The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  He was getting horny again thinking about it. He lay curled behind her, spoon position, with his cock nestled between her plump buttocks and rising. He wondered if . . . if she'd let him do her in the back door. Yeah, that was the ticket. Kinky sex was a dead certain way to bind a woman to you, or so he'd heard. It was something special that just the two of you shared. But how to ask her? "Katy, darling, I want to fuck you in the ass." Yeah, that would go over big.

  It turned out that he didn't have to ask. As dawn's early light leaked in between the blinds of the bedroom window, Katy darling took his cock into her mouth until he was rock-hard and panting. She asked him in return to lick her clit a little, and he was glad to oblige. Then she got a little jar of Vaseline out of the bottom drawer in the nightstand and greased him up with it. She bent forward and reached back to spread her hind cheeks. "Yes," she said. "I know what you want. I want it, too."

  "Quit your damn job," she said.

  They were having breakfast, and Jerry almost choked on a forkful of hash browns.

  "What?"

  "A man of your abilities," she smiled and shook her head, "shouldn't be wasting his time filing papers. I have something better in mind for you."

  Katy wanted him to supervise the cleanup and repair job on the fire-damaged building. Insurance would cover most of the costs, and as for the rest, well, the money was available. And following that, Jerry would be taking over as building manager. "And if you show any talents at that, well, it just happens I own a few more properties and . . . "

  It was the fulfillment of his dreams -- a steady income, free room and board, and as a fringe benefit, a passionate lover. And that was only the beginning.

  Five years later Jerry owned two small apartment houses outright and a piece of an office complex on the Miracle Mile. His net worth was in the neighborhood of a half million.

  He had long since married Katy, over the opposition of family and friends, and still more or less loved her, though he despised her two grown sons. Sure, his wife was old enough to be his mother, but so what? The sex was pretty good and he didn't have to put up with the crap that a spoiled, whining woman his own age would have subjected him to. That Katy was beyond child-bearing age just meant he didn't have to worry about getting her pregnant.

  Of course, it didn't last. He got involved in a deal which would have brought in fifty million if it had worked out. It didn't, and instead Jerry wound up in bankruptcy court. Katy could have bailed him out with her personal fortune, but as it happened she had caught him having an affair with his secretary and had served him with divorce papers. Everything had turned to shit overnight.

  Jerry was resilient, if nothing else. His last employer took him back, and with a fifty-cent an hour raise, too. "In spite of your personal problems, you were the best damn clerk-typist I ever had," he told Jerry.

  Slowly, Jerry pulled himself back up. He paid off some of his old debts, and even managed to put away a little money. He married another widow, not a wealthy one this time, but an even-tempered and forgiving woman. He settled down to a safe, predictable, and unexciting life and laid aside his youthful dreams and ambitions.

  Nowadays Jerry dotes on his two grandchildren and goes on Sunday drives with his wife. He's the steady and reliable gray-haired old fellow everyone in the neighborhood turns to when they have a problem. Little do they know . . .

  . . . that Jerry is once again wealthy. He made his fortune on the Internet like so many others. None of that dot-com foolishness for him, though. Jerry found a steady and reliable business that brings him and his loving family a steady and reliable income.

  Jerry is a spammer. In his basement, a bank of servers sends out 200 million e-mails a day making enticing promises. Make big bucks off lonely women! Our system earns you thousands each month by DOING WHAT COMES NATURALLY. For details, e-mail bigbucks@bizop.com.

  * * *

  GLORY HOLE

  Rich spent endless hours admiring the reflection of his own naked ass in the full-length wardrobe mirror. He lovingly stroked his buttocks, traced the long and lean contours, rubbed lotion into the crack, spiraled an oiled-up finger down into the soft tissues of the dark gateway. Spreading apart the cheeks, he imagined what it would feel like if . . . if only he could plunge his own dick inside . . . inside himself.

  He had been with men often enough. Had even, out of something like morbid curiosity, made love to a woman once. Sticking his dick into a stranger's hole brought only temporary relief, and no satisfaction, no sense of completion. Having his own ass fucked was more intense, certainly, but it still felt like a desecration, somehow.

  The revelation came to him after a frustrating all-night marathon with his last lover. Having fucked the guy's asshole raw, and with his own aching ass leaking cold, shit-stained semen, he all at once found the sight of another human repulsive. In the blood-suffused light of dawn, they'd had a grand blowout that culminated in Jethro's stomping out the apartment after telling Rich to go fuck himself. A brilliant light had detonated behind his eyeballs as he realized . . . that was precisely what he wanted. To fuck himself.

  Impossible. It just plain couldn't be done. Taking his own slightly larger than average penis and pulling it down and backwards, forcibly wrapping it around the bottom of his torso, pulling even harder . . . the dick head fell just short of reaching his asshole. Now the shaft was hardening pulling even farther away. Nope, no way. It was an impossible dream.

  Then, one night he dreamed . . . dreamed he was in an unfamiliar place, a dimly-lit booth or cubicle, and there was a small round hole in front of him at about crotch height. It was a sort of "glory hole," like the holes sometimes found between stalls in a public restroom . . . for the convenience of men wishing to stick their dicks through for anonymous strangers to perform anonymous acts on. But he somehow knew if he stuck his dick through this particular hole, there would be one very special ass waiting on the other side, waiting to open up and swallow the dick. It would be his own ass. He awoke feverish, bathed in sweat, with the sheets soaked with semen. He hadn't the vaguest idea of what he had dreamed.

  Six months later he was still alone. And hungry. Hungry for sex. Hungry for touch. Hungry for fulfillment. Hungry for a little excitement. Just plain hungry. He dialed up the take-out place down the street.

  He jerked awake at the dining table. The remains of an anchovy-and-mushroom pizza stared up at him. Must have nodded off. "These friggin midnight snacks'll do me in some day," he muttered.

  He felt a shiver run down his spine, and had the eerie sensation that someone was in the room with him. Im-fucking-possible. He was safe and secure behind steel-reinforced double-locked doors and state-of-the-art electronic alarms. Paranoid Plaza, they called this apartment complex.

  He slowly turned his head, and there was something there behind him. Something . . . there was something dangling, just hanging in mid-air! He leaped up, knocking over a chair in the process, and stared. Impossible. There was a an erect penis, a hard dick sticking out of the empty air, and it was hanging suspended at waist height!

  This had to be another of those weird dreams he'd been having lately. No way this could be real. No friggin way.

  "Hey, even if it is a dream, what've I got to lose?" He walked over to examine the impossible levitating cock.

  It sure looked real. Felt real, too. This was an authentic flesh-and-blood boner hanging there. Kind of resembled his own cock, come to think of it. Funny, though, that looked like writing on its side. Yep, something scrawled on the skin in blue ballpoint ink.

  "This IS your own cock, Roochie boy. You KNOW what to do with it."

  Roochie was his baby name. No one had called him that for, gosh, at least a couple of decades. WHAT THE FUCK WAS GOING ON HERE?

  Well, he did know what he could do with that hanging hard cock, an apparent exact duplicate of his own cock. Dream or not, he needed it inside him. He hungered for it. His ass hungered for it. He wanted to be fucked by it.

  Lube. Where had he p
ut that damn jar of lube? It was even harder to find things in his messy apartment when dreaming than awake. Ah, there in the back of the sock drawer.

  Now what was the proper protocol for a case like this? Should he lube up the hanging dream-cock or his asshole? Hey, it was his dream. Do 'em both, why not. He lowered his pants.

  Rich turned his back on the suspended hard-on and carefully maneuvered his ass rearwards until he could feel the tip of the cock kiss the crack of his buttocks. Reached around and pulled apart his cheeks. Guided the cock toward, then into his asshole. Contact! Pressed backwards some more and felt it slide up into him. Further. Goin' down smooth. Oh yes, that felt nice!

  As if he had tripped an unseen switch, the cock slowly began pumping in and out of him. In, all the way up to the hilt, withdrawing just about all the way out, then sliding in again. Oh yes, it was pressing his button, his prostate, just as he liked it. In, out, repeat. Yes!

  He felt a rush of intense pleasure, of ecstasy, of consummation. It had never been this good before. Never. And why should that be so damn surprising? It was his own cock fucking him. Flesh of his own flesh. Into his own flesh. His dream come true.

  This had to be the most realistic dream he had ever had. He could see, smell, taste, and feel everything in accurate, fine-grained detail. The tangy tomatoey odor of the pizza on the table. The oily, orange stains on the cardboard box. The salty-juicy taste of the blood from his bitten tongue. The sharp, throbbing pain of a bitten tongue.

  The cock moving inside his ass was making all the right moves. It was giving him excruciatingly real-life tactile sensations of gut-rippling motion, of friction, stretching, and fullness. It was the concentrated essence of all the ass-fuckings he had ever experienced. It was beyond ecstasy . . . it was soul-boggling. And now he was coming, shooting . . . blasting his load all over the living room floor, and -- that -- was -- real.

  The cock was twitching, pulsing within him, and he felt the familiar shot of wetness in his gut. A short hesitation, and it resumed pumping inside him, hard as ever. Still dreaming, was he? Rich was beginning to feel apprehensive. But it felt so fuckin' good!

  AND THE WORLD LURCHED.

  Something was very wrong. Rich was sitting on the floor with his mouth gaping wide open, staring at an overturned chair and the dinner table looming above him. His pants were down. Now how the hell had that happened? There seemed to be something inside him, inside his . . . There was that familiar feeling of fullness and stretching that he associated with being ass-fucked. The last thing he remembered was nodding out over a half-finished wedge of cold anchovy-mushroom pizza.

  He reached underneath to investigate. Yes, there was something inside him all right. He grabbed the protruding stub with a couple of fingertips and yanked it out of his ass. It couldn't be! It was a realistic simulacrum of a penis. Very realistic. Not realistic -- real! It was a penis, all right, still erect, still engorged (moist with ejaculate and a couple of brown shit-smears), but it had been very neatly severed at its root. There were the balls, complete with pubic hair . . . yet there was no blood in evidence. The hard, translucent glaze at the base of the thing suggested it had been heat or pressure sealed, surgically cauterized.

  Awakening from a dream he couldn't remember with an amputated hard dick in his ass! No! Even more distressing was that it closely resembled his own dick. He compared it to his dick, limp and wet from a recent ejaculation (when?). Same veinwork, scars, everything. The severed dick had what looked like a long smear of blue ink on one side. Like someone had written something there that had been rubbed out (by the friction of ass fucking?).

  In the harsh, cold light of morning, everything seemed to snap back to normality. The realistic-looking dildo was still sitting on his bathroom sink, where he remembered tossing it before falling into bed. But as for the rest of it -- no way! It was all a dream. A dream, then thinking he had awakened, but still dreaming.

  A week later the dildo was beginning to smell a bit funny. Like week-old meat turning bad in the back of the fridge, actually. He sealed it in a zip-lock bag, tossed it into the trash and shrugged it off. A week after that, it was just another of the many strange memories in a very strange life.

  Five years later, Rich was poor. In fact, he was nearly destitute. The apartment complex had burned to the ground and there hadn't been any fire insurance. The absentee owners had declared bankruptcy, then skipped town to escape lawsuits. Rich had lost everything and received no compensation. He had no savings left, few possessions, and his unemployment benefits had almost run out.

  The ad in the paper was a lifeline to a drowning man. Some outfit called "OGRE," allegedly a privately-run research lab, was promising good money to a suitable subject for an experiment.

  Rich stared up at the massive polished-granite facade of the Old Glory Research Establishment. True to its name, it was festooned with American flags. His footsteps echoed down the cavernous cathedral-roofed lobby. The woman at the information kiosk directed him toward a bank of elevators.

  "Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Professor Doyle Challenged, and quantum physics is my game. 'OGRE' is a privately funded scientific institute studying the effects of high-energy particle interactions with ordinary matter.

  "You understand that you are volunteering as a test subject for a potentially hazardous experiment. My assistant has already explained the risks to you."

  Rich had known it might involve some danger. But that fifty thou dangled in front of his nose had made up his mind. In a hurry. He'd rather brave potential risks than the very real risks of homelessness in the near future when he ran out of gelt.

  "A 'Bose-Einstein Condensate' is a an odd state of matter even under normal conditions. When we focused ultra-high energy X-ray lasers on it, we observed some highly anomalous effects. There appears to be a sort of space-time distortion produced. To be more specific, it seems to tear asunder the continuum and link up a limited aperture between two distinct temporal loci. In other words, it opens a window on the past. It's the nearest anyone has ever come to . . . time travel."

  Rich couldn't believe what this nutty professor was spouting. But for fifty grand, he'd play along with just about any brand of lunacy. Time travel? No problemo, chief.

  So here he was, standing in this metal cage. A "Faraday Cage," they called it. Blinding lightings flared and fat sparks crackled just outside the copper-titanium lattice surrounding him. This was the backlash from the laser discharge, Professor C. had explained. The equivalent of thirty billion volts of electrical potential.

  And there it was -- the small circular vortex in the air just in front of him. A "wormhole between space-times," according to the prof. A three-inch diameter hole between the present and the past . . . his own past, approximately five years back. A crazy thought kept ricocheting through his head . . . that he was staring at an "Old Glory Research Hole." He'd had extensive experience with "glory holes" all right, back in his anonymous sex encounter days . . .

  "Now, Rich, when the wormhole appears, poke a single finger through it and try to attract the attention of . . . of your past self on the other side. Just reach out and touch yourself. Nothing more.

  "Don't worry. According to the theory, no 'time travel' paradox can possibly result. This event has already occurred on your world-line. It happened to you five years ago, but you experienced temporal-shock amnesia and forgot what happened. You yourself verified this, since you couldn't recall being touched by a flying fickle finger of fate floating in midair, ha, ha.

  "Remember, though. We can only keep the wormhole stable for about five minutes. Make sure, damn sure, you don't have your finger or anything else sticking through there any longer than that! When the timer buzzes, step back immediately."

  Rich held his breath, and the trembling stopped. He reached forward to jab a finger through the shimmering hole . . . and again the thought struck him. Glory hole! He jerked back and pondered for a couple of seconds, then came to a decision. He pulled out a ballpoint pen and
unzipped his fly.

  * * *

  THE KING'S PLEASURE

  The temple courtesan frowned and shook her head emphatically. "No, sire, that modality of pleasure is only permitted to the High King."

  Goriander smiled. "But who is to know? And of course there is the matter of a suitable reward for unfolding thy hidden treasures fully unto me." A small gleaming ingot lay in the open palm of his hand.

  She hesitated, then nodded. "Come," she said.

  "You are a trader in certain rarities then?"

  "Yes, my fair Astara, and the rarest of all rarities is knowledge, the knowing of the means by which to accomplish certain difficult tasks."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as, for example, separating that which glitters from its ore."

  "Indeed, sire, the noblest of metals, that which shines like unto the sun itself."