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Subject: {ASSM} Reversion {Varkel} (M+m+b+g+f+F+) [01/21]
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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Spring, 2001



Prolog:  The Way to Go


"Tim, Tim," I heard a voice whisper and felt a hand pinching my
leg.  "Wake up, you old man. People are staring."

Instantly I became alert and rubbed an eye, pretending that
something was caught there.  Eighteen eminent people looked at
me, nine on each side of the long table in the wainscoted seminar
room with leaded glass windows.  Alice, sitting beside me, was
the one who had nudged me from my doze.  These scientists from
half a dozen countries had come to hear the latest details of my
hotly disputed theory that time travel was possible, even readily
accomplished, just not to destinations within our particular
universe.

The pain in my belly had returned.  "Where was I?"  I took
another pill with a swallow of water.

"You were recapping your proof of the Thorn-effect that restricts
reversion to alternative universes," Alice whispered into my ear.

I looked into sober faces gazing back at me with astonishing
respect, at me, an old man who would soon be oblivious to
everything, who would not even be aware of oblivion.

"What was the question?" I asked after hacking some phlegm into a
handkerchief.

A distinguished fellow with a gray van Dyke -- why didn't he dye
it black? -- said patiently, "I merely pointed out that we can
already return to childhood in our memories.  Isn't that
essentially what you offer?"

I chuckled derisively.  "You know better, Dr. ah, ah --"

"Boren," whispered Alice.

"Dr. Boring, if that was all I offered you would hardly be here.
Yes, indeed one can remember an event.  But much as he wishes, he
can never change it.  Until now.  Now he or she can return to the
exact moment in the same circumstances and _do it differently_ if
he wishes." 

"Most remarkable!" the man said with a polite sneer.  He held up
a paper.  "And you claim to have proven the concept with trained
mice."

"Several of them!  We have already gone over that."  I felt my
temper rising.

Alice spoke for me.  "Actually with _untrained_ mice -- that
could nevertheless run the maze perfectly _before_ they were
trained and sent back."

"Exactly!  And that is the preposterous part of your argument.
Why did you bother to" -- he smiled sardonically -- "go through
the masquerade of training the same mice _after_ they had already
run the maze?"

"Because they weren't exactly the same mice."  I hacked more
phlegm.  "We, as well as mice, can travel back, but not in the
same bodies.  Only our minds can do it because, as a data
pattern, a mind can exist independently of the physical being."

"Are you, perhaps, speaking of the soul, Professor?" asked a
smooth faced Jesuit in rather dapper clerical garb.  The church's
interest in my work was hardly surprising.  In any case I was
glad of his diversion.  Alice and I had argued long and hard
about those mice.  Who trained them first?  Had we discovered a
causal loop in time?

But this was not the forum for uncertainties.  I coughed and
replied to the priest, "No. The soul is a spiritual concept.  I'm
talking about the collective memories of an individual, the
experience of existence, that comprise the data patterns
impressed on the Einsteinian Continuum by a functioning mind.
They can survive the death of the body, if transported into a
past where their primitive nexi already exist as the youthful
form of the same mind, in a close alternate universe whose only
difference with our present one may be the existence or non-
existence of a single microbe."

I fumbled with my foils and hissed at Alice, "Where's the Thorn
equation?"

"On the projector," she hissed back indignantly.

"Ah, yes."  I cleared my throat.  "Please consider the Thorn
coefficient on the continuum locus."  I touched it with my
quivering pointer.  "It is a complex imaginary variable, frozen
at the instant of departure, that determines --"

"Why not in the same universe?" interrupted an impatient young
physics professor not a day over fifty.

Several voices rose to condemn his impertinence.  I waved my hand
in grand absolution.  "No, no, it's all right.  The short answer
is that in the same universe, as Einstein proved, travel into the
past, even only of data patterns, requires one to exceed the
speed of light."  I smiled.  "The Thorn effect, while it limits
displacement and format, offers a loophole in the law.  We merely
supply an alternate universe, in effect a different law book."

"That's an elegant notion," the priest retorted with a sniff,
hunching his shoulders and leaning forward at the table, "and the
math is pretty, but your Thorn coefficient ranks with the
tachyon.  It's no more provable than the hinges on the pearly
gates."

"Quite right, Father Quinn," I forced myself to smile through the
nagging pain in my stomach.  "Whoever manages the trip cannot
return to tell us about it.  Furthermore the effects, if any, of
his appearance in the past cannot appear to his future in the
universe he departs."

"The trip," said a callow youth not yet forty.  "How could it be
accomplished?"

"I've been working on that," I replied dourly, "but unfortunately
it requires the termination of one's consciousness in this
universe.  That is to say, it requires suicide, and of course we
can never know the results of that.  Father Quinn is quite
correct.  We're dealing here with the question of life after
death."

"In what sense?" demanded someone with a shocked expression.

"Perhaps an immoral one," I replied, staring at my interrogator.
"Present memories, habits and prejudices become available to the
earlier version of one's own mind, even though in a slightly
different universe.  I cannot believe they would fail to corrupt
its future."

My audience thought it over.  Someone asked, "Have you picked a
name for the process?"

"I call it _reversion_."

* * *

"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Alice growled as we walked
down the hall toward the lab and our offices.  She pulled on my
sleeve, forcing me to stop and look at her.

"It's better than rotting away in pain," I replied with a bit of
annoyance, trying to avoid looking into her disconsolate face,
"and it will be proof of concept, at least for me."

"If it works!" she snorted.

The heavy woman with a wrinkled face was three years my junior,
sixty-four years old.  Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun
on the top of her head.  She was not pretty, although I had
always found her to be extremely attractive, like the bust of an
ancient Greek woman: dignified, self-assured.  We loved each
other, although we had never touched intimately in our 25 years
of scientific collaboration.  We would never be so tawdry.  We
were faithful to our spouses.

"What can I say, Tim?  What can I say?" and she began to weep
convulsively, losing the haughty reserve that was her hallmark.

I almost put my hands on her, almost embraced the woman, but I
flinched.

"Should I say good-bye now, Tim?" she choked emotionally, tears
falling down her cheeks as we stood before the door of the lab.

"Good-bye, Alice," I said, eager to do it, to be done with the
whole fucking world.

I left her crying at the door as I closed it behind me.

* * *

I sat in what could only be described as an electric chair.  It
was connected by thick cables to machines and processors that
only Alice and I understood.  It was not science.  The results
could not be verified.  It was based on theories I had elaborated
over many years, some of them when I was only half sober.  But I
had nothing to lose.  I was dying anyway.  I thought of Sara.
The heartache of losing her welled up in my chest, strong as ever
after more than 50 years.  I vowed I'd not lose her this time.
Then I pushed the button.

[BREAK]


Chapter 1:  Restart

My mind seemed to explode and I felt an awful fear, a panic that
caused me to lose control of my bicycle.  It plunged into a line
of privet bushes, and I fell headlong onto the hard sod of the
neighbor's lawn.  I wanted to scream in terror, yet I was elated
at being alive.  My mind had been invaded, yet I knew how and
why.  _Who are you?_ I asked, and I replied to myself, _Timothy
P. Kimball, 67, PhD, Nobel laureate_.  Lying face down beyond the
fallen handlebars, I asked again, _Who are you?_ and answered,
_Timmy Kimball, twelve years old, in the seventh grade at
Candlespot Middle School_.  The fear vanished and I felt nothing
but delirious joy.

"Are you hurt?" Mrs. Grierson inquired anxiously, leaning over
me.  How familiar was her face!  Being away in school, I had not
attended her funeral when she died of breast cancer.  _When she
did what?_

"Timmy!" my mother called in fright as she ran from our front
yard where she had been tending a flowerbed.

"I'm all right," I replied in a soprano voice that startled me.
"I think the bike hit a rock."

Yes, it was my mother who bent over me and kissed my face.  Oh,
Lord!  Her face was unlined.  Her sweetly familiar odor, now
recognized as cheap cologne, filled my nostrils.  But I was home
again after such a long voyage!  My eyes grew moist.

"Are you hurt?" Mom asked again, wiping away my tears.

"I'm elate-  No, not really.  I just bumped myself."

"You must be more careful," she chided me with a warm smile.

I got up and retrieved the undamaged bike.  _They built them
tough when I was young._  Mom and Mrs. Grierson lost interest in
me and began to chat.  I cocked an ear; women's talk had often
amused me in later years.  In a moment they were analyzing the
suspected motives of the new neighbors who flaunted themselves in
their backyard at night.  He was seen without a shirt and she
with bare legs!  I wanted to ask dryly if it had been a full
moon.

Mom looked at me curiously.  "Did you need something, dear?"

"No, no.  I was just thinking."  Turning away, I chuckled to
myself.  What I needed was to remember that to this world I
remained only a boy.

As I wheeled the bicycle down the sidewalk and then up our
driveway, I experienced a feeling of _settling in_, which is the
only way I can describe it, as if I my elderly personality was
making itself comfortable in its new home, while the youthful one
accepted its wondrous new confidence and understanding.  Yet the
combined mind marveled at the smooth, hairless shapeliness of my
forearms.  I was conscious of being 67 years old, but I was also
the same boy as the day before.  _What's the date?_ I asked and
knew the answer immediately: September 20, 1947, a Saturday.  I
was absolutely astounded.

After I parked the bike on its kickstand next to the back porch I
rushed upstairs to my bedroom to examine the rest of me.  I
already knew how I looked naked, of course, but not from this
perspective.  I glanced out the window and saw Mom go into Mrs.
Grierson's house, and knew that I had perhaps an hour to myself.
I stripped off my clothes quickly, eagerly, and then stood in
front of the long mirror on the closet door.  My youthful, blond
body amazed me.  I stood over sixty inches tall and must have
weighed 115 or 120.  I had some heft, but my body was absolutely
boyish; there was not even a wisp of pubic hair above my hard
cock, which jutted out four or five inches.  My limbs were
shapely and soft looking, almost girlish.  There was no
masculinity in my chest and shoulders, which were still
undeveloped.  My nipples were raised on small cones of flesh.  I
fondled myself, in love with my own young image, like Narcissus.
I ran my hands up and down my soft thighs, then my belly and
chest.  I gazed at my boyish face and then again at my cock.

I had not yet masturbated for the first time, I suddenly
realized, although I knew about it, had thought about it.  Some
of the guys in my sixth grade class were doing it.  Even Ritchie,
a good friend, had been jacking off for almost a month.  I
remembered the first time when I sat on the toilet naked, just
before a bath, and played with my cock until it erupted with a
stinging sensation but agreeable pleasure.  I gazed into the
mirror and thought that I did not have to wait until Christmas
vacation, that this second time around I could begin doing it
about three months early.

I grasped and gently squeezed my small cock.  It felt good.  I
had experienced orgasms countless times in my 67 years, although
much less frequently since my late fifties.  But the young body I
now inhabited, the hairless boy reflected in the mirror, had yet
to feel the full pleasure.  I pulled on my cock with fingers and
thumb, the head of it bumping against my palm.  I looked at my
image and thought myself pretty as I manipulated the slender
shaft with growing eagerness.  I felt a tingle in the head of it,
that telltale sensation which from long experience I knew
heralded the ecstatic release, the pleasure that could not now be
avoided.  My face grimaced, upper teeth on lower lip, and I
spewed with a small shout onto my palm and between my fingers.
The profound pleasure caused my knees to weaken.  I never
remembered it feeling so wonderful.  I squeezed out the last
dollop and in a fit of naughtiness brought the slimy hand to my
face for a taste with the tip of my tongue.  I then smeared my
boyish chest with the stuff and then my belly and right thigh.
My breathing soon reverted to its normal rhythm and after another
gaze at my boyishness, I went to the bathroom for a quick shower.



* * *



Masturbation!  I was back with that once more, I groused as I
toweled myself dry.  Here I was, on an adventure unprecedented in
human history, and all I could think about was sex and jacking
off.  The rutting instincts of my twelve-year-old body
overwhelmed the elegant mind inside.  The Nobel laureate could
only dream of getting laid for the first time.  At least in this
new life, I felt certain, I would not have to wait until I was a
college sophomore.

I sat on the edge of my bed and pondered my unique situation.  I
could not announce to the world that I, Timothy Kimball, knew for
a certainty what was to come in the next half century.  Were I to
do that, I would be placed under professional care.  And if I
persisted and foretold accurately the outcome of elections and
sporting events, the course of the stock market and weighty
international events, to say nothing of technological innovation,
greedy men would probably kidnap me.  Even worse, I could attract
the attention of the government, which would seek to use me as a
weapon in the unfolding Cold War that would begin in earnest
with the Berlin Airlift next year.

Physically I was just twelve years old.  No one could imagine
that I had the life experience of a 67-year-old man, a man who
had seen the beginning of the Twenty-first Century.  At my young
age, I reasoned, I could effect little change in the world.  I
would probably not be able to prevent even the stroke that would
kill my father within two years time, although I certainly
intended to nag him about his diet and high blood pressure.  When
I became an adult, of course, I would enjoy a breath-taking
career, probably in particle physics again.  I would become
fabulously wealthy, a multi-billionaire, and people would marvel
at my uncanny ability to make the right investments.  I would win
the Nobel prize once more.  But as a pubescent boy I could affect
little, except perhaps in the realm of sex.

I mused about the morality of it, of being an old man in a young
body, realizing that my previous judgment had been incomplete.
Regardless of the effect on my own future, would it be wrong of
me to exploit my inner maturity to seduce young girls?  I ran my
hands up and down my smooth, almost girlish thighs.  Perhaps even
a pretty boy or two, I thought, just as an experiment.  It would
be unseemly for a twelve year old to focus on adult women.  It
would be ludicrous, although there was a certain moral logic to
it.  And the logic would demand that my sexual partners be at
least over forty!

That was a stupid notion.  I was twelve years old, I reminded
myself again as I pulled on my small cock.  It was not unheard of
for a precocious boy of that age to engage in sex with his
contemporaries.  I would never be accused of being a child
molester, because no one could understand the truth of my
situation, which was unprecedented, unbelievable.  I had to
decide the morality of it on my own, because society had no
standard for my unique condition.

But at the moment, to my amazement, the good feeling, the first
inkling of orgasm, returned to my cock.  My god, it had hardly
been half an hour!  At least, I thought, moving my hand faster,
this time youth would not be wasted in the young!



* * *



Sara was twelve also!  For over fifty years that girl had filled
my mind with fantasy and regret, because when I was twelve the
first time, I had lost her.  It was all about sex.  We had been
such close friends, playmates since before we could remember,
that we took each other for granted, assuming that our childish
world would remained unchanged.

Sara became sexually conscious a year before me, and when we were
eleven, I noticed a change in her that I could not comprehend.
She played more physically with me, rough housing with increasing
frequency, subtly inviting me to touch the nubs of her incipient
breasts.

I was a shy boy and too unsophisticated to realize the
possibilities.  Ritchie, my closest male friend, eventually
became her first boy friend, while I remained just pals with the
two of them.

On my second chance at youth I resolved to have Sara, and it
would be easy, because behind her tomboy facade, I knew, lurked a
slut who was ready for anything.  I went out to find her
immediately.  Ritchie and she were on her back porch, heads
together, whispering something.

She looked up and smiled when she saw me, suggesting, "Hey, Tim!
Let's go up to the field."

We had often played in that vast acreage of tall grasses and
weeds, so fragrant in spring, where children could sit on the
ground and be lost to the rest of the world.  It was a notorious
place in which teenagers enjoyed sex hidden away in the lush
vegetation.

But Sara was far from the sultry houri my fantasy remembered.
She had a plain, somewhat mousy face, and her limbs were sparse,
almost skinny.  I had imagined over the decades that she was a
beautiful pixie, but the truth of it was that she looked more
like an undernourished waif.  I found Ritchie, who was far
prettier than she, to be more sexually attractive.  It was a
great disappointment, seeing her the second time around.  A
lifetime of daydreams suddenly became absurd.  Yet I still wanted
her, if only because I had invested so much of myself,
emotionally, in my elaborate memory of the girl.

"Let's go up there by the railroad tracks," Ritchie said,
suggesting a slight detour.

"Sure," I responded as I came down the steps, and Sara agreed
with a smile.

The tracks, two blocks away, were those of a little-used spur
that penetrated the field and served a few industrial buildings
along its route.  We had played there forever, learning to walk
the rails without teetering.

Sara seemed to be rather excited that morning.  "Let's go into
the field," she insisted as soon as it was in view, taking our
hands in each of hers.

We ran into it, the weeds slapping around our bare thighs, the
houses of our neighborhood in the far distance.  Sara suddenly
fell to the ground, pulling Ritchie and me down with her.  We
rolled about to make a secret space for ourselves.  Only the
birds and butterflies could see us.

"Do you want to practice kissing?" she asked with a naughty
smirk.

Sara was an inch taller than the two of us boys, but this time I
refused to be intimidated by the bold girl.  I rolled over to her
and placed my palm on a small breast.  I kissed her like an
adult.  She endured me for a while with scant response from her
lips.

"It's Ritchie's turn now," she said and pushed me off her.

He was eager for it and so was she.  They kissed like lovers,
although as far as I knew it was their first time.  Perhaps not:
I could tell that their mouths were open.  I realized I was too
late, that I should have reverted weeks earlier.  Ritchie had
Sara again, and she would probably let him fuck her, if I were
not there.  Suddenly I realized that it wouldn't be their first
time.

"I'm going home," I said as I got to my feet, but they seemed not
to hear.  Ritchie was on top grinding his body at her as they
kissed.

I waded through the weeds towards home, disappointed somewhat,
but not too much.  My long fantasy had been shattered by reality.
The scrawny girl had not aroused me in the least, because what I
truly wanted was a female older than she with more heft both in
body and mind.

And at that instant I thought of one: Phyllis Schaefer, a sixteen
year old who lived in the next block.  Phyllis had a plain, blond
face and was a bit heavy, although not fat.  She was a studious
girl, very intelligent, and we often talked like old friends
despite the difference in our ages.  The old man in my head could
seduce that lonely girl, I thought callously, and achieve for my
young body its first complete sexual release.

Did I want to give Phyllis this body's cherry?  I had to laugh.
Was I saving myself for Marilyn Monroe?  Phyllis's youthful
freshness seemed easily preferable to the whore who would finally
get it without my older coaching.

* * *

"Hello, Timmy," Mrs. Schaefer greeted me at the back door after
my knock.  "What brings you here?"

She was a stout matron of about forty, a war widow in an apron
with flour on her hands and a twinkle in her eyes.  Mrs. Schaefer
was one of my favorite persons.

"Is Phyllis home?" I inquired with a grin.

"Yes, of course, Timmy.  She's upstairs in her room.  Tell her
the cookies will be done soon."

It was as easy as that.  Phyllis had once been my baby sitter and
I had the run of her house.  I climbed the stairs two at a time
and burst into her room, surprising her as she lay on the bed
reading a book.

"Timmy," she exclaimed and sat up.  "You startled me."

"Sorry," I said with calculated sheepishness as I gazed at her
friendly, homely face.

"What's up?" she asked in a chirpy tone.

"I'm bored, Phyll.  Sara and Ritchie got all mushy out in the
field so I left."

Her eyebrows rose.  "Wasn't Sara your girl?"

I put on a hangdog expression.  "Naw.  I've never had a girl."

"I'm surprised.  You're such a good looking boy."

"I suppose Sara likes Ritchie's looks better than mine."

"Well, he is really rather pretty, if one prefers dark haired
boys."  Her eyes twinkled.  "I'm partial to blondes, myself."

She regarded me with a weak smile of yearning.  I remembered,
when I was eight and she twelve, how she often kissed me in a
playful manner and touched my soft legs.  I knew I could have her
if I just reached out the way a normal twelve year old could
never imagine.  I did not have to conquer the girl; I only had to
make myself available to her.  It was so easy, so easy that I
felt guilty for an instant.  But this was an intelligent female
just at the start of her adulthood; fair game for a horny young
boy with a skilled coach to guide him.  My guilt was misplaced,
I thought, and I sat on the bed next to her.

"What are you reading," I asked casually and picked up her book.

It was Untermeyer's volume on American literature.  I thumbed the
pages.  "I like his treatment of Dreiser's _Sister Carrie_," I
said as I handed the book back to her.

"You've always been a bookworm, Timmy," she said gaily and
tousled my hair.  "I can't imagine you understand much of what
you read."

"Why do you suppose I read?" I replied in a testy voice.  "I
understand more than most kids my age.  Sara doesn't read much,
you know, nor does Ritchie.  They're just kids.  That's why I
like talking with you."

I thought the lonely girl was about to embrace me.  Her arms were
ready and her mouth was open in excitement, but her mother
interrupted us.

"Kids," she called from downstairs.  "I have cookies and milk for
you."

I placed my palm on her cheek as I got off the bed.  She uttered
a choking sound and her eyes grew moist.  I pulled her up with my
hand.  She suddenly comprehended the possibilities, but the
illicit reality of it made her extremely nervous.  It was so
easy.

* * *

After our snack Phyllis and I went for a stroll.  She was clearly
troubled by her deep infatuation with a twelve-year-old boy who
was two inches shorter and 20 pounds lighter.  Her feelings for
me had always been there, primly repressed.  It was the nasty old
man who exploited them, the old man whose young body enslaved
him.  Pubescent hormones overruled the cranky professor who
thought that Phyllis was a sweet young thing bereft of any sexual
allure.

I took hold of her hand and she shook it off.

"The neighbors will see!" she protested.

The street was empty except for a few cars at the curb, but one
could imagine snoopy housewives peering out windows.

"I've always liked holding your hand," I complained.

"But you're not a little boy any more," she retorted, vainly
trying to stay in charge.

"No, I'm not," I agreed.  "In some ways I'm a lot older than
twelve, you know."

"Yes, you're very precocious."

I let fly with a zinger.  "I could even get you pregnant."

The girl's face turned beet red.

"Please, T-Timmy," she stuttered.

"Let's go to the field," I said, looking up at her.  This was not
the same field where I had left Sara and Ritchie.  For a moment I
had been tempted to take her there, but Phyllis hated to ride
bicycles.

She did not reply though we continued walking in that direction.
She took my hand as we crossed the road, and she seemed to hurry
when we pressed into the tall weeds.  We went deeply into the
field trotting hand in hand.  As the world behind us became
dimmer, we grew more elated.  Finally we fell to the ground and
lost the world all together.

"Don't get me pregnant, Timmy.  Promise me," she implored as we
grappled to each other on the fragrant soil and weeds.

I paused.

"There's no hurry," I said calmly.  "We can have pleasure without
making a baby."

"But I want you to be my first boy," she almost whined.

"I'll pull out in time," I promised.  "Do you want to get naked
with me?"

Phyllis raised her head above the level of the weeds and looked
about.

"Okay," she said excitedly.

We disrobed frantically, tossing the clothes aside in our
eagerness.

Phyllis in her nakedness was larger than I would have preferred.
Her thighs were too heavy, her breasts almost grossly outsized,
yet I fell upon them with the desperation of youth.  The old man
inside was flung into a corner.  Without the least hint of
sophistication I rolled onto the willing young woman and pushed
my cock rudely into her, ripping through her protective membrane
like a drunken Cossack.

She did not cry out in pain, but pushed me off her once the deed
was done.

"It's too dangerous, Timmy, but you've had me.  Now I want to
give you pleasure."

She began to kiss me, my lips, my chest, my belly.  She groaned
in excitement as she tasted my body.  She slavered my girlish
thighs.

"You're so beautiful," she murmured just before, to my amazement,
she took my slender cock into her mouth.

* * *

"I can't be your girlfriend, Timmy.  People would talk.  But we
can do this again and next time it'll be even better.  I'll
snitch some rubbers from the drugstore where I work."

We lay in each other's arms.  She cuddled me possessively,
completely satisfied after I finished licking her to orgasm a
second time.

She had surprised me and the old man was curious.  "Who taught
you to do that, Phyllis?"

Her eyes studied me.  "Who taught _you_?"

"It seemed logical after what _you_ did," I said truthfully
enough though intentionally misleading, of course.  "How did you
know to suck my cock?"

"Everyone talks about it," she mumbled diffidently.

"Really?  Girls talk about that?"  Even after 60 years it shocked
me.  This was 1947, _ages_ before anyone would believe that the
American public might approve intentional sex education in the
public schools.

She blushed slightly.  "I once saw a woman doing it."

"Did she seem to like it?"

"Oh, yes!  And the man said he would love her forever."

"Your mother and father, was it?"

"Timmy!" she glared at me.  "Don't you dare say anything against
my mother and father."

I smiled and shook my head.  "I wouldn't do that.  I think it's
great.  I'll love you, too."

She grinned in mollification.  "Forever?"

I felt a chill.  Who had she married, I wanted to say, "in real
life?"  But this _was_ real life for her, at least.  What was I
mucking with?  I sat up.

"Could we stay here awhile longer?" she asked, her hand on my
cock.

"No, you have to go, you said."

She sighed and gathered her clothes.  She looked at me over her
shoulder.  "I think you're as pretty as Ritchie.  You're now my
own living doll."

"Do you like to play with dolls, Phyll?" I teased, wagging my
flaccid cock at her.

"You want it again, Timmy?  How much stuff do you have inside
those cute balls of yours?"

The girl leaned down and once more I felt her lips on my cock.  I
was standing, but no one was visible that might spy us.  She
sucked on me avidly with slurpy, popping sounds as her hands
caressed my thighs.

"Phyll," I warned her before too long, feeling that magic tingle
once again.

This time she did not pull away and finish me by hand, as she had
done twice before.  I held her head steady and spewed into her
mouth, gasping in extreme pleasure.  She rose and sat back on her
heels.  She swallowed.

"There wasn't so much of you that time," she noted with a grin,
licking her lips nonchalantly.  I realized she had done this
before, virgin or not.  For a second I felt ridiculous jealousy.
With whom?

She added,  "But I really have to go now or I'll be late for
work."

We pulled on our clothes, rose and walked back toward the road
and the houses beyond.

"Come visit me after church tomorrow morning, Timmy," she said
when we stopped at my driveway.  "My mom won't be home and I'll
have some rubbers."

I moved to give her a kiss, but she stepped back and looked about
apprehensively.

"We really shouldn't be seen together.  We must keep this a
secret."

"About loving you forever ..." I began.

She sniffed.  "Don't be silly.  I'm four years older than you
are."

Feeling a great relief, I stood and watched as she walked down
the sidewalk toward her house, realizing smugly that I would not
have to resort to masturbation for the foreseeable future.

And I still possessed my vaginal cherry, seminally speaking at
least, and at least until tomorrow morning.

* * *

"What are you reading there?" my father asked.

I was curled up on the couch, when he came into the room after
supper.

"It's a new novel by Camus, _La peste_," I replied, unconsciously
pronouncing the author's name correctly.  It had just been
published.  I had read it twice before.

"Is your French so good?" he asked in amazement.  "You've been
studying it for just a year."

"I take after you, Dad.  I'm quick with languages, and besides
Camus is quite easy, like Hesse's _Siddartha_.  It's very plain
text."

"But you don't know German," he protested, obviously confused.

"I've just heard about it.  I haven't read it yet," I lied.  I
had read it at least a dozen times in the original German.  I was
almost a Buddhist.

He gave me a queer look and sat down on the chair opposite me.

"You've been acting strange lately," he said softly.

"Do you think I'm strange?" I asked reproachfully, looking into
his face.

"I'm sorry, Son.  I suppose I've not been keeping up with you.
I've been so busy at the university."

"I'm growing up, Dad.  I'm changing."

He glanced at me with wry amusement.  He assumed correctly that I
had recently masturbated for the first time.

"Let's see a ball game this weekend," he suggested.  "I've got a
bet on Cleveland."

"The New York Yankees will win the World Series this year," I
announced in an offhand manner.  "The time to bet on Cleveland is
next year.  They'll win in '48."

"Do you really think so?" he replied with a large grin. "That's
calling it well in advance."

"I know it for a fact," I said truthfully.

The lovely man got up, came to the couch and tousled my hair.

"You're a real Indians' fan, Timmy.  I'll buy us some tickets."

"Would you also subscribe to a couple magazines for me?"

"Magazines?"  He smiled tolerantly.  "_Boys Life_, I suppose?"

"Uh, no.  I mean _Scientific American_ and _Science News_."

"_What_?  You can't be serious, Timmy!"

"I want to find out how far along ...  I mean, I'm getting
interested in science, and those magazines are written for
ordinary readers.  They won't ship _Physical Review_ to just
anyone --  Wait!  They might ship it to _you_!"

He stared at me as if I had just grown a unicorn's horn.  I
decided going out to play was the smart thing to do.  I'd find
another way to learn the state of the art.

* * *

But play is mainly experimentation.  Can I still wheedle a cookie
from Mom if I duck my head and look at her under my eyebrows?  If
I try it this way, will it work better?  Will crouching under the
tarp in the backyard during a rainstorm be like driving a covered
wagon across the prairies?  If I tell Ritchie he's full of shit,
will he say, "So are you," or will he want to fight?  If he
fights is he still a sucker for a sharp blow to the sternum that
takes his breath away?  If we play checkers, can I set up that
triple play on him again?

The trouble with play was that the old man in my head either
already knew the answers or thought the questions were
ridiculous.

Except for play of a certain kind.

When I knocked on Phyllis's back door, she let me in herself.
Her eyes glittered.  "You did come!"

"Did you think I wouldn't?" I asked as she shut the door behind
me.

"Well, you _are_ just a kid!  Did anyone see you?"

"No.  All your neighbors are at church."

"Except old Mr. Graden."  She looked out the kitchen window.  "He
likes to look at me.  I don't see him.  Maybe he didn't see you."

I stared past her shoulder.  "You mean the real old Mr. Graden?"

"Ya, next door.  He likes to look from that high window of his."

"Well, he's not there now.  Let's go upstairs."

We ran up the stairs to her room.  I was impressed once again by
the energy of youth that seemed incredible to the marveling old
man in a boy's head.  She was ahead of me at the top of the
stairs, her skirt bouncing.  Deftly I reached under it, snatched
her panties to one side and kissed the firm cheek of her ass
loudly and wetly with my mouth wide open.

"Oooo!" she cried, hands falling against the wall, butt upthrust.
She looked wide-eyed at me over her shoulder.  I dropped to my
knees, snatching down her panties in the process, thrust my chin
forward and my tongue against the wrinkles of her tightly
clenched asshole.  She shuddered.  "Oh, T-Timmy!"

When she had kicked one foot free of the panties, I slipped
between her legs, tilting my head far back, and began furiously
to lick her entire labial surface, straining to reach the clit.
Her thighs parted further, her ample butt reared above me and she
moaned in ecstasy.  I held her hips tightly.  She and I both
sagged slowly backward to the carpet until she was sitting on my
face.  Now my tongue was fully within her.  I tasted blood; the
hymeneal rupture was not 24 hours old.  But she was shivering in
orgasm despite that.

In a few seconds she tore my hands off her and got shakily to her
feet.  I grinned up at her from my position flat on the hall
floor.

"Oh, god, Timmy, what has possessed you?"

A good question!  But I answered glibly, "I've always loved your
butt, Phyll."

"But you're only _twelve_!"

"You think so?"  I got to my feet and captured her hand.  "Come
on into your bedroom."

A dormer window lined up with her bed.  The midmorning sun
streamed upon it.  In a jiffy we were naked upon it.

"I want to _see_ you!" I declared.  She followed the pressure of
my hand and lay with her hairy groin drenched in sunlight, legs
splayed around me.  In this light her pubic hair was like
crinkled white wire.  My fingers thrust it aside, spreading the
puffy pink vaginal lips.  I had never before seen the stubs of a
recently sundered maidenhead.  They were drowned in a bubbly
liquid.  This girl was a strong lubricator.  Was she a squirter,
too?  I'd heard of them, perhaps apocryphally.  Delicately
spreading her urethra revealed no indication of it, though I'm
not sure what I was expecting.

"What are you doing?" she asked.  She winced when I put in two
fingers.

"Still sore, isn't it?"

"Ya."

"Then let's wait a while longer on this."

"B-but, Timmy, don't you ..."

"Don't I what?  I believe in _giving_ pleasure, too!"

"Oh, Timmy, you _have_!  Now let me give it to you."

She moved me forcefully around to take her place in the sun.
Kneeling between my legs, she smiled cross-eyed at my hard little
cock, the carmine head just under her nose.  "This is so pretty,"
she said.

"I don't think I've ever heard that before," I mused, thinking of
the several women who might have so commented but somehow never
did.

"Well," she sniffed, "who's ever seen it besides me?"

I chuckled.  "That sounds like you saw it before yesterday."

"I did.  Don't you remember?"

"You mean the bath you gave me when I was sick?"

"You were eight years old."  She smiled in dreamy reminiscence.
"I was twelve.  I had just seen my mother with my father.  I
washed your thing with my bare hand.  Don't you remember?  It got
hard even then."

As she spoke I did remember.  The erection had embarrassed me.
At that time of course, I had no idea she might be concerned
beyond hygiene, though she had indeed seemed to linger about my
genitals longer than necessary.  I grinned at her.  "You wanted
to suck it, didn't you?"

"Oh, I did, Timmy!"

"Why didn't you?"

"I didn't _dare_!"

It probably would have scared me if she had.  I said, "Well, now
you can."

She shuddered.  "How I love to do this to you!"  With a slurp my
entire cock disappeared into her sunken cheeks.  Feeling the
delicious rasp of her tongue, I could recall only one woman who
had sucked me off in such a bright light: a whore on a hotel
balcony between nuclear resonance conferences in Rome 20 years
ago -- that is, 35 years from now.  I had looked away from that
makeup-caked visage, but Phyllis's glowing skin, loving eyes and
pink lips slipping up and down my shaft were the epitome of
cocksucking beauty.  I have never seen a lovelier sight.

_Don't let it strangle her_, the old man warned.  The young boy
could only squeak as his first powerful squirt inundated the
clamped throat.  I had learned yesterday of her artlessness; she
didn't know to release the pressure at climax.  So I hitched back
on my hips, popping out of her mouth in time to paint her face
from forehead to chin.  Laughing, she made no attempt to escape
it.  When I had finished, she fumbled around with her beaded
eyelashes closed, trying to find the top sheet.  I caught her
under the arms and pulled our faces together.  I licked my
leavings off her cheeks and chin, then thrust my tongue into her
mouth.  She sucked it without hesitation.  It was I who finally
wiped our faces clean with the top sheet.

She smiled confidently.  "You love it, too, don't you?"

"Even more than you do."

Her eyes twinkled.  "Forever?"

* * *

"Timmy," Mom remarked the next morning at breakfast, "you seem to
be so distracted."

My mother was a highly educated woman.  Had she finished her
dissertation, she could have been a Ph.D. like my father and
perhaps a member of the university faculty also.

"Is something troubling you?" she asked with concern as she
placed a glass of orange juice before me.

I looked into her sparkling eyes, which were more than thirty
years younger than mine and placed my hand on hers.  It was an
inappropriate gesture for a boy my age, and she pulled her hand
away suddenly with a quizzical glance, but then placed hers over
mine.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked, a most apt question.

"I'm not myself," I said truthfully.  I thought of a way to give
her an idea of it.  Without considering the advisability, I said,
"Do you know how it feels to wake up and know that what you've
been thinking has all been a dream?"

Slowly she nodded agreement.

"Sometimes that's how I feel."

She shook her head in confusion.  "You'd better hurry or you'll
be late for school."

* * *

The days immediately following proceeded with less disruption
from the old man in my head because after the unfortunate mention
of the magazines, which had left Dad watching me suspiciously, I
tried to restrain myself to a boy's behavior.  But the old man 
was fascinated by the many physically lovely creatures,
male and female, who shared my seventh grade classrooms.  As a
person who had once been old, I appreciated their beauty as could
no ordinary twelve year old.  They were, however, just kids,
aside from their ripening bodies, very uninteresting children
whose antics were tedious in the extreme.  I could not match
their youthful vibrancy, although I tried, fearing to seem what I
was: a grownup in a child's body.

My first major fuck-up occurred, naturally enough, in General
Science.  Our teacher, Mr. Howe, was a veteran returned from what
had been called the "European Theater," as if the destruction of
half a continent were only a stage play.  He was easy to distract
from the lesson plan, especially if you asked him something about
the recent war.  I had been staring at two mating crickets on the
windowsill beside my head -- didn't they know that the October
frosts were just around the corner? -- when he called my name.

"Timmy Kimball," he said sternly, "in case you are no longer with
us, Rachel Ackers has just asked why it's so hard to build an
atomic bomb.  Would you kindly favor us with your opinion on that
subject?"

The class laughed.  He smirked and opened his mouth to comment
further.  If his eyes were as sharp as their reputation, he
probably saw the crickets, too.  But he reminded me strongly of
the mathematician who had asked why the Thorn coefficient
required alternate universes.  In my best presentation manner,
familiar from thousands of them, I leaned into my lecture.  "The
difficulty is mainly in the purification of enough U235, whether
by gaseous diffusion or centrifuge.  If plutonium is chosen as
the fissile material, however ..."

His popping eyes warned me.  I looked around.  All the kids were
staring.  I grinned sheepishly.  "At least that's what it says in
Big Marble Comics."

Laughter.

Mr. Howe made a face.  "Perhaps you would care to share with us
how easy it is to build an atomic bomb.  Please have your report
on my desk tomorrow."

More laughter, though some of it was sympathetic.

"Uh, excuse me, sir," I said, raising my hand anxiously.  "Could
you tell me where in the book I might find that information?"

"I'm sorry," he sniffed.  "I don't read Big Marble Comics."

Point and game to the teach'.  But he graciously stopped by my
desk as I was gathering my books at the end of the day.  "Forget
the easy-bomb report, Timmy.  Just watch out how you crack wise
in class."

"Yes, sir."

30 years ago I helped design the three-stage tritium warhead
of a submarine missile.  I was tempted to write him a real report
with detailed instructions for the construction of a "simple"
atomic bomb, and see what he would do with it.  Fortunately I
recognized the impulse as a form of bragging, similar to my
defense of the Thorn effect, and suppressed the child's eagerness
to "show him."

* * *

During those first days I heard a number of comments about how
different or strange I had become, but such observations ceased
before too long.  I was a brainy kid with an almost perfect
record in school, so I didn't have to dumb down too much.  The
occasional slip was tolerated.  I learned to recognize the
glazing over of my audience's eyes.  It was boring, however, to
be a boy of twelve again.  It was so confining intellectually.  I
looked forward to going off to college.

My buddy Ritchie noticed immediately that there was something
different about me, as had my mom.

"I think I have a bug," I explained to both of them.  How could
they possibly suspect the awesome truth of the matter?

"You're eating too many sweets," Mom suggested.

"You need to jack off," Ritchie opined with a smug expression.
He had been doing it for almost a month.

"I did it yesterday," I responded with a smugness of my own.

"Did you use soap?  I can't do it without soap," the boy
confessed in an agitated voice.

"No," I replied, assuming a superior air.  "I lay on the bed and
played with my cock until it got hard.  Then I just pumped it
with my fingers until I shot."

Ritchie looked at me with considerable respect.  I had won again,
as I always did.  He and I were best buddies since kindergarten,
but it was my new persona that allowed me to appreciate the boy's
loveliness.  He had raven hair and a pale, oval, childish face,
although he was as large as I.  His lips, always so quick to
smile, had a natural rosy tinge.

But he was ahead of me, too, in one respect.  He announced
smugly, "Of course, I don't need to do that any more."

"I know.  Sara."

He looked up in surprise.  "Did she tell you?"

I grunted.  "She didn't have to."

The following morning, when we walked to school together, I felt
a lust for him, an unprecedented sexual yearning.  In all my
previous years I had never experienced such a feeling for another
male.

I could have that boy, I knew for certain.  It would be so easy
to seduce him, to tempt him into homosexual acts.  I could
probably lead him to believe that it was he who initiated it, who
wanted it, that it was he who was the seducer.  At his age,
before the onset of homophobia, it is not uncommon for boys to
jack off together, even to experiment with a close friend in some
private, secure place.  It could be done on a sleepover after the
lights were turned off, after a bit of roughhousing clad just in
underpants that tented over rigid cocks.  It would only require a
casual touch or a suggestive whisper to encourage the sexually
curious boy to try things in the dark that he would never do in
the daytime.  He would proceed innocently with an excited sense
of naughtiness to touch, to kiss, perhaps to suck his best buddy.
Yes, certainly that.  He was a very curious boy.  Even fucking
was possible.

"Ritchie," I could say.  "Do you really want to do the queer
stuff all the way?"  In his innocence he might venture it, not
realizing the pretty boy in his arms was actually an old man
indulging himself in young flesh.  He could never know the truth
of it.  He would only remember experimenting with his best buddy
on a blissful fall evening.

No, I won't do it, I resolved as we waited at the curb for the
green light that would permit us to cross to the school on the
other side of the street.  It was just too grotesque.  I would
not betray the core of my moral being for a short spate of
shameful self-indulgence.  Nevertheless, I refused to deny the
boy's beauty and sexual allure.  I refused to be a hypocrite.

* * *

But no issue of hypocrisy attended Phyllis Schaefer.  The only
problem with access to her was her job in the drugstore, where
she jerked sodas every afternoon after school except Wednesday.
On Tuesday I entered the store after the crush was over and the
high-school students had settled around the little wrought-iron
tables to flirt while consuming their sugary slushes.  Phyllis's
eyes lit.  "Timmy!  I was hoping you'd drop in."

A guy a head taller than I with a few hairs on his chin was
leaning backward against the high marble counter.  He looked me
up and down and sneered, "What can _he_ do for you, Phyll?"

She sniffed and retorted, "A lot more than you can, Donald.  He
knows how to solve quadratic equations."

"A pipsqueak Einstein, is he?  Beat it, kid, unless you know how
to solve black eyes."

"Donald Gresham, if you don't go sit down, I'll tell Mr. Jones
you're threatening a customer."

"What customer?"

"Donald ..." she began with a rising inflection.

I held up a hand.  "Take it easy, Phyll.  I don't regard him as
any threat."

My twelve-year-old body didn't have the trained reflexes,
which meant it would be slow, but knowledge of the karate moves I
had studied while walking through the slums to undergraduate
classes for four years was still there.  I doubted that Donald
had ever heard of the martial arts.

Phyllis looked at me in consternation, her mouth falling open.

Donald showed a bit of surprise also.  "What did you say?"

I smiled at him.  "The way to solve a black eye is to give one to
the other guy first."

His face tightened up.  I could see the thoughts in his eyes.  He
would lose face if he didn't smash me, but I was too confident,
too unafraid, and he would not have been bothering Phyllis, a
worker pinned behind her counter and subject to supervisory
interference, if he had the guts to try his luck with a less
captive pigeon.  He looked around.  Fortunately to him, our
little colloquy had so far gone unnoticed in the boisterous
after-school din.  He sniffed and curled his lip.  "You two are
about right for each other anyway."  With that parting shot he
slouched away.  I hoped he wasn't the one she had been destined
to marry.

Phyllis's eyes were sparkling.  "You do know something about
quadratics, don't you?"

I smirked, hiding my elation.  The little boy in me was wide-eyed
with awe and no little relief.  "Want me to derive the quadratic
formula by completing the square?"

Her eyes popped.  She breathed, "Can you actually do that?"

"Sure."  I put my notebook on the counter.  "I'll show you."

Briefly she put her hand over mine on the notebook and said
barely above a whisper, "Show me tonight in my bedroom."

"Show you what?" I asked, matching her low voice.

"Algebra."

"Is that all?  What if I show you something you think is pretty?"

She sucked in her breath.  "Oh, Timmy!"

"What will you tell your mother?"

She smiled.  "That you want me to tutor you."

"Think she'll leave us alone?"

"She will if we talk about astronomy."

"Okay."

Her eyes glowed.  "I stole three rubbers."

I snickered.  "Think they'll be enough?"

* * *

That was embarrassing.

It started out all right, except Mrs. Shaefer insisted that we
meet in her dining room, while she knitted beside us in the
television-less evening.  I first overawed Phyllis -- her
mother of course knew no algebra -- by actually deriving the
quadratic formula in a few lines of symbols.  Donald having
mentioned Einstein, I thought of showing Phyllis the youthful
Einstein's elegant solution by substitution in the general
quadratic, but her odor, that of a ripe 16-year-old female in
heat, which my 67-year-old catalog identified immediately,
hardened my dick and prompted me to slip one hand under the table
and up her skirt.  Sweet Phyllis had left off her panties.  She
parted her legs and shivered when I thrust two fingers into her
hot wetness.  I forgot about algebra.  I brought the fingers out
and held them under my nose, sniffing ostentatiously and smiling
dreamily.  She shivered again.

"But you came over to study the stars, didn't you, Timmy?" she
asked, looking around at the busy knitting needles.

"Yeah, yeah, the stars."

"Well, I th-think Orion is up by now.  Let's go find Betelgeuse."

Her mother chuckled.  "That sounds like something you'd find on
your shoe if you weren't careful where you stepped."

"Now, Mother, it's a red supergiant, the brightest star in the
constellation Orion."

"Are you going outside, dear?"

"Just down to the field, away from the streetlight, where we can
see the sky."

The woman looked at me and dismissed me as a threat.  "Well, take
your shawl.  The evenings are getting cool."

Phyllis kept looking back over her shoulder until her mother's
lit window was masked by the trees.  At that point she pulled me
against her for a slobbery kiss.

When we broke, she said eagerly, "I thought this would happen.
Let's go back to my basement.  Mama just put away the glider
pillows for the winter."

We slipped quickly through the alley to the back of her house.
The basement door was locked, but Phyllis had a key.  In a moment
we were inside with the door closed.  It was pitch dark.  She
knew her way, of course, and led me into a storeroom.  She closed
the door very quietly, found the cord and pulled on a light.

The advantage of this room was that it had no window for our
light to give us away.  Her eyes were huge on mine.  As if on a
common signal we began to tear off our clothes.  In a jiffy we
were both down to shoes, socks and the pack of rubbers in her
hand.  I spread out the glider cushions on the bare cement floor.
Down she went, lying back and spreading her legs, holding up
the rubbers, whispering, "Hurry, Timmy!"

I broke one out of the pack, put it over the head of a very hard
cock and unrolled it to the hairless base.  I knelt between her
legs, hitching close, aiming for her slightly parted labia -- but
the rubber beat me to it.  The damned thing fell off and draped
itself over her bush!

I might possess an old man's cunning and a young man's lust, but
my twelve-year-old body still had a boy's penis, perhaps five
inches long but narrow, not much wider than a grown man's finger,
obviously not wide enough for this rubber.

"What's the matter, Timmy?" Phyllis asked impatiently.

"Uh, do rubbers come in different sizes?"

"I ... I don't know.  Why?"

I felt heat on my face, but she deserved to know.  I held the
limp thing up.

"It came off?  Oh, Timmy!"  She took a deep breath.  "Do me
anyway."

I slipped into her.  She was hot, wet and delicious.  I took a
few strokes.  "Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no!" she groaned. Her hips began to roll back and forth.
"Keep going!"

But I had to pull out.  I pumped my seminal fluid up and down her
belly.  "I couldn't hold it," I gasped.  "I had forgotten how
irresistible the first time can be."

She clenched her fists.  "Hurry up, Timmy.  I need it so bad!"

I looked around.  "I need something to wipe it on, to squeeze out
the last drops.  You can get caught if even a tiny bit gets in
your cunny."

She snatched herself up and crouched to gobble my wet cock.  She
sucked hard, making me groan and pull away.  Her hand held the
head up, squeezing the urethra open.  She looked up triumphantly.
"Now it's safe."

She was right.  She did need it.  And my little cock was enough
to give her the vaginal climaxes she craved.  I have seldom seen
a hotter number.  She was so passionate that I had to pull out
again before long and redecorate her belly.  Again she sucked me
clean.  Again it went between her legs.  The three rubbers would
have barely been enough.

Finally we lay in each other's arms, drenched in sweat in the
stuffy little storeroom.  "Oh, Timmy," she breathed.  "That was
even better than I knew it would be."

"For me, too, darling."

"'Darling!'" she repeated with a chuckle.  "My, how grown up we
are!"

"I meant that you are a very passionate girl, Phyllis."

"And you've known a lot of passionate girls, have you, Timmy?"

Uh-oh!  I thought fast.  "No, I don't think many girls are like
that.  But you are a real sweetheart."

She sniffed but her voice was pleased.  "You say that to all your
girls, don't you?"

"Is it a good line?" I asked ingenuously.

"What did you mean, the first time you came?"

"Huh?"

"Tonight.  You said, 'I had forgotten how irresistible the first
time is.'"

I forced a laugh.  "You can't hold anyone responsible for what
they say when they're coming.  I guess I meant that it just
surprised me.  The books don't mention it being so fast."

"What books?"

What books indeed!  That was ten years before _Lady Chatterley's
Lover_ became legal in this country.  I answered lamely, "My
father has some medical books."

"Really?  Could I see them?"

This was getting deep.  I said quickly, "Maybe they do mention
the fast first climax.  I remember one saying the doctor should
tell his patient to spend the first one selfishly."

"Selfishly?"

"You know, getting sucked off.  Then licking the woman for her
first one, then fucking to please each other the rest of the
night."

"Timmy, please.  You know I don't like that word."

How curious!  I could shut my first wife up by saying _fuck_,
too.

An old man's thoughts on a boy's tongue are hazardous when
fucking.  Fortunately footsteps on the floor above us terminated
that evening before I forgot myself again.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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