A Matter of Time

Author's note: The following satire is fiction, so chill All sex involves humans older than 18 standard Earth years. The action includes gratuitous but non-sexual violence and odd temporal glitches. Tags: SciFi, Loving Wives, Interracial, Group Sex, BBC, BTB, Satire, Cheating, Time Machine, Nude Day. Views expressed may not be the author's but it's all my fault anyway. Facts may be incorrect Thanks to JackTar48 for ideas. Enjoy!

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A MATTER OF TIME

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She cheated, forever and ever

(Nude Day 2014 story contest)

Professor Randall R. (for Roanoke) Ronk was as happy as a clam at high tide.

Happier, maybe. Clams have rather primitive nervous systems, and cannot appreciate the finer things in life. Eat, drink, spew sperm or ova, and die -- that about sums it up for clams. Be glad you are not a clam. But I digress.

He was both short-term happy and long-term happy.

Long-term: His terrific wife was in their terrific house only a few minutes' walk from his terrific (if cramped) on-campus physics lab. His grant money continued to flow, keeping him well-supplied with assistants and equipment and utility payments. His projects tended to consume a terrific bit of power.

Short-term: Success! His time machine worked! Only a few tiny little glitches to work out, that was all. The grant committee would continue to fund his endeavor, that was sure.

He pulled out his Samsung Android phone as he walked home. He called the committee chair to give an informal progress report.

"Hi, Leila, Randy Ronk here. Yes, yes, good news! Project Stretch works! Yes... well, it's not complete, no. A lot more work yet. But I'm beyond proof-of-concept, yes. I have a working machine!

"You know the theory. It's a Dimensional Dilator. Yes, that's DD for short. I'm up to version 214. So what DD-214 does is, it stretches or dilates and opens one or more dimensions. Yes, any dimensions. I designed it for four-dimensional space-time, yes, the familiar 4D grid, T-X-Y-Z axes, that's right. But it should handle others, too.

"Okay, so what's happened today is, I can control the T-axis dilation and gauging. Total control, that's right. I can set the range, and select an object... yes, any physical object, at least theoretically... yes, I'll get to that. Anyway, the selected object can be positioned anywhere within the dilation range. Yes, yes, that's right, move stuff around in time, that's exactly it.

"What, in space too? No, not yet. I'm concentrating on the T-axis until I fine-tune the command system. Once I have that, control over X-Y-Z physical locations will be trivial. It'll be cheap teleportation! Better start selling your energy and transport stock portfolio, Leila. Pretty soon, won't be worth much.

"Yeah, you got it. Oh, but there's much more than that! I'll be able to DIRECTLY interact with the dimensions of string theory. Not just the n-spaces, but also the forces and particles associated with them. Yeah, Leila -- naked quarks! Subatomic forces! Quantum froth... I'll be able to WATCH quantum froth as it happens! Watch new universes come into being!

"Uh huh, right. Well, that's the beauty of it. I can control the rate of duration too. Interact with fast events in slo-mo, and speed-up stuff that's too slow. Yeah, that's right -- TOTAL control of time. Can even stop it, yes.

"For me? Well, this is Nobel material, yeah, exactly. But don't start the PR machine yet. Don't even prime it. Keep this quiet for now. I still need to think about the scientific implications. And you... no, I won't get a fat head, but... wait, listen. You'll probably want to get with your people, think about the economic implications. Yeah, it'll be big changes, BIG! Lots of money...

"Sure, Leila... hey, don't get your panties wet! Yeah, this WILL be hot, the hottest ever. Make Watson and Crick look like fucking amateurs, pardon my French. So get your advisors together, but tell'em to keep their mouths shut.

"Yes, yes, I'll let you know as soon as anything new emerges, of course. Just keep those automatic cash deposits coming. Yes... ha! You're the best, Leila! Hey, gotta go now. Yeah, you too. Bye!"

Leila switched off her phone and thought. Hmmm, Ronk was going to say something about limitations, about physical objects being selected. Should she call him back and ask for details? No, better to talk to her banker and broker first. Get set for a sell-off. Just in case.

Professor Ronk slipped his phone into the inner pocket of his dark suit jacket. Just a few more steps, and he stood in front of his elegant Modernist home. He was so proud of it! He loved those clean, austere lines, straight from Bauhaus.

He headed toward the asymmetrical front entrance... but wait! The damn side gate had been left open. He grumbled and stomped over to close it. Now that he was here, he might as well go in through the utility-room door.

He did not expect anyone to be home. He was not expected home himself -- he had given his assistants the afternoon off, to celebrate their success, and FUCK the paperwork! His terrific wife Tiffany would still be in her office at the library. Their terrific tween twins, LaVar and LaVon, were safely boarded at a prestigious (and not cheap) prep school. Their recently-deceased Doberman pinscher had not been replaced yet. The house should be empty and quiet.

He left his shoes in the utility room. No tracking dirt into this house! He slipped off his jacket and left it on a hanger next to the laundry. He walked unshod across the kitchen floor... and heard sounds. Unexpected sounds.

He was no coward, but he WAS a prudent man. He'd had security cameras installed all over the house, feeding a disguised media console in his home office. Only he and the installer knew of their existence.

Professor Ronk tiptoed into his sanctuary. He quietly closed and locked the door, then booted his workstation and activated the video feeds and motion detectors. Scan through all the sensor feeds... no motion or sound in these rooms, none in those... THERE!

He gasped. The cameras in the darkened master bedroom showed live action. Two-person action. Sexual action. He switched the spectrum to InfraRed and boosted image enhancement and audio volume.

"Oh Ted, fuck me! Fuck me harder! Fuck my ass! Oh Ted, oh oh oh..."

It was his terrific wife Tiffany! And his terrific colleague and best friend Ted! Fucking away like animals!

"Ungh! Ungh! Tiff, your ass is so fucking tight! Oh fuck, this feels so good..."

Beautiful blonde Tiffany was on her elbows and knees on the edge of the king bed, butt in the air, mouth drooling into her goose-feather pillow. Tall dark handsome Ted (for Theophrastus) stood behind her and smoothly slid his long meaty member in and out of her rectum. They both grunted roughly.

Ronk was stunned. Twenty years of love; fifteen years of marriage; all GONE!

Even though he was a physicist and not a psychologist, Ronk was astute enough to recognize the interpersonal dynamics. This was no one-off fuck. Tiff and Ted had obviously done this before. For how long? How many times?

Ronk was a forthright man, a man of action -- but he WAS prudent, and not one to make rash decisions. He needed to think, to plan. Elsewhere.

He switched-off the workstation screen but left the CPU and security system active, recording, gathering evidence if needed. He tiptoed back to the utility room, retrieved his jacket and shoes, and eased out the back door.

A few minutes' furious walking brought him to a corner tavern. It would be packed with boisterous students in the evening, but the mid-afternoon lull gave Ronk quiet and solitude to think. And drink. He wiped the foam of his first Anchor Steam beer from his lip, and considered.

Forgiveness was out. Acceptance was out. Divorce was possible. Revenge? Oh yes, he could consider revenge. But how?

The plan solidified in his head as he drained his second Anchor Steam. He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. You would not want to see that smile directed at you.

Ronk made his way back to his now-empty lab and locked the door. He sat at this DD-214's control console. He ran his fingers lightly over the many keys and dials. These directed the flows of energies and fields that could literally twist and pull apart time like a rubbery pretzel.

He turned away from the control panel and booted his netbook. A little googling gave Ronk what he needed -- the date Ted joined the faculty, his home addresses over time, and more personal information.

He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and extracted a pair of latex gloves and a cigar box. The box contained the cheap .357-calibre revolver his brother Dave had given him. Police detective Dave insisted that he keep an untraceable throwaway pistol nearby, "just in case." Ronk donned the gloves, then checked the cylinder and action. Loaded; ready to go.

The pistol went into one jacket pocket. A remote control went in the other.

Ronk turned back to the DD-214 console and set the controls. He pushed the big green GO button and walked to the time machine's staging platform. When the thirty-second delay timer expired, a glowing globular field appeared around him, then winked out. He was gone.

His lab building had not existed a decade before. Ronk materialized a few inches above a weedy lawn. His fall was short and not too bothersome. Hmmm, maybe he should rig a cage with shock absorbers for further travels.

No need to dust himself off. He walked the short distance to Ted's condo's private entrance. He rang the doorbell.

A younger Ted opened the door.

"Oh, hello Dr Ronk. What brings you here? My, you look tired, worn-out! Please come in."

"Not with my wife, you don't," Ronk said. He raised the revolver and fired a single steel-jacketed bullet through Ted's right eye. He tossed the pistol into the room, closed the door, and briskly walked away.

Ronk was a calm, logical, rational, socially-integrated man, not a psychopath. But his range of emotions was somewhat stunted. He did not feel the guilt or nausea that often accompany a person's first killing of another living being. He merely felt satisfaction.

Ronk returned to his landing site. He jumped into the air and pressed a green button on the remote control. No delay this time -- the glowing field took him while he was airborne.

Back in the lab, he peeled off the latex gloves and strolled down the building corridor. He deposited the gloves in the FLASH-BURN hopper. Good riddance.

He walked past Ted's office door. The name on the door had read T. KASCYNSKI. Now it spelled T. v.HOHENHEIM. Ronk smiled. He had erased the rutting bastard from this timeline!

Ronk resumed his position at the DD-214 control console. He adjusted some settings, pushed the green GO button, walked to the staging platform, waited for the thirty-second delay, and disappeared in the time dilation field again.

He manifested on the same staging platform a few hours earlier, just after he had closed and exited the lab earlier that day. He walked home again, timing his arrival to be just after he had left for the tavern previously. He did not want to encounter a prior self -- that could introduce a temporal paradox.

He opened the side gate and re-entered the house through the utility room door. He removed his shoes and jacket again and walked to his home office. He switched on the surveillance monitor and scanned the house.

Once again, he gasped when he looked into the master bedroom. His terrific wife Tiffany was once again (or still?) crouched on the king bed on her elbows and knees. Again, she was not alone. She entertained two visitors now, two black men. One worked his fat meaty cock inside Tiff's hungry vagina while the other fucked her enthusiastic face.

A sense of shock froze Ronk in place. He felt like a hollow pot-metal statue with a clockwork brain that barely ticked along, tick...tock...tick...thud... Thoughts slowly settled into place. His terrific wife Tiffany was a slut, a serial cheater. His wedding bed was a public playground. His marriage was a sham.

He forced himself to look at the monitor. He recognized the muscular black men -- Jerry and Larry, half-brothers in their mid-twenties, assistant coaches for the women's track-and-field team.

Ronk dazedly secured his systems, regained his coat and shoes, and walked to the street. He walked in a new direction to a different tavern for another Anchor Steam-fueled planning session. This would be more complicated. He had to deal with the brothers, of course. But what to do about Tiffany?

He sipped his dark spicy beer and mentally reviewed what he knew of his wife's early life. Had something in her formative years twisted her into a cock-hungry sperm receptacle? He recalled her admission to being abused by her uncle Thad. Yes! He could deal with Thad!

A few score determined steps brought Ronk back to his lab. He again googled for personal information, and covered his hands in latex gloves, and adjusted the DD-214 controls, and pushed the green GO button.

He was ready for the slight drop this time. He quickly returned to Ted's condo just moments after his earlier departure. He avoided but otherwise ignored the rapidly-pooling blood while he retrieved the pistol. He checked the cylinder. Only a single round gone. Good.

Ronk wrapped the warm revolver in a plastic shopping bag. He hastened to his transit point and pressed buttons on his remote control, returning to the lab just after he left. He locked the revolver in his desk. He sighed.

That was the easy part. Now he faced a chore: Modifying the DD-214 to allow manipulation of space as well as time. He did not have the luxury of thorough experimentation and testing. He only jury-rigged a logical extension. What had worked on the T-axis should (had better!) work on the X-Y-Z axes also.

Ronk was a wizard at his workstation. He methodically re-routed logic lines and junctions on the design software. He reviewed his work. Looked good. He plugged a fresh PLA (Programmable Logic Array) into its socket and burnt the new control pattern. Then the next PLA. And the next, until a half-dozen chips were ready. He inserted them in sockets on the DD-214 motherboard.

He looked at the glowing digital clock on the lab wall. Damn, that took hours! Well, now he could control time AND space -- but only with a clear mind and fresh body. He visited the rest room, then the snack vending machines, and then threw himself onto the cot in the lab's back room.

He slept. He dreamt. He did not remember his dreams when he awoke.

Ronk gathered the revolver, latex gloves, and remote control. He donned his suit jacket -- a bit rumpled now. He glanced at his face in a mirror. Hmmm, he was showing signs of wear. Back to the rest room for a quick shave and face-splash and necktie-straightening, and he was ready to go.

Okay, it's showtime, folks! Set the controls, punch the green GO button, and save his marriage. That's the overall plan.

The details were slightly more intricate. The DD-214's new PLAs gave it much more functionality -- to be controlled either from the console, or from the remote, a modified Android smartphone. Ronk, or any other user, would no longer have to make a temporal leap 'blind'. Now a traveler could watch the remote's screen to preview their destination.

And the staging platform was no longer the only jump-off point. The dilation field could form anywhere. Ronk was still prudent enough to depart from the controlled coordinates of the platform. No need to let the dilation field encompass unnecessary matter!

Hmm, with the added PLAs, the machine was at version A. The DD-214a.

He checked his remote's batteries. Charged. He previewed his destination. Clear. He pressed the glowing green GO button. Poof.

Ronk materialized in a dark alley in a dingy East Saint Louis neighborhood some thirty years prior -- years before the brothers were conceived and born to different mothers. This was the known home of Larry and Jerry's father Harry, a janitor at a local warehouse. Ronk expected Harry to stagger home from the bar he frequented after working hours. His timing was perfect.

Harry stumbled to his tenement door. Ronk emerged from the shadows and blocked his way.

"Hey, honky, what choo doing here? Get outa my way, dammit!"

Ronk raised the revolver in his latex-gloved hand. "You'll have bad boys." He shot Harry in the throat. The slug left a rather large exit wound.

Ronk activated a preset on the remote. He previewed his destination, then pressed the glowing green GO button. He materialized on a warm evening twentyfive years earlier and a thousand miles away. He stepped to the ivy-draped portico of Tiffany's uncle Cartier's splendid Providence, Rhode Island home and rang the bell. Carty opened the door.

"Yes? Who are you? What do you want?"

"Not with Tiffany, you don't," Ronk said. He raised the pistol and fired a slug deep into the man's heart. Cartier looked very surprised as he collapsed.

Ronk pressed the bright blue GO button and re-emerged in his lab. He locked the pistol in his desk and disposed of the latex gloves. He re-visited the rest room and snack machines. He returned to his lab desk, and sat, and thought, and thought.

He still felt no nausea, but his satisfaction was muted. Had this intervention done the trick? Was Tiffany a whole, undamaged personality now, never suffering her uncle's abuse? Only one way to find out. Go home again.

He passed through the utility room and slipped back into his home office. He checked the security monitor. FUCKFIRE! Tiffany was again (still?) in the king bed entertaining others. Two men, two women, and... was that an Alsatian?

Ronk felt sick and disspirited. "There is no way to reclaim my terrific wife Tiffany," he thought; "she is a born slut, and indiscriminate. Prevention did not work. Which leaves... punishment." He felt determined.

Ronk retrieved his shoes and coat and went into his back yard. He used the remote to beam back to his lab. No taverns this time -- he lay on his lab cot, and exercised the finely-tuned rational computer that was his mind.

Situation: He was a cuckold. His wife was a serial cheater. He wanted to hurt her as she had hurt him. He needed to punish her.

Would divorce punish her adequately? No. She had family money. She could go anywhere, do anything, without being dragged down by an ex-husband.

Would public revelation of her infidelity ruin her reputation enough to damage her? No. She could buy a new identity in a new place. Reputation be damned!

Could he physically punish her, torture her, hurt her? No. He could (and did!) kill her lovers (the fuckers!) but he could never bring himself to assault her.

Could he mentally punish her? Yes. But the punishment could not be traced back to him. Only SHE could know the source. How to accomplish this?

He considered Tiff's personality again. She was a beautiful woman, and proud of her beauty -- proud, to the point of being vain. She loved beautiful clothes that showed off her natural charms. She loved a resplendent display of fine fabrics revealing her flesh and figure. She insisted the world be aware that she was the best-looking and best-dressed woman within hailing distance.

What did she hate? What was the opposite of her narcissistic pride?

HUMILIATION!! That was the key! If he could publically humiliate her, humble her, show her as a nothing... yes, THAT would mortify, degrade, punish her!

And he knew just how to achieve this abasement.

With his plan set, he relaxed, and dozed.

He awoke refreshed but a bit grubby and hungry. Back to the rest room (shave and splash) and snack machines (munch and punch). Shake out his somewhat wrinkled suit. Straighten his tie. Then, set the DD-214a to a specific time: the normal end of that work day.