index


Message-ID: <39090asstr$1036343404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Reversion {Varkel} (M+m+b+g+f+F+) [15/21]
Date: Sun,  3 Nov 2002 12:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Spring, 2002



Chapter 15:  A Powerful Enemy


"Rosalind didn't come home last night."

I looked up in surprise from the morning paper.  Alice stood
begowned in the kitchen door with a worried frown.  She added,
"Did she say anything to you about where she was going?"

I nodded.  "At supper.  You were there.  She was going to fetch
something from the drugstore.  I gathered it was a feminine
product."

Alice sniffed.  "I heard you.  'Is it cool enough for a coat,
Tex?'  You men really do jump to your own conclusions, don't
you!"

"It was something else?"

"You idiot!  She wanted to tell her assistant English professor
good-bye in privacy."

"Well, then, you know where she is."

"Will you quit that?  I mean, she wanted to tell him on the
telephone in the drugstore."

I studied her, standing arms-akimbo just inside the doorway, and
took a breath.  "I'm sorry, Alice.  I can see you're actually
worried.  Why is that?  You know Rosalind.  She'll turn up in a
few hours with a humdinger of a story."

"You think so?"

Clara appeared behind Alice.  Her eyes locked with mine.  "She
might not, Tim.  _She_ thinks she's been abducted."

"Wh-what?"

Clara pushed past Alice into the kitchen.  In each hand she bore
a binocular viewer that she laid on the table.  Gesturing for
Alice to join us, she said, "I have a report."

When Alice and I had applied the internal controls that shaped
our bodies to match our desires, we had considered installing the
radio transceivers that would permit near-telepathic
communication among the three of us, in addition to collecting
directly the reports of Clara's adapted animals.  The advantages
would be immense, with only one real disadvantage -- but that was
a doozer.  The transceiver would require cellular transformations
in the forehead to render skin and skull transparent at the radio
frequencies employed, along with a growth of metallic fibers
behind that "window" to serve as antennas.  Both adaptations
would be only too visible to the milliroentgen X-Ray beams used
in doctor's offices and airport scanners after the Seventies.  We
could just imagine the excitement we might cause at an airport
check-in: "You have a plate in your skull _where_?" -- not to
speak of a CAT scan.

So we had declined, I think to Clara's grave disappointment,
which among other things meant we must continue to use the
viewers.  Perhaps we would change our minds.  I was tinkering
with a way to dissolve the transmitter quickly.  In the meantime
...

Clara explained, "I think she dropped her purse during a scuffle.
One of the ladybugs escaped and signaled for pickup, but it was
after dark.  Our sparrows were all at roost."  She sighed.  "I
haven't yet tried to capture a swift, though I think there's a
family in the front chimney of this very house.  I'm sorry, Tim."

"Swifts fly at night?" I asked.

"Night and day, but they are very secretive birds.  I may have to
adapt a falcon to catch a swift."

"But you said you have a report."

"Yes.  I skimmed it.  The ladybug followed Rosalind indoors but
escaped when someone left the door open shortly after dawn.  The
sparrow responded and fetched it here just a few minutes ago.  I
think she's on a _ship_, Tim."

"A ship?  Really?"

"That's what it looks like.  Rows of masts tied up at docks."

"Well, great!  Where's the ship?"

She sighed again.  "That I can't say.  I am really learning the
limitations of my animals this morning.  I have no recorder in
the birds.  I can't tell you what it saw nor the direction it
flew."

I stared at her.  Presumably she always expected to know where
the bugs did their spying, as she had known at the FBI office.

She hung her head.  "I'm so sorry, Tim!"

I hugged her against me.  "Even to know she's on a boat is a big
advantage.  It's probably on the north side.  Let me see if I can
deduce anything."

I took up one of the viewers and its earpiece as she handed the
second to Alice.  Early morning sunlight streamed into a side
window toward which I turned the binoculars.

I found myself looking into darkness interspersed with bright
points of light.  A huge body intercepted one.  I recognized a
dim hand clutching for me.  Suddenly I was free and rising above
a scuffle, above oaths and feminine imprecations.  My wings were
beating hard and fast, straining my back until I found the button
that turned off tactile sensations.

Bodies were milling before me.  Suddenly they fell into
recognition.  A gruff brute roughly hustled Rosalind through a
door into a brightly lit room.  From the curved walls and short
drapes -- and Clara's guess -- I assumed it was the large main
cabin of a yatch.  I sailed in behind them, turned and lit upon
one of the drapes.  Rosalind had stumbled but a man who stood
conveniently nearby caught her before she quite fell to the deck.

"Careful, Bertie!" he snapped, helping her regain balance.  "Miss
Cannell is precious cargo."

"Harrison!" Rosalind exclaimed, looking up at him.  Her fearful
expression was immediately replaced by one of anger and outrage.
"You've kidnapped me!  Why, you ..."  Words apparently failed
her.

She glared at Cleaver, whose visage of smug aplomb I recognized
only too well.  He smiled broadly, brushing her shoulder lightly
as though she had indeed fallen and required tidying.

"That will be all, Bertie," he said to the brute, who departed,
closing the cabin door.  Cleaver regained his smile as he turned
back to the girl.  "Kidnapped?  Rosalind, are you kidding?  There
must be some misunderstanding.  Didn't my secretary inform you
that Bertie would pick you up?"

"He grabbed me off the street, Harrison!  What's this all about?"

"Oh, I am sorry, Ros.  It's so hard to find decent help.  I'll
have words with the man.  I've asked you here," he cleared his
throat, "to boast about my new toy."  He waved his arm widely.
"And I thought we might share a bottle of Chablis in celebration.
It's from California, the Napa Valley, where they are growing
wine that rivals the best French stuff."

She sniffed and continued to eye him suspiciously.

"I missed you last week at your Uncle Manfred's funeral," he
announced.  "Manny was a dear old friend of mine, you know.  We
did business together at times.  Your mother was there, of
course.  I've known her for years as well, though not so sweetly
as you."

He grazed her left breast with the back of his hand and smile
grandly.  "How many times have we delighted each other?  At least
two, isn't it, not even speaking of that splendid encounter at my
annual party."

"Ah, yes.  That party."  Her frown was fading.  "I do recall your
visit to me then -- to renew our acquaintance, you said."

"Rosalind!  Please!  We're much more than mere acquaintances.
It's unfortunate I seem always to be sharing your favors with
others.  I truly want to spend more time just you with me."  He
chuckled deprecatingly.  "As for the party, are you sure you can
recall anything that happened?  I swear I did not take advantage
of you on that occasion, however attractively you were splayed on
the bed.  You were passed out, dear girl, and in no condition to
respond as I prefer."

"So!  You've dragged me here for a more leisurely bout of sex and
fun."  She smiled despite the irate words.

"Not exactly, sweet one, although I'm game, if you are."  He
palmed her cheek.  "No.  Your mother complained to me that you've
abandoned your apartment and moved in with Tim and his family.  I
thought I might inquire about that.  I'm actually very curious
about the boy."

She pulled at his tie, loosening it.  "I'll have some of that
wine you promised.  He's scarcely a boy any longer, you know."

Cleaver took a couple of steps backwards to reach a silvery ice
bucket.  Without moving eyes from her he retrieved a bottle
clouded with condensation.

"I've heard that!" he exclaimed, rummaging in a drawer for a
corkscrew.  "It's amazing how he has grown.  His sister too, they
say.  Like the surprising development of your breasts, only more
so.  Your mother commented on that, by the way.  She has no
explanation.  She's as flabbergasted as I."

"The growth is rather obvious, isn't it?" Rosalind smirked,
plumping them with both hands.

"It certainly is!  How do you explain it?"

She grinned slyly.  "Perhaps there's something wrong with the
plumbing in my old neighborhood."

"Plumbing!" Cleaver exclaimed, handing her a glass of wine.
"It's something beyond magic, young lady.  Don't you have any
idea at all?"

"Tim suggested it was because of all the male attention they've
gotten this year."

Cleaver's eyes narrowed.  "He said what?"  Then he laughed.
"He's pulling your leg -- or perhaps your nipple.  At best he has
the cart before the horse.  But he, or his family, are at the
root of it, aren't they?"

She straightened.  "They're my friends, Harrison.  They've
invited me to live with them, to join their family.  And I like
my new boobs.  I always had such small ones!  The men _say_ they
like small ones, but they're a lot more attentive now!"

"I'm sure.  But _do_ you know how it was done?"

She shook her head.  "I never asked, Harrison.  What's that
western saying about a gift horse?  I'll tell you this.  They
haven't said.  So it must be a secret, like sex to a kid.  And
I'm a member of that family now.  You can't expect me to blab
their secrets."

He laughed.  "You're just like your mother, Ros.  The only
secrets you know were written in Latin two thousand years ago.
Admit it.  You know nothing about science, so how could you be in
possession of any specific information?"

His observation, which was the truth, irked her as he had
intended.

"Oh, yeah?" she interposed dourly.  "How would you classify time
travel?  Is it magic or science?"

"Time travel!"  Cleaver's eyes expanded, then narrowed
scornfully.  "That's the stuff of fantasy books, young lady.  You
know it's not possible.  Just think about it for only a moment."

She shrugged.  "I don't see why it's so impossible.  We're
traveling forward in time even as we speak."

"Why do you bring it up?" he asked, eyes glittering.

Rosalind sipped her wine.  "No, you must be right about that.  I
have a feeling the three of them are always playing jokes on me,
even when they appear to be serious.  They're weird, but I love
them.  Can you imagine keeping monkeys and bugs as pets?"

"Monkeys, yes.  But bugs?"

"They've got them trained."

"Trained?  How?"

She wagged her head slightly as if becoming confused.  Cleaver
appeared to be matching her sip for sip, but I noticed that the
level of liquid in his own goblet was hardly lower.  Rosalind
said, "The monkeys are like servants who don't know their place."
She giggled.  "I discovered them when one of them licked me.  As
for the bugs, they swarm on your body, a huge number of them, and
suck your skin clean.  They're scary but fun.  I always used to
hate bugs."

"Yes, yes.  Nasty things."  Cleaver, sipping again, peered at
Rosalind over the rim of the glass.  He shook his head as if
abandoning that line of inquiry.  "Getting back to the party:
those were federal officials who burst in so rudely to spirit you
and Tim's family away to Washington.  What was that all about?"

"I was just along for the ride," she explained, holding out her
glass for a refill.  "They went to meet President Truman."

"Truman!  What on earth for?"  He poured more wine.

"Harrison, I'm uncertain about what to believe, and I don't
understand a fraction of what they tell me.  All I know about the
trip to Washington is that they had some information the
government wanted, something to do with the mess in Korea, which
I first heard about that very morning."

He grunted.  "Along with the rest of the world.  What could Tim
contribute nationally about Korea?"

She hesitated.  "I think Tim knows a lot about the future,
Harrison.  And so does Truman."

His eyes flashed.  "_Knows_ ... or guesses?"

She shrugged.  "He argued with the president.  He wanted to use
Japanese soldiers."

"Tim?"

"No, the president.  Tim talked him out of it."

"You mean, Truman wanted to send Japs to fight in Korea?"

She nodded.  "That's what I remember."  She chuckled.  "And
something else.  Tim knew about the general getting promoted
before _he_ did."

"What general?"

"It was in the papers yesterday.  He's going to get a fifth
star."

Cleaver shrugged.  "Anybody with a line into congress would know
that.  But why would an obscure Chicago family have such a line?
Unless, of course, they're very special people."

"They're special to me.  But I know what you mean.  They're
important somehow.  They've been to Washington before and there
are federal cops always lurking about protecting them."

"Federal cops?"  Cleaver glanced around the cabin with a look of
consternation.  He had a point.  I wondered if the FBI was
watching out for Ros yet.

But the girl continued, "If it weren't for that and for Tim and
Alice growing into adulthood over a period of weeks, I would
dismiss them as lovable eccentrics who're nuts about alternate
universes and space travel."

"Space travel!"  Cleaver grabbed her arm so firmly that Rosalind
sloshed her drink.  "You mean rockets and that sort of thing?"

Rosalind sought to pull her arm free.  "Please, Harrison!  You're
hurting me!"

"Oh!  I'm terribly sorry, dear girl."  He released her.
"Knowledge about rockets would make sense of this, you know.
With rockets and atom bombs the United States could rule the
entire world."

Rosalind rubbed her arm and pouted at the man.  "I don't think
I'm supposed to talk about these things, Harrison, even though I
don't understand them."

He lifted her arm for a generous kiss on the soft inner part just
below the elbow.  "You understand much more than you realize,
darling.  But I won't press you to reveal confidences.  I
actually invited you here to show you my new yacht."

"You abducted me," she said with a smile.

He dismissed the complaint with a wave of his arm.  "I have a
splendid idea," he said.  "Let's sail to my cottage on Beaver
Island.  It's about 300 miles up the lake.  We could be there in
two days or so, and I'm certain you'd love the voyage."

"That sounds like fun, Harrison.  It really does, but such a trip
would last at least a week, and I can't stay away that long.  I
want to be around to help Tim set up his factory.  He's letting
me write the recruiting blurb."

Cleaver sought to refill her glass, but the bottle was near
empty.  He reached into a cupboard to retrieve a fifth of Scotch.

"Factory?  Is Tim going into business?" he asked as he poured.

Rosalind waved her glass back and forth, sloshing some whiskey
onto her wrist.  "That's more secret stuff, Harrison," she
slurred.  "It's all about space ships.  And some new kind of
space drive.  You said you'd not press me about these matters."

"A new space drive?  You mean it's not a rocket?"

"I don't know how it works, Harry."  She grinned loosely.
"Rockets are so _masculine_ -- spewing at everything in sight!"
She took another swallow and added, "Tim said his spaceship will
be to the veetoo as the veetoo was to a child's toy.  What's a
veetoo?"

"You're pulling my leg," he asserted.  "Did he say how it works?"

"He might have, but I don't remember.  Does it make any
difference to us?"

"Perhaps not, darling," he responded, filling her glass again.
"It's just that space ships might become important in coming
years and I'd like to get in on the ground floor.  Perhaps I
could offer Tim some funding."

She got to her feet but swayed dangerously.  "I'm drinking too
much.  Where's your powder room?  And let's not talk about Tim's
secrets.  I don't know anything valuable in any case."

"As you wish, sweetheart.  And I'd rather you not get drunk."  He
took the glass from her hand.  "We could truly enjoy ourselves
tonight, if you remain somewhat alert."

She gazed at him with a crooked smile as he began to unbutton her
blouse.  "I know what you want," she remarked with approval.
"But let's not talk about Tim anymore."

"But, darling, you must at least tell me how he is as an adult
lover.  Did you know I sucked on him at the party when he was
still a pretty boy?"

"I doubt you want to know the truth of it, Harrison, because the
news could give you an inferiority complex.  I'll just say he's
grown dramatically, in all directions, although he's still
pretty.  Sucking him now is a real challenge, I can tell you."

Cleaver grunted an amused laugh.  "I don't know what to say, Ros,
except I'm jealous.  I suppose he satisfies you."

"Satisfy me!  Harrison, the guy leaves me limp every time."

He unclasped her bra and pulled it off to free large, firm
breasts.  "Magnificent!" he exclaimed, palming both.  "They're
just the right size for a tall girl like you."

"Oh, dear!" she cried in a stagy voice.  "I'm a prisoner and at
your mercy!"

Cleaver's nostrils flared.  "I know that game, Ros.  It can get
rough."

She stepped back to assay him.  "It's either that, Harrison, or I
can service you like a whore.  I'll enjoy the sex either way,
although it won't be, you know, special."

"He's that good, is he?"  Cleaver began to undo his clothes.  "I
have no illusions, sweet one.  I won't attempt to match Tim's
prowess.  I'm not comfortable with rape, however, despite your
playful willingness, so let's go to bed for some mutual
pleasure."  He paused.  "I hope I can excite you.  Please don't
fake it."

She embraced him lightly.  "I'm very orgasmic," she whispered
into his ear, "and I remember your tongue.  It's as talented as
an old woman's."

They entered a passageway at the rear of the cabin.  Cleaver
showed her into a stateroom on the right, leaving the door open.
I heard him say, "Use the lavatory through there, but look at
this, will you?  You probably don't recognize the electronics.
Those machines are wire recorders.  You've heard of them?  And
that, my dear, is a 20 inch television receiver, one of the
largest made."

I heard nothing further.  Impatiently I skipped ahead and saw
motion.  Rosalind, still dressed, appeared in the passageway.
Cleaver, naked except for his socks, steered her by the elbow.
"Let's use this other stateroom, where you can snooze as late as
you wish."

They passed out of sight to the left.

Again I skipped ahead.  Did the bug have sense enough to move its
perch?  To my surprise, it did.  It entered the passageway and
swung to the left through the open door, taking a position on the
wall, I presumed.

Cleaver knelt beside the bunk in the small sleeping cabin, bent
over the nude girl, mouth nuzzling her hip and belly, hands on
thighs and breasts.

"Have you found everything in order, Harrison?" she asked
fretfully.  "I'm getting impatient."

"Let me part these legs so I can get at you, dear girl.  I have a
reputation to defend."

She opened them eagerly and his head moved directly between them.
She sighed in contentment and began to play with her breasts,
pinching the nipples.  Soon, she squirmed her lower body and her
sighs progressed to light moans.

"Don't tease me!" she cried when he paused and raised his head.

He resumed the task with determination.  She became increasingly
agitated.  "Yes! Yes!" she exclaimed then yelled inarticulately.
Her body went rigid and her thighs closed on the man's head.  She
relaxed after less than a minute.

"Thank you, Harrison," she said with eyes closed.  "Your
reputation is intact."

"You're welcome, my dear.  I have always treasured that flavor.
Would you mind lying on your stomach for my turn?"

"Harrison!  You want something nasty?"

"If you don't mind, dearest.  I'll be very gentle."

Without reply she rolled over.  He stroked her fresh, plump
buttocks and fondled the soft thighs below them.

"My, my, Rosalind, you are indeed a splendid piece of ass!"

She giggled.  "I'll get Tim to make me a pussy between my boobs."

"Can he do that?"

"He can do anything!"

Cleaver rose to his feet.  "Just a moment, sweet one.  I'll get
you a relaxing drink."

He returned in seconds and offered her a glass containing a clear
liquid.  She raised up on an elbow and sniffed it.

"Gin," she announced.  "But something else as well.  Harrison!  I
believe you intend to drug me."

"Just something to loosen you up, my dear."

"My tongue or my sphincter?  It won't do you any good, though,
because I don't know anything of value, as you mentioned
earlier."

"Swallow it.  You'll feel better."

She glanced askance at his rigid organ.  "I know you like lively
women, Harry.  Okay, I'll drink it."

She downed the potion and laid her head on the pillow.  He
quickly lubricated himself with salve from a tube.  After parting
her long legs, he climbed between them and lowered his body to
hers.  She uttered a grunt when he penetrated her, but otherwise
remained silent and still as he sought his pleasure in languid
strokes.  After a couple of minutes he suddenly plumbed her with
two rapid, long thrusts then lay heavily upon her briefly,
quivering and whining as if in pain.

"You're squishing me," Rosalind protested in a weary, slurred
voice.

He dismounted to kneel again at the side of the bunk.  "Now let's
talk about that factory," he said into her ear.

"It's for space ships," she mumbled.  "They want to go to the
moon."

"When?"

"I don't know, 'cept it'll take a few years.  We have losh to do.
Tim nee'sh losha people, special people."  Her voice began to
fade.  "I get to help pick 'em."

"Where will he build it?"

Her eyes, which had drifted closed, flickered open.  "He neesh --
needs somewhere without radar.  Ish that the right word?  Maybe
you can help ... find ..."  Her head sagged.

Despite repeated efforts Cleaver was unable to elicit any further
information.  He finally gave up in disgust and left the cabin.
I needed a long skip in the report to observe anything but the
random limb movements of a sleeping and probably drugged
Rosalind.

Finally the light brightened.  Cleaver was looking in.  My
viewpoint moved towards him, passed over his shoulder and entered
the cabin.  It's main door stood open, admitting the reddish
light of dawn.  I sailed through the door and rose into the air
with a glimpse of large boats lined up in rows.  In short order a
small bird zoomed toward me and everything went black.

I set the viewer on the table and looked up as Alice did the same
with hers.  "What do you think?" I asked.

"At least she got laid."

When I only sniffed, she added, "If it's a boat, it's a big one."

"Cleaver called it his yacht.  He can afford a large one."

"But where is it?"

I shook my head.  "I don't know.  But I suspect Cleaver wants to
talk to me."  I stood up.  "Think I'll go for a walk."

* * *

"You can't be Tim!"

I turned in startlement at the feminine call.  A limousine had
stopped at the curb beside me with passenger window open.  The
face behind it was beautiful, well made-up, smiling with a
wrinkle of puzzlement -- and only too familiar.

"But you can be Mona."

She blinked.  "Now how would Tim's older brother know me on
sight?"  She sniffed.  "I didn't think Tim _had_ an older
brother, and you're too pretty to be his father."

"Boys grow up, Mona."

"In a couple of months?"

I smiled.  "Teenagers can change quickly sometimes."

"Yes, in all directions, I'll bet."  She leered at my groin
ostentatiously, then pushed open the door.  "Get in.  I want to
find out."

"You want to take me for a ride, eh?"

"If you're running an errand, I'll be happy to give you a lift."

"That's nice.  Is it just coincidence that brings you in front of
Rosalind's old apartment?"

She grinned.  "Well, no, as a matter of fact, I was looking for
you.  Your housekeeper said you had come this way."

"My _housekeeper_?"

"Perhaps another member of your harem, then.  You can do better
than she.  Come on, big boy.  I know you had fun before.  Think
how it can be _now_!"

Hand on the top of the open door, I bent down, stared into her
eyes and said in low but firm tones, "All right, but I want you
to take me to Cleaver."

She lost her smile.  "I thought you were on an errand."

"It's the same errand.  Move over."  I put a foot in the car,
dropped my hip beside hers and simply slid her buttocks across
the wide velvet seat, closing the door behind me.

Her eyes had widened.  "You ... you _shoved_ me!"

She was alone in the large passenger compartment.  I pointed to
the speaking tube.  "Tell the driver to get going."

"O_kay_!" she snarled, but her hand squeezed my thigh and she
breathed admiringly, "Good heavens, Tim, that's hard muscle!"

"Tell him."

She pulled the funnel to her mouth and said, "Home, James."
Immediately the long car slid forward.

I returned her grin.  "Is that the chauffeur's name?"

She shrugged.  "To me they're all James.  Where do you want me to
drop you?"

"I told you.  I want to see Cleaver."

"That's good.  He wants to see you too."

"He ordered you to fetch me, didn't he?"

"Oh, I was easy.  I wanted to see you again, especially after all
the changes I heard about.  Will you force me to drag it out
myself?"

I chuckled grimly.  "The referent of your _it_ is not hard to
guess.  I'm sorry, Mona, but today I'm in no mood for
hanky-panky."

"I can put you in the mood."

"Not in time to be of any use to you.  It can't be that far to
Cleaver's yacht."

She had reached across me and pulled down the window shade on the
passenger window.  She froze at my words, her face in front of
mine.  "How'd you know about the yacht?  He only bought it last
month."

"I know.  I also know that's where he's holding Rosalind."

"Holding?"  She smiled.  "Only for this."  Her hands caught me
behind the head and pulled our faces together in a kiss.  I
allowed her tongue to probe but failed to follow it on
withdrawal.

She backed away slowly, studying my eyes.  "Though you don't know
exactly where it is.  How interesting!"

"I'll know when we get there."

She chuckled slightly, but her expression showed no humor.  "How
is it I get the impression the worst thing I could do is take you
to Cleaver?"

She reached for the speaking tube.  I snatched it and held it
away from her.

Her eyes grew wide.  "Timmy, you've changed!"

I grinned.  "I thought you'd already noticed."

"You're so much more forceful!"

While she watched my face, her hands went to the zipper of my
fly.  Mona was one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen,
whose perfectly proportioned body remained the choice memory from
Cleaver's orgy in June.  But impatience was my principle reaction
to her pressure in my groin.  I shook my head and brushed her
hands away.  "Not now, Mona."

Her eyes flashed in protest.  "You must know I'm curious!"

"So am I.  Tell me about Cleaver."

Her hands fell dispiritedly into her lap.  She took a deep
breath.  "Cleaver is like an old sock."

"Your employer?"

"Employer?"  She grunted.  "My keeper."

"That's what they call the attendants at a zoo."

She chuckled.  "It's a zoo, all right.  Except he doesn't clean
out the cages ... the gilded cages."

"How rich is he?"

"Oh, he's up there, though maybe not with Rockefeller and Ford.
He packed most of the military K- and C-rations in the war."

"Then he deserves some credit."

"Credit?  I think he made a few hundred million for his efforts --
despite our confiscatory taxes."

"Did he cheat?"

"Of course he cheated!  How else can you keep anything with a 96
per-cent tax rate?"

"That's why they invented tax shelters.  He seems to be
interested in my family for a lot more than sex.  Do you know
anything about that?"

She laughed sarcastically.  "You're asking the wrong person."

"Well, I'll ask Cleaver himself in a few minutes, but I'd like to
hear your slant."

"My slant is _sex_, Timmy: the stiff tongue or cock.  Cleaver has
a lot of interesting men around him."

"No doubt.  But what's your future in 20 years?"

"Huh!  _Ten_ years is too long.  I don't think about the future,
Timmy, beyond the next cock.  It's scary."

"You ought to get ready for it.  Make him buy you an annuity."

Her pretty face grew solemn.  She sighed.  "I know what I am,
Timmy: Cleaver's voluntary slave.  He takes care of what I need
or want and in return I do what he tells me, which is mainly
fucking when and whom as ordered.  I'm in no position to _make_
him do anything.  Hey!  What would I have to do to become _your_
slave -- with an annuity?"

"I'm not a keeper, Mona.  Where exactly is Rosalind this
morning?"

"The last I heard of her, she was asleep in one of the
staterooms."  Her hand moved back to my groin and fondled the
contents.  "Wouldn't you like to have a slave who'd fuck anyone
you named?"

I caught her arm and gently removed the hand to her own lap.
"No, I would not," I answered emphatically.  "Treating a person
as if she were just a piece of meat is not my style."

"Really?"  Her tone expressed surprise.  "But that's all women
are."

I studied her.  She wasn't kidding.  "Mona, why did you buy into
such vicious nonsense?"

"_Buy_ into?  What do you mean?"

Damned anachronisms!  "You are a beautiful, bright woman, Mona,
yet you seem to be caught like a fish on a hook.  You don't need
him, you know.  You're wasting your life."

"I'm _what_?"

"You could move away, go to school, make of yourself anything you
wanted."

She stared at me.  Her lip curled.  "Is it the _Reverend_ Tim
these days?  Where the hell would _I_ get the money to go to
school?"

"Lots of places.  From _me_, for example."

She blinked at me.  Suddenly she smiled saucily.  "I've already
offered to be your slave.  If you ordered me to go to school,
guess I'd have to go.  To what school would you send me, Tim?"

An interesting question.  "How about art or design?" I mused.  "I
can see you have good taste.  Bright people usually have talent."

"Hmm.  I used to draw.  Maybe I'd like that, if the school were
coed."

"That's true of most art schools."

"Maybe.  Are you rich too, Tim?"

"Me?  I don't have a penny to my name."

"But you have a PhD in physics.  That's a kind of wealth."

"Potentially you're right.  The truth is, Mona, I'm as rich as I
wish to be just now.  Money is not the object.  That's the
problem with most rich men, I think.  They confuse means with
ends."

"What _is_ the object, Tim?"

"Freedom."

"Freedom to starve?"

"You're right.  Freedom is only a necessary condition, for which
money is the grease."

"The grease to what?"

"To whatever goals you set for yourself."

"Really?  Just now my goal is to suck your cock again.  Do I have
enough freedom for that?"

I had raised the window shade.  I said dryly, "Give me a rain
check.  This looks like it might be Cleaver's slip."

Indeed the car had proceeded cautiously down onto a board dock to
which a large yawl was tied up.  As we passed the stern I saw the
name: GerryMand Two.  It was Cleaver's, all right.

I followed Mona out of the car.  The vessel, long enough in my
opinion to qualify as a ship, was tied against the dock's cork
bumpers.  A short gangway had been laid down to the rail.  A man
in work clothes sat in the forward well deck.  He seemed to be
splicing some lines.  He looked up at us, gave me a hard stare
but dropped his eyes when they lit upon Mona.  I paused to study
the vessel.  The hemp halyards were secured to simple cleats.
They were not the glittery nylon lines attached to power
extenders that I recalled in the Nineties -- of course, but
meaning that under sail this ship would require a sizeable crew.
I wondered how much of it was aboard.

"Come on," said the woman, stepping lightly across the gangway.
"I'll take you to him."

Not for nothing did the limousine possess a long whip antenna.
Cleaver stood in the aft cabin doorway looking up at us,
shirtless under a satin smoking jacket and white slacks.  He
smiled widely, exhibiting white teeth in a closely shaven, tanned
face.  "Welcome aboard!" he called.

Mona's feet twinkled girlishly down the companionway steps to the
after well deck as if she had been raised on yachts.  Perhaps she
had.  I had spent time on them in my fifties.  Grasping the rails
loosely, I descended in one leap, thumping onto the deck behind
her and straightening to tower over her.

And over Cleaver.  He stared up at me open-mouthed.  "My god,
they told me --  Can you truly be Timothy Kimball?"

"In the flesh," I said dryly.  Mona slid out from between us with
a slight smile.

"What about it?" He demanded of her.

She smiled.  "He claims all Tim's molecules are still there."

"And a lot more!"  He shook his head.  "How could this possibly
happen to you, Tim, in less than three months?"

"I've had a huge appetite," I admitted.  "Where is Rosalind?"

He glanced at his diamond-studded wristwatch.  "Still doing her
beauty sleep, I imagine.  It's only a little after eleven, you
know."  His eyes widened dramatically.  "Good lord, Tim, you
can't be concerned about her!  You know all about her, ah,
_interests_."

I stared into his eyes.  "Somebody said she was abducted."

He possessed untapped reserves of incredulity.  His eyebrows rose
toward his hairline.  "Ab_duc_ted!  My god, Tim, you _know_
that's a canard, whoever said it."  He raised his chin.  "And
she'll be the first to put it straight when she gets up."

"Give her a call, then."  I still hadn't smiled.  "I'd like to
hear it from her."

"Then why don't _you_ rouse her?"  He stood calmly to one side of
the doorway.  "Go through the salon.  She's in the stateroom on
the left."

I passed him without another word.  The "salon" was a cozy room
of plush chairs and drink tables, lined with windows presently
covered by drapes.  I pulled open a door to a short hall and
knocked on the door to the left.

Hearing a moan, I unlatched it and stepped through, closing it
behind me.  The room was very dim.  I found a light switch and
changed that.  Rosalind lay nude on a double bed whose coverings
above a single sheet had all fallen to the floor -- excuse me, the
deck.  She blinked at me owlishly.  Her hands went to her
temples.

"Timmy!  Where'd you come from?"

I sank to the bed beside her and raised her to a sitting
position.  "Are you all right, Ros?"

"No!  My head is killing me."

"Kiss me," I told her, working up my saliva.

"My breath is terrible, Timmy."

"Not to me, my dear."  My hand raised her chin.  Despite her
worried look she let our lips meet, opening hers expectantly.

"Swallow it," I told her after a moment.  "You'll feel better."

She obeyed with a snort that was almost a giggle.  "That's what
Harrison said."

We sat quietly for a minute or two.  I wondered at Cleaver's
forbearance in permitting it, then thought of a reason why.

My companion said in awe, "I didn't know a man's spit could make
such a difference!"

"Do you feel better?"

"Oh, yes.  You're a wonder! ...  Oh, Timmy!"  Her expression
faded from approval to anxiety.  "Harrison said a lot of other
things.  And so did I."

"I know.  Do you need help dressing?"

"No.  Not now.  My clothes are in that pile and I recently
discovered there's a lavatory through that door.  Give me five
minutes, Tim."  She smiled wanly.  "Just don't expect Betty
Grable."

I squeezed her against me.  "I'd rather have Rosalind any day."

"Oh, Tim!"  She kissed me again.

Cleaver sat in the salon, a tall drink in hand.  Mona had
disappeared.  He gestured to the short table between his chair
and the next on which another tumbler rested, frosted with
condensation.  "Take a seat and have some refreshment.  How is
our favorite tall redhead this morning?"

I took a seat but ignored the drink.  "She'll be all right.
She's dressing."

"Are you satisfied she wasn't brought here by force?"

"I never asked her that, Cleaver.  Force would not have been
necessary" -- I fixed his eye with mine -- "this time."

He cocked an eyebrow inquiringly, then shook his head.  "Tim,
apparently we are getting off on the wrong foot.  I deplore that
very much.  We seemed so _compatible_ at my party in June.  It
was obvious to me that, although you were very young, you had a
good head for business on your shoulders.  Certainly someone who
earns a PhD in physics at the age of 15 is bound to shake the
world!  I admire that talent and ability, Tim.  I think it
represents the highest type of human, the cream of life on this
planet."

His face was earnest.  I said, "What do you want, Cleaver?"

"Can't you call me Harrison, or even Harry?  After all, we have
been the most intimate of friends."

"We have been intimate," I admitted grudgingly.  "Can it be that
you want to control your 'highest type of human?'"

"_Control_?  Tim, what an idea!  Don't you understand?  I want to
_help_ him!"

"To help him," I repeated.  "With money, perhaps?"

"Oh, certainly.  And I don't refer to piddling amounts, either.
I'm prepared to invest 50 million dollars."

I shook my head.  "_Piddling_ is a relative term."

He studied me with obvious interest, doubtlessly thinking of
Rosalind's disclosures.  "Do you have any idea -- that is, do you
have any justification for a larger sum?"

I said confidently, "I have a detailed development plan.  It
includes commitments, not mere estimates, for $500 million in the
first year."

"Five hundred --"  His eyes were round.  "Commitments, you say?"

"Oh, yes, from many investors."  I smiled internally.  Clara has
a cautious soul despite her reversion across four centuries.  She
had used more than 25 aliases -- that I knew of -- to manage her
money accounts.

He licked his lips, eyes glowing.  "To develop _what_, Tim?"

"I understand that Rosalind told you."

"Spaceships?  To the moon?"

"That's only the beginning."

He stared at me, breathing in slow pants, like a gun-shy dog who
hears distant thunder.  He shook his head as if recovering from a
dream.  "This is incredibly interesting, Tim.  I think I know who
your investors must be, and I'm surprised that Truman has so much
vision.  By the way, I'm most pleased that you are so
forthcoming.  But let me ask you something that may be of even
greater importance than moon colonies."

"Go ahead," I said cheerfully.  That was the moment I keyed _run_
to the NEPENTHE program already setup for my saliva glands.

He asked earnestly, "Do you know how your sudden growth to
physical adulthood was accomplished?"

I smiled.  "Yes, I know."

He took a deep breath.  "Tim, surely you realize what such an
ability implies for medicine.  Are these techniques of yours,
including breast enlargement, applicable to the general
population?"

"I'm confident of it."

His face lit as if in a spotlight.  "My god, Tim, this may be the
greatest discovery in history!"

On that note Rosalind appeared in the doorway.  She looked from
Cleaver to me.  "Am I interrupting something?"

"Not really," I answered, getting to my feet and going to her.

I took her in my arms.  As our faces closed, I whispered, "Don't
swallow," and shoved in another mouthful.  I released her
immediately.  To Cleaver it must have resembled a pro-forma peck.
She regarded me in wonder, lips pressed together.

"We've got places to go," I remarked in an offhand manner.  "Give
Harrison a kiss for his hospitality."

He surged to his feet, protesting, "Tim, you must always consider
my house your home away --"  Rosalind, who was in fact slightly
taller than he, pulled him against her and kissed him thoroughly
and lingeringly.  I saw his larynx bob.

She released him lazily.  "Harrison, that was a _wonderful_
evening."

He smiled quickly.  "For both of us, sweetie."  Then he frowned
and made tasting motions.

She looked at me with a twinkle.  "Men are easy to please."

"Which is why ..." Cleaver began.  He shook his head dizzily.
"Which is why women hate to do it.  Whoa!"  He took a deep breath
and looked at the girl.  "What ... what was it you asked me,
dear?"

She backed away from him and turned to me inquiringly.

"Time to go," I said, spinning toward the exit.

"My god, sir!  Who are ...  You must be related to --  No!"  He
struck his forehead with the heel of his hand.  "I know who you
are.  You're Timothy Kimball, grown up in three months!"

"It's been fun, Harrison," I told him.  "You'll want to think
about what we discussed.  Come along, Ros."

"But, but ..."  He stared after me with open mouth.

I led her out into the well deck.  A burly man stood at the top
of the companionway, glaring down at us.  He looked familiar.
His fists clenched and unclenched.

Behind us Cleaver said haltingly, "I really can't ... let you run
like this.  We need to go over ...  Go over what?"

Rosalind leaned against me, gesturing upward with her chin.
"He's the guy who grabbed me."

At the foot of the stairs I growled up at him, "Get out of the
way."

"Make me," he responded with a sneer.

"Stand back," I told Rosalind.

God, I'm fast these days!  My hand flicked out, caught one of his
widespread ankles and pulled it toward me off the edge of the
deck.  Down he came, his back striking the companionway rails.  I
stepped back, shoving the slowly reacting girl with my shoulder,
and let him collapse on the well deck with a whoosh of expelled
air.

While he got falteringly to his feet, I propelled Ros up the
companionway by her well-padded buttocks.  I turned to face him.
"Do we need to discuss this any further?"

Apparently we did.  He took a swing.  I saw the whole buildup as
if in slow motion and let his arm pass over my shoulder.  Bracing
a leg behind me, I sank my fist into his belly -- not very far;
this was a muscular specimen in good shape.  But he had swung
precipitously without recovering his balance.  He back-pedaled
into the open-mouthed Cleaver.  Both of them disappeared into the
relatively dark salon.

I was up the companionway in two steps.  "Come on."  I herded my
woman up the gangway.  The man in the forward well watched me but
didn't rise.  I took Rosalind's hand and we walked up the dock
toward the ramp.  The limousine had disappeared.  Large yachts
were moored on either side, some with crews working at one task
or another.  No one paid us any attention.

"Tim ...  What happened back there?"

"You saw it."

"Will they ... just let us go?"

"If they don't they'll wish they had."

We reached the ramp without incident.  At the top I looked around
among the many parked cars.  "Come on out to the street.  We'll
flag a taxi."

"Tim," she murmured, now holding to my hand as we walked, "did
Harrison forget what we did last night?  What did you tell him?"

"I answered all his questions without lying.  But it's all right.
He's forgotten everything that happened in the last 24 hours."

"Because I kissed him?"

"Because you shoved my saliva into his mouth.  Thank you, dear.
You were quick on the uptake."

"But why didn't it make _me_ forget?"

"It was tuned to recognize your DNA but not his, of course."  I
chuckled.  "Be careful whom you kiss until you take a good long
drink."

"My ... DNA?  What's that?"

"It's the code that determines who you are.  Even by _my_ time
they had mostly figured it out.  Clara's people have it cold."

"'The code that ...'"  Her voice faltered.

I explained the basics of cellular DNA, ending with, "Each person
has the same unique code in each of his cells.  It identifies him
absolutely, among other attributes."

She sighed.  "He laughed when I mentioned time travel.  But you
truly are from the future, aren't you, Tim -- and Alice and
Clara?"

"Partly.  It's complicated, Rosalind.  Your computer will be
activated next week.  Then you'll begin to understand."

"My _computer_?  Alice mentioned that.  What is it?"

"We each have one built into us.  It will make a big difference
to you.  You'll see.  For the time being, please stay away from
Cleaver, will you?"

"You see him as dangerous?"

"Presumptuous and overbearing.  Yes, he would have become
dangerous."

I flagged down a taxi.  On the way home Rosalind dropped her
bombshell.

"Do you know about wire recorders?"

"Yes, of course.  Tape recorders will soon replace them."

"Here's something I think you ought to hear.  I didn't know about
the lavatory on my stateroom, so when I woke up about nine
o'clock, I went across the hall to Cleaver's.  He had two wire
recorders in his stateroom and one of them was recording -- I
mean, the reels were turning.  I heard his voice clearly through
the machine, talking to someone in the salon."

I straightened up in alarm.  "Good god!"

"So he won't forget everything after all," she continued,
studying me.

I leaned forward, hand on the front seat, preparing to order the
driver to return.  But destroying those recorders would probably
result in someone's death.  What had I actually admitted?  Too
much, of course.  But hadn't he assumed that the government was
sponsoring my spaceship factory?  I resolved to wait for Clara's
record.

"At least he won't remember what he did to you," I mused.

"Well, I remember it, up until I got dizzy."  She twisted in the
seat uncomfortably.  "My bottom _really_ remembers."

* * *

Clara copied my record out into a viewer and I went over it a few
times.  Apparently my memory was good.  Fernworks was not at
hazard, not so long as Cleaver believed Truman to be my sponsor.
But my implicit admission that Clara's medical programs might be
effective for the whole world -- in particular for _him_, would
cause us future grief, I felt confident, as he aged and lost
confidence in mid-century medicine.  His realization that I had
made him forget his meeting with Rosalind and myself would only
add to his appreciation of it.

The answer to him and the government was the same: a full
disconnect.  We would have to move it up.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+


  index