Time Looped

Disclaimer: Sexual acts are between fictional characters over the age of 18. There is a degree of incest here, beware if that bothers you.

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This journal shows up in my mail, and I open it, to read:

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12/15/1955

Dear William Patnaude IV,

Where do I begin? How do I convince you that what you are reading isn't a hoax? Does it even matter if you're convinced, since events will unfurl on their own whether or not you believe me?

At the moment you're reading this, it's June 20th, 2016. Last night, you fucked Cindy Cavanaugh at her apartment, and finally got home around 9 AM, and picked this parcel up as part of your mail, put the rest of your mail on your kitchen counter, and opened this journal first. And you're just reading these first words. You should read the whole thing. But you won't.

I also know that you're deeply involved in DARPA's time travel research, something you don't get to tell anyone, it's so TOP SECRET. Your family thinks you're developing the 3rd generation of the Internet. You're close to a breakthrough. Damn close.

How do I know this? Because I'm you, kid. Or was, or will be. The grammar doesn't handle it at all. You see, time travel does work. Because it threw me/you 86 years into the past. Of course, this probably wasn't DARPA's experiment. No, as one of the scientists, you'd never have been allowed to be a test subject. But there must be someone somewhere or more importantly someWHEN who unlocked the secret, and didn't want DARPA to succeed, because you're going to disappear the very moment you finish reading this journal. Or maybe I'm wrong.

You want to slam the cover shut right now, but can't, right? Can think about it, but physically can't move to do it? Can't even shut your eyes to stop reading? I don't really have to tell you about time travel paradoxes, but you're now stuck in one, just as I have been for 25 years. Everything that is about to happen, everything that is going to happen to you in the past, has already happened, I've already lived it and apparently the major parts of it can't happen any other way.

You'll leave 2016 right after putting down a journal that you you'll start writing in 1930, and right after you finish it in 1955, you will entrust it to the Patnaude Foundation to deliver it to you in 2016. Remember that Western Union courier in Back To The Future III? Exactly like that. Every event that I have put down onto paper here will happen exactly as I say they will, because I had no free will at all when they happened, and none when I committed them to paper.

Sure, there were moments in between when I could apparently do as I chose, so long as I didn't try to do something that would prevent one of these events from occurring. Eggs vs french toast at breakfast? Easy choice. Or at least I felt no internal conflict in making it. Breaking up with your great grandmother before your grandfather was born, or any of his siblings? Not a chance. They all had to be born.

Oh, yeah, Billy-boy. You get the high honor of becoming your own great-grandfather, without whom you or every other of your descendants would not exist. You know, your grandfather and his siblings, your father and aunts and uncles, your brothers and sisters. All of them exist because of what the rest of this journal will tell you happened, what will happen. And every last thing happened just as the journal says.

I don't know what happens to me after this. Your grandfather has told you the story that his dad, aka me, aka you, disappeared right before Christmas of 1955, never to be seen again, and he took over the Foundation in his place, alongside his mother. Where or when I disappear to, I don't know, certainly nobody in the family knew or if they did they didn't tell us. Maybe I pop right into your kitchen the second you leave it. Maybe whoever sent me back here kills me, having accomplished whatever they meant to accomplish. I just don't know.

You may wonder about the lack of more mundane details in what I'm going to relate, but the same lack of control applies to writing this journal, and only captures the events during which I had no control, where the time loop was acting to prevent paradox. If more had been written, those minor actions would also have become stuck in the loop, giving you less freedom.

Just because your actions are somewhat constrained, don't interpret that as our life being horrible. It wasn't. There were a lot of fun things that happened when I felt in control, and it's been a good life overall.

Anyway, kiddo, I could say read the rest of the journal, and enjoy the ride, but I know you're going to stop after the first entry, and the moment you close the cover....

William Patnaude I (aka you)

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October 12, 1930

This is not the day I arrived, but two weeks later, when I was compelled to buy this journal, and start recording events, words I'm writing down exactly as I read them in 2016, leaving space in front for a foreword I know I won't write for another 25 years, but have already read. Such a weird feeling.

I popped onto Market Street in San Francisco at midnight on September 29th. I arrived a man totally out of my era. While the Levis I was wearing might have passed as ones from the 1930s, the Bruno Mars concert tee shirt and my sneakers were going to stick out. I turned the tee inside out immediately, and started the walk to the waterfront. I threw all of my money and ID into the bay, as none of them were going to be of any use. I kept my ring of keys, since they were not anachronistic, in the hope that I might eventually get back to my old life. My cell phone had been on the counter next to the mail, so did not transport with me, or I would have needed to dispose of it, too.

I scavenged for several days, looking for work, but being 1930, there was little to be found. I slept where I could, along with many other homeless men. You'll get to choose where, but any attempt to leave the city will be thwarted.

Then I met Gladys Higgins on October 5th. Yes, our own great-grandmother, the woman I immediately knew would be my wife, was working at a soup kitchen the Salvation Army was running near the Embarcadero, and as she ladled soup into a bowl for me, our eyes locked. I felt compelled to look at her. I don't know if she felt the same compulsion, if she was caught in this same time loop with me. Would it matter? I knew what was about to happen had to happen, so the question wasn't whether she had a choice, but whether she was aware she didn't.

She was at the end of her volunteer shift, and just after I sat down with my bowl and spoon, she came to sit by me. "Hello, my name is Gladys Higgins, Mr?"

"Patnaude, Bill Patnaude, ma'am."

"Oh, don't call me ma'am," she said. "I'm just a miss, Bill. Am I being too forward if I say you have the most lovely eyes?" I knew she was 22, and unmarried. Because she was to become my wife, very soon.

"Thank you, Miss Higgins. I quite like yours, as well." They were hazel, a detail I had overlooked as a child, but an almost exact match for my own. Her brown hair was short, in one of the wavy hairstyles I associated with the flappers dancing the Charleston, over a face I immediately fell in love with.

The feeling of compulsion lifted, and we talked freely, until she said goodbye and left. I am not recording our words, to keep them from being bound up with all of the other things that must happen just as they had to. Don't try to say something to push her away, though, it won't work.

The next day, she was volunteering again, and again came to talk to me. I tried to tell her about the time travel, but my mouth would not form the words. I gave up and just chatted, getting to know her better.

After four days of this, she invited me to her home, to let me have a bath and get my clothes cleaned. I could only answer yes.

"You own your own home?" I asked, as we arrived at a home a short distance from the piers. I knew she didn't, but the compulsion forced the words from my mouth.

"This is my parents' home, but they're in New York right now. Is that a problem?"

"Not for me, if it is not one for you. Why are you trusting me? I'm nearly a stranger to you."

"You seem a decent man, Bill," she said. "For some reason, I feel I can trust you. And to be completely honest, I have an itch I want to scratch, and you might be perfect to help me do that. I cannot approach any of my socialite friends, as they are the worst gossips you can imagine."

"So, a stranger, who doesn't know your friends, is the perfect candidate for a fuck?" I could not believe I had just said that to her, but had no choice.

"I do not like the language, but yes, Bill, I want to fuck you. After you have a bath, of course."

She brought me to the bathroom, and began running water for a bath in a big clawfoot tub, and told me to disrobe. She watched me, and I could see her eyes widen when I pulled my jeans off and revealed boxer briefs, which I knew were not invented yet. And even wider when I pulled those down and she could see my dick. It wasn't hard, but was headed that way, to its 8" length. I climbed into the tub, grabbed a bar of Ivory soap and a wash cloth, and started cleaning away days of grime.

She watched me for a while, then undressed herself, pulling off her dress, then her full-length slip. Her breasts were small, maybe an 'A' cup, and she went without a brassiere under the slip. She was slim, so the breasts did not look out of place on her body. Exactly my type of gorgeous, of course. Down to full silk panties, she walked behind me, pushed me to lean forward and took the soap, and began washing my back.

I jumped a little when she slipped the bar of soap down to my ass, sliding it into the crack, and following it with her hand, to clean me, but then she pressed her finger right against my pucker, and knew this was about more than getting me clean. I finished getting erect, my prick tight against my abdomen. "Gladys!" I exclaimed. She had a wicked smile on her face when I turned to look at her.

"I couldn't help myself..." she said. Was she under the same spell I was? Or was she toying with me? Did I even care? I was hard, and her randiness was intoxicating. I could see a wet spot forming on the front of her silk panties.

I felt the urge to grab her and pull her into the tub, but that would have overflowed the water. So, instead, I rose to my feet, turning towards her, my rock-hard dick pointing the way, and her smile widened. "Like what you see, dear thing?" I asked.

"Very much, sir." She reached out her hand, and asked, "May I?"

"Yes. You may do anything you want with me." We'd already established our end-game, so giving her permission now seemed pointless, but followed her lead. Or the future's. I couldn't tell the difference.

She quickly soaped up her hands, dropped the soap into the tub and wrapped her left hand around my cock, while the right went to soap up my balls, and began a slow stroking that was driving me crazy. She rubbed her thumb around my glans, making sure to get it clean. I moaned, and was almost ready to shoot off, when she stopped, and began scooping water from the tub to wash off the soap. Then she grabbed my ass and pulled me forward, while she slipped her lips over me, and did with her tongue what her thumb had just been doing. She pulled back, looked up at me, and said, "Nice and clean. And yummy," and engulfed me, immediately down her throat.

She might only have been an unmarried 22 year old maiden, but she definitely knew what she was doing, backing off when I got close to cumming, five different times. She finally took mercy on me, and let me cum, shooting into her throat, into her mouth, but not a drop was lost. I somehow managed to not slip and fall. I have no idea how much time passed.

Her chest was wet, but clean, when she helped me climb out of the tub, and we towelled off, after she slipped her panties off. She took my hand, and we walked to her bedroom, and I picked her up and dropped her on it, and she squealed. I pulled her hips to the edge of the bed, and said, "My turn," as I lowered my head into her hairy bush, and began to kiss and lick her.

"Oh, Bill, yes" she sighed. "I have to talk most men into doing this. Oh, god! You... you... do this a lot?"

"Practice... for... you... it... seems..." I said, in between licks of her delicious slit.

Gladys squeezed her head between my thighs, running her fingers through my hair, cooing and sighing turning into louder moans and gasps. Her juices were flowing, and my tongue was busy lapping the flow up, I focused my tongue on her clit, and her back arched off of the bed. I grabbed her hips to bring her back down to the bed, and redoubled my speed. She screamed "Fuck, Bill, oh, OH, OOORGH!" and came and came and came.

I stood and raising her knees, thrust my penis into her, and her orgasm continued. Or maybe it turned into a second and a third. All I know is that she continued spasming and moaning underneath me the entire time that I was fucking her, her pussy driving me absolutely crazy, until finally I could only shoot my seed into her, over and over, and collapse atop her.

And it was in that moment that I remembered my grandfather's birthdate, July 12, 1931, and realized that I had likely just conceived him, His 85th birthday was coming up, or it was back in 2016. I'd just been compelled into fatherhood.

I slid to the side of Gladys, and kissed her. She dazedly looked at me, and said, "You didn't put on a condom. I was going to give you a condom, but I was still cumming when you entered me, and it felt so good..."

"Sorry, dear. I wasn't thinking either." Well, I was, but not of that. I had gotten so used to women being on birth control pills, that I forgot they didn't exist in this era.

We cuddled for a little longer, then she said she still needed to wash my clothes. She left to get my clothes from the bathroom, but soon returned, carrying my tshirt, turned right side out. "Bill, who is this Bruno Mars, and why does your shirt talk about 2013? What is going on?" She sat on the edge of the bed.

"Gladys, do you know who H.G. Wells is?" I asked, sitting up against the headboard, pillows behind me.

"Yes. He wrote that book 'War Of The Worlds' about Martians invading."

"He also wrote a book called 'The Time Machine'. Have you heard of it?"

"I've read it. Oh. You're saying...?" she asked, her hand going to her mouth.

"Yes, dear. I'm not from this time. I was born in 1986, and was somehow transported from 2016 to now. Bruno Mars is a musical performer of my era, and that shirt was printed as a memento of the series of performances he did in that year across the country in the year 2013"

"You came to this time In a machine like Wells described?"

"No, I do not know how it was accomplished, but I did not make the trip willingly, or in any mechanical vehicle. One moment I was in my kitchen, and the next I was on Market Street."

"So what you were wearing under your pants, they're from the future, too?"

"Yes. Men's underpants somewhat like that will be introduced in a few years, with a higher leg opening, and be called briefs, and the style I wear with the longer leg won't be introduced until after I'm born, and will be called boxer-briefs because they're seen as in between briefs and boxers."

"Very interesting," she said. "Do you know a lot of facts about the inventions between now and then? You could make a fortune in the stock markets with that kind of knowledge."

I shrugged. "I believe so, but I would need to have money to invest first, and after arriving eleven days ago, I have not been able to find a job, and none of the paper money I had with me could be used, since all of the dates on the bills are in the future, and the appearances of the bills have changed as well. Getting arrested for counterfeiting would get me nowhere."

"I have money, Bill. And it's separate from my parents' money, so I don't need to tell them anything about loaning you money to start making that fortune. Together. I think this going to be the start of a beautiful friendship." My mind flashed to the closing scene from Casablanca, and then I remembered that the movie hadn't been made yet, and Humphrey Bogart had only recently made the transition from stage to film and was not yet a star. She clearly was not quoting from it.

"I think this is going to be much more than a friendship. Gladys Higgins, will you marry me?" Damn compulsion! This didn't feel like the right time, but the words came from my lips anyway. That she was already pregnant seemed even more likely.

She gasped. "Bill, shouldn't you be on one knee with a ring in your hand? You're a penniless pauper at the moment."

"One you've already had sexual intercourse with, my dear. You see, inventions are not the only thing I know the future about. I also know about what will become the Patnaude Foundation, founded by William and Gladys Patnaude, that will be one of the major philanthropic organizations of my time. We are destined to be together." First the compulsion keeps me from revealing my time travel, and now it makes me babble on about it? What the hell?

She shook her head, obviously trying to absorb a lot of information at once. "Wait, you know about us starting this foundation? How is that possible?"

"I can say that I am, we are, we will be... fulfilling a history I already know will happen, because it is my past. A series of events that leads to my birth in 1986, and to me travelling back in time when I'm 30. Gladys, I was born William Patnaude the fourth. But I'm clearly also the first, as well. I am going to be my own great-grandfather, because Gladys Higgins Patnaude was my great-grandmother."

"You are my descendant? I just committed incest?"

"Legally? Yes, I suppose we have. The law in my day defines sex between direct ancestor and descendant as incest, and I expect it's similar now?"

"Yes," she said.

I said, "However, I think we are safe in several ways. First, nobody in this era can prove that we are related, and nobody but you knows we aren't simply strangers. I am an unknown to the rest of your kin. I could claim any parents I want, and there won't be a medical test that could prove we're definitely related for another thirty years. So I doubt anyone would suspect or be able to prosecute."

She nodded, saying, "And second?"

"Second, I don't think it matters, medically. Inheritance of your genetics is considered random, in which case I would carry one eighth of your genes, which would be equivalent to being a half-first cousin, which is legal in California, at least in my day. However, being my own great-grandson, ought to mean I only inherit one eighth as well, yet I actually inherit 100% of myself over three generations? That leads me to believe that there's nothing truly random in any of this, and we actually have less genetics in common that we might think. And third, I already know that none of our descendants have any medical issues as a result of this."

She smiled slightly. "And morally? Isn't this still a sin?"

"Gladys, morals and ethics are about choices. If I don't have an actual choice, if the future compels me to fulfill it, how can it be either good or bad? It just is, or will be, or whatever. I know we will have four children, so we must have sex at least three more times, but I hope we have a lot more practice in between. I love you, dear heart. I've known we would marry from the day we met in the soup kitchen, for there was no reason to think there would be two Bill Patnaudes in San Francisco to compete for your heart."

She gasped, "What do you mean three more times? Am I pregnant already? You know when our first child is born? Of course you would."

I nodded. "Yes, our son William Jr. will be born nine months from now."