I Am A Time Traveller

My name is Steve and I am a time traveller.

Sounds like something an obtuse person would say, right? Well, I'm not dim-witted and I am telling the truth. I

am

a time traveller. I don't travel through time because I necessarily want to, or because I'm searching for something; I travel because I must, because I cannot help it. Believe me, I'd much rather stick around in the present and live my life, but every so often I find myself slipping out of focus and BAM, I'm in some strange place, either in the past or in the future.

It started when I was 5, and hasn't stopped now that I'm 36. Most doctors I met regarding my eccentric condition thought of me as a fraud, a prankster, or a joker. It was always the same inevitable conclusion with them: 'You're not serious,' 'You're wasting my fucking time,' 'I have better things to do.'

One doctor though believed me. I don't know why, but he did. And he's been trying to help me ever since. After numerous tests and experiments, he concluded that I had a genetic disorder that grants me this alien ability. It would be cool if I can control it, but I can't. It just happens, normally catching me by surprise. But over time, I've become adroit at telling when I'm about to skip time: usually I'm nauseated and dizzy for no apparent reason, and then it happens.

I am also married. You can imagine the strain this puts on my wife, Clare. We try as much as possible to live a normal life, but I can tell that she worries about my extraordinary journeys through the threads of time. It's not always safe when I time travel; I leave my clothes behind and end up meeting people in the past/future naked. They either: (a) run off and call the police, (b) chase me and throw things at me, or (c) haul me to the ground and beat me black and blue. So you imagine how it is for Clare – one minute I'm sitting right next to her, spruced and preoccupied with a book; the next minute I'm gone, my clothes and book and broken coffee mug in a pile. I return back to her (I always return to her) battered and weak. She agonises that one day I will not reappear, that I might be killed on one of these mysterious and unexpected time travels.

Clare and I met in a rather peculiar manner. I remember standing at a bus station years ago, anxious and angry at myself because I was late for a job interview, which I would have made had I not got drunk the previous night and forgot to set my alarm clock. So there I was, fidgeting and cursing under my breath when I unintentionally turned to my right and saw her. She had big brown eyes, wore a pink sweater, tight blue jeans and brown sandals. Her long brown hair was weaved into a ponytail. Those mesmerising brown eyes beheld me like I was something glorious that just dropped out of the sky. I knew I wasn't the best looking bloke in the station. I mean, I wasn't ugly, but I was no Brad Pitt either. Girls normally never turned their heads when I strolled by. So, understandably, I was shocked and wondering if she was actually staring at me. My eyes switched focus numerous times in search of some Adonis-like male standing close by, but all I saw were a couple of old geezers, a smelly beggar, and women.

Still, I couldn't wrap my head around the thought that she was looking at me. I tried to ignore her, of course. I faced front, kept my eyes on the road and mumbled to myself. The next time I turned to check on her she was inches away from me and all smiles.

'Steven!' She squealed and hugged me.

Stunned, I asked, 'Um ... do I know you?'

'Yes!' She said. 'No ... I mean, you will. In the future.'

I realised at that moment that I – at least, me from the future – had contacted her somehow. I didn't want people to hear our conversation so I subsequently abandoned all thoughts of my interview and walked with her to a nearby cafe.

There, she told me her name – Clare – and explained that we were married in the future.

And that was it.

Now, many years later, I still cannot believe we are actually married. Clare is beautiful. She's not drop-dead-gorgeous per se, but she does get her fair share of attention from men. Years of marriage and good food have blessed her with an amazing figure. Her hips are wider, her thighs are thicker and her breasts are bigger. Occasionally she complains she's fat, but we both know better. Most times she tries to hide her figure in baggy clothes but they're a poor solution. Besides, Clare hates baggy clothes. She's more the trendy sort of woman. She ardours modish boots, shoes, sandals, form-fitting dresses, jeans and blouses, all of which do a fantastic job at bringing out her stature. I love staring at her when she walks. I love gawking at her luscious butt.

Honestly, Clare has always had a big arse. Even when we met in the train station for the first time, I noticed it.

Enough of that though.

Today, I am deeply troubled. I am troubled because Clare informed me ... revealed to me things that I did not want to hear. As established prior to now, the reason Clare knew so much about me before we met was due to the fact that me from the future had visited her on a number of occasions. However, what she did not tell me was that on some of my visits we had engaged in some offensive activities. I call them offensive because their genesis was when she was 18 and I was 36.

Today, I am deeply troubled because Clare revealed to me that she had had multiple sexual encounters with me when she was 18 years old and I was much older. Obviously, I have no memory of this. I never met Clare until that day at the bus station. But if what she says is true then any moment from now, my time travels will take me to an 18 year-old Clare with whom I will have sex with.

I love Clare. Believe me when I say this. I enjoy our sex life, which is still very active – time travelling or no time travelling. But I cannot imagine myself having sex with an 18 year-old! The idea of it disgusts me. Thinking of it makes my skin crawl. What could have made me do such a thing? Yes, it was Clare, but she was 18! Why would I have sex with an 18 year-old?

As usual, Clare, being all furtive, refuses to tell me why. She agrees that it should never have happened, but it did, and that's that. She wants me to accept it.

Let me tell you this: nothing can change the past. I have tried before, travelled back in time and attempted to stop a disaster or change an outcome that affected me in the present, but every time I have failed. If an 18 year-old Clare met a 36 year-old Steven and had sex with him, then it means me – the present 36 year-old Steven – will have sex with an 18 year-old Clare and nothing I do will prevent that from transpiring.

However, I am determined that this time will be different. This time I will come out victorious. I forget that maybe my shameful deeds with Clare – our copious sexual rendezvous when she was younger – were probably what brought us together in the first place. I forget a lot of things. Still, I am resolute about breaking the mould.

Tender? Okay, that's naive of me. No. That's pretty dumb of me. I know 18 year-olds have sex probably more than people my age, but with 36 year-olds? That's just ...

not

cool

. It makes me feel like a sexual predator. You must understand my reservations about this: I'm much too old to be doing something like this with someone so young.

My thoughts are swimming with fears and doubts as I arrange the master bedroom when I feel the familiar nausea assaulting my stomach and clawing my throat. I double over. My head splits open. The pain brings tears to my eyes. I scream. And then the pain is gone. There isn't a trace of it. I wipe my eyes and stare around. I am in a familiar, intimate place – a meadow. This is where I met younger Clares plenty times during my time travels. They normally leave clothes and food for me in a box, which is why I'm puzzled at the absence of these things. Clare knows I need clothes to wear, lest I draw attention to myself and get into serious trouble.

'Clare!' I call softly, for it is dark and quiet and I don't want to draw any unwanted attention. 'Clare, are you there?'

Maybe she doesn't know I'm here. But she should. My doctor and I were able to calculate roughly when my time travels would occur, and I explained this to Clare when she was 12. I marked dates in her little diary. She was always here waiting. What was different about this time?

It occurs to me at the moment that maybe I am in a time where Clare does not reside in this area. Probably she's grown older and moved off to marry me, gone to college or hasn't been born yet. This poses complications.

I groan and make my way quietly through the grass towards the big house where Clare lives. The lights are out and it looks empty.

Wait. I gaze up in time to see a light flare in a room. Clare's room! She must be in there. Hurrying, I tear across the front lawn so that I am not caught stark naked by anyone who might be lurking around. The door is open. I enter the house and sneak upstairs. I reach Clare's door and knock.

'Clare? Are you there?' Her door is open too. I peak in. She's not inside.

Damn

. I decide to make for our second favourite meeting place besides the meadow: the basement.

The basement isn't hard to find. I locate it in seconds and ensure I make as little noise as possible while descending the old stairs. The place is dim from lack of light, but there is little light coming from a corner at the far right behind a stack of boxes filled to the brim with old clothes, shoes, furniture, and other items.

I creep, craning my neck so I can spy and catch whoever it is before they catch me. Reason: if it's not Clare, I can get out of the house pronto without any confrontation.

I hear a voice. It's a sharp, hollow squirm, the sound someone makes when they're hurt. It sounds female. My mind immediately goes to Clare. A shaky moan catches my ear. I near the boxes.

Finally I'm right there. I peer around the corner. My jaw drops in utter shock.

Clare is seated on an old couch wearing nothing but a white bra. Her shoulder-length brown hair is tussled and some of it is matted to her forehead where sweat clings and drips. Her legs are propped in the air, firm thighs spread open, and her hand works a thick object in and out of her young pussy. On the ground I spot an adult magazine and her clothes. She must be experimenting. Having once being a teenager, I can relate to this behaviour.

But right now I'm not thinking about my teenage years. I'm not thinking about anything, actually. My mind is blank and my eyes are glued to the young girl who will one day become my bride. Her flushed face reveals how much she's enjoying herself, enjoying what she's doing to herself. Her full, pink lips are stretched as weak, feverish moans spew from her mouth. Her eyes are shut. I can see her nipples outlining the fabric of her lacy bra, charged and tingling for attention, begging to be tweaked and toyed with. Her waist works hard, twisting, twirling and jerking out of control. Her pussy, pink and soaked, glistens with her love juice.

I don't need to look down at myself. I can feel my raging cock alive with pleasure. It has a strong desire for something warm and tight. It wants Clare's pussy. But I object. I cannot do it. This is clearly the 18 year-old Clare my 33 year-old Clare told me about. She's 18, for crying out loud! I'm 36. I cannot bring myself to fuck her. But she's Clare. The same Clare I've fucked so many times and enjoyed. And that makes it harder to turn away.

'Oh fuck!' She grunts. 'Oh shit I'm about to cum!' Clare declares in a strangled voice and digs her pussy with the object faster.

Harder.

Faster.

'Oh my gawd! Oh my gawd! Oh my

gaaawd

!' She flings the object in haste and proceeds to carry on with her fingers. Her free hand grips the arm of the chair so hard I can see her white knuckles. Her busy fingers stimulate her pussy in a flurry of movements.

Then it materialises. I watch in elation as Clare lets out a sharp cry. Her body convulses on the couch while her fingers continue to excite her pussy. That is not what turns me on the most though. It's the jet of liquid shooting out of her pussy that hypnotises me. I am weak with ecstasy.

Clare sustains her squeal while her pussy squirts all over the place, splashing sticky juice on the magazine, her clothes and some boxes. This is probably what I love the most about Clare. She squirts. She's a squirt queen.

My

squirt queen.

It ends and Clare's legs drop. Her chest expands and contracts as she pants, exhausted from her intense orgasm. She sits up, considers her surroundings and then rises to her feet. I see her legs wobble. My eyes leave her legs and appraise her thighs and arse. Even at this age, her thighs are quite thick, though not as thick as in the present, and also firm. Very strong. Her arse is like a giant apple perched below her back. She takes two steps forward and her butt-cheeks take turns to rise and fall, stealing a desire-laced groan from me. I have a strong urge to grab those cheeks and do things to them.

'Oh no, Steve's gonna be here any moment!' Clare suddenly remembers.

I least expect it. I am standing there, fantasising about her while rubbing my cock, when she spins around and catches me. She jumps and squeaks. So as not to scare her I move out of the dark.

'It's me.' I say.

She is wide-eyed, taking in my appearance. My hard cock.

'You ... you watched me?'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. When I appeared at the meadow I didn't find you, so I came here. I didn't expect ... you know...'

Clare blushes.

'I – That was supposed to be private.' She says.

'Anyone could have walked in.'

'My parents and Mark went to visit my aunt. They called an hour ago and said they wouldn't be back for a couple of days. So ... I ... took the opportunity.' She shrugs, hoping to diffuse the awkward tension in the room.

My eyes fall on her pussy. It's wet with her cum. Her thighs are also drenched. That makes my cock even harder. I don't hide my erection, though. There's nothing to hide, really. Not now after she's seen it all. Besides, I'm not one of those blokes who are afraid to be seen naked.

'I'll just clear this place.' Clare murmurs, turns around and bends to pick up her sodden magazine and clothes.

The action causes her arse to shoot out and fatten before my eyes. I groan. My self-control shatters and I stride forward. My arms wrap around her stomach and I pull her to me. Subsequently, my dick lodges between her arse cheeks. It feels good. I sigh and grind against her.

'

Oh

!' Clare is surprised by what is happening. She straightens.

My left hand goes for her breasts, squeezing the youthful moulds, and my right hand attacks her pussy.

'Steve!' Clare squeaks and shivers. Her hips move in soft circles in reaction to my fingers in her pussy. Her arse grates my cock.

Clare's skin is clammy with sweat. I lean and sniff her neck. She smells good. Intoxicating. I am aroused even more. I hold her waist and lead her silently to the couch. There I make her bend forward and clutch the couch's arms. Her glorious arse is right in front of me, inviting. I get on my knees, spread her butt-checks and begin to eat her pussy.

Hmm

. It tastes familiar.

Delicious

.

'Aaaagh!' Clare grunts. 'Oooh Steven...' Her arse is unable to remain inert, much to my delight.

I munch her pussy, lick it, worship it, rouse it, and then I move on to her thighs. I nibble. Clare is quivering all over. Her breathing is quick.

I jump to my feet at last and rub her pussy lips with the head of my cock. I'm toying with her and enjoying it like I would in the present. Clare moves her arse sensually.

'Put it in!' She pleads. 'Stick it inside!'

I smile and sink myself into her pussy. She's warm, very warm, and tight. Lord, she's tight. I hold her waist and push forward.

'Aaaaagh! Oooooh!!' Clare yells. She's never taken anything like my cock before.

I'm not 8-inches long, just the average 7-and-half-inches. But I'm quite thick. I know I'm stretching her pussy to its elastic limit as I persist with my slow, sweet journey into the depths of her young cunt.

The journey ends and I groan with a smile. Clare can barely stand, so she allows her knees to fall on the couch. She's shaking like a leaf on a windy morning, excited. Due to the basement's poor ventilation, we are both covered in sweat. It makes it all the more thrilling.

I proceed to fuck Clare slowly. Smoothly. I'm giving her pussy time to adjust itself to my cock's size. Clare bites the couch and growls as though she's experiencing something both painful and pleasant. As my waist travels to-and-fro my hands meander over her slippery back, and then onto her fat arse. I rub, squeeze, and spank her arse.

'UUUGH!' Clare responds just the way I like it.

Now I can feel her lubricated pussy loosening its hold around my cock. It's much easier for me to run my dick along the walls of her cunt now, so I quicken my pace, unleashing my cock's fury. I pound her from behind and watch her arse vibrate in the process. Clare rocks her body, bucking her butt to meet my rhythm. She's a fast learner, my Clare. Soon we are moving as one.

Minutes later, Clare's body is swaying faster than ever. She weeps, 'I'M CUMMING! OOOH I'M CUMMING!!'

I take note of her words and increase my tempo, slamming her pussy swifter and firmer than before.

'OOOOH FUUUUCK!' She screams.

I remove my cock in time, just as her pussy explodes and a flood of cum gushes forth onto the ground.

'Let it out! Let it out!' I encourage, my fingers stroking her pussy roughly.

'UUUUUGH! AAAAAAGH!' Clare is like an epileptic patient as her body quakes furiously while more cum spits out of her pussy.

The sight of it stirs the beast in me. Immediately her pussy is exhausted of all cum, I slip my dick back in. I waste no time in vigorously thumping her arse with my waist.

'OOH YEEAH! OOH YEEAH!' I grunt and my eyelids flutter. 'OOOH FUCK!' My balls tighten. 'I'M GONNA CUM NOW! I'M GONNA CUM IN YOUR TIGHT PUSSY!'

'YEEES! YEES! YEEEES!'

'SHIIIT! FUUCK!' Thick sperm race from my cock, swamping her pussy. I feel delighted as I empty my load into her.

'Oooh my gawd, that feels soooo good,' Clare whimpers and collapses on the couch.

I share the couch with her, panting, fatigued. She lies in my arms and rests her head on my shoulder. I'm not worried about her getting pregnant. If she did, 33 year-old Clare would have said so. Not that I would have been able to prevent any pregnancies had it turned out that way.

We talk. Clare, as usual, bugs me about the future. I finally tell her that we are married. This gladdens her heart and her smile is huge. She's been waiting for me to say that since we first met when she was 9.

*******************************

When I return to the present I find myself on the ground of my bedroom. I can tell its night from the

darkness compressing my surroundings. I sit up, stare around, and get to my feet with a little struggle. On the bed lies Clare. 33 year-old Clare. She's wearing a white lace Baby doll and her thighs and curvy arse are visible.

I am turned on. I quietly slip into bed and proceed for the kill.