To the Bold

"Oh shit! Not yet," she moaned, jamming two fingers deep in her pussy, keeping them perfectly still as her building orgasm trembled around them. Her eyes dilated unconsciously, the better to absorb the photons emitted from her favorite part of the vid. She had to pace herself, controlling her stubborn, impatient pussy so that she could cum at just the right time.

The lovers on the screen rocked together, building an increasing frenzy. The young man thrust deep into the woman beneath him. The cosmetics she used to hide the creases around her eyes had begun to smear from the sweat that drenched her dark black hair, her rolling breasts, his broad chest and back. Her ankles, crossed hard against his back, frantically urged him to increase his pace.

The voyeur, watching from across the years, reached down with her other hand, strumming her clit as she allowed her fingers to resume their rapid pumping. The young man arched his back, arms straining against the bed. The woman twined her fingers in his long hair. She yanked his head closer to him, staring into his eyes as her lips moved silently.

The watcher's eyes squeezed shut as she began her own back-arching orga-- "What the fuck, Jenkins?" demanded a stern voice behind her. Jenkins (or Stephanie to the other interns) started straight up in the cheap rolling office chair, pulling her lab coat shut with her clit hand and jabbing the stop button on the video display with the other. She grimaced as she saw the thick streak of her juices on the extremely expensive piece of scientific equipment.

Mr. Singh, her internship supervisor, spun the chair around so that she faced him. "Again? What is this, the third time this month? And that's just the times I've caught you. If I'd known that Columbia students were so horny, I would have gone with that abstinence activist from BYU."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Singh. I was finished reviewing the video, and you had said to watch ALL of it..." she said, her voice wavering from embarrassment and a not-quite-finished orgasm. She prayed to any nearby gods that Mr. Singh couldn't hear the buzzing and throbbing of her still very active pussy.

Mr. Singh tugged on his slowly graying beard for the 839th time since he had met Jenkins. She was a good kid, eager to please, and a hard worker. Her brown eyes were moist, almost as if she was going to cry. Something else was moist, his nose told him, catching her scent thick in the cramped video conversion lab.

Mr. Singh held himself to a strong standard of ethics. He knew a less enlightened man would take advantage of Jenkin's arousal and at least get an enthusiastic blowjob out of the situation. However, he would never commit such a base act with one of his interns. But, if he just happened to visualize it while fucking Harriet Tanaka from H.R. later that night, that would be just fine, perhaps even a just reward for his current restraint.

"Get out of here, Jenkins. Remind me never to put you on vidscan duty again. Maybe you can help out with the kitchen crew for the next couple of weeks. Peeling a few thousand potatoes might help you cool down."

Stephanie nodded gratefully, glad that she was finally able to stand without her knees buckling under her. Mr. Singh was a good guy, broad-shouldered for a scientist, with a friendly, toothy grin. Too bad he didn't have a love life. Maybe she would reward him with a thank-you hummer closer to the end of her internship.

"Wait a second, Jenkins," he called out as she opened the door. "Besides the obvious, did you notice anything else on the playback this time around?"

"No, sir. Absolutely nothing different. Just the normal training routine, followed with a date with the new courtesan." She frowned, trying to remember anything that could be useful.

Mr. Singh slumped into the chair, completely ignoring the wide splotch of Stephanie juices on the synthetic leather. "I don't get it. All of the Alexander clones check out up to this point. They have the charisma, the tactical acumen, but never that impulse to take that decisive risk, the gamble that turns the tables on the enemy." He frowned, showing his deep worry with a rarely furrowed brow. "Our employers are paying us quite a bit to create the perfect general for them. There will be consequences for failure..."

Stephanie shifted her feet awkwardly, both in concern for her boss and in recognition of the sticky, drying cum caking the insides of her thighs. She was young, but could vividly imagine the stakes. The sheer audacity of cloning Alexander the Great had drawn her to the project in the first place. Recreating the gene sequence, daunting as it was, had actually been the easy part. Drawing together a lifetime of formative experiences that helped build his psyche was infinitely more difficult. Millions of synaptic connections had to be forged in exactly the right sequence.

Fortunately, time travel had been perfected by then, albeit imperfectly. Sending things back was easy, given enough energy. If you temporarily drained the entire energy grid of a city the size of Mumbai, you could hurl about three ounces of matter through the space-time continuum. It would even land exactly when and where you wanted it to.

Unfortunately, getting it back was the hard part. There was simply no artificial energy source in the past that could provide the power that the Fujikawa-Rosenstein equations required. Sure, something like Krakatoa could provide the raw power, but your three-ounce robot certainly couldn't channel it without being instantly vaporized.

That's where a certain smart-ass grad student from UCLA came in. She figured that if you can't take a short cut, you may as well take the long way around. One quiet Tuesday night, Sheila Mae Rodriguez sent a bot with a simple recording device back to April 14th, 1865. A quick flight to D.C. right after that to dig up the bot and its nearly indestructible ceramic data disc, and she was a Nobel Prize winner. The sale of a full-color video recording of Lincoln's assassination dwarfed the meager million that the Nobel Committee gave her.

A stack of similar ceramic disks rested in the drive banks of the video conversion lab. Mr. Singh sighed deeply. All that science, all that power, and the only tangible result was Jenkin's multiple interrupted wank sessions. "Stephanie," he said softly.

She blinked rapidly. It may have been the first time he had ever called her anything other than Jenkins. "Yes, Mr. Singh?"

"What is it about this vid? You've reviewed dozens of the Alexander tapes. The boy was certainly no prude. I think Dr. Adoba counted about thirty-seven different sexual encounters in just two weeks of recordings. Why is this the one that I always catch you...enjoying?"

Stephanie nibbled her lower lip a bit before answering carefully, "There's something about the passion. It's not that the courtesan is particularly beautiful, or sexy. In fact, she's sort of plain. But she brings something out in him ... Something primal ... Something raw."

Mr. Singh rewound the vid a few seconds to a still, mid-climax image. He centered the vid on her face, wondering what spell the middle-aged (well, mid-thirties was middle aged in the Macedonia of 338 BCE) prostitute cast on the young Alexander. There was something in her eyes, a little like Harriet Tanaka's wild stare when he rotated his cock exactly 18.7 degrees clockwise and drove it deep inside her tight little asshole. Hmmmm... He briefly and scientifically wondered what would happen with a 19.2 degree twist.

He stared at the screen a bit longer, then spun the chair back around. His elbow hit the play button. If he or Stephanie had ever bothered to learn to lip-read in Classical Greek, they would have known what the historically nameless whore had told the young Alexander in the moments of their shared ecstasy, creating a unique synaptic pattern: "To the bold, my dear young prince, belong the spoils."