added, turning halfway and allowing the porters to sneak a glance at her expansive chest as well.
Julia Culligan and Lloyd Campbell brought up the rear. Her wavy red hair sparkled in the sunlight, complemented by her pale green gingham frock. His dark hair was swept up in the forerunner of a pompadour, outlining his graceful, youthful face. His linen suit was rumpled from the ride and he looked forward to changing clothes at the hotel. He also suspected that he had made a wet spot on the front of his drawers but was reasonably sure that it hadn’t soaked through his trousers… yet.
“Mother,” Daphne called, catching up to Delilah. “I’m bushed from the train ride. Perhaps we could visit the spa today instead of going to the track?”
“A capital idea!” Delilah concurred. “We can relax today and lose money on those hayburners tomorrow.”
“Capital?” Harvey chuckled. “We left Albany an hour ago. I think I saw the governor’s mansion on the hill.”
“Oh god,” Tommy groaned.
“What’s eating you?” Daphne demanded.
“Maybe it was the shrimp?” Julia cut in, glaring at her cousin to shut up.
—
“Jules, are you sure you don’t want to visit the spa?” Daphne wandered idly around the hotel room, peering out the window at the courtyard below. “They say the waters are very therapeutic.”
“Daph, we’re nineteen years old; what do we need therapeutic waters for?”
“Point taken,” Daphne laughed. “And anyway, you’ve got bottled water in your room you can drink instead.” She began reading from a card propped on the side table. “Saratoga Geyser Water relieves such symptoms as bad breath, sourness, headaches, heartburn, dizziness, gas—”
“Ha! Relieves bad breath?” Julia scoffed, then lowered her voice. “I fully intend to make my breath smell worse while you’re at the spa, if you catch my drift.”
“Why, you henna-haired hussy!” Daphne snorted as she turned towards the door. “Try not to have too much fun. The four of us will be down at the soaking pools if you change your mind.”
“Okay, Daph. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
Lloyd emerged from the washroom a moment later wearing his bathing costume. “Julia, would you like to get changed now?”
“I decided I’d rather stay in our room and discuss appreciation of assets.”
“Oh, really?”
“And I can introduce you to the rule of sixty-nine. The French version.”
Lloyd shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say, mon cheri.”
“You’re gonna be eating my cherry in a minute, pal.”
“That’s not— ah, never mind. Now lose the dress before I rip it off you.”
They spent a moment servicing each other, Lloyd kneeling in front of Julia, then Julia kneeling in front of Lloyd, before moving to the bed. Julia directed Lloyd to lie on his back, then straddled his face and bent her head down towards his delicious cock.
“The sixty-nine,” she stated before lowering her chassis onto his face and simultaneously engulfing his cock in her mouth. Lloyd nibbled and lapped at her ginger pussy as she slid her velvet lips up and down his aching shaft.
“The sixty-nine, huh?” Lloyd mused into Julia’s muff. “I wonder what people call taking it in the back door. Ninety-nine? Sixty-six?”
Julia replied by gently dragging her teeth along Lloyd’s dick.
“Ow! Okay, never mind. Sheesh!”
After about ten minutes’ time, Julia’s breathing became shallow, and she pulled herself off Lloyd’s dick with a gasp.
“Lloyd, I’m—”
“Mmm-hmm,” Lloyd answered, wrapping his arms around her petite waist and intensifying his tongue-lashing.
“I’m going to—”
“Mmm-hmm…”
“I’m going to fucking cum! On your face!” Julia ground her pubic mound into Lloyd’s jaw as he fought for air. “Oh fuuuck…”
“Mmm-hmm!”
After her orgasm subsided, Julia rolled off the bed and knelt on a throw rug. “Here, let me blow you and then you can make a deposit… on my tits.”
“You can bank on it!” Lloyd snickered as he stood and got into position. Julia placed her hands on his thighs and began pile-driving her head onto his stiff cock, rapidly bringing him to an explosive climax. He shot one spurt into her mouth before she grabbed his spasming dick and pointed it downwards, pumping his liquid gold onto her treasure chest. He had barely finished when—
knock knock knock
“Mr. and Mrs. Campbell? I have your luggage.”
“Jesus Christ!” Julia swore. “Quick, put on a towel and get rid of him!”
“Hello? Mr. and Mrs. Campbell?”
“Just a moment!” Lloyd called out.
Julia shook her head as Lloyd dashed to the washroom. “Mr. and Mrs. Campbell—can you imagine? The lies we have to tell just so we can share a room. I’m surprised Mrs. D didn’t make me and Daphne wear phony wedding rings when we checked in.”
Lloyd, finally managing to wrap himself up, strode to the door and opened it a crack. A tall Negro porter stood there with their suitcases beside him and a beleaguered expression on his face.
“Apologies for the delay, Mr. Campbell,” he began. “We read the tag upside-down. Took these to Room 86 instead of Room 98.”
Lloyd, without thinking, opened the door wider to double-check the room number, and the porter froze. Julia, still kneeling on the floor, shimmering with sweat and sperm, glanced up with a guilty grin.
“Oh, lord,” the porter muttered.
“Oopsie,” Julia said, eyes twinkling. “You caught us mid-transaction.”
The porter chuckled softly to himself. “Well, you don’t see that every day.”
“You’re welcome to stick around,” Julia offered with a broad smile. “You look like a man who’s earned a break.”
He raised an eyebrow and looked around the room. “Is that an invitation?”
She sat up straighter and cocked her head to one side. “Depends. Got anything else you’d like to deliver?”
“I may just have a package with your name on it.”
“Lloyd, let him in,” Julia grinned. “He deserves a tip, and I don’t have a nickel to spare.”
Lloyd stepped aside with a laugh. “I think you’ll be getting more than a tip, buddy.”
“The name’s Curtis.”
“Curtis? Pleased to meet you. I’m Lloyd, and this is my, er, wife, Julia.”
Curtis closed the door behind him and stood before Julia, hesitating.
“What’s the problem?” she asked. “Getting cold feet?”
“Growing up in Charleston,” he sighed, “I once saw a colored man strung up in a tree for looking at a white woman wrong. That was some damn ugly Spanish moss.”
“Curtis,” Julia said softly. “You can look at me all you want. And you can touch me.” She took his hand in hers. “What beautiful hands you have. Such long, delicate fingers.”
“Huh,” Curtis scoffed. “My mama made me keep my hands out of sight when we went into town. There’s only two things folk’ll think those fingers are good for, she’d say. Playing piano and picking pockets. And we ain’t got no damn piano.”
Julia smiled sweetly. “Mind if I pick your pocket? I promise I won’t bite.”
Lloyd flinched, involuntarily clutching his penis through the towel.
Curtis nodded in the affirmative. “Be my guest. But you may need both hands,” he chuckled ominously.
Julia reached up, undid the front of his uniform pants, and pulled out a cock that made her eyes widen. “Oh my,” she said reverently. “That’s... impressive.”
Curtis grinned. “Never seen one like this before?”
“I have not. I most certainly have not. And I’ve seen plenty of dicks.” She fixed her gaze on him. “And I’ve sucked plenty of dicks.” With that, she inhaled his massive mamba, working the first few inches of it with her mouth and the last few inches with her hands.
“Oh, that’s right. That’s right,” Curtis encouraged her. “Suck that dick, girl.”
Lloyd watched in fascination as Julia’s freckled face was repeatedly impaled by Curtis’ thick cock. She continued working the head with her soft mouth and the shaft with her firm hands as Curtis moaned and swayed.
When he placed his hands on the sides of Julia’s head and began grunting low, bucking his hips, Lloyd spoke up. “Curtis, I think she’ll want it on her tits. Is that right, Jules?”
Julia nodded vigorously, waggling his mahogany dong as she continued jacking it with her balled-up fists. Without further delay, Curtis’ eyes rolled back into his head and he began shooting hot jets of cum onto her tongue. Julia yanked his crank out of her mouth and beat it onto her already glistening tits, layering Lloyd’s slimy semen with a fresh load of baby batter.
“I wanted it on my tits, you boob!” she gurgled, beating Curtis’ meat until it had been drained dry. “But I suppose I should thank you for the drink,” she added with a giggle, licking her lips. Her eyes fell upon the card propped against the bottles of spring water. “It is also naturally charged, pleasant tasting, and very refreshing, without any after-feeling of weakness or nausea.” She looked meaningfully at Lloyd. “You’d better get over here and find out for yourself.”
Lloyd crept over and knelt before her, his towel falling to the floor as he prepared to tongue her filthy titties. Curtis, having finished making himself presentable again, straightened his jacket and headed for the door.
“Thanks for the tip, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell,” he chuckled. “Y’all enjoy your stay in Saratoga.”
—
