Tug and the Ripper

by D.T. Iverson

Caution: This Action/Adventure Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, .

Desc: Action/Adventure Sex Story: This is my third Tug story. In this one, our hero and his Atlantean wife solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper; thereby, saving the world from Nazi Armageddon. Their discoveries expose the real truth behind the Whitechapel murders, along with some of the more unsavory elements of Victorian society. Along the way, they meet the legendary Victorian swashbuckler, Harry Paget Flashman. And, King Edward the Seventh tries his luck with our hero's wife. Read on, and enjoy!

Maria was talking with Bastet. That wouldn’t be remarkable. Except Bastet is a CAT. Well; like everything else in my life, Bastet isn’t EXACTLY a cat. She’s an Egyptian Mau; more-like a kissing cousin to a cheetah. Bastet and my wife converse frequently, mind to mind; or whatever passes for a mind in a cat.

Maria is stunningly beautiful, both inside and out. She spent her first 318 years as a Priestess of the Sun on the lost continent of Atlantis. Nonetheless, she’s still only in her twenties by Atlantean standards. That is why she has the kind of lithe, well-endowed body that Antonio Carlos Jobim was thinking about when he wrote, “The Girl from Ipanema.”

I met her when we rescued her ship from a time-storm. You might find that hard to believe. I know I did. That was until I discovered her psychic powers. Most guys don’t have a wife who spends her time snuggling in YOUR head, or who can knock out 250-pound linebackers with a thought.

Which brings me to the lucky guy. I must have had a name once. But, I live aboard a Natick Class YTB Harbor Tugboat. She was built sometime after World War II and she’s big and ugly. But she’s me and vice-versa. So, now everybody just calls me “Tug.”

Docked among the big pleasure boats, my tug’s an utter misfit. She has a vulgar rusty paint job, instead of being brilliantly white. When I first saw her, the other boats seemed to be shunning her; like everybody shunned me growing up. It was love at first sight.

I told you that I met Maria when we pulled her family out of a time-storm. Okay, I didn’t know what that was either. It turns out that time-storms are one of the hazards of time travel. Yes, time travel. I told you; this takes a little getting used to.

The Atlanteans have very advanced technology, which is understandable since they came to Earth from a planetary system around Rigel.

They lost an inter-planetary war 13,000 years ago, which sank Atlantis to the bottom of the Atlantic. The survivors fled to a remote valley in the Tien-Shan mountains. They call it New Atlantis. Maria says we’ll never find it because they have it shielded. But ostensibly, it IS the basis for the myth of Shangri-La.

Over the succeeding 13,000 years, Atlanteans explored outward from their new home. That has been good for humanity since it brought us things like civilization and culture. It also ensured that Atlanteans would be involved in our history.

More importantly for me, it also ensured that Atlantean genes would be propagated into our gene pool. I might not be outstanding in any way except my genetics. But I won the DNA lottery; and I am almost pure Atlantean. My dad owns a hardware store and my mom is a housewife; go figure?

Anyhow, because of my genetics Maria and I can make little Atlanteans. She has told me that she married me because she loved me. I find that hard to believe given her beauty and my averageness. So, I am sure that my genetics were a factor. But then again, I am also not one to question good fortune. Especially since it brought me this unearthly beauty; literally unearthly.

Growing up, I DID sense that I had special powers. I have a skill at deciphering complex things. It’s almost the equal of Maria’s psychic abilities. The answers come to me in a flash of insight. It was that ability that led us through the labyrinth the Templars had created to guard the Ark of the Covenant. You heard me right, like in Genesis.

It was also the ability that lets me find zero-day vulnerabilities in computer code, which is why I devoted my teen years to shaking down the software industry. So, I had stashed several million in the bank before I could legally drink. Of course, drinking wasn’t my thing. But, I DID smoke enough weed to denude whole acres of productive farm land.

We were wed by the High Priest of Atlantis. That was a three-day ceremony of music and finery on the island of San Miguel, in the Azores. The place was chosen because it is only two miles from the original Atlantean Temple of the Sun. Unfortunately, that temple is straight down on the bottom of the Atlantic sea bed, and you would need a bathysphere to visit it. But, the Atlanteans can access its aura from that location.

Maria and I are bonded for life. That’s an Atlantean thing. There is something in the marriage ceremony that forges a psychic link for our lifespan, which in Maria’s case is thousands of years. Apparently, that’s my situation too. I haven’t aged a day since Maria made me drink from the Fountain of Youth, which is located on Bimini Island.

After our adventure in Canada, we decided to settle down in Key West. Why? Well, if you discount the perfect hot sunny tropical climate and the totally laid-back atmosphere, there is still the fact that it is, as the sign says, “The gateway to the Caribbean, Mexico and Central America.” So, we could go anywhere from there. We were permanently docked at a marina in the Key West Bight. That was handy walking distance to Duval Street and the old City.

The climate is more like the tropics than the continental U.S. So, you walk around in the minimum of casual clothing. Maria was strolling down Greene toward Captain Tony’s in her standard outfit, which is a light linen top and a pair of short boat shorts. The shorts, showcased her magnificent long legs and her firm round butt. I was several paces behind, just watching those superb buns rolling back and forth. I heard a voice in my head say, “Stop staring at my ass!! People are starting to notice.” That’s the price you pay for having a psychic wife.

We turned left through the big wooden doors at Tony’s and found a seat at the bar. It’s the same bar that Earnest Hemingway used to drink at.

It’s a myth that Hemingway drank at the Sloppy Joes on the corner of Duval and Greene. He DID drink at Sloppy Joes but that was when it was in the building where Captain Tony’s is now. In 1938, the owner of the building raised the rent a buck-a-month and the guy who owned Sloppy Joes moved it to its current location. Papa didn’t move with it.

The rafters above the bar are festooned with autographed bras. That should give you some idea about the ambience. One of Maria’s delicious D’s is up there. The tourists normally bring theirs in a brown paper bag. Maria just dropped her shirt, and took hers off, right there in the middle of the bar. Somebody might have called the police, if everybody wasn’t riveted by the sight of her fantastic tits.

Maria isn’t so much an exhibitionist as she is a natural woman. There is nothing affected about her. Even though she is a fabulous beauty, backed by the wealth and power of an ancient, alien culture, she’s as down to earth as a Nebraska farmhand.

That is odd, in-and-of-itself, since her father Carlos, is the Atlantean High Priest of the Sun, and her mother Carla, is the High Priestess of Cleito. Cleito is the mother of all Atlanteans; basically, a fertility goddess. So, Maria’s bloodline descends directly from the Olympian Gods.

Maria is lithe and pantherish, while her mother has the enormous tits and hips that you would associate with a woman who represents the Atlantean Earth Mother. In short, Carla is the wet dream of every kid who ever hid an illicit Playboy under his mattress. I imagine that Maria will be as voluptuous as her mom in 900, years, or so. It gives me something to look forward to.

I was reminded of Maria’s parents as we walked back to the Tug. That was because a gleaming white 200-footer was just making its way past the breakwater of the Bight, headed toward the dockage by the Jefferson Island Ferry. That was the only dock big enough to accommodate it.

The ship was the Poseidon and it was the lone craft that could legitimately bear that name. That is because, it belongs to Maria’s parents. And her dad is the one man on earth who is truly descended from that god. Carlos ancestor was the actual Poseidon.

Most of the Greek Pantheon is made up of Atlanteans. Their culture predates Western civilization by five thousand years and so when they were first encountered by the proto-Greeks, those primitive people must have thought them godlike. After all, in the words of Arthur C. Clarke, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

We headed for where their ship was being docked; walking together, in the hot tropical evening. Carlos came down the gangway with his face wreathed in smiles. He adored his daughter. Me? He could tolerate.

Carlos is an incredibly handsome and charismatic man. He is middle height, perhaps five-ten. He has a darkly handsome Spanish face, very cool and controlled. There is just a hint of grey at the temples of his perfectly groomed, thick black hair.

Everything about him reeks of perfection from his sculptured hands to his sturdy muscular body. His immaculateness almost seems unnatural; which I suppose is true in some respects, since he’s not from around these parts; by about 800 light years.

Maria’s mom was gliding along behind her husband. She had on one of those almost sheer tropical print coverings. It was wrapped around her formidable hips, with a light linen shirt over her immense boobs. The shirt was mostly unbuttoned and tied around her still firm tummy, the front of it was straining under the bounty of those huge tits.

There was the usual hugging and back slapping. They both kissed their daughter. Carla managed to mash those monster jugs into my chest as she hugged me hello. The woman simply can’t be anything but sensuous. Then Carlos said with a somber voice, “We need to talk to you. This is a very urgent matter and we have to resolve it immediately.”

Well THAT was a buzzkill. Half an hour ago we had been enjoying the easy bonhommerie at Captain Tony’s and now my Father-in Law was here to fuck up my life. I gestured “lead-on” and they walked back up the gangplank and into the Poseidon’s sumptuous lounge.

It was just as I remembered it from the first time, light and airy with outstanding views of the harbor, through floor to ceiling windows. Of course, the last time I was standing there I was asking them for their daughter’s hand in marriage.

That was right after I had discovered that Maria wasn’t exactly a girl from the hood. Now things had changed. We were an old married couple and we had been on an adventure that had more-or-less saved mankind from the Atlantean’s arch-rivals, the Athenians.

Athenians aren’t the Greeks who own restaurants. They are a nasty collection of aliens who were stranded here after the war with the Atlanteans. The last time I had seen Carlos; he was leading a picked force of Atlantean troops in the recovery of the Ark of the Covenant, which Maria and I had just found. We ran into a couple of Athenians doing that. They are indeed, scary mother-fuckers.

I had a feeling that Carlos had our last exploit in mind when he showed up to talk to us. So as soon as we sat down I said rather testily, “What do you need us to do now?”

One of the conditions of our marriage, was to do side-jobs for the Atlantean Royal Council. I knew about that obligation even before Maria went back to Atlantis. Where, she had to be relieved of her priestly vows in order to marry me.

Of course, I thought I had lost her forever that first time she left. And I was almost shot up by the Cubans getting her back.

Carlos looked a little hesitant as he said, “What do you know about Jack the Ripper?” Now THAT was a surprise!!! Since, I knew a lot about the dude. I said guardedly, “Depending on who you listen to, he committed anywhere from five, to seven, murders during the fall of 1888.”

I added, “He certainly wasn’t the world’s first serial killer. But, he was the guy who got all the press. In fact, he almost single handedly created the stereotype. He gave the London Police fits for a few months and then just disappeared.”

Carlos looked surprised and said, “How do you know all that?”

I said, “Growing up, I read everything written about the guy. The whole mysterious foggy streets of London, horror thing, is very attractive to the nerd mind. And as you know, my Atlantean genes won’t let me forget anything that I actually read.”

Carlos said, “So you know the details of the crimes and the setting?”

I said, “Of course. I’m a Ripper aficionado.”

Carlos looked like a bird about to gobble up a tasty bug as he said, “So you could navigate your way around the locale if you were there?”

I said, “The facts of those murders have been available for almost 130 years. I don’t think there is anything about the East End in the Fall of 1888 that hasn’t been meticulously documented and over-analyzed. Why do you ask?”

I heard Maria’s voice in my head say, “Oh-oh!!”

Carlos got an ironic little smile as he said, “That’s excellent news, because we have an assignment for you.”


The general theory of relativity describes gravity as a curvature in the time-space continuum that permits “closed time-like curves.” The existence of these time-curves has already been described in field theory. In common terminology, they’re called worm-holes.

Wormholes are posited in the equations that underlie quantum physics. The hypothesis is that time dilation occurs if one end of a time-space continuum is accelerated to a significant fraction of the speed of light, while the other end is not.

Time dilation is a well-established penomenon. It occurs as you move closer to the speed of light. Therefore, it is hypothetically possible for the “older” end of a closed time curve, to move past the “newer” end of the curve; making the past, the present. It’s kind of like turning a sock inside out.

The problem is that, creation of a traversable wormhole requires “negative energy.” Modern quantum physics postulates that negative energy exists. The Casimir effect has more-or-less proven that phenomenon. But, humans have yet to generate negative energy.

The operative word here is, “humans.” The Atlanteans perfected negative-energy wormholes while our human ancestors were perfecting fire. So, time travel is commonplace for them.

Still, the ability to move back and forth in time could wreak havoc in everybody’s future due to the “grandfather effect.” That’s the old relativity paradox of two objects not existing in the same place, at the same time. So, access to the space-time continuum is strictly regulated.

As High Priest of the Sun, Carlos was one of the overseers. He explained that the Atlanteans monitor time-space for any activity that might represent a potentially significant anomaly, or threat. They had detected one in 1888 and reported it to the High Council.

Basically, somebody was messing with the Ripper killings and the Athenians were suspected. That was chilling news indeed. Since the Athenians want to have the planet all to themselves. So, wiping out the human race is high on their to-do list.

As I might have mentioned, Athenians aren’t really from Athens. These Athenians come from the alpha-planet around the star Rigel. The Atlanteans are from the beta-planet. There has been bad blood between the Athenians and the Atlanteans for millennia.

That’s because, the former enslaved the latter for several of those millennia. In fact, it was the war with the Athenians that landed the continent of Atlantis on the bottom of the Atlantic. So, Athenian involvement in anything was ominous; to say the least!

Maria and I had fallen into the clutches of a couple of Athenians in our quest for the Templar treasure and they were a nasty piece of work indeed. Their sense of superiority is reflected in their extreme beauty. Their cold, heartless appearance broadcasts their total contempt for anything NOT Athenian.

But then again, their odd looks also convey their natural cruelty. Their skin is extremely pale, which is a consequence of their planet being right at the edge of the habitable zone of Rigel. Maria’s planet is nearer to Rigel and so her people have a much duskier, sunnier appearance.

Nevertheless, the main difference between an Atlantean and an Athenian are their eyes. Maria has striking amber cat eyes. While Carlos’s eyes are a warm shade of brown. The eyes of Athenian females are pale arctic blue, almost like they have no irises. While, the males have soulless obsidian eyes like a snake.

Still, whether their eyes are pale, or obsidian, Athenians will kill you without remorse. That is because they consider every other creature on Earth to be no more important than insects.

I’m a nerd, not a hero, even though I accidentally killed an Athenian in our last venture. So, I make it a policy to stay a long way away from any stray members of that race.

Carlos looked worried. That worried me; mainly because he’s never worried. He said, “As you know, there are alternate timelines that emanate from any significant event. They represent different futures from the one that actually occurred.”

I absolutely didn’t know that. But, why should I? Of course, Maria was in my head and she said, “It’s like what would happen if the South had won the Battle of Gettysburg.”

Carlos said, “That’s right, and slavery would still be an institution, that sort of thing.”

I semi-got what they were talking about. Nonetheless, the fact that the entire family was holding a conversation in my head was a little disturbing.

Carlos added, “A new timeline just appeared and it’s horrendous. In this one, the Nazis won World War Two and the resulting world-wide, totalitarian State has all the worst features of that regime. Tens-of-millions die, and most of the rest are in concentration camps. The situation has the fingerprints of the Athenians all over it. That’s a world where they’ll thrive.”

I had visions of those pale skinned mother-fuckers parading around in jackboots and SS uniforms, saluting each other, and I could see what he was saying.

Carlos looked at me like he was willing me to do the right thing, and said, “It all seems to originate from actions that occurred during the time of Jack the Ripper and we need somebody with your problem-solving gifts and knowledge of the history to investigate.”

There it was, they were asking me, a harmless nerd, to mess with the dude who invented serial killing. I was about to say “no” when I heard me wife, who is a true Atlantean Princess, say, “When do we leave?”


I insisted on doing a little preparation. The clothing and other paraphernalia weren’t an issue. You could get all of that from a theatrical supply store.

But that era was rife with killer bugs. I knew that I had the immunity built in by the Fountain of Youth, while Maria was Atlantean. But, I wasn’t taking any chances. Those diseases have been eradicated in our time. So, I had us immunized against small-pox, cholera and the plague, plus a list of other nasties that were common back then, like flea bites.

That era was also extremely violent, at least where we were going. Most of our perceptions about the gentility of the Victorian era come from sanitized stories about the English upper-class. But the fact is that the London East End was a jungle; where you had as much to fear from the police as from the natives. It was either kill, or be killed.

When I was with Maria I wasn’t afraid of physical violence. Her mind is lethal. But I had to be able to defend myself. A Glock was tempting. But they hung folks for shooting people back then. So, I brought an Asp Talon fighting baton. It fit neatly in the pocket of a Victorian overcoat. It gave me a sense of security, even though I knew that I would get my ass kicked if I ever tried to use it.

Also, Dickens, who would have died a mere 18 years before our arrival date, had it closer to correct. If you had money you had privilege and if you didn’t your life was unspeakable hardship. So, we also brought a fortune in gold sovereigns.

We used authentic coins. The nice thing about gold is that it never rusts, or ages. So, it was easy to buy 1870s and 1880s era gold coins. We did that through dealers. Each Sovereign was worth one Pound Sterling back then. They are five-hundred bucks per coin now. Fortunately, money is never an issue with us. Nonetheless, we had to be careful that we didn’t bring one with a date later than 1888. Since trying to pass a coin minted in the 1900s might raise some suspicions.

We tucked all our gear in a couple of roomy Victorian era steamer trunks. Of course, the Poseidon had the necessary time travel equipment.

I don’t know what I expected, perhaps something with spinning clocks like the H.G. Welles machine. Instead, we just walked into a small room a couple of decks down, amidships.

It was obviously special, in that it had thick windows and there were heavy cables leading in and out. But it looked more like an operating room, than it did a portal to Victorian England.

I was dressed in a what the Victorians would call “undressed” style. That is, I was wearing a scratchy cotton shirt and a heavy linen coat, with a silk neck scarf, and wool pants held up by suspenders. These were natural fiber without any modern material in them. My feet were adorned by a substantial pair of patent leather boots.

Maria was wearing the latest fashion for Victorian women, even if they were going to begin the trip cross-country walking. Fortunately for her the bustle had just gone out of style and so it was only her magnificent backside underneath the crinoline. The dress itself was green and form fitting down to the ankles of her lace-up boots. It covered anything that would be considered titillating. But the outline of that body was impossible to disguise.

We rolled two steamer trunks full of gear into the room. They were temporarily on a wheelbarrow-like frame, with bicycle wheels. We were planning to ditch them as soon as we got someplace where we could hire horse drawn transport. But we wouldn’t be able to walk very far lugging those heavy things.

There was going to be the characteristic flash-bang to mark our arrival. That was unavoidable. So, we planned to be dropped at night onto Hampstead Heath. That place was a lot more open in the Victorian era. It was six or seven miles as the crow flies to the Great Eastern Hotel, on Liverpool street. That was where we planned to stay.

This was a scary new experience and I was nervous. While, my brave wife was just calmly standing there. She had made this trip many times before. So, it was like she was waiting for a bus.

I wondered if Maria had looked as cool standing around in the nude waiting to be dropped into the boudoir of Alexander the Great. Her dalliance with the Great Conqueror still gave me jealous fits, even though she was only doing her duty for Atlantis. And it DID happen a few years before we met, 2,341 years to be exact. But hey! Who’s counting?

Maria had packed several small time-dilation pods. Those pods were like the capsules you see shooting through the old pneumatic tube systems. Except they moved through wormholes instead. The Atlanteans use them to communicate across the ages.

I mean; they had to communicate somehow for God’s sake!! We were headed for high Victorian England. While Carlos was going back to New Atlantis, which was thirteen-thousand years in the past.

Maria told me that the transition would be confusing. That was an understatement!!! One moment we were in a sterile room in a luxury yacht. Then Carlos’s voice said, “Good Luck.” And, in an eyeblink, we were on top of Parliament Hill on the southeast corner of Hampstead Heath.

I swayed a bit. It took a moment to get my bearings. We were standing in the middle of a thunderstorm, on a muddy, grass grown field on a high hill. I thought, “Welcome to the Nineteenth Century!!”

The entire panorama of London was laid out in front of us. Except this London didn’t have any tall buildings; beyond the Tower itself and a lot of Church steeples. There was the red glow of a huge fire lighting up the horizon in the direction of the Thames.

The fire told me that it was the night of August 31st, 1888. I extracted my big gold pocket watch; wrist watches being a thing of the future. The time was unreadable because the area was pitch black. So, I pulled a little solar powered halogen flashlight out of my pocket.

In an era lit by gas and candles, I knew in advance that lighting would be a problem. So, besides the Asp, which could be anything to a Victorian, the flashlight was my one concession to the 21st Century. The time read, 1:45 AM. Mary Ann Nichols was about to die.

It was an odd sensation standing there. I was less than ten miles from downtown London and there was no traffic, or aircraft sound, no radios, or TVs, just nothing. The city in the distance was making a muted grumbling noise, like it was a huge living beast. But the silence around me was absolute.

The oddest thing was the smell. Victorian England was powered by coal. The humid air reeked with its aroma. You could also detect hints of wood smoke. But there were none of the usual exhaust, or chemical scents associated with 21st Century life.

Maria was looking at me concerned, like she was afraid I was going to keel-over. I laughed and said, “Don’t worry darling. It’s only a minor concussion.

She smiled and said, “Then let’s find a dry place for the night.” It was still raining off and-on but the thunderstorm had already blown off to the east.

The sight of a drenched gentleman and lady pushing steamer trunks, which were mounted on a couple of strange wheeled contraptions, was going to attract unwanted attention. So, we only planned to walk a half-mile to the nearest coaching inn.

We had targeted Hampstead Heath because it was close to London, but relatively deserted. Our specific target was the hamlet of Kentish town. That’s where the inn was. Horse-drawn coaches were still a popular mode of transport in the 1880s. Even though, the railroad was beginning to assert its dominance.

Kentish town, which, by the way, isn’t in Kent, was the first practical stop-off for coaches coming into London from the north. Since the 1500s, an ancient coaching inn called the Bull & Gate had been located at the nexus of the old road system. I’ve been there. It’s still around in the 21st Century.

The first thing that hit us as we walked in the door, was the stink. It was a fetid stench of unwashed people and wet cloth, garnished by smoke from an endless assortment of pipes and the enveloping smell of burning wood.

The noise level was also shocking. The Hollywood concept of Victorian England fosters the stereotype of the British as “reserved.” Well!! I’m here to tell you that the aggressive talk and raucous laughter of a room full of drunks is anything but “reserved.”

Maria did the negotiating. She was probably doing it in the Atlantean’s purring tongue. But her psychic abilities made every listener think that her words were coming from a Victorian lady.

I have something like the same ability, in that I understand every language. But I can’t adjust my dialect to match whatever is commonly spoken in a particular place. Maria sounded like she was born just up the road.

A sovereign bought us the best room in the house, which was right under the eaves, and a meal that was served by a maid who looked like she was about nine. It consisted of a roast chicken, and two mugs of what they called “ale.”

The chicken was surprisingly tasty. But, that was probably because it had been walking around the yard a couple of hours earlier. The ale was amazing. It was like drinking a loaf of bread. It must have been brewed in an outbuilding, because it had a natural freshness about it that you don’t get with our commercially distributed beer.

I could also see where the Brits got their “cellar temperature” thing. Refrigeration was still in the future but there were plenty of fifty-degree cellars to store the casks in.

We surveyed our surroundings. The bed was ornate and wood. It was supposed to sleep four men. Yes, I said men. There was nothing gay about it. It was just a simple cost saving device.

In the 1800s, commercial travelers were expected to sleep fully clothed with strangers. It was how the rumors about Lincoln got started. The mattress was just a feather stuffed cushion on a wooden plank, no inner spring, about the size of a modern queen bed.

The first order of business was to get out of our wet clothes. Wet was something we were going to have to get used to. After all, it was England. It was late August. But the temperatures were closer to what the U.S. would experience in early fall. Nevertheless, all the heat was rising into the attic and it was closer to eighty degrees up there.

So, I shed coat, pants and shirt and hung them on any handy protrusion. Maria was undoing the ridiculous number of buttons securing her dress. She has such a perfect body that the usual Victorian affectations, corset and bustle were unnecessary. So, she was wearing a chemise. But the dress also required a couple of crinoline slips and pantaloons for authenticity.

The titillating thing was that she had to wear a garter belt to hold up her dark knit hose. You can imagine my reaction when she dropped the crinolines and pantaloons and was wandering around the room in nothing but a chemise and garter belt.

Maria has the kind of body shape that you want to just hang on a wall and study like the work of a great master. Everything about her long legged, long waisted, big titted figure is pure perfection. But there is something extra-special about her hips and butt.

The power inherent in her round hips and jutting buns is evocative of her extreme sexuality. Consequently, my wife could arouse evil thoughts, while walking around in chain mail. Imagine what she looked like dressed like a character from The Victorian Pornographer’s Handbook, especially with the small gas-lit lamp throwing the planes of her body into relief.

Then she dropped her bra.

I was spending my first few hours almost 130 years out of my time, totally disoriented by culture shock. But, that sight was too much to bear. I was wearing Victorian underclothes; basically, long shapeless cotton shorts. I dropped them, and strode across the room, while making noises like a classic Victorian ravager.

She turned looking amused and said, “But Sir, what will my mother say?”

I growled, “Your mother’s the damned fertility goddess for an entire continent!! What do you think she’d say?”

She laughed and grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around and shoved me backwards on the bed. As I suspected, the mattress was hard as a rock. I went ooofff!!!” She said, “I’ll let YOU test the mattress.”

She cocked one leg over me, fumbled around momentarily and then I experienced a boiling vat of honey. She let out a long and appreciative groan. Apparently, time travel turned my wife on.

Then she began bouncing up and down at an outrageous rate. Maria can fuck a man to death in every situation. But, left to her own devices, she prefers to be noisy.

It sounded like a riot was going on in the public area below us. So, she felt free to express her passion in the way that she liked best. Hence, she was riding me like I was Secretariat and it was the Derby. She was making little shrieks as she worked herself up to an epic orgasm. I was flat on my back, gripped by her powerful legs, and like that noble horse, I was giving my all to get us to the finish line.

Her magnificent globes were bouncing up and down. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. It was hypnotic. Then she hunched over, like a jockey entering the home stretch, emitting little rhythmic cries of pure lust. Of course, that dangled one big brown nipple in my face and I did what any gentleman would do in that situation. I took her perfect nub in my mouth and bit lightly.

That tweak set Maria off like a skyrocket. Her hips began a frantic back and forth motion and then she froze, every muscle in her superb body tensed rock hard. Her head flew backwards, her passage went nuts and she started whipping her hair around like she was in the grip of a frenzy. Then the screaming began.

It was clear that Maria was undergoing a monster orgasm, even for her. I wasn’t far behind and it was explosive to say the least. We kind-of writhed around independent of each other, still joined. But each of us were in our own individual world of pleasure.

I know I was grunting like a bull elk in rutting season. But Maria was full-out shrieking, like I was killing her. She collapsed panting across my chest; massive boobs pillowed between us, stuck together by our mutual sweat.

It was then that I noticed that all noise in the room below had stopped. There were frantic footsteps on the stairs and an agitated pounding on the door. A worried male voice said, “Are you all-right Miss?” Maria and I both collapsed in laughter. Everybody in England was thinking about the Ripper killings. Maria had no-doubt convinced the denizens, based on her recent vocalizing, that I was committing bloody murder up there. So of course, they were concerned.

Maria finally got herself under control and said with a decidedly upper-class accent, “Yes my good man. I was just experiencing a little cramp. I’m fine now; thank you for inquiring.” Her rescuer probably drew the accurate conclusion, which was that I was a pervert.

I heard footsteps recede down the stairs. There was a short speech. Then the whole room erupted in raucous laughter and the noise level went back to civil insurrection status. It was an auspicious start to our adventure.


I took some Atlantean drug. Carlos gave it to me. He said it would lessen the culture shock and help me sleep normally. I was glad I did. Because the noise never stopped and I could have slept on the floor and been equally comfortable.

It took a while to dress. We had paid two burly guys to bring our trunks up to the room. So, we had all our gear with us. I put on a clean linen shirt and added a cravat, along with a sack coat and weskit. I had the same kind of pants and braces as I had worn the night before along with a narrow brimmed felt hat that the natives called a “bowler.”

Maria was in a grey wool “traveling” dress that hugged her stunning curves and then flared out around the hips. It covered her neck to ankles. But she still managed to appear seductive. Her hat looked like an entire pheasant was nesting on her head.

She wore her long hair tied-up in a bun with frilly bangs, which was the style in that period. That arrangement showcased her swan-like neck, which was the turn-on-du-jour for Victorian men. It also served to hide her gorgeous thick sun-streaked hair, which would have looked a little odd to the Victorians; sun being a commodity that is always in short supply in England.

We had breakfast downstairs while we waited for the coach. Besides the absolute freshness of the eggs, which must have just come out of the hen, I continued to notice subtle variations in the time.

The most striking difference were the class distinctions. We were clearly part of the upper class. But I’m an American, and we tend to be a little over-democratic; everybody being equal and all. So, I wasn’t used to being waited on and deferred to like we were special.

Maria is Atlantean nobility and she had no problem ordering the help around. That’s why, I left her to make all our travel arrangements. It DID serve to further highlight how far over my head I was in this brave new world. I couldn’t wait to get back to laid-back Key West, and my Tug.

I’m a nerd, not a natural-born hero. In fact, it has always been my policy to stay as far away from the human race as I could get. That is, until I met Maria. Since then, I’ve been hunted by Cuban gunships, traversed ancient labyrinths, been held captive by a couple of really nasty aliens. Now I was 130 years out of my time in Victorian England; hunting a person so lethal that he created an entire genre of horror movie. And if THAT was the price to be married to Maria, it was a fair trade indeed.

The sound of the coach rattling up interrupted my reverie. That’s another thing that you never think about. In the movies, people ride along in one of those things carrying on refined conversations while sipping tea. The reality was that it was like sitting in a cement mixer while the barrel was turning. For almost a half day, we bounced along, swaying back-and-forth with all the unwashed passengers. The noise made any conversation impractical and the rocking of the coach was promoting seasickness.

The entry into London proper was no different than it would have been if we had come into the place in the 21st Century, except it was slightly more abrupt. Green fields suddenly gave way to rows of one story timber houses, which eventually became three and four-story brick in the City proper.

As we crossed the Regent’s Canal, which looks no different than it does today, the buildings became more substantial and were just tall enough that they obstructed my view of the skyline. The thoroughfare got wider and much grander as we got onto Regent Street. The Tower and St Paul’s were perhaps the most imposing edifices.

I was astonished to notice that Tower Bridge, which is no-doubt the most recognizable landmark in London, was still in the early stages of construction. The sight of stark piers, where that ornate Victorian structure is located now, was perhaps the most disorienting aspect of the entire day. All the traffic crossing the Thames was on what is currently called London Bridge.

The other was the noise and stink. I am used to a London full of traffic. But those vehicles all move on rubber tires. The streets were full of cabs, coaches, omnibuses, wagons and every other conceivable vehicle, all moving on iron rimmed wheels. And in most cases the streets were cobbles, not pavement. That rumble was deafening.

Also, even though the 1880s marked the popularization of George Crapper’s indoor plumbing, the old-fashioned outhouse was still the place where most Londoners went to do their daily business. Combine the proliferation of those ubiquitous little buildings with tons of horse shit and a shockingly un-Victorian attitude toward public urination and you get some idea what the general miasma was.

The Victorians considered bathing unhealthy, even the people who could afford tubs. So, there was a pervasive fog of body odor that would stun a rhino. And of course, romantic London was liberally seasoned with coal hydrocarbons. So, the frequent fogs could kill you, sometimes literally!!

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