The Telemachus Story Archive

Mark Time
By Hooder

Mark Time

I stabbed frantically at the button, but it made no difference. Damn, Damn, Damn! This was the last time I’d buy a fucking time machine from Ebay. The sphere of swirling blues around me was already beginning to dissipate (I’d always thought that was one of nature’s cop-outs: a cheap way to avoid having to render the universe’s re-arranging itself outside as time whizzed past). I checked the wristband again; the power cell was empty. Bugger it, that was supposed to be good for 5,000 years – each way.

My destination had been 30BC, a displacement of 2,190 years, less than half the range of this unit, but the power had died at the year 2020, according to the rapidly-fading display. Shit. I saw that the charging light was on, very dimly. I’d probably be able to get back, but God knows how long the thing would take to accumulate enough power to make the return trip. Great.

I was on holiday and I’d intended to meet the Romans. Those soldiers in their leather tunics had fascinated me for a long time and I’d intended to get extremely intimate with as many of them as possible. So much for that.

I looked around. Now that the blue sphere had gone completely I was visible to the locals. And they were looking at me. I guessed that my gear was unusual in 2020. Well fuck them, let them look. I had other problems right now.

These TDGs – Time Displacement Generators – move you in time; but the cheaper ones, like the one I’d got, don’t move you in space, so I knew that I was still in London, in fact I was still in exactly the same spot in my apartment – or rather where my apartment had been when I’d left (or, as I was now in 2020, where it would be 140 years from now. This sort of thing can get complicated). It was lucky that the TDG’s safety systems had been working well enough that I hadn’t materialised 50 feet off the ground or inside a concrete wall. That could have been nasty.

I leaned against a litter bin and thought. What the hell was I going to do here in 2020 London until the fucking TDG had charged enough for me to get back?

I looked around, and an idea occurred to me. It might pass the time until I could get home. Smiling, I stood up and set off on foot to find Streatham.

It took me quite a while. London in 2020 was (is?) a lot smaller than it is (will be) in my own time (tenses were not designed for describing this sort of thing) but it was still a big place. By means of consulting the city maps that were conveniently placed here and there I found my way to Barrow Road.

I had no idea what day of the week it was, so I stopped a lady pushing a pram and asked her. She gave me a strange look but told me it was Friday.

Friday. Ok. I started to search the ground. I knew exactly what I wanted: a piece of thin plastic. It took me a while but eventually I found a suitable one in the gutter. Back up the street, I approached a white-painted flat on the left.

The plastic slid in between the door and the frame and I wiggled it about until I felt the plunger slide back. I went in and closed the door behind me.

I made myself a cup of tea – oh, yes! - and then had a look around. It was a small flat, and untidy. When I opened the wardrobe in the bedroom I found a leather jacket, two pairs of cheap leather cuffs, and a home-made hood. I picked up the hood, and turned it over. I saw that there was a small tear in the leather - you’d be able to see through it if you moved your face about enough to get it into the right position.

I found some duct tape and stuck a piece over the tear, then I collected the cuffs as well, sat down and looked at my watch. Half past four. Smiling to myself, I drank my tea, and waited.

It was 5.35 when I heard footsteps. I jumped up and stood behind the door. The key rattled, the lock turned, and the door opened.

He didn’t even struggle. Well, he jumped, dropped his crash helmet, and then yelled in surprise when the hood went over his head, but after that he just let me get his wrists cuffed and walk him into the bedroom. And the slut was getting fucking hard already.

I lay him down on the bed, fastened the cuffs together in a hogtie, then found his cock and gripped it very gently through his boringly loose jeans. I teased it very lightly until it was fully hard. That didn’t take long. I saw that he was trying to get the tear in the hood into position so he could see what was going on, but the duct tape I’d put over it stopped that.

I unzipped his jeans. Ugh – underpants. This boy clearly hadn’t discovered the horny delight of going commando. I got his cock out, and started to tease the very tip. I tickled the edge of his foreskin with my fingertip, hardly touching. Then I took it between a finger and thumb and rubbed it slowly over the tip of the head. He struggled in my grip for a moment and I gagged him through the hood. Suddenly there was spunk all over my hand. He jerked under me as he came. The whole thing had taken perhaps fifteen seconds.

When he’d cooled down I pulled the hood off him. “Hello Mark,” I said.

He blinked for a moment, then looked up at me with wide eyes. There was no fear there, just wonder. “Who are you?” He whispered.

I smiled at him. “That’s complicated,” I said.

I could see him thinking as his eyes took in my shiny black gear. “Fuck, you’re sexy,” he whispered. He looked back at my face, frowning. “I know you…”

I didn’t say anything.

There, still hogtied on the bed, was a slim 16-year old boy - and he was fucking gorgeous. A strange feeling went through me as I realised that I fancied him like fuck.

I released him from the restraints. He got up and sat on the side of the bed, his eyes studying my face. He was still frowning, and I could see the wheels turning as realisation slowly surfaced. “You’re me, aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” I said.

He nodded.

I smiled again, and felt proud that my younger self had worked it out so quickly, and seemed to apparently unfazed by it. No doubt our addiction to science-fiction had helped.


“That, Mark, is going to take at least two cups of tea to explain.”

He turned my TDG over in his hands, his eyes wide with wonder. “So this is a time machine.”

“Yep. But don’t buy one from fucking Ebay.”

He chuckled. “What year are you from?”


“And you still have Ebay?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

His eyes glazed as he worked it out. “So you’re 140 years old?”

I chuckled. “No. You and I are the same person – we were born in 2004. But we’ve followed different timelines. In my timeline TDGs -” I pointed to the bracelet in his hands, “came along in 2036, and when you use those things you can choose to stop ageing unless you’re in your original time. I did, so physically I’m still 32. But I settled in 2160 because I liked it. I’ve been there for years. That’s my home now. But that damn thing’s fucked.”

He nodded. The boy didn’t even seem to have a problem getting his head around all of that. “So now you’re stuck here, Mark?”

I smiled - hearing my name coming from him sounded strange. “I hope not, Mark. I should be able to get back when the thing’s charged up enough, but it’s going very slowly. What’s the accessible range now?” I leaned over and looked at the device. The display said ‘1.0 years’. “What’s the time now?”

He looked at his watch. “Just gone six-thirty.”

“It must have been around half past two when I arrived in 2020, so that means - it seems to be charging at about one year every 4 hours…” I did a calculation, “168 hours in a week, so that’s about... three weeks. Just over.” I looked at him. “Can you put me up for three weeks? I have Roman currency but no 2020 money.”

“Well,” he put on an expression of theatrical doubt. “I’ve only got the one bed…”

I found the head of his cock and stroked it very lightly through his jeans.

He closed his eyes and moaned quietly. “But seeing as you’re a relative…” He opened his eyes and grinned. “Oh yeah.”

“Right. Now listen. I was intending to go to Roman Britain for some perverted sex with the soldier boys, but I’m not there, I’m here. So there is going to be a lot of perverted sex with you instead.” I looked into his eyes. “Remember that I have been you. I am you. I know exactly what your triggers are: what you like, what you’re into, what turns you on, what your fantasies are, what you don’t like and what you don’t want. I’m still very much into a lot of those things. In fact I know stuff about you that you don’t even know yourself yet. I intend to educate you, Mark, and I’m going to have a lot of fun doing it.”

He looked excited at the possibilities, and I could see that the more he thought about it the more excited he was getting. “Oh fuck! I’ve always wanted to be -”

“Shh. Don’t say anything. You don’t have to tell me. I know exactly what you want, believe me. And also things you don’t yet know that you want.”

He swallowed.

“You got any commitments this weekend?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“Good. Right. I’m hungry. Got any food? And another cup of tea.”

After the shepherd’s pie and chips he’d got from the freezer, we sat and chatted again. He was looking at my gear. “Is that leather?”

“No. It’s plastic. But you’ve never seen plastic like this. Feel it. Smell it.”

He reached out. “It feels exactly like shiny black leather. But it’s stretchy. Even smells of leather.”

“ I know it’s like leather. That’s why I wear it. Like it? Sexy, innit…?”

“Oh fuck yes.”

“It’s called ‘Lethryl’.” I spelled it for him.

“It’s gorgeous.” His eyes dropped to my bulging crotch. “It shows everything!” He gazed at me and shook his head. “You look amazing. I love your hair. And you’re ripped! Will I have muscles like that?”

“Depends how you treat your body. There’ll be some timelines where you get fat. If you avoid those, then no reason why not.”

He nodded, smiling slightly.

Dinner had gone down by now so I stood up. “Right, follow me.”

I had to keep reminding myself that this teenage version of me had never had proper sex of any kind with anybody yet. He had never been tied up properly, he’d never even heard of edging, and he had only the vaguest idea of what shiny black gear could do to a horny boy with a leather fetish.

After I’d told him to strip off I tied him spread eagled to the bed and knelt between his knees. He stared up at me as I leaned forward and began to tickle his armpits slowly.

His face broke into a grin. “No! I’m ticklish!”

“Oh, I know you are. And I know all the places where you’re most ticklish…” I walked my fingers down his ribs to his sides and just held them there, my thumbs poised motionless over the two most ticklish spots on his entire body. He shook his head in dread. I pressed suddenly.

He convulsed. “No! Please! Not there!”

I grinned as well. “Yes. There.” I dug my thumbs in deep and moved them slowly, between his bottom ribs and his hip bones.

“ARRRGH! Oh fuck!” He was spluttering, and struggling to get away from my hands.

I looked down. “I see your cock’s still hard…”


I transferred my grip to the muscles above his knees, but only briefly as I knew that was too intense to be a turn-on for him for very long. He convulsed again as I squeezed.

I got off the bed and tickled his bare soles for a while, gently and lightly. His cock was already dripping precum.

Then I laid on top of him so that my boots, my shiny black Lethryl jeans and jacket were pressing on him all over. He closed his eyes and groaned in lust.

“Now, let me introduce you to edging.”

“Edging? What’s that?”

I told him. “And I’m gonna hood you so that you can’t see – because the one thing you’ll really need to be able to do, is see.” I knew that kind of talk turned him on; because it did me. I got the hood over his head and fastened it up, then I knelt at the side of the bed and started to work on his cock head.

After ten minutes I realised I should probably have gagged him before I’d hooded him.

After another twenty minutes I stopped, then I wanked him off very slowly, imagining that it was my own cock (which of course, in a way, it was), and doing it with exactly the technique that would most irresistibly make me cum today. It worked. His orgasm was huge.

The next day was Saturday. We’d spend the night playing with each other in the bed – he’d cum another two times, I’d cum twice as well. We hadn’t got a lot of sleep; he’d made me keep my gear on, until I’d put my foot down at three am and had taken it off.

I’d been thinking. We needed better restraint equipment. Over a very late breakfast I said, “Listen, I want to buy some more gear. Some much better hoods, some very thin and very tight PVC jeans for you, and some other stuff. I have Roman currency which must be worth a fortune here – do you know anywhere I can sell it?”

He frowned, thinking for a moment, then his face cleared. “Yeah. There’s a numismatist shop not far away - I pass it when I go to Tescos. Ten-minute walk. They might be interested.”

“Ok. Let’s go when we’ve done here.”

The shop was indeed interested. Very. An elderly man in a smart suit inspected the currency. He was almost drooling. “Hmm. These aurei are in excellent condition…” He spread the coins out more on the counter top, then picked up a couple of silver ones, “and some of these denarii are almost mint. Amazing.”

He chose one of each type at random and took them to another table where he did tests on them, before coming back and asking some awkward questions. I said that the coins had been left to me when my Aunt had died. I told him I had no idea where they’d been found originally, and now that she was gone there was no way to find out. The man clearly wanted the coins very badly indeed, and I think that prevented any more difficult questions. He made me an offer. I had no idea whether that was a lot of money or not, but my younger self shook his head.

“Oh, come on! Look at the condition of those coins. They’re worth a damn sight more than that.” He looked at me. “Let’s try somewhere else.”

“Wait,” the man said. “I could go to – eighteen. No more because of the lack of provenance.”

“Twenty,” said Mark.

The man shook his head. “No. Eighteen.”

Mark began to collect the coins. He jerked his head towards the door. “Come on.”

“Nineteen thousand! That’s my last offer.”

Mark stopped, and looked at him. “In cash.”

Cash? You’ll have to give me time to get that. Come back in a couple of hours.”

We did. I inspected one of the fifty-pound notes as we walked away. The rest were in a bag Mark was carrying.

“Is nineteen thousand pounds a lot of money?” I asked.

“Oh yes. It’s enough to get what you want many times over.”

I nodded. “Ok.”

We collapsed in the chairs, carrier bags and boxes full of stuff on the floor beside us. “Tea,” I said.

“You make it. I want to look at this gear.”

I went into the kitchen as he started unpacking the bags and running the leather through his fingers. His young voice came from the living room, “God the smell is wonderful!”

I smiled, and poured the tea.

“I suppose you haven’t got a sewing machine?” I remembered having one at this flat, but I wasn’t sure exactly when.

“I have.” He was standing looking at himself in the mirror, wearing the PVC jeans. They were thin and stretchy, but not half tight enough.

“Get it out,” I said. “Then turn those jeans inside out and put them on again.”

It only took twenty minutes. I marked the jeans while he was wearing them, then used the machine to tighten the legs until they were skintight on his thighs. “There.” I cut off the excess material, turned them back the right side out and threw them to him. “Try them now. Carefully.”

He pulled them on slowly. “Oh fuck!” The shiny black PVC clung to his legs like paint, and his bulge stood out between his thighs. He was hard. Again.

“That’s better.” I handed him the studded belt and he buckled it around his waist. “Lower.” He pushed it down, and it made his bulge even more obvious. “Now the bike boots.”

He opened the box and took them out, turning them over in his hands. “Oh wow. These are beautiful.” He sat down and put them on. Over the PVC jeans they looked wonderful.


With the leather bike jacket on as well he looked good enough to eat. His shoulder-length brown hair brushed over the collar as he turned his head. I stood behind him, my own cock rock-hard in my jeans and, while he watched himself in the mirror, I stroked my hands over his slim body – first the jacket, and then down to his tight shiny legs.

“Oh fucking hell. I can feel everything through these.”

“I know you can.” I ran a single fingertip along the length of his bulging cock and teased it over the head, hardly touching.

“Stop! I’ll cum!”

I gripped him tightly, my free arm holding his behind his back as he struggled to get away from my hand, and whispered into his ear. “Don’t let me make you cum. Fight it.”

Of course he couldn’t stop himself. Within seconds his knees buckled and he came in his new PVC jeans. I milked him until he was done.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” He gasped. “Oh fuck, you know exactly how to do that.”

“Oh yes.” I released him. “Now go clean yourself up and we’ll have a look at the rest of the gear.

“Have you got a car yet?”

“No. Do I get one? What type?”

“No idea. Depends which timeline you go along.”

“Ah. Right. I’ve got a motorbike though.”

Of course he had. I’d forgotten for a moment. “Black and yellow?”


“Bumble!” We both said at the same time.

He laughed. “Yes!”

“Still got the spare helmet?”

“I have.”

“Right. Now, do you know any leather clubs around here?”

He thought for a moment. “There’s the Crypt on Cromwell Road, but I’ve never been in. Haven’t been to any of them yet. It’s on my to-do list.”

“Well we’re going tonight. And I’m driving.”

It was decades (subjective) since I’d ridden a petrol motorbike, but the old skills came back straight away. After a trial run around the block I parked up and Mark got on behind me. He was wearing his leather jacket, studded belt, the PVC jeans, and the boots. I had the new hood safely inside my jacket, along with a pair of handcuffs.

The Crypt was down a flight of stone steps under an old church that had been turned into a warehouse. We paid the admission at the bottom, and went through. The place was really just a set of labyrinthine cellars. The walls were painted black, the floor was bare stone, and it took a while for our eyes to adjust to the dim red lights. Guys in leather or denim were standing about, leaning against the walls or playing with each other. I took Mark over to a convenient wooden ceiling support, and cuffed his wrists behind it. Then I got the new hood out. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on you.” I pulled the hood over his head and strapped it on tightly. I heard him moaning and licking the black leather. The last thing I did was stick a card to his chest. I’d made it earlier, at the flat, when he’d been occupied in the loo. It said: “This boy is not permitted to cum in his jeans.”

I walked to the bar and bought a beer, then came back and stood on the other side of the room, watching him. He looked amazing. His hard cock was forcing the stretchy black PVC out like a tent pole.

A couple of guys walked past him, and read the notice. They chuckled, and one of them gave Mark’s cock a quick squeeze.

I saw the boy’s body jerk at the unexpected touch. He wanted more, but the guys had gone.

A little later a guy in full leather walked up to him. He read the card, transferred his beer to his other hand, and gently stroked Mark’s cock through his shiny jeans.

Mark gasped and thrust his pelvis forward, searching for the hand, but the man had taken it away. He put his beer down and used both hands now to stroke over the boy’s tight-jeaned legs and thighs, then went back to the bulging cock and ran his fingertips lightly over it.

Again, Mark’s hips thrust, and I could hear him pleading for the guy to make him cum.

The man picked up his beer, gave the cock a final squeeze, and walked away.

Nothing else happened for a good ten minutes. Guys walked past, some read the card, but none stopped. Mark’s cock remained rock-hard all of the time. Then a guy in a leather jacket and worn Levis appeared, looked him up and down, and walked to stand behind the post. He reached around it and started to work on the cock bulge with both hands. I watched carefully – he was teasing it lightly and frustratingly, and I knew this must really be getting to the boy. Watching him doing that to the cock through the thin PVC was getting me fucking horny myself – I could guess exactly what it felt like. I saw Mark’s fingers working on the guy’s denim bulge behind him. Then an evil grin appeared on the guy’s face; he suddenly gripped the boy’s cock properly, and wanked it hard and fast through his jeans. Even though I knew this wasn’t the ideal technique to use on him, Mark was so horny that he came immediately. He only just managed to stay standing.

When it was over the man whispered something close to his ear, patted him on the shoulder and walked away.

I waited for a while, then went back to Mark. He gasped when my fingers touched him. I moved his cock about in the pool of spunk inside the PVC – shaking my head in wonder as I felt the boy getting hard yet again - then I cradled his head in my hand. “It’s me. You Ok?”

“Oh fuck yes. Oh shit, I’ve never been so fucking horny in my life. Not being able to see, not knowing when a hand’s going to touch me, who’s there or whose hand it is…”

I smiled. “I know,” I said. “What did that guy say to you?”

“He said ‘I think you’re gonna get punished’.”

I chuckled, removed the hood and the handcuffs. “Come and have a drink.”

We sat there watching the other guys until it was late, then we went back to his flat.

I was horny. Fuck, I was horny. We’d spent the morning lounging about – we’ve never done mornings – but now it was Sunday afternoon and I was thinking about sex. For me this time.

He looked down at me on the bed. I could see that he wasn’t at all sure he knew what to do.

“Remember it’s you tied up here. Do things to me that you would love someone else to do to you.”

“O-kay…” He thought for a moment, then got the hood. “I’d want to be able to see. So I’m going to blindfold you so you can’t.”

My cock gave a jerk at his words. A good start, I thought. The hood felt sexy as it came down and he buckled the straps, pulling the leather tight against my face. I heard him moving about, and then I jumped as his fingers touched my bulging cock. We are very, very into gear, and so I was still wearing mine, and he worked on me for a while through it. He pushed his hands up under the bottom of my jacket, found my sides and then the bastard tickled me. Hard. I yelled into the hood; I hadn’t been tickled for a long time and, inexperienced as this boy was, of course he knew exactly how to work on me. Just as I was trying to get enough breath to ask him seriously to stop, he did – and transferred his fingers back to my bulging cock.

I’d bought these Lethryl jeans especially for sex, because they looked and felt unbelievably hot – they were the thinnest available, and also the stretchiest. Now I was beginning to regret that decision: I could feel every tiny touch of Mark’s fingertips, and he had the most incredible touch I’d ever felt in my life. But then of course he did – he was me, and he knew exactly what his triggers were, what would be the most effective on himself. I realised that unless he stopped very soon I was going to lose it. “Mark. Stop. Please. I’ll cum.”

There was a quiet, and slightly evil, chuckle. “Oh I know you will. Let’s see how s-l-o-w we can make it, eh?”

The motion of his fingers became less and less until they were hardly moving at all. One hand was tickling my balls, the other was working on my cock bulge. I tried, but I was incapable of resisting the way he was doing it – I felt my body preparing for orgasm, and my cock gave a jerk. The bastard slowed down even more: now only a single fingertip was moving, right on that perfect spot. I was trying desperately to thrust my bulge into his hands but the new leather straps we’d bought were holding my pelvis down far too well.

“Can you feel yourself getting ready to cum? Do you want me to move my finger faster? Harder? Wank your cock head properly? What if I stopped completely now? Took my finger off?”

The little brat had never heard about edging until two days ago, yet here he was, perfectly aware that he could do it to me for as long as he liked if he wanted to. He chuckled again as I shook my head violently. “No! For fuck’s sake!”

The finger continued to stroke, exactly as it had been doing. At first everything happened in slow motion: I got steadily closer and closer, and then I felt the start of my orgasm - the first tentative contraction. My eyes were squeezed shut in concentration, I was holding my breath, every muscle vibrating with tension. My cock began to tingle; and then, suddenly, after what seemed like an eternity, it started to kick wildly and my spunk pumped out uncontrollably. I yelled as I started to cum. Immediately Mark gripped the whole head through my shiny jeans and wanked it a little faster. I sucked the black leather of the hood tighter against my face as I came and came and came.

Oh fuck. I had not had an orgasm like that for a very long time. It took me a while to calm down, and when the boy removed the hood my face was drenched in sweat. “That,” I said, “was amazing .”

He was beaming down at me. “Now I need to cum.” He jumped onto the bed, and while one hand was playing with my bulge, he wanked himself off over my jeans.

It was now coming up to three weeks since I’d arrived here. The ‘accessible range’ display on the TDG said 148 years. In theory, could go back any time I wanted to.

I gazed at the titanium wristband, deep in troubled thought. I was wondering if coming to meet my teenage self had been a good idea; whatever we did to each other was perfect. I had never had such ideal sex with anybody before. Even just lying there touching each other – it was always in exactly the right spots, in the right ways, at the right time, and for just long enough. We’d done all kinds of things to each other: we’d done rape scenes, kidnaps, edging, forced orgasms, interrogations, torture; we’d experimented with lots of different kinds of bondage, lots of different positions, and everything we’d done we’d made so precisely right that it was pure ecstasy for both of us.

The thing was that this was a horny 16-year old boy who had suddenly met, in his older self, a perfect sex partner who could give him exactly what he wanted and needed. Every time. He would never experience such perfection again, except with me. The thought of his going through the rest of his life never again having such good sex, was deeply troubling. And if I was honest, I didn’t want to go back to what would now be inferior sex for me, too. The thought of leaving him was not a happy one.

We were sat one evening (after a gob-smackingly horny 69, both of us on the bed and, for a change, both completely naked) and he was asking me about time travel. I told him that there used to be strict rules about it, about altering the timeline – meeting yourself, for instance. He already knew about the grandfather paradox, which said that if you met your grandfather and killed him when he was young, you could then never have existed yourself, because you’d never have been born in the first place – so how could you have been there to kill him? It was thought that if something like that happened, the plug would come out of the universe, and things would not end well.

But that was before time had been better understood, and it had turned out that if you did that sort of thing, then all that happened was that an additional timeline was created, so now there were two: in one you existed, in the other you didn’t – and you carried on in the one you did exist in. Different timelines – different universes - were being created every microsecond of every day - every time anyone anywhere made a choice of any kind; there was an infinity of them, and the universe seemed to have no problem with that. So now you could do what you liked, and time travel was what everybody did to get away for a while.

“Can you take me to 2160 with you?” He asked. It was clear that my thoughts about the ideal sex we had, had occurred to him as well.

“TDGs can only displace one person,” I said, “so I couldn’t take you back with me now even if I wanted to.” I thought about it. “But I could get another couple of them, so if I can manage to get home I could buy two – and not from Ebay - and come back for you…”

Up to then his face had been a mask of gloom, but it brightened. “Would you do that?”

“To be honest, I don’t want to leave you. I’ve never had such fucking amazing sex as I have with you. And I know you’ll never have better than me again in your life. I just don’t know if it’s right.”

“Why shouldn’t it be right?”

“It would change your life, Mark. You’re here, you have a job, a motorbike, a flat. You have your own timeline – all right, I’ve already changed it, but it’s still your own. You’re 16 years old, you’re just starting out in the world. You have a lot to discover. To experience.”

“The job’s crap. I love Bumble, but he’s just a bike. I would discover just as much – and experience just as much – in your time as I would here.” He smiled sexily at me. “And who else can work on you like I can, boy?”

I felt myself melting as his fingers reached out and stroked my cock.

I removed his hand while I was still capable of doing so. “I could come and visit you often…”

“That’s a possibility.” he said. “But you know me. You should know me. I want to see the future. I want to travel to different times.” He looked down. “And I want to be with you all the time. I fancy you like fuck, Mark. I could almost be in love with you.” He grinned. “Does that make me a narcissist?”

I chuckled. Worryingly, I knew exactly what he meant. “2160 is a lot different to this,” I said. “I have a job too, though it’s only a couple of hours a day, when I want, and from home. There are no motorbikes, at least not petrol ones. We have fusion-electric hoverbikes.”

“I like the sound of those. Do guys still wear leather on them?”

“You can wear what you like – they have their own protective environment shell. Anyone you see wearing black shiny gear is wearing it because he’s into it. A fair number do.”

“Sounds good to me.”

I looked at him. “You really want to come?”

“You don’t have to ask me that.”

I nodded, then took a deep breath. I felt a very large smile developing on my face. “Right. Well, if you’re sure about it. I’ll try to get home – if this damn thing will work for long enough to get me there – and I’ll come back for you with a spare TDG.”


I raised my eyebrows, set the controls on the device, and pressed the button. The blue sphere materialised, and I watched the power level anxiously as I flew through time back to 2160. It made it with about half year to spare. I breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

The first thing I did was ditch that fucking TDG. It took me a couple of weeks to raise enough money to buy two more – those things are expensive when you buy them from proper places – but eventually I had them. I put the spare in my jacket pocket and set off back to 2010, to the same day and the same time that I’d left the boy. The units I’d bought were top-of-the-line ones, with spacial displacement too, so I materialised in the very same chair I’d been sitting in when I’d left him – and at the instant I’d gone.

As far as he was concerned a strange, ghostly blue sphere had appeared for a brief moment, then had vanished – along with me. A second later, another one had materialised. When this one faded, I was beaming at him and holding out the spare TDG.

“Fuck, that was quick!”

“It was quick for you. Couple of weeks for me.” I stood up. “Ok. I’ll make tea.”

“What is it with you and tea?” He laughed.

“Can’t get it in 2061. At least not like it is here.”

“Ah, Well we can always come back for a cup now when we get desperate.”

I thought. “Hmm. Now there’s an interesting possibility. There’d be two pairs of us here if we did that. How d’ya fancy being strapped down while three of us work on you – exactly how we know you like it best…?”

His mouth and his eyes opened wide. He swallowed. “Oh fuck…” He said.

Mark loves the hoverbikes. By the time he’d been here six months he had one of his own – it’s black and yellow and he calls it ‘Bumble II’. He’s been fascinated by the WideNet – it’s a lot more advanced than the internet he knew back in his time – and he quickly became good at using it. He had the idea of advertising as a leather Top. He decided to stop ageing, so he’s still physically 16, and he’s the only Top as young as that, as far as we know; for some guys, being worked on by a very skilled, extremely cute, but very sadistic teenage boy in skintight, real black leather is a major turn-on. And they will pay very well for it. Because of that, and also because – unlike the other tops - once he’s got someone helpless he works on them in the ways he’s devastatingly good at: infuriating, gentle, frustrating ways (just like we’ve always done to each other) he’s become popular very quickly. And he is loving every minute of it.

There’s no jealousy between us, even when I can hear him working on some guy in our dungeon – we both know that nobody can turn each of us on like the other one can – and our sessions together are getting better and better.

When we feel like it we time travel together, or independently. He’s already been to more times and places than I ever have, and I suspect he’s been back to his flat in 2020 a few times. He’s every bit as sex-mad as he ever was, so God knows how many of him there are there now. The multiverse must be tying itself up in knots.

So, are we both going to live happily ever after? Well, there’s a timeline somewhere, in which we do. I don’t yet know if we’re in that one.

But it’s beginning to look that way.