Herstory 8211 Chapter 4 8211 Caught In Act
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A Trip Into Herstory, Part I free porn video
A trip into Herstory Part I
Things were not going well.
Oh, they have gone worse, my life is filled with fultility and
disappointment.
At least I had a date.
And she was cute.
She was even wearing the outfit she knew would make me the happiest, a
snug fitting woman's version of a Red Sox jersey, and some stretchy red
shorts. Wahoo.
But we had hit a snag.
Or the pizza box hit a snag.
We were cuddled up on the couch with some old movie on the computer (I
rent movies cheap that way; the screen is wide enough if you're up close.
Besides my computer is top notch and my tv is an antique). Then she said,
"Please don't put your hand there? I don't like that."
"Hand where?" I asked. One hand was holding a slice of pizza and the
other was innocently fondling her ample bosom, to which she had not
previously objected.
"Where? That's not you down there? Then what...EWW!" She reached behind
her and pulled out a pizza box. Not the new one from which we were then
eating, alas. This was old, but still filled with crumbs and gummy smears
of sauce and cheese. And a corner of it had somehow found its way into
her butt.
She jumped up. "Ew! Ew! Ew!" Turning around, she pointed to the offended
area and asked, "Tell me, have I got any on me?" I chuckled. That was
seriously bad timing. "Low life! Gutter mind! Just tell me if you see
pizza there."
I looked. "Well, I do see evidence of the ghost of Pizza past," I
admitted. "Shall I brush you off? It's mostly crumbs."
"Thank you no, I'll do it myself." She flounced off to the john, and came
back shortly thereafter. "If there's one place in the universe more
filthy than your living room, it's your john."
"Hey, I sprayed around there. At least there's lots of toilet paper."
"Have you ever scrubbed in there? Have you used your manly muscles and
cleaned any of those surfaces?"
"Ah, well, these modern chemicals are supposed to do the scrubbing for
you."
"Do they scrub the dishes in your sink?" She gestured to a moldering pile
of crockery in my kitchen. It's not really a kitchen, just the kitchen
part of my living space. You might call it a large efficiency apartment.
You might call it "open plan." You might call it the upstairs floor above
my workshop, which is a mighty fine workspace, well organized, well kept,
well furnished. Unlike my living quarters. But at least I owned the
place.
"Robbie, I really do like you. You're smart, you're funny, you're kinda
cute, and unlike a lot of guys you're not still living with your mom. But
you're such a slob!"
"Oh I don't think I'm all that bad."
"What is in the corner back there?"
"Bags."
"How many bags?"
"Not more than seven, because seven is all I can carry in my trunk and
back seat."
"And what is in them?"
"Cans."
"Beer cans. They smell."
"Hey, some of them are root beer. I recycle, is that so evil?"
"And what about the other corner? And along that wall?"
"Pizza boxes," I admitted, in a low voice. I was doomed. There was no way
I could defend my pizza box connection.
"Why don't you just throw them out?" she pleaded.
"We have to pay for each bag they pick up. Not the recycling bags but the
trash bags. The fewer bags I use the more I save. Waste not, want not."
"So you just live with trash?"
"I burn them, out back."
"How often? Every leap year?"
"So I eat a lot of pizza! Besides, it's rained a lot lately. And in the
couple days it didn't rain, I had customers. Gotta work if you wanna
eat."
"Do you know how lame that sounds?"
"No. Yeah. Well okay you're right, I'm a slob. But hey, I still have all
those other good qualities you mentioned."
She walked over to one window and fingered the fronds of my fern. My ex-
fern. The fronds were very, very brown. Brittle, too.
"Poor thing," she murmured. "Died of neglect."
"I'm not heartless, I miss my fern too! See, I tied a little yellow
ribbon around it for remembrance."
She sat down again, her face turned toward me. "You know what's strange?
I actually believe you. I believe you loved that fern, and were sad when
it died."
"That's right."
"So what happens to people you love, Robbie? Do you take care of them? Do
you give them enough attention, enough so that they can thrive? Or do you
let them wither, and then mourn for the lost relationship?"
I had nothing to say.
I looked away, staring out at the night sky, what I could see of it
through the streaked window.
"Robbie, would you make a commitment for me?"
"What sort of commitment?"
"Would you agree to take care of things, look after them, neaten up a
little? I really need to see that I won't be the next thing you neglect."
I took a deep breath. "I do not say this lightly; I love you. Our
relationship means a lot to me. I know the place is a mess, and it says
bad things about me, I realize that. It would be different with you, I
would never neglect you."
"So you'll make this commitment, for me?"
I sighed. "I have been living like this since high school. I did try to
change once or twice; I failed. Maybe old habits die hard."
"Is that all you can say to me?"
"I want to say more, but I'm not good at lying. I don't know if I can
change. I want to. I love you. But I just don't know."
"I'm not good at lying either. I can't live like this. It's your mess, or
me."
I looked at her forlornly. I deserved this, it was my fate.
She nodded her head, stood up, kissed me on the forehead, and walked out.
I grabbed her piece of pizza off the sofa and finished it. Then I threw
the crust in the corner.
Futility and disappointment.
My door opened, without a knock. It was either a robbery, or the Prof.
"Robert my good man! Behold, the success of my latest efforts! The
fulfillments of my dreams!"
It was the Prof. He and I share a common interest in things electronic.
We also swap out parts, and even share some ideas. My name shows up with
his on a couple patents, even. The ones that pay five dollars a year. His
name is by itself on the more remunerative ones. It's how he sustains his
unique lifestyle, of constant experimentation and occasional eating and
bathing. That, and a gig at the community college.
How to describe the Prof? He's brilliant, undoubtedly, I've never met
anyone with half his IQ. Eccentric? That would be putting it mildly.
Alarming? Occasionally.
Which was why I was on my guard right now. "Ah, what exactly do you mean?
What am I to behold- at a safe distance- that will demonstrate this
fulfillment of your dreams?"
His eyes rolled wildly in his head, but they always did that. "Enter my
dear!" he said, with a grand flourish toward the door.
In strode the most bizarre creature I have ever seen. She looked like a
cross between the robot in the old original Metropolis movie with a
severe version of that Borg who joined Picard's crew, with a little early
Madonna thrown in. That silver bullet shaped brassiere, for one thing.
His smiles and arched eyebrows and odd gestures in her direction cued me
that it was my turn to say something.
"Ah, hello there! My name is Robert. Who may I have the honor of
addressing?"
She smiled at me in a chilly way, or perhaps it was only mechanical.
"'Whom', you mean. Brunhilda," she said shortly.
"And your connection with the Prof here?"
"I am him! Or he, properly speaking." I gaped with awe and consternation,
and she gave me a condescending sneer.
"It is true! I in fact am the Prof you knew, transformed through use of
new knowledge and sent to the past, where I joined his former self and
quickly persuaded him of my reality; now we are the perfect couple. We
understand each other's every need." She quickly handed the Prof a tissue
as he sneezed. "I never could tolerate dead ferns," he complained.
"Okay, if this is no gag, Prof, what's the whole story?"
They looked at each other as if to say, who shall tell the tale?
In the end it was the one I recognized as my old friend.
"I had reached the limits of what I could legally attempt under current
methods, and occasionally trespassed those limits. I lack the fund for a
proper particle accelerator and have to make do, I am sure you are
familiar with my circumstances."
I merely nodded; he clearly wanted to continue.
"What can a genius do when he has exceeded his budget? Enlarge his
vision, his parameters. his field of inquiry! In short, I began to
investigate similarities between my studies and those of the alchemists
of yore."
I snorted; he scowled. "Why would a regal personage such as Queen
Elizabeth have a royal astrologer and alchemist? Why was he, Doctor John
Dee, renowned throughout the continent as a sage par excellence? How was
his mysterious assistant able to mysteriously transmute lead into gold?"
"Stop it, you're killing me. This is about the Rosicrucians, right? And
the Masons?"
"Only incidentally; they had political and philosophical axes to grind,
and latched upon this alchemical discipline as a tool toward their ends.
But I am only interested in the tool for its own sake. The essences of
things. The nature of nature. The study of how and why things change, or
stay the same. The greatest example of this is the chymical or chemical
wedding. There was a book by this title but it is a meaningless
diversion, leading away from the hidden truth. The truth is this: Life is
both unitary and dialectical. Black and white, now and then, male and
female, gold and lead, all are in dichotomy and all are one. The key to
understanding and enjoying the fruits of this paradox is the marriage, in
which male and female meet, and, as scripture saith, the two become one
flesh. More or less, as it turns out."
"Go on."
"So I had to step outside my preconceived notions and find some medium
for entering the time of this decidely alien worldview. I was unable to
believe enough in their ancient theorems and rituals, and success in that
realm depends heavily upon belief. Finally I hit upon a compromise. It
involved using archaic instruments from our own time, in which I could at
least have minimal belief, as to their capacities and tendencies, and
combining that with physical preparations which would enable me to enter
that other world."
"Which means?"
"I found an old resistor tv, with tubes that glow orange as it warms up
you know, and meditated long and deeply on the period I wished to enter,
when I was a younger man and lonely. Then I garbed myself as you see
Brunhilda now (I could not help luaghing at this, but he went right on)
and as a last thought added suitable headgear, placed my cranium into the
exposed back of the tv, concentrated on my goal, and turned on the
power."
"Wat exactly was your headgear, Prof?"
"It occured to me that conductance might be a factor, or at least my
very belief in the inclusion of conductance could mean that it was a
factor, if you follow me. Belief becomes fact in this world, or at least
"marries" with it. Did you know that in the chymical marriage the male
becomes female? Then he marries himself, or she marries herself,
whatever. So anyway I used metal, a metal helmet. I have it right here."
And he produced... "A tinfoil hat? Seriosuly Prof, you expect me to
believe that?"
He stood nobly aloof and regarded me with disdain. "Tinfoil? I think not!
This is the finest grade disposable roasting pan. I have made a delicious
pot roast with it."
Now it was my own turn to roll my eyes.
"Okay so you have your roasting pan hat over what, a wig? and a stuffed
ballistic looking brassiere, and extreme makeup...?"
"I was trying to make myself appealing to the man I was back then."
"And...?"
"And there was a bright flash, and I fainted, and was revived by myself,
putting out the flames in my burning hair."
"But how did you travel back to the present?"
"I didn't travel, we didn't.. We just lived until this moment."
"Hogwash, I've never met this Sci Fi lady in my life, I would have seen
her by now."
"We messed with the space time contimuum, took certain risks. Such
hazards are unavoidable in serious scientific inquiry. We changed your
reality. Our history- and HERstory- is now your own. You are living our
dream."
How confusing. But I could not deny her presence, unless this was some
elaborate hoax.
"So then, lady, can you tell me when I had my first woman?"
"You haven't; you got to first base and second and third, but because of
your obvious deficits you never scored," she said in a matter-of-fact
way. "You are a twenty six year old virgin."
"Prof! That was confidential! You betrayed me!"
She looked me in the eye and said no he had not; she had known this
because she had been himself.
I groaned.
"Your disbelief pains me, Robert. We have come here to help you, to
render you relief from your sorrows, but you spurn us."
"Help me how?"
"You can use this great discovery, combine alchemy, mysticism and
science, and return to the past! You can visit your old self, and change
him. Help him be someone to whom the ladies will be more receptive."
I said nothing.
"We had to dodge your furious lady friend as she descended the stairs
just now,: he added.
He was right. I had nothing to lose. Well, maybe my mind, or my life.
Small change in the long run.
"What have I got to do?"
"Imagine your ideal mate."
"That would be the woman who just stormed out of here."
"Good, we have a clear picture then. You need an amply stuffed bra..."
"No bra, sorry."
"My soulmate here has kindly brough a few along."
"They will be the wrong size."
"Do not forget that her frame and yours are both based upon the same
masculine model. Just give it a quick try, I think our torsos are rather
alike...there! See?" He was triumphant. I was chagrined. I now had
something in common with a time-travelling trekkie crossdresser.
"No stuffing" I groused. The Prof, without asking first of course,
whipped a multi-tool out of his hip pocket and tore open my sofa
cushions. "Hey!" "Just as I thought, lots of nice fluffy polyfill." "Go
to hell!" "Not until I see you go first...to the past."
So she got out a makeup kit, shaved me first, then put on too much
eyeliner and blue shadow,
too much rouge or blusher, too much bright red lipstick, fake eyelashes?
No way, the girl of my dreams would not wear fake eyelashes.
"Her hair was blonde, a bob" the Prof said to his lady friend. Nodding,
she helped him hold me down while they forcivly cut my hair. It looked
awful. "Who taught you about hairstyling, Sting? h
Hey, that doesn't smell like real hairspray either, what...?"
"Sorry, couldn't find any hair dye on short notice, our realities only
recently meshed, but this acrylic lacquer was handy."
"You bastard! That's for your electronics!"
"Don't worry, my hair burned off in the process, yours probably will too.
Destroying the evidence of our lack of stylistic skill," and here they
both shared an evil giggle.
Help! Madman, Madwoman on the loose!
"Now for the rest of your outfit. Surely you have a Sox jersey around?"
I did, but it was predictably unwashed.
"That should not bother a bachelor like yourself now, should it?"
I just shrugged. Too late to quibble now.
At least it fit, although it was plenty snug over my newly expanded
chest.
"Pants?"
No shorts; just some hideous madras plaid bermudas. "They will have to
do...hm, something is lacking; my dear?" She promptly stuffed my backside
with polyfill from my poor ruined couch.
Without a word, they held me down again and shaved my forearms and my
calves. Not even any shaving cream, damn, that burned.
White crew socks, sneakers.
Earrings? Hers were pierced ones. No problem, they just jabbed holes in
my lobes, Assault and battery. "For you own good, dear fellow."
Perfume, too heavy, too fruity.
"How fortunate that you are an afficionado of antique electronics as am
I; this television of yours is perfectly suited for our experiment. We'll
just remove the back panel." which he did, ungently, "plug it in, and
position you. headfirst. No struggling now." "Resistance is futile"
giggled Brunhilda.
"Think of yourself as a senior in high school. Think of yourself meeting
the girl of your dreams. Focus!"
"How will I know if I have succeeded?"
"Grade A success is a new life for you with your female self. Grade B is
at least belief in the reality and potential of the process."
"Grade C?"
"Second degree burns, possibly dementia."
"Is there, dare I ask, a grade F?"
"The space time continuum, or at least reality as we know it, could be
forever eliminated. Kaput. Such hazards are unavoidable in serious
scientific inquiry."
I was struggling now, but it was useless. They had my belly on the floor
and my ridiculous looking head, complete with mashed up roasting pan,
inserted into the tubing in the tv.
"Meditate! Think of your vision of happiness! Your former self will see
you, and be overjoyed! Give him one happy day in his life, at least.
Meditate!"
Against my own good judgment, I did so. The scene around me seemed to
fade. In my mind's eye, I saw myself as a young perky busty blonde, the
ultimate Sox fan's wet dream.
ZAP!
POW!
OWWW!!
"Owwie! Ouch! That hurts!"
I was whimpering, but my my voice was too high.
And too sweet.
I was burnt! I needed a more alarming voice with which to express my
displeasure!
I looked up into my own face; whoever it was that looked like me was
dousing me with warm water and spraying me with something.
"It's sunscreen, sorry, couldn't think of anything else for burns."
"How about some cold water?"
"Oh yeah, cold, sure, just a sec. The dishwater just happened to be
handy..."
Dishwater? It was karma, I was pouring greasy old dishwater on my own
burning hair.
While he ran off for colder water, I looked down at myself. My stomach
was much smaller, that was good. No more padding, okay. My nails were
pink, how had that happened? We hadn't even painted them. I didn't show
the scars of their clumsy shaving of my legs and arms either, they were
just smooth and sleek.
"Here you go, sorry," he said. I'll call him "he" because it is too
confusing to say "I".
Aaah, lots of cold water helped. Did I have any hair left? I reached up
and touched my neck. My hand came away with some blonde hairs, tips
singed. Could have been worse, I seemed to still have my scalp.
I looked around. This was my old bedroom, back home with my parents! Sox
posters and pennants. The rest of the decor consisted of socks and
underwear thrown here and there. And this antique tv , now smoking, the
same one I had hung on to all these years.
"So, ah, what's your name?" he asked. "Bobbie" I said, without much
thought. It seemed logical.
"And I am Robert" he replied. "Or Robbie?" I prompted.
"Okay, that proves it, this must be a dream. See I have dreamed for a
long time of a girl just like you. Cute. Sexy. Knows all about me and
accepts me." I smiled encouragingly.
He continued, "Ready to jump into the sack whenever I say so."
"What? Hey. what about foreplay? I mean, what about we talk a little bit
first? You need to know, this isn't a dream!"
"Right, some gorgeous girl pops into my room by blowing up my old tv but
it's all perfectly normal. So then, what is really going on?"
"I have come to you from the future to help you mend your ways, so that
you can find true love and happiness!"
"Right, sure, it's obviously a dream."
Well, the truth hadn't worked.
He began to fondle me.
Here.
And there.
"Cut that out!"
"Know what? You always say that, in every dream. But you never mean it."
"That's what rapists say, you know that? What will your momma say if I
holler 'rape'?"
"You never will," he assured me, as he pulled down my shorts (not
Bermudas any more either, they looked just like the little red ones my
new ex-girlfriend had worn).
"RAPE! R_A_P_E spells RAPE RAPE RAPE!!!" I screamed.
He seemed shocked. Boy, I sure had been clueless. "What did you do that
for?"
"Didn't I warn you?"
"Yes, but...damn! Steps on the stairs! Gimme something to remember you
by, at least!"
And he jumped on top of me! He hadn't bothered to remove his own jeans.
that dork, but he was humping me so hard that it didn't matter.
In walked his mom!
WHACK!
She grabbed the lamp from his night stand and knocked him out cold.
"You okay, honey?"
"Ye..yes ma'am, I believe so..." I stammered.
"I always hoped Robbie would find a nice girl like you, but look what he
does as soon as he has the chance! I'm so sorry. Did he...I mean, the
doctor...should we go..."
"Oh no, thanks so much but no, there's no danger of babies or anything."
I wondered what it might be like to give birth. What an odd thought to
strike me out of the blue. "No I just wanted to be, like, friends, you
know, and I guess he misunderstood or something."
She leaned over and hugged me, patting my shoulder. Mom was really okay,
my messed up life was not her fault.
"Can I call your parents, dear?"
What could I do? SHE was my parent!
"I would like to call them myself, please?"
I quickly dialed 555-1212 and said over the other voice, "Hey mom,
something came up, a bit of a problem, but I'm okay so don't worry, I'll
just walk home."
My mom smiled at me, and I walked out into the night. Where should I go?
How could I get back to my own time?
Lesley
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