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Subject: {ASSM} The Second Chance (1)
Date: Sun, 9 Jul 2000 22:10:13 -0400
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<1st attachment, "tsc (1).txt" begin>
THE SECOND CHANCE
PROLOGUE
"Tom, Tom," I heard a voice whisper and felt a hand push at my leg.
"Wake up you old man. People are staring."
I became instantly alert and rubbed an eye, pretending that something
were caught there. Eighteen eminent people looked at me, nine on each side
of the long table in the wainscoted seminar room with leaded glass windows
Alice, sitting beside me, was the one who had nudged me from my doze.
Those scientists from half a dozen countries were there to hear the latest
addition to my widely respected theory that time travel was possible but
not within our particular universe.
"Where was I," I grumbled, the pain in my belly returning. I took
another pill with a swallow of water.
"You were recapping your theory that we can travel back in time only in
alternate universes," Alice whispered into my ear.
I looked up at the sober faces who gazed back at me with astonishing
respect, at me, an old man who would soon be oblivious to everything; who
would not be aware of oblivion.
"We can travel back," I began, then stopped to hack some phlegm into a
handkerchief. "but not in our bodies. We can do it only with our minds,
which, I posit, exist independently of our physical being."
"Are you, perhaps, speaking of the soul, Professor?" asked a smooth
faced Jesuit in rather dapper clerical garb.
"No. The soul is a spiritual concept. I'm talking about the collective
memories of an individual, the experience of existence. They can survive
the death of the body, if transported into the past, into a close alternate
universe where the only difference from our present one may be the
existence or non existence of a single microbe.
"That's an elegant notion," the priest replied with a small smile,
hunching his shoulders and leaning forward at the table. "But it's no more
provable than the hinges on the pearly gates."
"Quite right, Father Quinn," I forced myself to smile through the
nagging pain in my stomach. "Whoever manages the trip cannot return to
tell us about it."
"The trip?" asked a callow youth not yet forty, "How could it be
accomplished?"
"I've been working on that," I replied dourly, "but unfortunately it
requires suicide, and, of course, one can never know the results of that.
Father Quinn is quite correct. We're dealing here with the question of
life after death."
* * *
"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Alice growled as we walked down the
hall toward the lab and our offices. She pulled on my sleeve, forcing me
to stop and look at her.
"It's better than rotting away in pain," I replied with a bit of
annoyance, trying to avoid looking into her disconsolate face.
The heavy woman with a wrinkled face was three years my junior, sixty
four years old Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun on the top of her
head. She was not pretty, although I had always found her to be extremely
attractive, like the bust of an ancient Greek woman; dignified,
self-assured. We loved each other, although we had never touched
intimately in our twenty five years of scientific collaboration. We would
never be so tawdry. We were faithful to our spouses.
"What can I say, Tom? What can I say?" and she began to weep
convulsively, losing that haughty reserve that was her hallmark.
I almost put my hands on her, almost embraced the woman, but I flinched.
"Should I say good-bye now, Tom?" she choked emotionally, tears falling
down her cheeks as we stood before the door of the lab.
"Good-bye, Alice," I said, eager to do it, to be done with the whole
fucking world.
I left her crying at the door as I closed it behind me.
* * *
I sat in what could only be described as an electric chair which was
connected by thick cables to machines and processors that only I and Alice
understood. It was not science. The results could not be verified. It
was based just on theories I had elaborated over many years, some of them
when I was only half sober. But I had nothing to lose. I was dying, so I
pushed the button.
Chapter One
My mind seemed to explode and I felt an awesome fear, a panic that
caused me to lose control of my bicycle. It plunged into a line of privet
bushes and I fell headlong onto the hard sod of the neighbor's lawn. I
wanted to scream in terror, and yet I was elated at being alive. My mind
had been invaded, yet I knew how and why. Who are you?, I asked, and I
replied to myself. The fear vanished and I felt nothing but delirious joy.
"Are you hurt?" Mrs. Grierson inquired anxiously, leaning over me.
"Tommy!" my mother called in fright as she ran from our front yard where
she had been tending a flower bed.
"I'm all right," I replied in a soprano voice that startled me. "I
think the bike hit a rock."
Yes, it was my mother who bent over me and kissed my face. Oh, Lord! I
was home again after such a long voyage! My eyes grew moist.
"Are you hurt?" Mom asked, wiping away my tears.
"No, not really. I just bumped myself."
"You should be more careful," she chided me with a warm smile.
I got up and retrieved the bike, which was not damaged. Mom and Mrs.
Grierson began to chat. As I wheeled the bicycle down the sidewalk and
then up our driveway I marveled at the smooth, hairless shapeliness of my
forearms. I was conscious of being sixty seven years old, but I was also
the same boy of the day before. I was absolutely astounded.
After I parked the bike on its kickstand next to the back porch I rushed
upstairs to my bedroom to examine the rest of me. I already knew how I
looked naked, of course, but not from my new perspective. I glanced out
the window and saw Mom go into Mrs. Grierson's house, and knew that I had
perhaps an hour to myself. I stripped off my clothes quickly, eagerly, and
then stood in front of the long mirror on the closet door. I was amazed by
my youthful, blond body. I stood over sixty inches tall and must have
weighed one fifteen or one twenty. I had some heft, but my body was
absolutely boyish; there was not even a wisp of pubic hair above my hard
cock, which jutted out about four inches. My limbs were shapely and soft
looking, almost girlish. There was no masculinity in my chest and
shoulders, which were still undeveloped. My nipples were raised on small
cones of flesh, like little titties. I fondled myself, in love with my own
young image, like Narcissus. I ran my hands up and down my soft thighs,
then my belly and chest. I gazed at my boyish face and then again at my
cock.
I had not masturbated for the first time, I suddenly realized, although
I knew about it, had thought about it. Some of the guys in my sixth grade
class were doing it. Even Ritchie, a good friend, had been jacking off for
almost a month. I remembered the first time I was twelve, when I sat on
the toilet naked, just before a bath, and I played with my cock until it
erupted with a stinging sensation but agreeable pleasure. That happened
during the first week of Summer vacation. I gazed into the mirror and
thought that I did not have to wait until school was out, that this second
time around I could begin doing it about four weeks early.
I grasped and gently squeezed my small cock. It felt good. I had
experienced orgasms countless times in my sixty seven years, although much
less frequently since my late fifties. But the young body I now inhabited,
the hairless boy reflected in the mirror had yet to feel that pleasure. I
pulled on my cock with fingers and thumb, the head of it bumping against my
palm. I looked at my image and thought myself pretty as I manipulated the
slender penis with growing eagerness. I felt a tingle in the head of it,
that telltale sensation which I knew from long experience heralded the
ecstatic release, the pleasure which could not now be avoided. My face
grimaced, upper teeth on lower lip, and I spewed with a small shout onto my
palm and between my fingers. The profound pleasure caused my knees to
weaken. I never remembered it feeling so wonderful. I squeezed out the
last dollop and in a fit of naughtiness brought the slimy hand to my face
for a taste with the tip of my tongue. I then smeared my boyish chest with
the stuff and then my belly and right thigh. My breathing soon reverted to
its normal rhythm and after another gaze at my boyishness, I went to the
bathroom for a quick shower.
* * *
Masturbation! I was back with that once more, I groused as I toweled
myself dry. Here I was, on an adventure unprecedented in human history,
and all I could think about was sex and jacking off. The rutting instincts
of my twelve year old body overwhelmed the elegant mind trapped inside.
The Noble laureate could only think about getting laid for the first time.
At least in this new life, I felt certain, I would not have to wait until I
was a college sophomore.
I sat on the edge of my bed and pondered my unique situation. I could
not announce to the world that I, Thomas Horger, knew for a certainty what
was to come in the next half century. Were I to do that, I would be placed
under professional care. And if I persisted and foretold accurately the
outcome of elections and sporting events, the course of the stock market
and weighty international events, to say nothing of technological
innovation, I would probably be kidnapped by greedy men. Even worse, I
could attract the attention of the government, which would seek to use me
as a weapon in the unfolding Cold War.
Physically I was just twelve years old. No one could imagine that I had
the life experience of a sixty seven year old man, a man who had seen the
beginning of the twenty first century. At my young age, I reasoned, I
could effect little change in the world. I would probably not be able to
prevent even the stroke that would kill my father within two years time,
although I certainly intended to nag him about his diet and high blood
pressure. When I became an adult, of course, I would enjoy a breath taking
career, probably in particle physics again. I would become fabulously
wealthy, a multi billionaire, and people would marvel at my uncanny ability
to make the right investments. I would win the Noble Prize once more. But
as a pubescent boy I could effect little, except, of course, in the realm
of sex.
I mused about the morality of it, of being an old man in a young body.
Would it wrong of me to exploit my inner maturity to seduce young girls? I
ran my hands up and down my smooth, almost girlish thighs. Perhaps even a
pretty boy or two, I thought, just as an experiment. It would be unseemly
for a twelve year old to focus on adult women. It would be ludicrous,
although there was a certain moral logic to it. And the logic would demand
that my sexual partners be at least over forty. It was a stupid notion. I
was twelve years old, I reminded myself again as I pulled on my small cock.
It was not unheard of for a precocious boy that age to engage in sex with
his contemporaries. I would never be accused of being a child molester,
because no one could understand the truth of my situation, which was
unprecedented, unbelievable. I had to decide the morality of it on my own,
because there were no standards in society that related to my unique
condition.
* * *
"What are your reading there?" my father asked.
I was curled up on the couch, when he came into the room..
"It's a new novel by Camus, La peste," I replied. I had read the book
twice before.
"Is your French so good?" he asked in amazement. "You've been studying
it for just a year."
"I take after you, Dad. I'm quick with languages, and besides Camus is
quite easy, like Hesse's Siddartha. It's very plain text."
"But you don't know German," he protested, obviously confused.
"I've just heard about it. I haven't read it yet," I lied. I had read
it at least a dozen times in the original German. I was almost a Buddhist.
He gave me a queer look and sat down on the chair opposite me.
"You've been acting strange lately," he said softly.
"Do you think I'm strange? I asked reproachfully, looking into his
face.
"I'm sorry, Son. I suppose I've not been keeping up with you. I've
been so busy at the university.""
"I'm growing up, Dad. I'm changing."
He glanced at me with wry amusement. He assumed that I had recently
masturbated for the first time.
"Let's see a ball game this weekend," he suggested.
"The Indians will win the World Series this year," I announced in an off
hand manner. "You'd better get some post seasons tickets early."
"Do you really think so?" he replied with a large grin. "The season has
just begun."
"I know it for a fact," I said truthfully.
The lovely man got up, came to the couch and tousled my hair.
"You're a real Indians fan, Tommy. I'll put in for those tickets
tomorrow."
* * *
"Tommy," my Mom remarked one morning at breakfast, soon after my
arrival. "You seem to be so distracted."
She was a highly educated woman. Had she finished her dissertation, she
could have been a Ph.D. like my father and perhaps even have been on the
faculty of the university.
"Is something troubling you?" she asked with concern as she placed a
glass of orange juice before me.
I looked into her sparkling eyes, which were almost thirty years younger
than mine and placed my hand on hers. It was an inappropriate gesture for
a boy my age, and she pulled her hand away suddenly with a quizzical
glance, but then placed hers over mine.
"What's gotten into you?" she asked, and I thought it to be a most apt
question.
"I'm not myself," I said truthfully.
She shook her head in confusion. "You'd better hurry or you'll be late
for school," she said and turned again to the stove.
* * *
. The days immediately following my arrival proceeded with complete
normalcy. The old man in me was fascinated by the many physically lovely
creatures, male and female, who shared my sixth grade classroom. As a
person who had once been old, I appreciated the beauty of them as could no
ordinary twelve year old. They were, however, just kids, very
uninteresting children whose antics were extremely tedious. I could not
match their youthful vibrancy, although I tried, because I dared not behave
like a grown person in a child's body.
During those first days I heard a number of comments about how different
or strange I had become, but such observations ceased before too long. I
was a brainy kid with an almost perfect record in school, so I didn't have
to dumb down. It was boring, however, to be a boy of twelve again. It was
so confining, and I looked forward to going off to college.
My buddy Ritchie noticed immediately that there was something different
about me, as had my Mom
"I think I have a bug," I explained to both of them. How could they
possibly suspect the awesome truth of the matter?
"You're eating too many sweets," Mom suggested.
"You need to jack off," Ritchie opined with a smug expression. He had
been doing it for almost a month.
"I did it yesterday," I responded with a smugness of my own.
"Did you use soap? I can't do it without soap," the boy confessed in an
agitated voice.
"No," I replied, assuming a superior position. "I lay on the bed and
played with my cock until it got hard. Then I just pumped it with my
fingers until I shot."
Ritchie looked at me with considerable respect. I had bested him again,
as I always did. He and I were best buddies since kindergarten, but it was
my new persona that allowed me to appreciate the boy's loveliness. He had
raven hair and a pale, oval, childish face, although he was as large as I.
His lips, always so quick to smile, had a natural rosy tinge. On the
second day of my awakening, when we walked to school together, I felt a
lust for him, an unprecedented sexual yearning. In all my previous years I
had never experienced such a feeling for another male.
I could have that boy, I knew for certain. It would be so easy to
seduce him, to tempt him into homosexual acts. I could probably lead him
to believe that it was he who initiated it, who wanted it, that it was he
who was the seducer. At his age, before the onset of homophobia, it is not
uncommon for boys to jack off together, even to experiment naughtily with a
close friend in some private, secure place. It could be done on a sleep
over after the lights were turned off, after some rough housing clad just
in underpants which tented above rigid cocks. It would only require a
casual touch or a suggestive whisper to encourage the sexually curious boy
to try things in the dark which he would never do in the day. He would
proceed innocently with an excited sense of naughtiness to touch, to kiss,
perhaps to suck his best buddy. Yes, certainly that. He was a very
curious boy. Even fucking was possible.
"Ritchie," I could say. "Do you really want to do the queer stuff all
the way?" In his innocence he might venture it, not realizing the pretty
boy in his arms was actually an old man indulging himself in young flesh.
He could never know the truth of it. He would only remember experimenting
with his best buddy on a blissful Spring evening.
No, I won't do it, I resolved as we waited at the curb for the green
light which would permit us to cross to the school on the other side of the
street. It was just too grotesque. I would not betray the core of my
moral being for a short while of shameful self indulgence. But I refused
to deny the boy's beauty and sexual allure. I refused to be a hypocrite.
* * *
I didn't see Sara until the weekend after my arrival, because she had
been out of town to attend her grandfather's funeral. For over fifty years
that girl had filled my mind with fantasy and regret, because, when I was
twelve the first time, I had lost her. It was all about sex. We had been
such close friends, playmates, since before we could remember that we took
each other for granted, assuming that our childish world would remained
unchanged.
Sara became sexually conscious a year before me, and I noticed a change
in her when we were eleven which I could not comprehend. She played more
physically with me, rough housing with increasing frequency, subtly
inviting me to touch the nubs of her incipient breasts.
I was a shy boy and too unsophisticated to realize the possibilities.
Ritchie eventually became her first boy friend, and I just remained pals
with the two of them.
On my second chance at youth I resolved to have Sara, and it would be
easy, because behind her tomboy facade, I knew, lurked a slut who was ready
for anything. I was eager for her, when she and Ritchie came to my back
door one morning and called me out.
"Let's go up to the field," she suggested, when I came on to the back
porch.
We had often played in that vast acreage of tall grasses and weeds, so
fragrant in Spring, where children could sit on the ground and be lost to
the rest of the world. It was a notorious place in which teenagers enjoyed
sex hidden away in the lush vegetation.
Sara was not as lovely as my fantasy remembered. She had a plain,
somewhat mousy face, and her limbs were sparse, almost skinny. I had
imagined over the decades that she was a beautiful pixie, but the truth of
it was that she looked more like an undernourished waif. I found Ritchie,
who was far prettier than she, to be more sexually attractive. It was a
great disappointment, seeing her the second time around. A lifetime of day
dreams suddenly became absurd. Yet I still wanted her, if only because I
had invested so much of myself, emotionally, in my elaborate memory of the
girl.
"Let's go up there by the railroad tracks," Ritchie said, suggesting a
slight detour.
"Sure," I responded as I came down the steps, and Sara agreed with a
smile.
The tracks, two blocks away, were those of a little used spur that
penetrated the field and served a few industrial buildings along its route.
We had played there forever, learning to walk the rails without teetering.
Sara seemed to be rather excited that morning.
"Let's go into the field," she insisted as soon as it was in view,
taking our hands in each of hers.
We ran into it, the weeds slapping around our bare thighs, the houses of
our neighborhood in the far distance. Sara suddenly fell to the ground,
pulling Ritchie and me down with her. We rolled about to make a secret
space for ourselves. Only the birds and butterflies could see us.
"Do you want to practice kissing?" she asked with a naughty smirk.
Sara was an inch taller than the two of us boys, but this time I refused
to be intimidated by the bold girl. I rolled over to her and placed my
palm on a small breast. I kissed her like an adult. She endured me for
awhile with scant response from her lips.
"It's Ritchie's turn now," she said and pushed me off of her.
He was eager for it and so was she. They kissed like lovers, although
it was their first time. I realized I was too late, that I should have
arrived weeks earlier. Ritchie had Sara again, and she would probably let
him fuck her, if I were not there.
"I'm going home," I said as I got to my feet, but they seemed not to
hear. Ritchie was on top grinding his body at her as they kissed.
I waded through the weeds towards home, disappointed somewhat, but not
too much. My long fantasy had been shattered by reality. The scrawny girl
had not aroused me in the least, because what I truly wanted was a female
older than she with more heft both in body and mind.
I decided to seek out Phyllis Schaefer, a sixteen year old who lived two
doors down from mine. Phyllis had a plain, blond face and was a bit heavy,
although not fat. She was a studious girl, very intelligent, and we often
talked like old friends despite the difference in our ages.. The old man
could manage to seduce that lonely girl, I thought callously, and achieve
for my young body an urgently needed sexual release. God! It was so
humiliating to be twelve years old again like this.
* * *
"Hello, Tommy," Mrs. Schaefer greeted me at the back door after my
knock. "What brings you here?"
She was a stout matron of about forty, a war widow in an apron with
flour on her hands and a twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Schaefer was one of my
favorite persons.
"Is Phyllis home?" I inquired with a grin.
"Yes, of course, Tommy. She's upstairs in her room. Tell her the
cookies will be done soon."
It was as easy as that. Phyllis had once been my baby sitter and I had
the run of her house. I climbed the stairs two at a time and burst into
the girl's room, surprising her as she lay on the bed reading a book.
"Tommy," she exclaimed and sat up. "You startled me."
"Sorry," I said with calculated sheepishness as I gazed at her friendly,
homely face.
"What's up?" she asked in a chirpy tone.
"I'm bored, Phyll. Sara and Ritchie got all mushy out in the field so I
left."
"Wasn't Sara your girl?" the large teenager asked teasingly.
"Naw. I've never had a girl," I replied with a hang dog expression.
"I'm surprised. You're such a good looking boy."
"I suppose Sara likes Ritchie's looks better than mine."
"Well, he is really rather pretty, if one prefers dark haired boys. I'm
partial to blondes, myself," she said slyly but innocently.
Phyllis looked at me with a weak smile, and I could see a yearning in
her face. I remembered, when I was eight and she twelve, how she often
kissed me in a playful manner and touched my soft legs. I knew I could
have her if I just reached out the way a normal twelve year old could never
imagine. I did not have to conquer the girl; I only had to make myself
available to her..It was so easy, so easy that I felt guilty for an
instant. But this was an intelligent female just at the start of her
adulthood; fair game for a horny young boy with a skilled coach to guide
him.. My guilt was misplaced, I thought, and I sat on the bed next to her.
"What are you reading," I asked casually and picked up her book.
It was Untermeyer's volume on American literature. I thumbed the pages.
"I like his treatment of Dreiser's Sister Carrie," I said as I handed
the book back to her.
"You've always been a bookworm, Tommy," she said gaily and tousled my
hair. "I can't imagine you understand much of what you read."
"Why do you suppose I read?" I replied in a testy voice. "I understand
more than most kids my age. Sara doesn't read much, you know, nor does
Ritchie. They're just kids. That's why I like talking with you."
I thought the lonely girl was about to embrace me. Her arms were ready
and her mouth was open in excitement, but her mother interrupted us.
"Kids," she called from downstairs. "I have cookies and milk for you."
I placed my palm on her cheek as I got off the bed. She uttered a
choking sound and her eyes grew moist. I pulled her up with my hand. She
suddenly comprehended the possibilities, but the illicit reality of it made
her extremely nervous. It was so easy.
* * *
After our snack Phyllis and I went for a stroll. She was clearly
troubled by her deep infatuation with a twelve year old boy who was three
inches shorter than she and thirty pounds lighter. Her feelings for me had
always been there, primly repressed. It was the nasty old man who
exploited them, the old man whose young body enslaved him. Pubescent
hormones overruled the cranky professor who thought that Phyllis was a
sweet young thing bereft of any sexual allure.
I took hold of her hand and she shook it off.
"The neighbors will see!" she protested vehemently.
The street was empty except for a few cars at the curb, but one could
imagine snoopy housewives peering out windows.
"I've always liked holding your hand," I complained.
"But you're not a little boy any more," she retorted, vainly trying to
stay in charge.
"No I'm not," I agreed. "I'm older than twelve, you know."
"Yes, you're very precocious."
"I could get you pregnant," I let fly with a zinger.
The girl's face turned beet red.
"Please . . ., Tommy," she stuttered.
"Let's go to the field," I said, looking up at her.
She did not reply, but we continued walking in that direction. She took
my hand as we crossed the road, and she seemed to hurry when we pressed
into the tall weeds. We went deeply into the field trotting hand in hand.
As the world behind us became dimmer, we grew more elated. Finally we fell
to the ground and lost the world all together.
"Don't get me pregnant, Tommy. Promise me," Phyllis implored as we
grappled to each other on the fragrant soil and weeds.
I paused.
"There's no hurry," I said calmly. "We can have pleasure without making
a baby.
"But I want you to be my first boy," she almost whined.
"I'll pull out in time," I promised. "Do you want to get naked with
me?"
Phyllis raised her head above the level of the weeds and looked about.
"OK," she said excitedly.
We disrobed frantically, tossing the clothes aside in our eagerness.
Phyllis in her nakedness was larger than I would have preferred. Her
thighs were too heavy, her breasts almost grossly outsized, yet I fell upon
them with the desperation of youth. The old man inside was flung into a
corner. Without the least hint of sophistication I rolled onto the willing
young woman and pushed my cock rudely into her, ripping through her
protective membrane like a drunken Cossack.
She did not cry out in pain, but pushed me off her once the deed was
done.
"It's too dangerous, Tommy, but you've had me. Now I want to give you
pleasure."
She began to kiss me, my lips, my chest, my belly. She groaned in
excitement as she tasted my body. She slavered my girlish thighs.
"You're so beautiful," she murmured just before she took my slender cock
into her mouth.
* * *
"I can't be your girlfriend, Tommy. People would talk. But we can do
this again and next time it`ll be even better. I'll snitch some rubbers
from the drugstore where I work.
We lay in each other's arms She cuddled me possessively, completely
satisfied after I finished licking her to orgasm a second time. .
"Could we stay here awhile longer?" I asked, loving the feel of her
ample body, wanting her to suck me once again.
"No, I have to go," she replied.
She sat up and gathered her clothes. She paused to look at me sprawled
on the ground.
"I think you're as pretty as Ritchie. You're now my own living doll."
"Do you like to play with dolls, Phyllis?" I teased and wagged my
flaccid cock at her.
"You want it again? Tommy! how much stuff do you have inside those
cute balls of yours?"
The girl leaned down and once more I felt her lips on my cock. She
sucked on me avidly with slurpy, popping sounds as her hands caressed my
thighs.
"Phyll," I warned her before too long, feeling that magic tingle once
again.
This time she did not pull away and finish me by hand, as she had done
twice before. I held her head steady and spewed into her mouth, gasping in
extreme pleasure. She rose and sat back on her heels. She swallowed.
"There wasn't so much of you that time," she said with a grin. "But I
really have to go now or I'll be late for work."
We pulled on our clothes, rose and walked back toward the road and the
houses beyond.
"Come visit me tomorrow morning, Tommy," she said when we stopped at my
driveway. "My mom won't be home and I'll have some rubbers."
I moved to give her a kiss, but she stepped back and looked about
apprehensively.
"We really shouldn't be seen together. We must keep this a secret."
I stood and watched as she walked down the sidewalk toward her house,
smug in the realization that I would not have to resort to masturbation for
the foreseeable future.
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