Part One

I was 18 years old in 1928. One spring day of that year, I, Adam Mulligan, and my best friend, Stephen Crouch, had just exited a drug store after having bought some candy and magazines. It was a Saturday in my sleepy, mid-sized American city and the downtown streets weren’t especially busy as 5 p.m. approached.

As Stephen and I walked toward the stop where the streetcar would take us back to the neighborhood where we both lived, we saw a well-dressed man staggering towards us. He looked to be about 70 years old. Prohibition was still in effect, but the law certainly had not eliminated public drunkenness as was its noble intention. Stephen obviously had the same thought as I did when he opined, “The old fellow has gotten himself plastered at a speakeasy.”

As the man got closer, we both stepped aside, giving him plenty of space on the far side of the sidewalk to pass us. However, he never got that far. He awkwardly stumbled to the concrete walkway nearly face first. Drunk or not, the man needed assistance, so Stephen and I rushed to help him. He had scraped his chin and his forehead, wounds which were causing him to bleed. We pulled out our handkerchiefs—boys routinely carried them in those days—placed them on his cuts and applied pressure to them. His suit, which looked to be very expensive, was torn in a couple of places, too.

The man did not appear to be inebriated, a fact that surprised me. He was quite coherent and thanked us profusely for our help. He asked to be taken to the nearest public bench, which was only about 20 feet away. Stephen and I managed to lift the old gent to his feet and support him as we walked the short distance.

When we got him safely seated, he explained to us without being asked, “Damn dizzy spells! I never know when I’m going to get one of them.”

“You are a little bit banged up, mister. Maybe you ought to see a doctor,” I suggested.

The man agreed and asked us to call his sister. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper that already had her name and a local telephone number written on it. I stayed with the injured man while Stephen ran back to the drug store and got permission to use the business phone there to make the call. Within a short time, a sixtyish woman arrived in an expensive vehicle along with two younger men—presumably her sons—and took the man away. We assumed he would be getting the appropriate medical attention he required.

Before the four of them left, the injured man asked us to provide our names and telephone numbers to him. “You boys may have saved my life. I am eternally grateful. Someone will be in touch with you soon to give you a reward for helping me.”

We both said that was not necessary, to which he quickly replied, “Don’t argue with a stubborn old man! A reward is absolutely necessary! Thanks again, boys.” He collected our contact information and was taken away in the car. We honestly thought we would never see the man again, much less receive a reward from him.

About two days later, my father was reading a newspaper published in the nearest major city when he suddenly called for me. I asked him what he wanted. Dad opened the newspaper to page four to show me an article titled “Angelo Cabrini injured in out-of-town fall”. Beside it was a photo of the man whom Stephen and I had helped.

Dad knew about our good deed, so he asked me, “Is this the man you assisted the other day?” I looked at the photo. It was absolutely the same man—minus the cuts on his face, of course. The article said that Cabrini, described as “a prominent businessman,” had suffered a nasty fall while visiting his sister in my city.

“Do you know who this man is?” Dad asked me. I honestly said no.  He was a total stranger.

Dad explained, “Adam, he is Angelo Cabrini, a bigshot in organized crime. He controls a lot of the vice in this part of the state. If something is illegal, he will find a way to make money from it.”

“But the article says he is a local businessman,” I naively said.

Dad laughed. “That’s a handy euphemism the newspapers always use,” he explained. “Because he’s never been convicted of anything, the newspapers can’t call him a crook or a gangster or they would quickly be sued for libel—and their publishers and editors might just suddenly vanish one day, too.”

“So that old guy is sort of famous for being a crook who’s never been caught?” I asked.

“He certainly is,” Dad confirmed. “Think about it, Adam. He gets major newspaper coverage for falling down on a sidewalk. Hey, if I fell on a sidewalk today and cut my head open, no newspaper anywhere would care. But if this guy burps, it’s a major news event.”

I was just about to pick up the phone and tell Stephen that the old man we had helped on Saturday was a powerful, big-city gangster. However, the telephone rang before I could pick up the receiver. I answered it. The voice on the other end calmly said he was "an associate of Angelo Cabrini", the man whom I had helped two days earlier. He explained that he had already spoken to Stephen.

“I have good news for you, young fellow," he noted.  "Mr. Cabrini wants to thank you two boys personally by inviting you to the best dinner you’ve ever had in your lives.”  He continued, “Next Saturday, at about 2 p.m., a car will come to both your addresses to pick you up and bring you to the big city. Mr. Cabrini has a private room reserved at the finest steakhouse in town. You’ll be dining with him and a few of his associates. I will be one of them.  Afterwards, Mr. Cabrini will make sure you boys enjoy some fun in the city. Put on your Sunday best for the occasion. You’ll be driven home by midnight. How does that sound to you?”

“That sounds terrific, sir!” I said with total honesty. “I’ll need permission from my father, though. He’s sitting right here. I'll put him on the line.  You can tell him what you just told me.”

I handed the receiver to Dad and excitedly pointed to the newspaper. “It’s someone connected to Angelo Cabrini," I informed him. "Mr. Cabrini wants to give me a reward. Talk to the man, please.”

With a bit of trepidation, Dad picked up the phone, listened to what I had already heard, and meekly said, “Yes, that will be fine. Thank you very much. Yes, I certainly think my son is a fine young man, too.” Without any further chitchat, Dad hung up the phone.

I was surprised by the brevity of the call.  “I thought you’d ask a lot of questions, Dad,” I said. “That’s what you usually do if a friend wants me to go on a trip with him.”

Dad chuckled and replied, “You don’t have any friends who have clout like this man does, Adam. The best thing to do is let him reward you and be happy about it. It certainly sounds like you and Stephen will have a big Saturday ahead of you.  All I can say to you, son, is enjoy the experience.  It ought to be a memorable one.”  It would be indeed!

Part Two

Shortly after 2 p.m. the following Saturday, right on schedule, a shiny, chauffeur-driven limousine pulled up to the curb in front of my house. Stephen had already been picked up and was sitting in the back seat in his best suit with a huge smile on his face. I too was well dressed. After all, it’s not every day that a big-city crime boss invites you to be his dinner guest. There were a few neighbors gawking at the luxury vehicle, having been told by my mother and father that I was going to be driven in style to dine with Angelo Cabrini.

“Get in, Adam!” Stephen said through an open window. “This is easily the nicest car I’ve ever ridden in.” It was for me, too. We had a 40-minute drive ahead of us to get to the big city. A man named Mr. Ciarro, the same fellow who had spoken to me on the phone on Monday, sat between us.

“I want to thank you two boys for coming today,” he said. “Mr. Cabrini is very anxious to see the two of you again. He refers to you as his ‘boy heroes’ for coming to his rescue. How old are you, by the way?”

“We’re both 18 years old, sir,” I responded politely.

“Ah, 18,” he replied while nodding. “That’s a good age to be.” We both agreed it was, even though I had never given it much thought before.

Then he asked about what we liked to do for fun when we weren’t in school. We said that we liked going to the movies, listening to radio programs—a novelty in 1928—and playing baseball with the other boys in our neighborhood.  We said we followed Major League Baseball closely, too.

Shifting gears, he asked us, “What about girls?  Do you ever do things with girls?”

The conversation was getting more personal, but neither of us seemed to mind where it was headed. "I’ve taken Cathy Miller from my class to the movies three or four times,” I said. “She’s a nice girl who is very pretty. I like her a lot.”

“I’m a bit shy around girls, sir,” Stephen said sincerely. “I like a girl at school whose name is Mary Fleming, but I haven’t yet mustered the courage to tell her that I am fond of her.”

“Yes, indeed,” began Mr. Ciarro, “the opposite sex can be intimidating at times—especially to young fellows like you two. But girls are worth getting to know, if you know what I mean.”

“I think we both know what you mean, sir,” I said with a grin.

“Glad to hear you’re both examples of healthy, all-American boys—and not sissies," he commented. "I think you’ll both enjoy what Mr. Cabrini has planned for you today beyond a big, fancy dinner.”

Like many teens in 1928, Stephen and I were both quite naive about many aspects of the world. Neither of us honestly had any clue as to what type of plans Mr. Ciarro might be alluding to.

Part Three

We arrived safely at the palatial home of Angelo Cabrini at about 2:45 p.m. Mr. Ciarro escorted us inside. It was about a 50-yard walk from the driveway to the massive front door.  The house was impressive, to say the least. I had never been in a mansion before, so I didn’t really know what one looked like, but even with a quick glance I was fairly certain that the Cabrini home met all the required criteria.

Mr. Cabrini, smiling, rose from an enormous plushy chair to embrace us individually. “How are my heroic boys today?” he asked us. I noticed he had been scarred by his fall the previous weekend.  He seemed genuinely overjoyed to see us. He asked us how our 40-minute trip was and if we were looking forward to a great time. We assumed he meant our meals at the steakhouse. We both told him we were, indeed.

“It’s only 2:45 p.m.,” he said, pointing to the enormous grandfather clock in the room. “Our dinner reservations are not until 6 p.m., so we have 3 hours at 15 minutes to spend together. First, I have a treat for you—some very fine chocolate, unquestionably the very best in the world.”

A butler brought out a basket of chocolate bars imported from Switzerland. “You can’t buy these at any drug store or anywhere else in this country,” Mr. Cabrini informed us. “I arrange for a few cases to be shipped to me from Zurich every month. I just love them. Help yourselves, boys!”

Stephen and I each sampled a bar.  We both agreed it was the best chocolate we had ever tasted. We eyed the basket. Mr. Cabrini saw us and laughed. “I don’t want you to spoil your dinners, boys. I’ll make sure you each get five more bars of Swiss chocolate to take home with you. You both deserve it.” For an alleged, murderous criminal, this old gangster was alright with us!

When Mr. Ciarro told him we were both followers of baseball, Mr. Cabrini’s face beamed. He was a big fan, too! He happily told us he often went to MLB games whenever he could. We talked about our favorite teams and players. Stephen and I were at a disadvantage. We had only read about them in the newspapers while Mr. Cabrini had seen them all up close. Moreover, he showed us some of his most cherished baseball possessions, including photographs of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig that had been autographed specifically for him.  That was impressive!

"Somewhere I have autographed photos of Rogers Hornsby, Walter Johnson and Tris Speaker, too," Mr. Cabrini informed us. "Everyone wants to see Ruth and Gehrig now, so I keep their photos close by.  They're the biggest names in baseball now, but you boys already know that, I'm sure."  Indeed, we did.

Mr. Cabrini also gave us a full tour of his fabulous house. We had never seen a home with a private swimming pool in its backyard before. This was an enormous, kidney-shaped one. It had no water in it as it was still May and the weather was a still too cool for swimming. “Had you saved my life a month from now, I would have told you to bring along your swimming trunks!” he merrily said.

After the extensive tour had finished, we returned back to the living room and talked more about baseball, our schoolwork, and general chitchat. Like Mr. Ciarro, Mr. Cabrini asked us for our thoughts about girls. We gave the same answers as before.

“Let me show you something, boys,” he said. Mr. Cabrini went to a nearby drawer.  He pulled out something akin to a photo album. It did not contain vacation images, however. It was about two dozen pages of very pretty girls who were clad in slinky dresses. Some of them were barely dressed at all. These images, of course, caught our attention quite quickly. “I thought you’d like these pictures, boys...and I was right!” he said with a smile.

As we were slowly flipping through the pages—we didn't want to rush—Mr. Cabrini said to us, “If you could have one of these girls as your date, which one would you each choose? Don’t rush. Choose wisely. Take your time and let me know which girl it would be. I’m curious about your choices.”

Stephen fancied a girl whose name was Gladys. She looked to be about the same age as he was: 18 years old. She was a leggy, black-haired beauty who possessed ample breasts.

“Fine choice, young man,” commented Mr. Cabrini. “I see what type of girl you like! Good for you.”

I chose a pretty girl named Maria. Judging by her swarthy complexion, I suspected she might be from Mexico or somewhere in Central America. She was wearing a very attractive yellow-and-white party dress.  She also had ribbons in her hair.

“Ah, young man, you like the young and exotic type,” Mr. Cabrini said. “You can’t be faulted for that—not at all. Very good. Your choices are noted.” Then he put away the album. I hadn’t noticed that one of the other men had been jotting down notes.  Despite the ample clues, Stephen and I still could not see what was coming.

Before we knew it, the pleasant chitchat about baseball and other diversions had occupied all the waiting time. Mr. Cabrini, Mr. Ciarro, two other men who didn’t speak much, plus Stephen and I left the house and got into the limo again. Mr. Ciarro instructed the chauffeur where to drive.

Within 10 minutes or so we arrived at a very classy restaurant. The manager was waiting for us in the parking lot.  He personally brought us directly into a private dining area through a special rear door. We were seated at a large, round table that had our names printed on fancy cards that sat by our plates and cutlery. A violinist clad in a tuxedo was there to entertain us. Wow! This was the kind of upscale arrangement I had only seen in movies.

An impeccably dressed waiter brought menus to the table. Stephen and I were told by Mr. Cabrini that we could order anything we wanted—and as much as we desired. We had French onion soup, plates of freshly baked Italian bread, and the biggest, best steaks I had ever tasted. I ordered a double serving of buttered mushrooms and mashed potatoes seasoned with garlic. I had never eaten a meal like that before. It was superb!  Furthermore, I sampled red wine for the first time in my life—and I definitely liked it. For dessert, there were huge pieces of chocolate fudge cake. We hardly said a word during the meal because it was so overwhelming. Mr. Cabrini seemed delighted by our reaction to the sumptuous food. “Now you see why this is my favorite restaurant, boys. I dine here three or four times a week. I thought you would enjoy it, too. I hope it met your expectations.”

“Sir, it couldn’t have been better,” I stated. “Thank you for all your generosity. I’m so stuffed I can barely move.”

“Well,” our host said, “I hope the big meal did not completely exhaust you two. You’ll want to be very lively for what’s next on the agenda. Isn’t that right, fellows?” At this point the other three adult men started to laugh. Stephen and I were still in the dark about what would soon happen.

It was close to 8 p.m. when we all got back inside the limo. We heard Mr. Ciarro tell the driver, “Recreation Palace.” He nodded and shifted the large car into drive.  That venue meant nothing to Stephen or me.

When the limo started to move, Mr. Cabrini announced, “Boys, thanks for letting me treat you to dinner tonight. It was my pleasure. You saved an old man’s life and I am grateful for it. You are being driven to a special place for two hours of fun on me. Once we get there, these two associates of mine will accompany you inside and see that you get the best service possible.”

“Service, sir?” asked Stephen. “What kind of service?”

The men laughed again. “Boys, Recreation Palace is one of my business interests,” explained our host. “It’s the finest brothel in the entire state. It primarily services special friends of mine. You two heroes are certainly on my list of my special friends.”

Stephen and I could scarcely believe it. We’d heard of such places, of course, but we’d never seen one, much less been inside one. We were quite sure none existed in our sleepy, suburban hometown.

Mr. Cabrini continued, “You know that special photo album I showed you? Those two girls you picked out are there. They are eagerly waiting for you. They’ve been instructed to fuck you nonstop for two hours.”

Again, Stephen and I looked at each other in ecstatic disbelief.

“Now both girls know you are new at this sort of thing—I’m guessing very new. But they know how to take care of you. Just go there and have the time of your lives. It will make this old man happy to know that you two fine boys are getting laid.”

We thanked him profusely. This was easily the greatest day in our lives—and the best was obviously yet to come.

Part Four

When the limo pulled into the VIP parking spot at Recreation Palace, Mr. Cabrini and his two unnamed associates got out of the car with us. He embraced us one last time and promised he’d put ten bars of his imported Swiss chocolate in the limo for our ride back home. “Don’t eat it all at once,” he advised us with a grandfatherly grin. “Make sure to save a few bars to take home. However, this is goodbye. I hope we meet again someday. Enjoy the fucking, boys.”  He firmly shook our hands and walked away from the limo. Another luxury automobile was parked nearby, waiting to take him home.

Stephen and I were taken to a dimly lit waiting room where there was a pianist clad in a tuxedo.  He was playing classical music. A madam greeted us warmly and said we were the “special clients” for tonight. She sensed both our eagerness and our anxiety about what was coming. “Relax, fellows.  Gladys and Maria are here to please you.  I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she gently assured the two of us.

She then turned her attention down a hallway and motioned someone to come forward. Both of us instantly recognized her as Gladys, Stephen's preferred girl from the album. She was even better looking in person. She had breasts to die for and a charming face. I felt my erection building for her even though she was Stephen’s girl for the next two hours. She kissed Stephen on the cheek and took him down the hallway to Room #8. Stephen looked back towards me.  Not surprisingly, he had an enormous grin on his face.

A second wave from the madam brought forth Maria. Like Gladys, Maria was even prettier in person. I couldn't estimate her age. Her young breasts were present but pleasantly petite. Maria wore a pale blue dress, bright pink ribbons in her hair, and long white stockings. She looked like she was heading to a church social—which made what we were going to do even more erotic for me. Maria also kissed me on the cheek. Then she took my hand. She led me directly to Room #4.

She locked the door behind us when we got there. “I am Maria,” she told me. “I am 18 years old. I am Costa Rican girl. My English not so good, but we’re not here to talk, right? We are here to do fucking for two hours. I will make you feel so good.”

“That was a great introduction, Maria,” I said in response. “My name is Adam. I’m 18 years old, too, and I cannot wait to fuck you. Let’s start, please.”

It took me longer than anticipated to remove my best suit. By the time I was nude, so was Maria, who was sitting patiently at the end of the queen-size bed. “I like this bed,” she said. “Good size for small girl like me, but plenty of room for lively fucking. Let me help get your dick hard, Adam.”

I was surprised my penis wasn’t already fully erect as the sight of lovely Maria captivated me. She was a tiny but well-proportioned girl whose sexy small breasts were her best feature. Her small feet were sexy too. Maria motioned me to come forward to where she was sitting. She immediately began to stroke my dick with alternate hands. Within 15 seconds, it was rock hard. Despite her youthful age and my utter lack of experience, I could tell I was working with a true professional.

“Let me lick your dick, Mr. Adam, to make you feel happy,” she requested. “Please fondle my titties while I suck on it. That’s why they are here!” I liked her attitude and complied fully. Maria, still in a sitting position, put her pretty mouth around my phallus while I jiggled her tits for the fun of it. I had been told by an older cousin that when a girl’s nipples get hard, it’s a positive sign that you are sexually pleasing her, so I concentrated on getting Maria’s perky boobs that way. It happened! I was so pleased with myself!

With that small success, I became emboldened. “Let’s get onto the bed, Maria, ” I firmly said. She did something adorably cute and sexy by putting her arms straight up and asking me to lift her onto the mattress. I happily obliged. I set her head on the thick pillows, put the bulk of my body on her, and began sucking on those erect nipples with gusto. "Damn, these are lovely," I told her.  "I could play with them all night and never get bored."

“Not all night—just two hours, Adam!” she reminded me. She obviously did not understand hyperbole. Then she said. “I think you’ll like fucking my pussy better than sucking on the tits.” She promptly spread her legs. I took the hint and straddled her small but totally sexy body and moved in for my first fuck.

It was just as pleasurable as I thought it would be. My hard penis slid into Maria’s sexy slit with no trouble—thus confirming she was not a novice at this. I began to gently thrust it back and forth.

“Ooh, nice fucking, Adam,” she said, probably exaggerating. “I like it! Good job. You have a nice, thick dick.”

I slid a pillow under her bottom to lift her pussy higher. This made for even better fucking! I drove my dick harder into her pussy than I had been a few seconds earlier. “Make a good cum shot in me, Adam,” she urged. “I know you can do it.”

Those words made me feel like a child whose parent is teaching him how to ride a bike, but they inspired me nevertheless. “Oh, yes, my sweet Maria! Here I come!” I felt a wonderful sensation in my groin as I fired my load into her tiny but veteran snatch. I continued to thrust as I came. What a thoroughly great feeling it was to fill a youthful foreign hooker with a big blast of my warm jism! The world was truly a wonderful place that May night in 1928.

I didn’t pull out of her for several minutes. I was happy to lie on Maria while we both breathed heavily. Finally, she said to me, “Adam, we still have a long time to go. Let’s fuck again. I am supposed to give you an excellent time in bed.”

“Of course,” I said. “How silly of me to forget!”

I rolled onto my back and let Maria have her way with me. My dick got hard fairly quickly again—one of the perquisites of being an 18-year-old male—and she merrily mounted me. She grabbed my shaft and shoved it rather roughly into her wet pussy. I grabbed her hips to assist her bouncing on me. I pulled her forward so I could resume fondling the treasures of her torso. About 15 minutes later, another spurt of goo flew from my penis into Maria’s sexy little body.

“Very good, Adam!” she exclaimed. “You came again. I rode you to a cum shot, right?”

“Yes, you did,” I said. “Come forward so I can kiss you, Maria. You are a great fucker!”

I got the impression that very few of Maria’s past customers were much interested in kissing. They should have been, though. Maria was quite good at it. I think she appreciated something new and put a lot of zeal into her busses when she was lying on top of me.

Eventually my dick got hard for the third time in less than an hour. I turned Maria so her bum was sticking in the air. I fingered her vaginal area for the first time which caused her to giggle. That reaction turned me on and I shoved my penis into her again.

“Adam—three fucks in so short a time,” said my sexy Costa Rican bedmate. “You might wear me out!”

“Maria, I want to fuck you until I’m the one who is worn out,” I insisted.

I liked the dominant sexual position of fucking this small girl from behind. I put my hands under her to massage her desirable breasts, then I shoved my dick into her love hole with renewed enthusiasm. This time I came within three minutes, but it barely amounted to a few drips of ejaculate.

I was spent. Maria was showing signs of exhaustion, too. “Let’s just cuddle for a while, Maria,” I suggested. “The clock says we still have another hour, but my dick needs a good rest.”

“You are a good man, Adam,” she stated. “I am tired, too. My pussy was fucked good by you. You are so good in bed for your age.” That declaration—which was almost certainly a lie—earned Maria a long and deserved passionate kiss.

We cuddled and talked about nothing very important until my time limit was down to 20 minutes. I announced, “Let’s see if my dick has one more shot in it tonight, Maria.” I went back to the same place as I started our intercourse with pillows under Maria’s pussy and her head. With one final burst of teenage energy, I blasted a fourth load into her—which was a decent size, all things considered.

“Very good, Adam: Four cum shots in two hours. Let me kiss your dick for a job well done.” I placed it at her lips and she gave it a playful smooch. Shortly thereafter, the madam knocked on the door to say I ought to shower and get ready to depart. As part of her services, Maria showered with me and gave me a thorough and sexy scrubbing. What a way to finish!  I kissed her one last time and thanked her sincerely as I left the room.

The chauffeured limo was ready for Stephen and me as we walked out of Recreation Palace. Our promised ten bars of Swiss chocolate were there, even though Mr. Cabrini was not. (Mr. Ciarro was not there either.  Only the driver and the two silent men were with the two of us on the ride home.) I ate three of mine on the journey home. Launching four ejaculations inside an 18-year-old prostitute apparently can make you quite hungry even after an enormous steak dinner.

Curiously, both Stephen and I were oddly silent for most of the 45-minute return trip.  I suppose we each individually concluded it would be in poor taste to discuss our brothel experiences in the presence of strangers.  However, we did have a very detailed chat about everything the following day when we were by ourselves.

As promised, we got back to our homes in suburbia a few minutes before the stroke of midnight. I was dropped off before Stephen was.  Mom had gone to bed, but Dad was patiently waiting up for me to find out how I'd spent the better part of ten hours as an honored guest of a notorious gangster.

“So...how was your fancy dinner?” he asked me.

“Dinner...what dinner?” I replied. I honestly couldn’t recall a thing about it.