Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft, Magic, Time Travel, DoOver, Incest, Brother, Sister, FemaleDom, Light Bond, First, Slow,
Desc: Science Fiction Sex Story: Prologue - Alexander Gustav Markle has many regrets in his long life. Maybe, just maybe, he'll find a way to do things the right way this time.
September 26, 2013
The lights are dim and the window to my right shows a blackened sky so I know it's at least evening. I can't tell whether it's early or late; my senses have tried to leave me of late – touch, taste, sight and smell – so it's no wonder that my sense of time has finally bolted. The constant, searing pain in my chest tells me that it doesn't matter. Not anymore. Finally, after so much pain and sadness, finally I'll be allowed to go.
I look around; there's literally nothing else to do. I know, deep inside me where it counts, I know that I've found my final resting place. Some would probably be scared of this. Some would probably cry or wail before succumbing to the unknown. I welcome it, like an old friend I've been waiting on for a very long time. I would have taken my life to meet it far sooner than now, if I weren't such a coward.
It's the same room I've seen for the past week. It's the same white curtain and the same small monitors and the same slight whooshing sound of oxygen being forced into my nose. I've been here before, many times over the previous few years. I've come to know places like this very well. Funny that this is where it should end, much like where it had started those 69 years ago.
Pure, white walls all around me. There's a stain to them that is almost invisible; a film that covers them in the pain and suffering and death of those that have been here before me. There's a story in that dark film, a tale of mothers and fathers, spouses and children, grandchildren and cousins wailing for the loss of their loved ones. The film takes all of that pain and agony and crying and wailing and it spreads it until it covers everything, until the darkness and evil of those thoughts and feelings spread into just the barest shadow covering those pure, white walls.
I will not contribute to that caustic glaze. There will be no one to grieve. My room, when I'm gone, will be empty and devoid of all life. Faceless men and women will come to take care of what I leave behind but they will not mourn me. No one will ever remember my passing.
I watch that film congeal in a corner. I watch it pulse and shiver, a smoky haze growing darker as it is pulled into itself. A black smoke, a dark fog, pulsing and writhing, shimmering into the pain of birth or re-birth. I'm fascinated as I watch it move. There's a pattern, a purpose to it that compels me to watch it in curiosity. Long arms writhe up into 45 degree angles from the main body and the body shivers in pleasure or pain as it rounds and sculpts. Feathery tendrils drip from those arms, an inky black wall fluttering beneath them. The main body curves and pulses, a heartbeat of pain and suffering coalescing before me. From that darkness, glimmering white eyes open and regard me, even as a nose drifts out and a curling mouth forms.
It is a winged woman, naked and young, deliberate in her regard. Flashes of inky black stream from the sides of perfect, onyx breasts. They solidify into arms, the right holding a long staff which she strikes to the ground. The staff makes no sound but there is a flash of darkness that suddenly lights from the rounded head. She lifts the staff high, her wings unfurling around her, the light capturing my eyes and holding them, streaming into them and painting images onto them.
There is a room, much like this. There is a screaming woman, legs bent and splayed to the white coated man sitting between them. She is crying in pain, beads of sweat matting her hair, her face contorted in agony. I hear a word drift to me – "Push" – but it is far away, like a sigh on the wind. I watch the woman, watch her hands clench as she almost sits up. She is straining even as she cries, her face now contorts in concentration, seeping through the pain.
I watch as the baby – as I – am born to this world.
Images flash by that I can barely see. Images of me growing, of my father coming home drunk time and time again, beating my mother, beating me. I watch my face change as it is contorted in the pain of those beatings. They aren't all unhappy times, though. There are some of those scenes that flash by where I'm happy, where I'm sitting next to my mother at her piano and she's teaching me to play. There were far more dark times, however. I watch as it grows older, 4... 5... 6, as I grow older. But still, the beatings continue.
At 7, a pause. An image rather than a movie. Myself, running blindly in the rain. A thunderstorm and a bolt of purest light striking down from the sky. I was ablaze in energy; the fierce light a backdrop to the shadow of my body. Incandescent. Brilliantly beautiful.
The images swelled again and moved, me in the hospital. A miracle, it was said. It was my sole claim to fame throughout my life. At 7 years old, in the late summer of 1951, I had been struck by a bolt of lightning and lived. The rest of my life, I'd have an ugly burn scar in the upper part of the left side of my chest where the bolt had struck me. I was told I was lucky. I was told that I was destined for great things. I was lied to.
And the beatings only stopped for a short while. When I hit 8, there are other beatings, poundings by people I barely know. I'm small for my age, tiny, and there are countless bullies in the world seeking to make their names by pounding on kids younger than them. The world changes around me, but I'm caught in that cycle, caught in the beatings and the pain. Those fights, they are only the precursor. My father beats me when I get home; he beats me because I lost, not because I fought. I can hear the words from him, remembering them even as I hear them drifting through the air. Worthless. Weak. Fucking loser. Not worth a pot to piss in. I watch his face contort as the beatings continue.
I've always been short. Short and fat. There was nothing I could do about that. So I turned to the only thing I could change. I turned to my mind. I've been blessed with a phenomenal memory. In the books and articles I found at the library, I learned to do even more with it. I learned the secrets behind phenomenal memory. I learned how to create a memory palace. And I filled it with everything I could. I stored all of my memories, all of my lessons, into that palace. And, thanks to it, I was able to succeed academically even though I failed horribly physically.
The images stop for a moment and linger. There's me in a car and terror fills my heart. I know this memory, I remember it. In all the years since, I've never forgotten it. It's etched in dark ink upon the redness of my heart. I see my 17 year old self and I cringe. Even then, I was over-weight. Not the morbidly obese troll I am now, at the end, but still fat. That isn't what makes me cringe, though. It isn't why I don't want to see this anymore.
I'm on a date. The drive-in. I've borrowed my dad's car but he doesn't know it. He's off, away. He took the train out of town to a convention or something. Trivialities like that I don't remember or maybe just don't want to. The rest of this, though ... it's a nightmare and I know I'm going to have to live through it again.
The girl is Mary Jo Feckle. She's pretty in a lustful way. She's not thin, not fat like me, but not thin like others. She's got a nice rack; big, filling. She fills all of her clothes nicely, the blouse, the skirt. The face isn't much, nose is kind of pudgy, lips are too big for her head. She wears thick glasses but behind them are pretty eyes, though shrewd and calculating.
She's a 'sure thing'. Round heels. She's a guaranteed lay. I'm not proud of it, but that's why I asked her. I'm shy. Strange. I have few friends and none of them close. I can't take the chance that they'll want to meet my parents, meet my father. I can't take the chance of them hearing how worthless I am, how weak. I can't get a girl, not on my own. That's why I've asked Mary Jo. She's a 'sure thing' ... and I'm ready for a 'sure thing'.
We get hot and heavy, kissing, hugging. I remember she tasted of mint and cigarettes; I remember thinking that at least she took a mint before kissing me. Too bad I didn't think of that. I remember we had spaghetti with garlic before coming here. I can only wonder at how bad my breath must reek.
I cringe as I'm forced to watch this. I have no experience at kissing and it shows. I slobber at her and I watch as she rolls her eyes at me. She pushes me, guides me. After a few minutes, it's not too bad – but it's not good either. Finally, she breaks the kiss – but not because she's eager to be with me; she's just eager to get this over with.
"Do you have a silk purse?" I hear her ask, her voice husky but I can tell even now that she's faking it. 17-year old me doesn't care. I'm finally going to get what I want.
I tore into my wallet and pulled my prize. I waved it at her and smiled, happy at what was finally going to happen. She smiled back, but it was pasted on, unreal. I think I even knew it back then but I didn't care. Mary was a 'sure thing'.
She unbuttoned her blouse and wriggled around as she undid her bra. She performed that magic that all women can do where she pulled the discarded bra through her sleeves. Then, there they were. Big and sagging and real. The first real titties I had ever seen, though of course I'd seen a few in magazines and such. I watched myself as I mauled them, kneading them. The 17 year old me had never seen the grimaces, never seen the pain I was obviously causing but the 69-year old me was forced to watch it. I knew, the experienced me knew, that she would be bruised tomorrow. The 17-year old me didn't know or, more likely, didn't care. Mary Jo was a 'sure thing'.
Finally, when she was tired of being hurt, I watched as Mary pushed my hands away and reached for my belt. My 69-year old self tried to look away, tried not to see what was about to happen ... but the dark angel with her staff glowing blackly wasn't about to let me off that easy. I was forced to watch Mary Jo unbuckle and unzip me. I was forced to watch as I lifted my ass to let her take down my pants and boxers. I was forced to hear the gasp and then, crying, I was forced to watch my 17-year old self shudder away as Mary Jo, the 'sure thing', started laughing at the 4 inch stiffy I was sporting.
The scene flashed and I was back in the same car. It was another date, a date with Edith Linden. Not a 'sure thing' but I wasn't sure there was a 'sure thing' anywhere in the world for me. Not anymore. It had taken me a year to get over Mary Jo's rejection. A year of girls and even guys laughing at me in the hall. The names were the worst. 'Shorty'. 'Wee'. 'Tiny'. They went on and I pushed myself to become even more invisible than I had ever been.
Edith, though, had asked me out, in a roundabout way. She'd pursued me; I wouldn't learn why until years later. History repeated itself, but it took several dates. I was a nice boy, though withdrawn. I never pushed Edith. I didn't want to. I dreaded getting to the point where we'd be intimate.
9 dates, maybe ten. I'd finally got to second base but my strokes were tentative and unsure. I really was a weakling. Still, Edith dated me. I didn't learn until later that I was a 'sure thing' though not in the same way that Mary Jo was. I was sure not to hurt a girl. I was sure not to push a girl. I was such a dork or a nerd or a loser that I wouldn't try to take advantage of a girl. Edith had no love for me. She just thought I was safe.
I was safe. Mostly. Eventually though, after 20 dates or maybe 30, it happened. I lost my virginity to Edith Linden. I found out later that it was what she wanted. She had heard rumors about how small I was and figured it wouldn't hurt so much if she lost her virginity to me. Plus, I was safe ... so she could do it at her pace. When she was ready, she'd bed me and then leave me; she'd be a woman and move on to a 'real man'.
It didn't work out like that. Plans rarely do. Me, with my 4 inch dick, impregnated Edith May Linden on my first try.
Her parents and mine forced us to marry right out of high school. I'd had straight A's through high school and taken the hardest classes they'd allow. I just wanted out, just wanted away from my parents.
Plans, right? It didn't work that way. I gave up my scholarship to support my family. I got a job with my dad, on the line at Cadillac, building cars. A factory worker; the brain of Wilmott High would never attend college, never rise to anything above a factory worker. I was 5'6", barely an inch taller than Edith, and I would work out my 45 years at Cadillac Motor Company and retire.
Edith and I would end up having two children, Samuel "Sam" John and Elizabeth "Ann" Anna. The scenes flashed through my life. I loved my boy and girl. I loved them with everything I had. I refused to drink alcohol; I'd seen what it had done to my father. I refused to hit my wife. I refused to hit my children. I'd been on the other side of that and I didn't want to ever cause that kind of pain to anyone.
I watched as the fights that Edith and I had routinely just flashed by. They weren't better. They weren't worse. They just were. There was no love between Edith and me. Gratefulness, maybe. Security, certainly. But we didn't love one another. At times, we could barely stand one another. We stayed for the children. It was our only common bond. We loved our children with everything we had.
I watched my life. I'd volunteered at soup kitchens. I'd volunteered at hospitals. I gave everything I had of myself to those less fortunate than I was. Money and time, I shared as much as I could. In my heart, though, I knew that it wasn't altruistic. The fights with Edith were just too much. Yes, I wanted to help people but I equally just wanted to NOT go home.
Images fluttered by and I remember Magda. I'd met her while volunteering when Sam wasn't more than 6 or maybe 7, so Ann couldn't have been but 1 or 2. Magda'd been dusky and exotic, a true Greek beauty. Her fiery brown eyes under flowing black locks, all around a dainty, square face; it was more than I could stand. Her face called to me, her body, with its voluptuous curves, begged me.
I'm not proud of it but I fell in love. In Magda's arms, I found a taste of the love that had eluded me all my life. I met her whenever I could, sometimes 4 and even 5 times a week. She didn't laugh when she saw my tiny erection. Instead, over time, she taught me how to please her with it. She taught me how to grind my pubic bone into her clit, how to thrust deeper. She taught me all kinds of positions beyond the missionary that Edith and I 'enjoyed' once or twice a year anymore. She taught me how to use my mouth to please her, both her beautiful round breasts and her plump little pussy. She taught me that there was a dirtier hole than just her pussy where I could pleasure her body. She taught me how to give her pleasure; how to please a woman.
I cried when she'd left. The happiest time of my life lasted only 10 months. Her mother grew sick and she had to return to Greece to care for her. I would never see her again. Even now, 40 years later, my heart cried at my loss.
The scenes fluttered and shifted. I watched as I tried to live vicariously through my children. I watched as I cheered at his baseball games. I watched as I cheered at his swim meets. I went to every one of my daughter's dance recitals. I never missed her academic competitions. I tried, truly tried, to be a good parent.
Time went by fast, flittering by in the vision SHE was showing me. I watched Sam and his 5-year younger sister as they grew. Elementary school. Middle School. High School.
The scene stopped for a moment as I returned home earlier than usual. The plant had shut down early and I'd come right home. Edith was out ... but Sam and Ann weren't.
I didn't mean to be quiet. I didn't mean to make no noise. I didn't mean to overhear the grunts and squeaks and squeals. I didn't mean to find my 17-year old son fucking his 12-year old sister.
My first impulse was to run in and confront them. To rant and rave and tell them how wrong they were. Before I could, though, the beauty and love and wonder of their union stopped me cold; the beauty and love and wonder that I'd never experienced until Magda. It stopped me and shook me. Was this truly wrong? I could almost feel the love between them as I stood in that hallway. I could almost taste the passion between them. Ann was smiling and looking up at her brother with adoration and Sam was looking down at his sister with love and tenderness.
In the end, I couldn't do it. I left. I couldn't take that away from them. I, the poster child for an empty heart, couldn't let them find love wherever they could. I don't know if that was the first time or the last. It was the only time I ever caught them, however.
The movie moved on. I watched with remembered pride and sorrow as Sam enrolled in the Marine Corps, neither his athletics nor his academics qualifying him for a college scholarship. I watched the conversation we had as I told him I'd put him through school and I watched as he shook his head.
"Dad," he'd said and his words were echoes in my 69-year old ears. "I want to make the world a better place. This is how I'm going to do it." I couldn't help but wonder if there weren't more to it. In hindsight, now, I remember the tension between him and Ann and now I wondered ... now, when it was far too late.
The scene shifted and I remember the call saying that my son had died less than three years later. My son's life, the life he'd committed to bettering the world around him, had ended.
It was a blow to Edith. She was only in this for the children, after all. It was a blow to me; I'd lost one of the foundations of my adult life. It was a blow to Ann; she idolized my son – he could do no wrong. It was something we'd never recover from.
The movie cut and flipped. It was years later when I received a call. Ann was in university by then; she'd always been smart and had gotten a full academic scholarship. I had always been proud of her. She sounded like she was taking her brother's passion, his drive to save the world, to heart. She was active with several groups, trying to save the world, trying to curb pollution and hate and fear.
The call was a wake-up call. My daughter, the love of my life, my sole remaining child, had blown up the headquarters of an oil company in Oklahoma. She'd done it on a Saturday, late at night, when there was not supposed to be anyone in the building ... but there had been. A cleaning crew of 12. None of them survived.
The trial flew by my eyes; even now, I was dazed but back then both Edith and I were basket cases. It had taken that for us to be tender to one another, to hold one another. When the trial was over, my daughter, my pride and joy, was found guilty of, among other things, 12 counts of felony murder. She was sentenced to 12 consecutive terms of life in prison without possibility of parole. My daughter's life was over.
I watched the aftermath, still dazed. Edith never recovered. Neither did I. I succumbed to drink and gambling, my one true vice, to bury myself in. Edith turned to pills. Less than 6 years after my daughter was sentenced, my wife took two bottles of sleeping pills and never woke up again. I found her later that night, dead.
I wanted to join her. Not because I loved her, there was never any love between us, but because I had managed to completely wreck everything I'd ever touched. Edith, though, was brave. I wasn't; I couldn't find the courage to end my life. I became a hermit, only coming out to go to work, drink and gamble. I limped along, somehow, for 19 years becoming even fatter and losing every penny I ever made. Nothing mattered and finally, finally, I was ready for the end.
SHE approached the bed, her wings unfurled and the staff held before her, its black light blinding me. Through my tears of pain – not remorse, I wanted this, I wanted the end, I craved it and only wished it could have happened far sooner – I could just make out her face, just make out the sadness and compassion. She began lowering the staff to me, the light coming closer. As it touched me, she spoke in a glorious, choir of voice.
"Do not waste it."
Then, her staff touched me and I welcomed the darkness of my final descent.