Bhuddist Do-over
Copyright© 2026 by Duncan Mickloud
Chapter 12: The Hurly-Burly Aftermath
Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 12: The Hurly-Burly Aftermath - A novel-length do-over about a man born in 1955: he lived until 2038. A retired Buddhist monk befriended Mason and caused strange things to happen. Mace died normally, only to wake up at age 13 with all of his old memories. But he's not living his life over. Everything is really different. He's on a parallel planet with a completely different history and bizarre morals. It is the polar opposite of feminism. Succinctly stated: it's a raunchy romp. 33 chapters. Slow start.
Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft mt/Fa Coercion Consensual Rags To Riches Restart DoOver Time Travel Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Anal Sex Analingus First Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Safe Sex Voyeurism Hairy Size Small Breasts
Marcy came in with the clothes basket and headed back in the trailer to put things away.
She came to the living room and slid onto my lap. I was in Dad’s big chair.
She held me, and I hugged her with one arm. I felt her shaking and felt tears on my bare shoulder. She stayed that way for a long time. She straightened up, kissed my cheek as lightly as a butterfly, and got up.
This was very moving. I was deeply touched by the moment she shared. I set my book down and leaned back, eyes closed.
I had grown up without a sibling. I was John and Faith Carpenter’s first and only child. My first mother was torn up by my birth. They said they had to do a hysterectomy on her.
In 1955, doctors did what they wanted to. They didn’t ask for permission; they just told you what they were going to do and gave reasons we mere mortals could not understand.
Medicine was a big mystery. I have always felt the term “Practice of Medicine” was not a misnomer. Who wants to be ‘practiced’ on?
This was before lawyers began getting involved in medical matters. It seems there were no laws that held back the medicos from doing just about anything they wanted to, including unnecessary hysterectomies, which were too damned common.
Knowing what I do now, my mother probably did not need a hysterectomy. It was almost as common a surgery back then as appendectomies. Evidently, it had been the same here; as Mace knows, his grandmother has a faint hysterectomy scar on her stomach. She told him what it was from, and it wasn’t a C-section birth. Most appendicitis cases can be treated with antibiotics.
We don’t have a child’s chair, so Marcy brought our plates into the living room. She then brought in glasses of tea. It was mild black tea; it wasn’t bad being mild, since it was unsweetened. She had made it weak on purpose.
Marcy said, “That was the last of the bread. One of us will need to go to the bakery and get a couple of loaves.”
“I’ll do it after we finish eating.”
“Thank you.”
It was one of my many unlisted chores. It wasn’t something Marcy normally did.
She leaned in close, so I leaned toward her, and she kissed me. I intensified it a little,
Again, I realized how close Mace and Marcy were and are. It wasn’t a sexy kiss; it was a melt-your-heart, love-you kiss. It was sweet.
I put my plate and glass in the sink and went to our room. I put on my sneakers and a shirt. I got my wallet and my change purse.
A change purse is where you keep your coins. With gold, silver, and copper coins, it’s better to use a rubber purse to hold them. You press the ends to open it up. By holding it a certain way, nobody can see if you have any valuable coins. It also saves wear and tear in your pockets.
Mt change purse is red because I like the color. I knew black rubber is used on some tires because it has ingredients that make tires last longer. Other dyes can change rubber to other colors, too. Some additives stiffen rubber. The first tires made were a shade of manila, close to the actual color of pure gum rubber.
Mace’s memory told me the coins I had meant I had some high-value ones. I had more than I needed for bread.
A memory came in from a schoolbook. Everything we had that was molded was iron, steel, aluminum, Bakelite, or some form of rubber.
Bakelite was the first ever plastic. Plastics derived from crude oil and other chemical-based plastics are illegal in RONA.
After World War II, part of the backlash against England stemmed from pollution from the war and war production. When our new government formed, the death of people living near war production plants from pollution was high on the list of things to end.
Our somewhat autocratic government outlawed all plastics except rubber and Bakelite. Bakelite is made from two simple components. Making Bakelite does not pollute. It is vital to the electrical industry as an insulator, like glass. Rubber is needed for tires. No other plastic is allowed.
Our phone has a Bakelite top and handset. The radio has a brown Bakelite cover. Rubber insulates the wires, and a braided linen covering prevents chafing.
Mace knew all this, my alter psyche; Mason hadn’t noticed. I could not dredge up any concept of a transistor. We had evidently not gone beyond tube electronics. Even so, why didn’t we have television? I didn’t know.
Tube computers are possible, but barely. Mace knew nothing of the Manhattan Project or nuclear anything. He also knows little about rocketry. There is no Cape Canaveral or Kennedy Space Center here. Kennedy was never a president ... if he had been born here. I have no idea when the Kennedy family came over.
Without transistors and IC’s, computers are unlikely to ever be invented, let alone useful.
Remembering I was headed to the bakery, I grabbed the backpack Dad had picked up for me. He likely got it at the Boy Scouts store. It’s their green color and made of canvas. When I touched it, it felt water-repellent, probably linseed oil. It has that feel and odor.
I smooched Marcy on my way out the door, started my bike, and headed towards town. I passed the road sign at the stop sign. Mace knew we lived on Seventh Lane. I turned onto West Indiantown Road. 56 miles west of us is the beginning of Indian territory.
East of us is the river where I will turn right and ride along Main Street until I get to the bakery. Our downtown Main Street runs north and south along the river. Main Street is on the mainland side, not the beachside on the barrier island.
I parked my Honda across the street from the bakery. A few bikes were already there, so I parked near them. Every store here is privately owned. There are no big chain stores. Mace knew they were not allowed. It puts too much power in the hands of a few powerful people.
Our government knows that if something gets too big, it gets away from the people and can no longer be controlled or governed fairly. The current group of rich and powerful were perfectly happy with what they had. What they did not want was competition, graft, theft, and the other things that go wrong when things become too uncontrolled. Even so, they let the Provinces handle local matters.
Every few minutes, new thoughts occurred to the Mason part of me. Things Mace knew, and I did not. It seemed like the older Mason portion of us is driving the bus.
I walked into the bakery and was assailed by numerous delicious, mouth-watering odors. I selected one multi-grain bread and one unbleached whole wheat. Uh-oh. I saw and smelled Mini Fruit Pies.
They’re like small, fruit-filled empanadas.
I picked one blackberry, one strawberry, and one apple.
I rode straight home. I saw rain clouds over the ocean, and I should have made it home dry.
I parked on the patio and rushed in just as it let loose.
Oooeee! It is really coming down. I need a rain poncho.
I realized they would not have that here. Ponchos are common south of the border. They are probably unheard of here. I need a raincoat.
I shut the door behind me and saw Marcy turning the cranks to close our jalousie windows. It was blowing hard, so some rain was blowing in through the windows. I put the bag on the kitchen table and helped her close the windows.
I went to the bathroom and got a hand towel to wipe off my arms, neck, and face. My legs were wet too, but I can put up with that. Damp clothes are part of living here.
In the back, Marcy cut me off. “I talked to Mom. She thinks the situation with Bella will be ‘conveniently’ forgotten. If we keep her here for six months, the county will mark her as adopted automatically.”
I said, “But Sis, we only have two bedrooms.”
“Ya, Mom said she will pick up a folding cot on their way home. Dad is not needed for a few days, so they are going to stay up there until he is needed to work.”
“So...”
She said, “You and I can sleep in their bed, and Bella can sleep in mine until they return home.”
I said, “What about clothes?”
“I have her sizes; I will go downtown in the morning and pick up a few little outfits for her. She can sleep in the T-shirt for tonight.”
I said, “Did her clothes get dry?”
“Nope. They got doused good before they got dry. The afternoon rain shower was early today.”
I said, “I think I have a shirt from when I was 10 buried in the bottom of the drawer.”
“The pink one? Ha ha, you hate that shirt. I think you wore it one time and then kept it buried and hidden. You trying to get rid of it?”