Staring at yourself, and I don't mean in a mirror, but your actual self, is not as easy a thing to do as you might think it is. In fact, it's rather mind-blowing. This whole day has been a total mind-fuck. Standing here in my own bathroom, staring at myself standing nude in front of the sink, I feel as if I'm about to have a mental breakdown.
These are the hazards you don't expect when time-traveling.
My goal is to get myself out of that bathroom before anything terrible happens.
I've seen a post-apocalyptic future, the world nearly ripped apart at its seams thanks to the discovery I've accidentally stumbled upon, and the only way to prevent it is to get myself out of that bathroom within the next five minutes, before the wormhole comes.
A wormhole, you ask?
A tear in the fabric of space-time that can transport matter great distances, and even through time. Generally, they tend to make short jumps, in hundreds of years, of matters of hundreds of miles.
Occasionally, if you enter the wrong one, you might end up floating in a void of ether, one-hundred thousand years ago, light years away from Earth.
So in order to save the world from annihilation, I'll need to drag myself, nude and screaming, out of this bathroom, so that I never enter that first wormhole and unleash a chain of events culminating in the complete destruction of the human race.
I wonder how often people that accidentally enter these wormholes have to do this.
It just seems too easy to fuck things up on accident when you're dealing with time travel. Or maybe I'm just special.
But maybe this is all too confusing, and I've started at the wrong point to begin telling this story, so let me start from the beginning.
I was the most famous model of my generation. A million magazine ads, ruler of the runway, television spots and guest appearances, a pending movie deal, even my own book. (None of which I wrote, consequentially. The price of fame seems to be the crushing of your own internal creativity.) Take the most tame product, the most boring thing you could imagine, something that would never sell in a million years, even if it only cost a nickel.
The Blend-o-matic 2K.
Magic Steamer.
The Automated Mr. Kitty Self-disposing No-mess Litter Box.
Then hire me to advertise that pathetic, worthless piece of junk. Sales would skyrocket. All because I thrust my chest out and lick my lips seductively before choking down a big gulp of brew made by Captain Coffee's 30-second InstaPot. Mmmmm, good, my face would show the television audience.
Honestly, it tasted like shit.
But they believed me. From a multi-ethnic background, I had a face that appealed to nearly everyone, and the body of a goddess. I was a product, no different than the Blend-O-Matic 2K. Except I didn't make coffee, or chop vegetables, or self-clean automatically.
Don't get me wrong. I could do all of those things, I'm not an incapable moron like most people believe models to be. But those things weren't my product.
Sex was my product. Fantasy. What could be.
Men wanted to fuck me. Women wanted to fuck me. The only thing that kept me grounded throughout this was all the sex I had, with any woman I wanted.
I had no desire for men.
Sadly enough for all those lonely men the companies were selling my body to, to push their lame products, the object of their desire is a lesbian.
Sex was my only escape from the world of consumerism I was immersed in. To feel another woman's body pressed against mine, bathing in her scent, that was the only reason I was able to remain stable.
I loved women.
Just a few moments before the incident occurred, I'd just finished cumming on the receiving end of a young model's tongue, an extra on the set of my latest commercial.
But god, she was beautiful. She'd be moving up in the world now, too, after making me cum like that.
In the shower, washing my long, slender legs, I didn't notice the distortion in the air in front of me until it was too late. A weird sort of rift had appeared, shimmering like the surface of water, and then the vortex opened.
Shampoo bottles, moisturizing creams, razors, water pouring down on me from the shower nozzle above, and myself, all disappeared into it. Anything not anchored down within a ten-foot radius came along with me.
The environment inside the vortex was indescribable, colors never seen before, sounds that boggle the mind.
I felt like I was being twisted inside out.
When the pain subsided, only a feeling of ecstasy was left, and I was surprised to find I was orgasming. I clenched my legs together and closed my eyes, not sure what was happening. Everything was a blur, and it took everything I had not to pass out from the intensity of it all.
I opened my eyes, and found myself laying in a field of tall, uncut grass, wet and surrounded by plastic bottles of shampoo, still spasming and moaning involuntarily.
I couldn't stop cumming.
I clamped my hand over my pussy, trying to make it stop, but only made it worse at my touch. It was the longest and most incredible orgasm I'd ever had, and all I could do was flop around in the grass, twisting in circles of bliss.
This is how I lost consciousness.
What the hell was going on?
I awoke to dim candlelight, flickering off the walls of a log cabin.
Covered in a blanket of... Oh, fucking gross, is that animal skin?
Tanned animal hide, and it still had the hair of whatever beast it came from on the other side. Disgusted, I threw it aside and my naked flesh was again exposed to the cool air. Instantly, my perfect nipples were rock hard.
"Oh, don't! You'll catch cold," a girl's voice said. She dashed over to cover me back up with the blanket.
Don't, I told her.
I don't want that filthy thing touching me.
Then I noticed how beautiful she was. Young, probably in her very late teens, and blond hair like golden thread. Big-breasted, too, but she was wearing an appalling checkered blue dress like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, except without the ruby slippers.
Where the hell am I?
There's no place like home. I'm tapping my naked heels together.
There's no place like home. Nothing's happening.
There's no place like home... It's not working.
I ask her, where am I?
"Outside of Kansas City," she tells me.
How ironic.
"I saw a flash of light, and I found you laying on the ground out in the pasture.
You were unconscious and moaning, and...." She bit her tongue and blushed.
"Where are your clothes?" she asked me, biting her lip and staring at my flawless breasts.
A long ways away, I tell her. I take a better look at my surroundings, and I notice there are no lights anywhere. No outlets. No switches. No electricity.
Oh god, where the fuck am I?
I rush to the door and heave it open, and aside from a dirt road leading to the horizon, and a few trees, I'm in the middle of nowhere.
Panic.
Where am I is no longer the question.
When am I?
I turn back inside the cabin, and the girl is standing only a few feet away from me.
"Pa says we're not to go out until he comes back tomorrow," she informs me.
I don't really care what Pa says, and I move again towards the door. She darts in front of me, blocking my path. No one's Pa tells me what to do, not even my own.
"Pa says there's a storm brewin', and he had to go get supplies before it hits.
Maybe tornadoes," she says. "We might get ourselves kilt if we go out there in a tornado."
I ask her, what's your name, little girl?
"Dorothy," she says.
The irony of this is thick and rich like butter now, and I want to gag on it.
If a little dog named Toto comes into the picture, I'll just slit my wrists right here and now. No questions asked.
I'm no history buff, but I figure if I see wagon tracks leading off into the horizon, a log cabin without power, and a girl in a blue gingham dress, whose Pa is taking a little trip into town and won't be back for a day, it's safe to assume I'm somewhere in the late 1800's or early 1900's. I wonder when the Model T was invented. Probably not for years, and anywhere I go will be on foot. Or horseback.
I need some clothes, I tell Dorothy. And please find me something other than a gingham dress.
"You won't need any," she tells me. "Not right now." She licks her bee-stung lips and starts unbuttoning her dress, cleavage spilling out the top.
Pressing herself against me, she places my hands over her breasts and kisses me, tongue probing slightly into my mouth. "Make love to me," she says.
Aren't these farm girls supposed to be wholesome?
What the hell, I say. Pa won't be back for a day, I'm already nude, this sweet innocent thing in front of me is fairly jumping out of her clothes for me, and I can't think of a time when I needed a release more than right now, so I begin unbuttoning her dress, down the line, one by one. Where each side of the fabric parts when a button is undone, my tongue is right there kissing a trail down her body, until the dress is completely open, and I slide it off her shoulders to the floor.
Those are some of the most unflattering panties I've ever seen. No matter though, they're gone and forgotten about in a few seconds. She takes me by the hand and leads me to her bed, a straw mattress with a woolen blanket thrown over it.
Roughly, she throws me down on the bed and fairly leaps on top of me, already sucking my nipples and teasing them with her long pink tongue.
I put my hands on her hips and pull her up towards me, kissing her, our tongues dancing in each other's mouths. She's pumping her hips against mine, and my juices are really starting to flow. I force my hand between us, and it returns smeared in our fluids, which Dorothy eagerly sucks from my long fingers, staring seductively at me with her big brown eyes the whole time.
Then she's tying my hands together above my head to the leg of a desk, and it's heavy, the table won't move, so I'm helpless as she begins teasing my entire body, fingernails scraping across my flesh, her hot mouth never far behind. A fire was growing inside of me, and I only wanted her to release it, but she was intent to torment me, her fingers sifting through my tiny patch of reddish pubic hair, licking up and down the inside of my thighs beneath my pussy.
Just make me cum, I tell her. Make me cum.
"Not yet," she says, and puts my left nipple between her teeth.
Biting down on it gently and sucking hard, my tit is on fire, and I can't believe this little country girl is this rough. Her thigh is rubbing directly against my sex now, but it's not direct enough to get me off. She straddles me above my breasts, forcing her pussy into my face.
I can see beads of sweat rolling down through her thin trail of golden pubic hair, pointing downwards like a neon arrow to her dripping pussy.
Follow the yellow brick road.
I mash my lips against her pussy, and with one long slurp along the entire length of her slit, I gather up as much of her sweet honey as I can swallow, loving the taste. I want to drown in it, the taste of a perfectly aged and untouched wine, opened at just that right moment, she's been waiting for me.
It's hard to imagine sweet little Dorothy in this type of role, I know.
But there she is, on the receiving end of my swirling tongue, crying out and arching her back so her small pink nipples point straight up to the heavens.
Withdrawing for a moment, I blow cool air onto her moist sex, and she shudders in delight, a small squeal escaping her lips.
She turns around, pushing her pussy towards my lips again and leaning forward to suck my clit in a 69 position. It's hard to concentrate with an orgasm building, but I'm still giving her clit as much loving attention as I can muster, and soon we're both trembling, about to explode.
I feel it rising from within, that fluttering deep in my stomach, and I'm cumming, wave after wave of pure ecstasy washing over me. In seconds, Dorothy is cumming too, her fluids gushing down over my chin and down her thighs, and I make it my goal to get every single sweet drop as my hips are bucking wildly and my legs are wrapped around Dorothy's slender neck.
"I'm cumming," she cries out.
Oh god, I'm cumming too, I announce, still lost in orgasm land.
"No, no, I said Pa's coming," she screamed, whether from pleasure or fright I'm not sure which.
Oh shit.
But it was too late. Pa had already burst into the room to see his precious, innocent little daughter with her tongue buried in the naked stranger's pussy like she was digging for treasure, and if the scene burned itself into his mind like it did mine, I'm sure he was pretty sincerely bothered by it.
His daughter between my long, shapely legs, looking up at him with those big brown eyes of hers My glistening pink sex just below, swollen with lust.
Me, unable to control myself, still moaning in the throes of orgasm.
His daughter's fluids, shining along the inside of her thighs and on my chin.
Me, just now withdrawing my tongue from her engorged clit.
It was the right thing to do, given the situation.
I wondered briefly what he thinking.
Maybe he was considering one of those sick hillbilly fantasies, this aging farmer fantasizing about fucking his daughter and the beautiful stranger.
Disgusting.
Or maybe he was thinking about grabbing that old gun on the pegs by the doorway and shooting me. Or both of us.
Uh oh.
He wasn't thinking about it. He was doing it.
Grabbing the gun I mean, not fucking us.
"What are you doing home, Pa?" she whined. She clambered off me, untied me, and we stood side by side near the bed.
"Damn wagon overturned and I come home to see this, my own daughter with this tramp, you're both dead!" He was loading gunpowder down the barrel and packing it down. Even the stupid gun-shy model knew this must be the most ancient `rifle' in the world.
Dorothy decided what to do before I had much of a chance to even think about it, darting to the old stove and throwing a blackened iron skillet at him that must have weighed 50 pounds. She missed by a mile, skillet crashing into an oak hutch and ruining a great many dishes, but it was enough to cause him to flinch, sprawling backwards to the floor. I had Dorothy by the wrist and we were out the door before he knew what happened.
Dorothy switched her grip to my wrists and led me back around the cabin to a small stable. Inside was a gray horse, which she untethered and swiftly mounted, bareback. Taking my hand she pulled me up to sit behind her, my swelling breasts pressed against her back as I wrapped my arms around her ribcage.
"Get on, Toto!" she yelled, slapping the horse on the rear.
Oh, please, spare me. This is too much.
And with that, we were streaking across the Kansas countryside on horseback, just like I predicted. I could hear Dorothy's father roaring at the top of his lungs, so loudly I could feel wind and debris rushing past us. I look back, expecting to see him tossing a slug, via a muzzle blast, in our general direction.
But that's no angry father behind us. It's an angry tornado.
Amazing, the power of the mind to exaggerate when held at gunpoint, even if it wasn't exactly loaded.
A swirling funnel of death becomes an angry father. Hmph.
It's bearing down on us, so I yell for her to go faster. I don't think she can hear me. I was told once that wind speeds are so high in a tornado that blades of grass or splinters of wood can pierce your body, or even pass straight through it.
I'm in no mood to find out if it's true.
But it's no use, and soon I'm separated from Toto, still clutching Dorothy as tightly as I can. Soon even Dorothy is slipping from my arms, and I expect death at any second.
It doesn't come.
Instead I see those indescribable colors, hear the mind-shattering sounds.
And I feel the intense orgasm creeping over my entire body again, invading every pore of my being with numbing pleasure.
A tornado is really nothing but really, really large wormhole.
A lot of things can be easily explained when wormholes are taken into consideration. You know those few times in the textbooks when it rained frogs?
Wormholes at work. A wormhole opens up on one end in a swamp in southern Florida, and opens up on the other over a small town in New Hampshire. Imagine that.
When I open my eyes, I'm lying next to Dorothy in an alleyway. I recognize the sights and sounds of a late seventies Manhattan, the neighborhood where I grew up.
Dorothy's cumming so hard her eyes are rolling into the back of her head, and the horse is there too, but it's just standing there.
No orgasm from the horse.
Thank god.
When Dorothy's eyes flutter back into place, and she's done thrashing around like a fish out of water, I hear her mumbling.
What did you say, I ask her absentmindedly as I stare at her dripping pussy, and I wonder how we're going to get out of here, naked in a not-so-nice area of Manhattan, without being raped or killed.
She repeats herself. I hear her far more clearly this time, and suddenly I'm very angry with her, for the first time.
"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," she mutters, brown eyes wide with fear.
I could just spit.
To be continued...