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August 2027

Forty-six-year-old Gordon likes to finish by fucking my tits. That was also true of forty-five-year-old Gordon. Twenty-nine-year-old Gordon only finishes that way once in a while. I think this means that in sixteen years either my tits will droop horrendously or they’ll be gone because of breast cancer. If I’m even still in Gordon’s life by then.

Gordon now is a good lover, and clearly he’ll become a better one. I’m hoping that his young self will pick up some pointers by watching his older selves fuck me. So far, though, while he sits there getting cuckolded by himself, he’s mainly hoping to hear the guy let slip something about the time machine. Young Gordon wants to invent the time machine right now and get rich. Old Gordon insists to young Gordon that the laws of the universe prevent the passing of most information from the future, and anyway, it took a really long time to develop the time machine, and if young Gordon wants it so bad, he should just put in the work, damnit.

This whole thing of old Gordon traveling to the past so he can fuck me is weird and disturbing in more ways than I have time to count. But I really like all the sex. I’m kind of into older guys, and if I have Daddy issues, they don’t get me all messed up. For hot, exuberant sex I have 29YO Gordon, working even harder now that he has competition, banging away on me two or three times a day. For sweet, romantic sex I have 46YO Gordon, showing up once every ten days or so, maxing the foreplay and whispering sweet nothings and finding amazing ways to get me aroused and fulfilled—but obviously good for only one boner in a session. I think seeing his eventual decline as a multierection sex machine bothers 29YO Gordon more than any other aspect of this.

At least young Gordon mouthes the correct platitudes when I bring up my worries. He insists that he’d never leave me. Which, if true, may mean that there’s a higher probability of me being dead in less than two decades, than there is of me getting dumped.

Today I was still flying from a back-arching orgasm, when 46YO hauled his dick out of my twat and awkwardly knee-walked up to straddle my torso. We were in missionary, so he could quickly wrap his swollen purplish dork, glistening with cunt sauce, inside my E-cups. His blue eyes are still piercing, and his body is beautifully sculpted with lean muscle, making 29YO look soft by comparison. There are already dietary supplements on the market that may enhance the human form with neither exercise nor side effects, and maybe 46YO has access to a more advanced version.

My more-mature lover was already panting when he brought the blobs of tit meat together and drove up my cleavage. But even as he wailed and spewed, and held the mams together with a grip that made tendons stick out along his hands, his thumbs gently caressed my nipples. I really liked that. Did 29YO notice?

Of course, I tried to get a clue about the future. As 46YO started to lever himself off I leaned up to grab him. I frenched him really hard, then brought my scummed tits up to his face and said, “Are these the best breasts of all time?”

He dodged. “They’re wonderful. You’re wonderful.” Then he frenched me back, which added a rush to the orgasm the way the nipple fondles did, and then he was out of my clutches and on the way to the bathroom. He was followed by 29YO, and the usual argument about the time machine started.

The revenge sex, after old Gordon left, was fun as usual. I teased 29YO a little but also told him the truth, that his erection is way harder than 46YO’s. What I didn’t say is that a wang with some flexibility when it’s being used well, feels really great up in my tunnel of love. Still, there are some things I can’t get with 46YO. He hasn’t even tried to fuck my ass. That’s why 29YO gets to that early on, showing both his power and his sensitivity, and I cum that way from a slow, heavily-lubed drive.

So. By 2043 I might be dead, or ugly, or obese. I might be a boring wife, focused on our kids. If I don’t make more headway in advanced physics research, I might be in Tentopolis, huddling under a crumbling overpass. Gordon will still be around, and for some reason he’ll have to come visit 26-year-old Stella Mariscotti. What may be weirdest of all is that my brainchem balancers allow me to think about this calmly, and give it lower priority than having really good sex.

September 2027

I’d had two orgasms. I was now riding 29YO in cowgirl position, and he was really wheezing. I leaned down so he could grab and suck my big wobbly hooters. His face was bright red, making those blue eyes even sharper, getting me swoony while my slobbered nips got tingles. That might have started me towards another joy-spazz, but then he grunted and jetted into me, flexing hard, stretching my pussy a little more than I liked. It was his fourth cum, the second in my cooch, and I was getting sore. After a long time, his muscles finally eased. It was then that it occurred to me to ask, “Has he ever said he invented sakarya escort the time machine?”

“He must have,” Gordon gasped. “I’ve been at this for five years.”

Which, correct or not, was an answer to a different question.

It was a day or two later that I dug through the February 2026 security videos and found the one where 45YO Gordon first showed up. We were sitting on the sofa, looking at the big-screen, and suddenly things started blowing around, and we coughed a lot (I remember itching, intensely), and then something slowly took shape about five feet from us. And when things had settled down the shape said, “Hi Stella, hi Gordon. I’m Gordon Reichert also, and all I can tell you is that I’m now 45 years old.”

The overhead shot didn’t really convey the calm, friendly look he gave us. It did fine showing our WTF-ness.

That was, of course, an historic moment, and what followed was momentous and life-changing, but I skipped over most of it. No need to go through, yet again, his showing us a perfect match to my guy’s fingerprints. I found the closest thing to a declaration of who invented the time machine:

28YO-at-that-moment Gordon asked, amazed and incredulous, “So I’m really going to invent a time machine that works?”

45YO Gordon smiled, spread his hands, and said, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Which didn’t answer the question.

And we could only assume that there was a ‘time machine.’ We never saw it. Old Gordon just showed up and vanished, and it’s been that way every other visit. No Delorean, no visible device of any kind. More like being beamed in and out.

Obviously, some pretty big information from the future got through to us: Time travel is possible, and Gordon, at least, will be involved in it. Which basically told us that we should keep time machine work as a high priority. Thus, the future had already influenced the past. So why not tell me something less Earth-shattering, like why my lover has to travel back in time to get laid?

That first meeting also started our menage-a-whaa? The brain chemistry balancers in my bloodstream keep me from putting outrage on my awareness that 45YO clearly picked the perfect time to show up and start banging me. Gordon and I had only had sex twice in the last eleven days, and both times it was rushed and not very satisfying. Work had been hellish, especially because I came up with equations and modeling which showed that his current approach to time travel wouldn’t work. And this was a side project, not even what the institute was paying us to work on, and we’d been putting in 20-hour days and abreacting to the sleep-compression regimen. We were getting on each other’s nerves, and I was horny, and frustrated, and actually thinking about hooking up with another guy.

But here in front of me was a confident, graying-at-the-temples Gordon Reichert, who sweet-talked me better than his younger self ever had.

I use brainchem balancers because they reduce emotional loading on counterproductive trains of thought, helping me to keep focus in my high-stress profession. I’ve chosen a formulation that doesn’t suppress amorous arousal. This made me even more of a pushover than I might have been otherwise.

28YO was so sky high, over his belief that he would eventually succeed, that he submitted to the cuck fantasy that he’d only partway admitted to me.

And I got action on the side, with none of the disadvantages of involving another human in one’s sex life. Plus the bonus of seeing that Gordon, the man I guess I sorta-kinda loved, would eventually turn into this great, successful, Adonis-bodied guy in the future. A future which might not include me.

April 2030

My planning for the future has a horizon of less than two weeks. Just before 49YO leaves, the three of us go over our schedules and we decide on a date for the next visit. The interval varies. It’s been as short as eight days, and as long as thirteen. Every visit happens here in the condo, so if one or both of us is at a conference or an experiment site, we schedule around that. 49YO also gives wide berth to my period. So does 32YO, at my long-standing request.

I once suggested that we could schedule his visits months or years into the future, but Old Gordon just smiled and shook his head, saying, “Can’t do that.” So I’m allowed to learn only that I’ll be alive and fuck-ready ten or so days in the future.

But while I can’t find out how long I live after my next whoopee with 49YO, I do get something that nobody else in the world has: Absolute certainty that I’ll be alive and healthy until 49YO shows up again. Old Gordon knows what we’ll live through, and wouldn’t plan to show up if I was gone (for whatever reason). Even young Gordon doesn’t have this certainty. He’s involved in the planning of the next date, but he isn’t essential to what 49YO does when he gets here.

This, of course, has me dreading the visit when 49YO doesn’t set a date for the next one. The brainchem balancers modulate this. My mersin escort fear settles in as a sort of shrugging ‘Yeah, that’d be tough.’

It can’t end yet! Things are going really well. The institute just got a paper accepted for publication at a top journal, and I’m the lead author. Gordon is listed fourth out of the nine of us, but he and everyone else agree that I was the one who had the insight, and pushed the work to the finish line. The peer review is spotless. All of that is science talk for me being brilliant and doing great stuff. The institute is giving me more money and more interesting, challenging work.

The ego-stroking has amped my libido. I’ve been more adventurous lately. Today, as 49YO and I were undressing each other, I grabbed 32YO and said, “You too,” holding him close and pulling his shirt up. 49YO knew this was going to happen, of course, because From-The-Future.

It was thrilling, and a little scary. I’d never before done two guys at once. In dark alleys of my mind, I recalled sitting alone in a high-school cafeteria. I was plain and nerdy but had tits that got bigger every day. I was glanced at by groups of snickering guys, each dude getting nastier because of their group vibe.

I had studied aikido, but stayed safe mainly by avoiding risky situations. Eventually I took up with Gordon because he was nerdy and nice and smart, and he didn’t run with a crowd. Dealing with only one man helped me feel secure.

Now, I was in control, knee-standing nude on my bed, with each hand stroking a different version of the same penis. There was a soft, moist, loving mouth on each of my dark-nippled, wide-aureoled breasts. I wasn’t being exploited by two men. I was receiving the favors and passion of two men.

I’m still a nerd. I insisted that they wash off after each penetration. To go with what my body enjoyed, there was brain fun, such as: If I weren’t on the pill, could loads of spunk from two different bodies create identical twins?

And I had a great evil moment. I was getting doggy-fucked by 32YO while blowing 49YO, who stood on the floor next to the bed. Four hands fondled my gazongas, as if they were the best breasts of all time. I was on the brink of a huge cum. I grazed my teeth along the head of the prick, then pulled it out, looked 49YO in the eyes, and said. “If you set the next date now, I’ll be in a really good mood.”

“Eleven days,” he gasped. Knowing, of course, that I was going to do this.

“Yay!” I yelled. “Not gonna die!” I deep-throated his whole putz while the younger putz deep-vaginaed me. I gave myself up to the orgasm, which added to my suck spasms and cunt flexes, launching tsunamis of scum into me in both directions.

March 2034

53YO was eating my pussy even though I had let the pubes grow out. I was getting bored. I didn’t want to admit that, but then I probably didn’t have to. He’d know it in retrospect.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. 36YO was getting bored too. He wasn’t even here while 53YO munched my carpet. So 53YO wouldn’t have a memory of this session.

It’s one thing to be attracted to older men generally. The more time you spend with an older man, however, you can’t help but notice that he gets…even older.

His body still looked great. Apparently, though, that doesn’t guarantee endurance, consistency, or the ability to prolong a witty conversation indefinitely.

I had just turned 33. My perspective on sex had been evolving for quite a while. Also, gravity was luring my funbags towards the Earth’s core, and my gut was making a misguided attempt to block their progress.

I asked, “How much longer will you keep cheating on 50YO Stella if I keep deteriorating?” The cheating scenario at least posited me being alive and still coupled with him, and thus maybe having pretty much the same stable life.

53YO didn’t react, except to do a nice tongue move that, I admit, gave me a pleasant shiver.

These days it was getting tougher for 36YO Gordon to be the kind of guy who gets my juices flowing. He’d hit another dead end on the time machine. And he wasn’t getting far in real work, either. He’d started easing towards administration, never admitting that this was what he was mainly doing on committees in our profession. And he was all happy-on-the-outside about the papers being published in the world’s leading journals with me as the principal author. If anything, for me work was getting easier. Routinely I saw the inner meaning of experimental data more quickly and surely than Gordon did.

Knowing I wouldn’t get a response, I still said, “You visit here about every ten days. And about ten days elapse for you, between visits. You’re aging at the same rate we are.”

The part his face that I could see over my crotch seemed to tighten. Worried? By what I said, or my tone of voice?

“That’s a limitation on the time machine, isn’t it? Real-time pacing. Once you’ve started with a 17-year gap, you’re stuck with it.” This thinking out loud spurred some parallel silent thinking. istanbul escort “You’d need a differently designed and calibrated machine to go back 49 years, and another to go forward 73 years.”

His right eyebrow twitched. Which told me:

No time machine can go forward.

A few theories clicked together. Scattered scraps of math and physics now seemed to make sense when combined. I grabbed my screenpad from the side table just as he was raising himself up to start fucking. As his prick pushed aside my labia I thought yes that’s very nice but also this is how I was able to find the dead ends in his ideas. With both hands I brought equations onto the pad and worked them.

I’ve never been attractive. In that moment, though, with my long black hair fanned out on the pillow, and my big brown eyes widened from the stampede of my thoughts, and my dark full lips parted slightly, and my face cleared of worries and fears, Stella Mariscotti became what Gordon and maybe every other straight techie guy would see as a mega-hottie. The penis inside me thickened and sped up.

The orgasm was a very good one, compared to what I’d had with 53YO lately. I also got tingles along the back of my neck, behind the ears, as the screen showed me what I’d developed. My torso flexed, and I whooped, zooming to greater ecstasy. A mathasm!

“Stay, inside,” I gasped at him, showing the results on the screenpad. “and f-finish, in there. I don’t want, your jizz to, splatter this.”

After he had shot his load, and I got back to normal breathing, I told him, “You can stop pretending now.”

February 2043

The Gordon who was my roommate actually helped a lot, once I showed him how it would work. And he was very good at the fundraising, which is still the lifeblood of all research. We found that we didn’t have to stay ideal lovers if we were a good team.

I really dig being a cougar. I can take a twenty-something hunk who thinks every pussy will bloom at the sight of his hot bod, and show him what he doesn’t know. I’ve scared off several, but have several more hanging around to worship me.

Older guys? Arm candy, at best. Lately middle age has worked a lot better for women than for men. The newest attempts to maintain youthful testosterone appear to degrade brains, and I have no use for morons. Gordon is smart enough to have avoided that. He takes only body-sculpting meds that have no side effects. He knows that what he can still do with his shlong will be welcomed on his excellent adventure.

We still fuck. Especially lately. For the last three days I’ve led him meticulously through what he needs to do, both to come on to 25YO Stella for the first time, and to take my ripe young body somewhere it hadn’t yet been on the spectra of arousal and climax. Obviously we’ll have to keep that up for the next eight years. We don’t want any time paradoxes. And we want to move me along gradually, with uncertainty about my future, towards the revelation of what will make a time machine work. Before the diagnosis of breast cancer.

I think my new tits are better than the old ones. Grown from my own tissues and DNA. E-cups, just as big and bouncy as what I had before, sneering at gravity (so far). And they’re orgasmically responsive. After all those years of only getting hints and tingles from breast stimulation, I now have bazooms that can lead the parade. I can get off, hugely, from sucking my nips.

I guess this bugs Gordon a little, because when he fucks my tits now I make him take me all the way to cums in both boobs. It’ll be so much more relaxing for him to fuck 25YO’s mostly-sleepy tits after he satisfies her with clitoral and vaginal orgasms.

In today’s training session, after I came splendidly from his pussyfuck, I told him to finish between the tits. He thumbed the nipples delicately as the head of the prick pushed into view past my orbs. Jizz splattered my face and neck and collected between my collarbones. Soaring towards another cum, I smeared semen on my pebbled nips and gasped, “Lick ’em clean!” He did. The nipples swelled, but he kept both in his mouth as he sucked. I screamed as the pleasure flashed through me. Later, recalling what I’d said more than fifteen years ago, I murmured, “These are the best breasts of all time.”

It was a relief to ditch the brainchem balancers, which were so 2024. They were really important for keeping me happy with sex and indifferent to what might have been an awful future. That was then. Now I can get mad and act weird and everyone just writes it off as genius. Which definitely works for me.

Instead, I now take fat-cell moderators, like probably every affluent woman. My body will stay nicely lush without ever getting fat. A good visual match to Gordon’s hunky bod.

We’re not letting anyone else travel in time, of course. Haven’t even revealed that the time machine exists. We’ve gotten rich from the spinoffs.

I’m now all chillax about the future. One day out of ten-or-so, for the next eight years, Gordon will go back and enrich the life of a young physicist who had yet to blossom fully. The other nine-or-so days, I’ll run roughshod over some flabbergasted young hunk, while Gordon sits next to the bed and watches, planning his sweet, Stella-fulfilling revenge sex. Once a cuck…