WARNING:
The following story is for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or reading sex stories upset you, or you are offended by subjects of a sexual nature - do not read any further!
This story is for entertainment only. It contains adult oriented material. This is a work of fiction. The acts and characters contained within are figments of my imagination and have no basis in fact. I do not practice, advocate, condone or encourage acts portrayed here. The characters in the story are entirely fictional. You need to believe that all of the characters are over the age of eighteen.
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached.
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I mulled the incident over and over in my mind. Had I really gone back to 1957 and had sex with, who, a younger version of the old shopkeeper? The math worked out. If she was eighteen back then, adding the difference, she'd be - seventy-two! The exact amount I'd paid for the clock. I needed to see her again, to validate my memories, and to learn what in blazes was going on.
I skipped breakfast and went out to my car. On the way, I emptied the mailbox and pawed through the stack. A few bills, a catalog, and a glossy postcard from Mrs. Hendricks, president of the Parent-Teacher Organization. Homely woman! I threw the mail on the passenger seat and drove straight to the quaint row of shops. I parked and jogged to the garden-level store. Instead of an antique store with a misspelled sign, the shop was a toy store. Where did the old woman's store go in just one day? I turned and walked down the block when I saw an old brownstone, the only brick building on the block, with the oddly spelled ANTIQUIES sign. I walked up the steps of the two-story and entered. She was there all right, perhaps a bit trimmer, smiling in a beguiling manner, as if we'd just finished coitus. "I knew you'd be back. Where is the clock?"
"It's at home. Can you please tell me what's going on?"
Her smile evaporated. "But you were supposed to bring it back. I only loaned it to you."
"No you didn't! You sold it to me, for seventy-two cents. Your current age, by the way. I figured it out."
She came closer. I could smell coffee on her breath. "That clock is a valuable artifact that has been in my family since it was constructed. I loaned it to you, so you could fulfill our shared destiny. But now it belongs back in the cupboard."
Shared destiny? A tumble in the sack was more like it. "Just what does it do, exactly?"
She raised one eyebrow. "Did you not experience it for yourself? It focused your inherent sexual attention on me - and you had some yesterday, don't deny it - and pulled you back to my first sexual encounter. You had to go back, because it was you who took my virginity all those years ago. But it must be in my family's possession, so that its power cannot be abused."
I was amazed. "So it allows time travel?"
"Shhhh." She nodded her towards other customers wandering the two floors filled with antiques. The selection was much better today. Perhaps there was still a chance to get Maggie a gift. "Yes, but in a limited manner. The clock matches an aroused male with a specific female's pheromones. Then it catapults the male back in time, to just before the woman's first sexual experience."
I was disappointed that I couldn't go back and prevent Lee Harvey Oswald from killing Kennedy, or watch Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" speech. "I can't just pick a date and time?"
"Of course not. And the male must be very careful to perform the act only, because any other changes can ripple forward."
"Like your shop. It was a tiny place yesterday, and today it's huge."
"I wasn't aware of this. There, you see, you've witnessed a modification of the future yourself. Something about our encounter changed my family or me in unpredictable ways. I know how my family obtained the deed to this property, but I can't tell you why our encounter made a difference. Now, if you'll bring the clock back to me-"
I dug my hands into my jacket pocket and came up with the receipt. "See, here? This is a sales receipt, not a rental agreement. You sold the clock to me, fair and square, for a bargain price. And I'm keeping it." I stormed towards the door.
She pointed a bent accusing finger. "Then beware its use. Your actions will have consequences."
I snorted a reply and strolled down the block, still looking for a gift for my wife.
One of the venues I didn't remember from the previous day was a wine shop with outdoor seating for patrons who wanted to sample various vintages and wineries. A great marketing technique, I suppose, or a high-class hangout for winos. Sitting at one table next to the sidewalk was a heavyset redhead. Even from a distance, I recognized her as Angie, the mother of one of Felice's friends. I looked the other way, hoping to avoid recognition. I was about to pass her when I felt my coat get tugged. She'd caught me. "Charlie! Charlie Norris!"
I turned around to see her enhanced red hair, bloodshot eyes and buckteeth. "Hi, Angie. Nice day for shopping."
Her words were on the verge of becoming slurred. "And drinking. Have a seat. I hate to drink alone."
