Chapter 1: Stop Watch
Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft, Consensual, Romantic, Mind Control, Magic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Science Fiction, Time Travel, Extra Sensory Perception, Paranormal, Spanking, Light Bond, First, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Petting, Slow, .
Desc: Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 1: Stop Watch - This, that, some of the other. You know I have no idea what she, my muse, is cooking up. It happens when it happens. It is what it is. No sex at first. We're too young. Later on...oh my...at least I hope so. Time is heavily featured...travel is too. Oh...The Capitol is in D.C. A State Capital is in the state. That's how I was taught and I'm sticking to it.
I never met a mechanical watch I couldn’t stop. I suppose you could call me a magnetic personality. Stick a wrist watch on me and take it to the shop. Some of them never ran again.
Some people might call this an ability, but I don’t think so. It was more like a disaster. As I grew older the watches started stopping without me touching them. The simple act of walking past a fellow human being who was wearing a windup was often enough to stop his watch. There’s a story in there somewhere. I couldn’t think one up ... so ... I suppose the truth will have to do.
My father was a lawyer.
Most people think once a lawyer passed the Bar exam, he can get on with cheating, lying, robbing the general public and politicking. This is a deceptive, misleading, and totally false notion ... similar to law practice.
Good lawyering demands constant study. The books aren’t cheap. Daddy subscribed to a Law Journal publishing company and received a new leather bound book of procedures and precedents every month. Even though the books were concerned with current practice, sometimes the legal precedent he needed was old law, something adjudicated years before.
You’d be amazed at the legal chicanery practiced before the turn of the century.
Dad’s books were new, although he was forever trying to buy the libraries of deceased attorneys. The Courthouse Law Library had a reasonable set of older books and he spent a lot of nights on the top floor of the Courthouse reading, but about once a month, sometimes more, he had to go to the Capital to visit the State Law Library. They had law books going back to the 1780’s. He often needed to consult the books stored there, trying to find a shyster trick to win over a judge or stubborn jury.
“Vera, I’m going to Lansing, do you want to go?” Vera was my mom, he always asked.
She always said, “No.” However, she also always said, “Take David with you. He gets in my hair.”
Going to Lansing to sit in the Atrium of the Capital Building while Dad looked for the legal precedent he needed got old pretty damn quick. It wasn’t like that at first.
At first I ran wild in the building. I opened every unlocked room and tried every locked door. There was a rope with a sign that read CLOSED FOR REPAIRS across the stairs leading to the dome but the door wasn’t locked. Since it was already broke I figured I couldn’t make it any worse. It’s quite a view.
The staff suggested that I stay with my dad since I really had no official business to attend to. I grudgingly agreed ... since that particular staff member probably weighed 300 pounds and was two axe-handles wide across the shoulders and two and a half across her butt.
I was removed to the library for half of one visit and ... in that short space of time ... I had an accident.
Since I spilled the ink bottle on the page Dad needed, the clerks didn’t want me in there with the books. I didn’t see the difficulty. The book was published in 1830, just another old book of no use in modern day 1952. I was 10 and clumsy.
I got relegated to the Atrium and put under the watchful eye of the Master at Arms. That lasted about a minute. I had the display case with the War Trophies opened in seconds and the Luger nearly out of its holster before he caught me. We made a fast trip to the Law Library, him with my ear clutched tightly in his ham fist, and me running on tiptoe. Words were said ... I knew a few. Finally, my Dad asked me what I’d like to do.
“We’ve been reading this story, Way Down Cellar, in our literature book at school. It got pretty exciting and they were just about ready to reveal the secret of the roll top desk which had the secret of the cellar when the page stopped, with the recommendation that we pester our local library for the book so we can find out the ending,” I said. I pouted a second and complained, “They have the book at the State Library. Because they have only one copy, they won’t send it to our library, and they don’t issue library cards to kids. I want to read it so I can find out the secret. I even know where the book is stored: It’s in the Annex.”
Dad said, “Hmm.”
Dad said that often when it came to me.
The Chief Clerk, he who wanted my ass out of his library and away from his precious, but old, books, said, “Let me just call over to State and see what I can do.”
You could hear him lying to the person on the other end of the line, “Oh, he’s a good boy,” he said. “No, Ma’am.”
“No trouble at all.”
“His father is the prosecutor for Clinton County.”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll issue him a card.”
He was filling it out as he was speaking.
He hung up, handed me the card, and asked me if I knew where the Annex was.
“Yessir. Corner of East Genesse and North Washington.”
That got me a look so I said, “Four blocks north and one and a half blocks east, red brick one story building by the alley.”
The clerk looked a little amazed.
My Dad said, “Kid knows where he is except in the UP.” He gave me a look, “I’ll be a few hours. Here’s a buck, take off.”
The clerk looked a lot amazed. “He’s ten. You’re going to let him just walk out of here and find his way there?”
I heard my Dad say, “Shush! He might get kidnapped, he’s a spare. My wife and I had four. One to replace her, one to replace me, one for the general increase in the population ... and one in case of accidents.” He laughed.
The clerk laughed.
The Master at Arms laughed and said he knew some people. He could make some calls if my Dad wanted.
I heard the whole crowd laughing. Grownups! The things they think are funny!
Thus, I became the only 10 year old in the state with a library card to the Holy of Holy’s, the State Library in Lansing, Michigan. I used it religiously.
My big adventure started the summer of 1954. I had turned 12 last May. I was heading north on Capital Ave one Saturday. I was on the way to the State Library. There were a great many small stores on Capital.
There was an tiny old man standing outside one small shop. “Gruener’s” in an arch over a pocket watch and “Fine watches and Repair” underneath, was painted on the window. He was smoking a Sherlock pipe ... you know the kind, big wood bowl with a perforated hinged lid lined in Meerschaum with a crooked hard rubber stem. He had frameless rectangular glasses pushed up on his forehead, with a loupe for his right eye, and a leather apron, with a multitude of pockets full of tiny files and screwdrivers, hung from his neck and tied around his bulging waist. He was wreathed in smoke that circled around his head like smoke from a fire, or a cauldron.
“You are Dafid,” he muttered. His lips didn’t even move, he just mumbled it. The German accent was unmistakable.
“Vell,” he said. “I am Hans Gruener, I repair broken vatches ... and the vuns you schopt vhen you walk by. I vant to gif you sometink. Komen sie here. It is in my schop.”
What the Hell, I followed him inside. I could hear the watches in the showcases stopping as I walked by them. He grimaced as each perfectly adjusted watch slowed and stopped.
“Yes,” he said. “You are the vun.”
He lifted the counter hatch and motioned me through. He pointed at a narrow door. I went through. A cacophony of sound greeted me. Clocks of all sizes and shapes were hanging from pipe racks suspended from the ceiling, the walls festooned with all manner of coo-coo clocks, stately Grandfather clocks scattered here and there on the floor and benches arrayed with parts, pieces and cases, tiny watchmakers lathes, and more files and screwdrivers.
There was one tall stool, brass green and beige at the only clean spot on a bench, a be-diamoned ladies watch secured in pin vices crowning the clean spot. A single green shaded incandescent pull down lamp illuminating the work. In the far corner of the shop was a huge ancient safe, with more junk piled on the top. Grimy high up windows with thick bars ranged the back wall.
“Vait here.” He climbed up to his seat, rudely shoved the watch out of his way, and started rummaging through a multitude of small drawers and tiny boxes on the back of the bench. He was mumbling to himself in German as he searched.
I sighed. I shifted my feet, the clocks around me going silent one by one.
“Do not touch! ... anything!!!” he commanded. “I vill find it!” He searched more diligently. “ Ach!” In surprise, “How did it get there?”
He jumped down from his perch and walked over to a small door I hadn’t noticed. He opened it, and shouted up the stairs. “Vendy! Komen sie here!”
“Yes, Grandfather!” a quiet, lovely, melodious voice called back. Tiny footsteps tripped down the stairs. A vision, blonde over blue, popped through the door. She saw me and blushed. “Yes? You called me, Grandfather?” She could not have been as old as 12: She had not let down her skirts yet, or put her hair up.
“Yah!” He looked at her fiercely. “You haf been cleaning here.” He pointed at the bench.
“Yes, Grandfather.” She blanched.
“I haf told you time and time again. DO NOT TOUCH MY TINGS! Haf I not?”
She hung her head, twisting her starched white pinafore. “Yes, Grandfather.” She made no excuse ... there was none to be made.
“I vill not haf it...” the front chime rang. Hans spluttered and pointed at the front.
Wendy ran for the counter. Poetry in motion. White stockinged dancers legs under frilly white crinolines flashed before my preteen eyes.
She was soon back. “He only wanted directions ... Grandfather, all the watches are stopped again. I don’t understand. It happens only on some Saturdays. Why?”
Hans simply pointed at me.
“I have a ‘magnetic’ personality.”
“I can not wear a watch ... every one I’ve had stops.” I explained, “The older I get the farther away I stop them.”
“An understatement, Wendy. It’s disastrous. I walk by someone and their watch stops. People are late for appointments, school, church, dates ... weddings.”
“Oh ... OH!!” she exclaimed. “You must walk by the shop on some Saturdays.”
“I go to the State Library at least once a month. I try to stay away from jewelry stores. Yours is so small I didn’t realize...”
The bell chimed again. Poetry in motion ... again.
“Take this paper,” Hans commanded. “It is the combination to that safe.” He nodded at the huge safe. He handed me a small key. “This key fits the lock of the box inside the safe. Take the box ... and Vendy. Leave. leave the store. Go to your library. Do NOT come back. You must open the box in the park at the east end of the street. You vill know what to do when you open it.”
He groaned and clutched at his chest. “Go ... open the safe, take the box, take Vendy.” He shouted at Wendy. “Go with this boy. Now!”
“Now!” He groaned. “I vill wait on the customer.”
I walked to the safe, clocks falling silent as I passed them. The paper was yellowed with age, the ink blurry. I fumbled with the dial, I heard the tumblers align, turned the star handle ... the locking pins retracted ... I opened the safe. The only thing in it was the metal box. I picked it up ... it was surprisingly heavy...