I discovered the gateway in my garage.
Let me back up. I'm an assistant professor of physics at an Ivy League College, at just 28. I have a beautiful wife, a healthy trust fund, and although I have an IQ that Sheldon Cooper would envy, I was a gifted athlete in both high school and university. Modestly, I'm trim, fit and good looking. I am, according to my friends, family, and acquaintances, the complete package, the envy of one and all.
Sounds great, doesn't it? Believe me, it isn't. My wife, Renee, is a walking wet dream, but from a deeply religious background. One thing that her religious parents couldn't dissuade her from was her love of theater. I met her when she was a Greek maiden in our university's production of 'Antigone'. She was mesmerizing on the stage, the personification of grace, beauty, and a truly sexy ass.
I couldn't wait to get my hands on that ass. We dated, but that's when her background, and her parents, stepped in. We, or she, had to wait until marriage. I waited with her, of course, but before meeting her, had had the sex life that a good-looking high school and college letterman can expect. And then some. So, by the time we hit the honeymoon trail (a three-month yacht tour through the Mediterranean), my balls were best described as coballs for their cobalt color.
The honeymoon was wonderous, with all the action I could have dreamed of from my curvaceous bride. And before we returned, my wife delighted me with the news of her pregnancy. I was over the moon, climbing up the rigging and howling from the top of the mast.
Imagine my surprise when the loving dried up when we returned to the loving arms of her mother and minister father. Mission accomplished, breeding successful, and suddenly maybe a Saturday night (if I was lucky) a couple of times a month, and none of that deviate kinky stuff. That seemed to eliminate anything beyond missionary. But, she explained, the baby needed to be protected, so nothing in the last trimester.
Well, I understood, although I brought forth literature and medical experts to assure her that it was safe and healthy and wouldn't endanger our offspring. Nothing swayed her and, since I loved her and already loved our developing kid, I suppressed my urges and concentrated on spoiling the soon to be mother.
Now, Danny's five, and sex is still limited to less times a month than the fingers on my left hand. Not having to use both hands to count the sexual acts at least left my right hand free to pick up the slack. I mean, I love my wife, but she might as well have locked me in a cock cage. Yes, I hear the jeers about what a wimp I am, but I love my wife, I love my kid, and I'm not a cheater. I just can't do it. In my deepest depression, I dream of divorce, of pinning Renee down and taking her like a caveman, of working my way through the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, but it all comes to nothing. The heart wants what the heart wants, and my honor doesn't allow me to stray. So, fuck you, sue me.
The wet dream wife is just that, a fucking wet dream. And being the 'wunderkind' at work? Also, more cringe worthy than envy worthy.
I am, without undue modesty, a genius. A Triple-Niner, Einstein quality, Genius, with a capital G. My PhD thesis on string theory rocked the academic world and made me the youngest ever assistant professor at my university. It brought in an impressive number of grants.
The problem came when my department head informed me that at this University, assistant professors couldn't be project heads, although the research would be based on my paper and original theories. "That's okay," I thought, as long as I got to explore my theories. I agreed, and was introduced to Professor Angus Tyburn, a 64-year-old tenured professor who, I was later to learn, hadn't had an original thought in 40 years, if not longer.
Tyburn was so pleasant in the introductory meeting with the department head, so complimentary to my theories, intelligence, and ability to express my ideas in understandable language. It wasn't until our grants were settled, the lab set up and the research began that I realized that Tyburn was determined not to be eclipsed by the 'wunderkind'. If my wife had my penis in a virtual cock cage, Tyburn was determined to do the same to my mind.
My suggestions were dismissed out of hand, with Tyburn informing me that no "hotshot shortcuts" were going to be taken on his watch. The meatier assignments were passed to cronies of Tyburn's, assistant professors who would never advance further. Basically, Tyburn relegated me to cleaning up the lab and polishing the microscope lenses. No, not literally -- that would have been too meaningful an assignment for me to be given. But it gives you an idea of the valuable contributions I was allowed to make. I was given the most tedious and odious jobs.
Why didn't I scream? I did. I went to the department head, who was surprised to see that Tyburn had arranged the grants with his iron grip on the money and the research. I was hardly mentioned. Sadly, the head informed me that if I left the project, I would basically be surrendering my ideas to Tyburn and would likely have trouble getting grants in the future. I'd also have to leave the university and surrender my professorship. In short, I was getting fucked more at work than at home.
In the end, I decided to suck it up for a while. At home, Renee and I were basically living separate lives, hers taken up with Danny, volunteer work, and her religious activities (which hadn't been in evidence during our courtship), and mine taken up with avoiding her. The sight, smell, and feel, of her made my heart and coballs ache. It was just too hard. Yes, my dick and everything else. I'd taken to sleeping in one of the guests' rooms and was slowly moving my things there.
I decided that with that free time, I'd begin dealing with the overwhelming frustration that Tyburn was causing me. After all, I was a 'wunderkind', and though my heart made me a wimp at home, there was no love lost in the physics department.
The house I'd inherited from my grandparents included a separate five car garage, with two unused chauffer's quarters above it. I had the furthest two stalls walled off and finished into a working lab. The remaining three stalls were enough for the cars of my wife and I, along with an old Stutz-Bearcat that Grandfather had treasured.
Back when I was writing my thesis, I almost got sidetracked by my fascination with Quantum Entanglement. The idea that two particles, although separated by theoretically limitless distance, would both react instantaneously to stimuli applied to just one of them, filled me with wonder and possibilities. Foremost, just think of the communication possibilities. A man in Alpha Centauri would be able to communicate in real time across the lightyears with someone on earth! One hell of a powerful device.
Now, in my garage, I decided to try to understand the phenomena. I could satisfy my scientific curiosity and fill my time at home with an independent project.
[-]
Three years! Three years of even less sex at home and three years of Tyburn's snide belittling of the 'wunderkind'. I'd heard from students who liked me how Tyburn constantly belittled me, with comments of how 'overblown' rumors of my genius had been and how little I understood my own thesis. He openly wondered if the theories were really mine and hinted that I had somehow accessed papers he had prepared and had stolen his ideas. Tyburn cleverly only made statements in front of students and faculty whose futures he could heavily impact, who were unwilling to risk those futures by testifying against him. He denied making the statements to the department head and, unable to find anyone who would admit hearing him directly, the department head told me that there was nothing he could do. He was hesitant to 'tarnish' TYBURN'S reputation by publishing any denials or rebuttals to the rumors. I fumed and spent as little time at the school as possible. I thought Tyburn an incompetent scientist, but apparently he made up for it by playing the academia game to perfection. Tenured asshole.
