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From: michaeld38@aol.communism (MichaelD38)
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Subject: {ASSM} Vector, ch.5 {MichaelD}
Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2000 22:10:04 -0400
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AUTHOR'S NOTE AND LEGAL STUFF
I did not e-mail you this story. If you unexpectedly found it in your mailbox,
it's because your kid and/or your spouse is subscribing to adult newsgroups
without your knowledge. Flame them, not me.
This story contains explicit sex. If you're a minor, you've obviously gotten
past whatever paltry filters your parents tried to put on your computer, so
hell, you might as well read it. No one ever died from reading about sex.
This story is mine. Free reposting and archiving is okay; commercial use is
not (that includes using it on some slimeball banner farm). Contact me if you
have any questions; cross me and I'll have you fed to rabid weasels.
This is another serial like "Call Girl Cheerleaders." I have no idea where
it's going or how it will end. Want to find out? Send me mail.
My stories, including this one, are archived at:
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/MichaelD/www/
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Bissell/www (all the work of my alter ego)
www.storiesonline.net (complete but not always up)
---
VECTOR
Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com. No commercial use without prior
authorization.
<->
BOY
Do not try to bend the spoon. That's impossible. Instead, only try to realize
the truth.
NEO
What truth?
BOY
There is no spoon.
--The Matrix
<->
Chapter 5.
Victor remained in bed after waking, afraid to get up lest some new aberration
begin. He spent a few minutes trying to tell himself that he had brought
Leslie's letter with him--he hadn't--and that the pine needles could have
dropped into his pocket as he walked to his room the night before.
But he gave it up as futile. The conventional laws of the universe, as he
understood them, had been suspended. The only other explanation was that
Victor was mentally ill, and every fiber of his being fought that possibility
intensely.
The episode with Leslie that morning had not been a dream. It had none of the
sense of fluid reality that his dreams normally had once he woke up. It seemed
no different from his memories of the day before, the day he had driven
frantically out of Los Angles and into the mountains seeking some respite.
Respite he had yet to find.
Eventually Victor's empty stomach drove him out of the room just past twelve.
He looked around warily as he walked to his car, afraid of the least bit of
human contact.
Victor drove up the road about a mile before spotting a diner. He pulled into
the parking lot and went inside, still unable to shake his apprehension. The
place was about half full, and Victor took a seat along the counter, away from
any of the other customers. The waitress took his order for a BLT and a glass
of iced tea. Nothing unusual happened, but Victor still ate his sandwich
nervously, looking over his shoulder every minute or two, as if he were being
stalked by invisible demons.
---
He spent the rest of the weekend hiding in the motel, waiting for another
aberration to begin, but none did. He drove home Sunday afternoon, finding
Hemingway hungry but non-verbal. He fed his cat, tried to prepare for his
classes that week, and went to sleep around eleven.
That night Victor had a dream.
In the way that most dreams appear real until one awakes, Victor at first
didn't realize he was dreaming. He was teaching a class, Leslie's section,
although Leslie was behaving. Beside his podium, sitting in an antique
wingback chair, was Abraham Lincoln. Or rather, someone who looked like him:
tall, gangly, hollow-cheeked, though without his trademark beard.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Abraham Lincoln?" Victor asked.
"I get that a lot," Lincoln replied. He began stroking his chin, and gradually
a beard appeared on his face. Now it really was Lincoln, the unmistakable face
that Victor had seen in the nineteenth century daguerreotypes taken during the
Civil War.
"Does anyone have any thoughts about what Lincoln was trying to say in 'A
Farewell to Arms'?" Victor asked the class. Leslie raised her hand.
"He was trying to say how bad the Civil War was," she said, "about how so many
people died and how it had such a big effect on people's lives, how it affected
their worldview."
"That's very good, Leslie."
No, Victor thought to himself immediately, that isn't right. Hemingway wrote
that book. But the scene continued.
Then he thought: This is a dream. I'm dreaming this. Normally a realization
like that would have woken Victor immediately, but this time he remained
asleep.
"Yes, it is a dream," Lincoln said. "But you dream about Leslie a lot, don't
you?"
"I don't mind," Leslie said. "I really like older men. I've never had sex
with a guy who wasn't at least ten years older than me."
"It's true," the boy beside her said, "I ask her out all the time, but that's
what she tells me."
The rest of the students nodded, murmuring in agreement. Lincoln motioned to
Leslie, who stood up and walked to the front of the class.
"Look at this body, Victor," he said. Leslie posed for him, as Lincoln
extended his hand toward her. "Have you ever seen tits like these?"
"No," Victor replied. "She's very pretty,"
"Show everyone your tits, Leslie."
Keeping a beauty-pageant smile on her face, Leslie began disrobing. She
stripped down to her panties, which Victor noted were the same white lace thong
that had bedeviled him the week before. Leslie linked her hands behind her
back and thrust her breasts out for everyone to see. Through the fog of the
dreamworld--and he was certain now that he was dreaming--Victor felt his penis
erecting and straining against the bedclothes.
"Marvelous," Lincoln said. "Simply marvelous."
The other students applauded. Leslie beamed at Victor. Lincoln reached out
and tugged at the waist of Leslie's thong. The flimsy lace came away in his
hands, leaving the girl nude.
"Do you want to fuck her, Victor?" Lincoln asked. "You're dreaming; you can do
whatever you want to her. No one will stop you. No one has the power to stop
you here."
"No," Victor gasped.
Leslie pouted.
"Why not? Don't you like me?"
She ran a hand slowly up her body, touching herself with only her middle
finger, up her thigh, around her narrow blonde pubis, across her abdomen, then
up to her left breast. The pout became a teasing smile as she ran her
fingertip around the nipple. The little nub of pink flesh rapidly erected
under Leslie's attentions.
"Victor, you're free to do what you like with her," Lincoln said. "Go on, fuck
her. I won't do anything."
"It's not right."
"What is right and wrong in this place? It's a dreamworld, Victor. Just like
these episodes you've been having."
"I wasn't dreaming those."
"But how do you know that?"
"I just do."
Leslie stepped toward Victor until she was only a few inches away. He could
feel the tidal pull of her body now, and his right hand rose, fingers curling
toward her. She smiled, waiting for him to cup her breast in his hand.
Then, at all once, Victor stopped dreaming. Only he didn't wake up. The scene
simply became real.
Victor leapt back, yelping in surprise. He was standing in his classroom,
Leslie stark naked in front of him, Abraham Lincoln still in his chair.
"I'll ask you again, Victor, how do you know you're dreaming? Are you dreaming
now?"
Victor gasped for breath, running his hands over his body.
"Is this real? I'm not dreaming this?"
"You're asking wrong questions, Victor."
"Yeah," Leslie said, "the wrong questions."
Victor struggled for a response.
"What are the right questions?"
"You're spending too much time questioning what you see," Lincoln said, "even
though you know in your heart you aren't imaging things. Instead of asking,
'Why is this happening?' you should be asking 'Why is this happening to me?'"
"I don't understand."
"The difference is subtle, but it's there. Don't try to bend the spoon. Try
to realize the truth.'"
Victor's head swam. It was another line from "The Matrix."
"'There is no spoon'?" he whispered.
Lincoln smiled.
"Well, this time perhaps there is. The problem is seeing it."
"I still don't understand."
"That's enough for now. Wake up, Victor."
And he did.
---
Victor lurched awake in his bed, in his house, alone. His alarm clock was
buzzing on the nightstand beside him. Hemingway was in his usual spot in the
far corner of the bed. The cat looked up at Victor, stretching.
As the pounding of his heart began to slow, Victor tried to gather his wits.
He had never had a dream like that before, which did not necessarily mean
anything. He looked around himself in bed, under the sheets, looking for any
clues--a spoon, perhaps?--but found nothing.
What had Lincoln said? Try to realize the truth. Ask the right questions.
Why _was_ this happening to him?
Victor had no clue.
He drove to work that morning still lost in thought. It still came down to two
options. Either Victor was losing his mind, or the world had come unhinged.
So if he was not losing his mind, what was going on?
He thought back over the events of the previous week, settling on the most
unlikely of them: Hemingway speaking to him, which he had done at least once,
twice if someone had not been playing telephone games with him.
Victor had once done some research into feline anatomy, back when he had first
gotten Hemingway. He knew that cats had neither the vocal cords nor the brain
structure to possess powers of speech. The average cat's brain was about the
size of a walnut, and it did not posses the more intricate structures that made
possible the higher functions that a human being's was capable of. Hemingway
could not have spoken to him unless those laws of biology no longer held.
So something--or someone?--had altered those laws, temporarily given Hemingway
powers of speech. That seemed utterly impossible, but Victor realized there
might be another option. Maybe the truth was something linked to all these
flashbacks to "The Matrix" he had been having. Maybe something was changing
what he saw and heard without changing reality.
That theory lasted only until he remembered his encounter with the woman in the
supermarket parking lot. If it had been nothing but an induced hallucination,
could he have staggered around the parking lot like that--ejaculating in his
pants--without anyone noticing?
Only if this force was altering other people's perceptions as well. Or he had
hallucinated the entire trip to the market. Maybe he was hallucinating this
entire week-long insanity. Maybe he was Neo, trapped inside some computer that
was controlling his every thought.
Victor's head spun again. That way lay madness, as surely as if this entire
experience could be chalked up to schizophrenia. He was no closer to an answer
now than he had been before.
---
The day proceeded uneventfully. Victor tried to pass the time by reviewing the
article Danielle Peyton had given him. It was good, good enough to distract
him while he read. He made a few notes here and there, a few suggestions at
the end. When he was done, he stuck it into her box in the English Department
office.
As he was eating lunch, Danielle stuck her head through his door.
"Thank you so much for helping."
"It was no trouble."
"I really appreciate your suggestions. I'm going to give it another stab later
this week."
"I don't think it needs any kind of a rewrite. Just some polish in spots."
"I thought so too, I just wanted some outside feedback. Anyway, thanks again.
I won't interrupt anymore of your lunch."
She turned to go, but Victor stopped her.
"Danielle, wait."
"What?"
"Could I ask you something? This may sound a little odd."
Concern lined her face.
"What? What's the matter?"
"Have you noticed anything strange around here lately? Anything out of the
ordinary at all?"
She smiled.
"Besides the Dean continuing to hit on me? No, what do you mean?"
"I mean truly strange. 'X-Files' strange."
The mirth left Danielle's eyes.
"Victor, are you sure you're all right?"
"You haven't noticed anything like that?"
"No. Are you still feeling ill? Is there anything I can do?"
Victor shook his head, trying to act normal.
"No. I was just wondering. I thought I had seen some odd things lately, but I
suppose not."
Danielle refused to be dismissed so easily.
"Odd things how?"
"Well, odd like . . ." His voice trailed off. God, what could possibly tell
her? Danielle was a good friend, but there was no telling how she would react
to stories about the things he had seen Leslie doing.
He sighed. Damn the consequences. He needed some help with this.
"The other morning I thought I heard my cat talking to me."
"So? My cat talks to me all the time."
"No, I mean speaking to me. In English. I had a five-minute conversation with
him. He asked me to get him a specific brand of cat food."
Danielle shook her head, smiling.
"Victor, cats are like that. My God, you should see things my cat won't eat."
Victor gulped. He couldn't say anything for a moment or two.
"You're saying your cat talks to you?"
"All the time. She likes to watch 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' with me. We have
all sorts of discussions about 'Buffy.'"
Danielle continued smiling at him. She spoke again, but her voice had changed.
It was deep, the sound of gravel in her throat.
"Sorry, Victor," Lincoln said, "you won't get off that easily."
She turned and left the office without another word.
---
Victor remained at his desk, shaking in agitation for nearly ten minutes. He
could not recall having been as frightened as he had been when he heard
Lincoln's voice coming from Danielle's mouth, not since he was a child.
Something was at work here, some evil force, whether it was a chemical
imbalance in Victor's brain or something else.
Victor didn't come back to reality until he glanced at the clock and realized
that it was 1:05. He was missing his one o'clock class. He rapidly gathered
up his materials and left the office. Sometimes when he was late, Jacob might
take over temporarily, and the class might have started without him.
He arrived at the room to discover that it had. Only not the way he might have
expected.
What he found, to put it simply, was an orgy.
Most of the students were naked or at least half out of their clothes. All of
them were sexually entangled with their classmates, generally two or three at
once. No barriers of sexual preference seemed to hold here. He saw girls with
girls, boys with boys, penises, tongues, and fingers shoved into whatever
orifices presented themselves. The desks had been largely shoved aside,
although some had been pressed into service as makeshift beds. Moans and gasps
filled the air, mingling with the overpowering odor of frenzied copulation.
Leslie was in the center of it, on her feet. Her friend Stacey Bennett was on
her knees in front of her, mouth fastened to Leslie's sex. Around them were
other students. The two boys who had been flirting with Leslie throughout the
semester were fellating each other. Another girl was trying to help. One boy
broke from his current partner and went to Stacey, pulling her to her feet
(though not from her attachment to Leslie) and entered her from behind.
As Victor gradually broke free from his shock, Leslie motioned to him.
"Come on, Victor. We've been waiting for you. I told Stacey how great your
cock is."
The boy servicing Stacey withdrew, turning to display Stacey's wet sex for
Victor. Stacey reached back between her legs, using her fingers to spread
herself open. The student around them began to notice Victor as well and
called for him to join them.
Victor could stand no more of it. He bolted from the doorway, running for the
stairwell. He crashed through the double doors and ran down the stairs, taking
three and four steps at once. He burst from the building and ran across the
quad toward the library.
He ran aimlessly across campus in a blind panic. Only when his heart began
protesting did he stumble to a stop, gasping for breath. He bent forward,
putting his hands on his knees. He closed his eyes and tried to drive that
insane scene from his mind.
Slowly Victor realized that someone was trying to get his attention.
"Victor? Victor, it's all right. Look at me."
Victor raised his head. Before him, sitting on a bench beside the sidewalk,
was Abraham Lincoln, sans beard.
Before Victor could react, Lincoln extended his hand.
"My name is Guiliano da Vinci. And I think I have a story you're going to want
to hear."
---
<To be continued>
---
Vector
Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com
Free redistribution permitted; no commercial use without authorization
Michael
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