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  • Every Man's Fantasy Ch. 12

Every Man's Fantasy Ch. 12

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Author's note:

Thanks for the encouraging comments.

If anyone has sent me a private message, I'm sorry I haven't replied but my emails from Literotica were going into the spam folder and automatically deleted. I didn't realise until recently.

This is a lengthy chapter, with some sex, some humour (I hope), some fictional science, some real science, some history and some details necessary for the later plot. I hope you like it.

*****

The story:

As Ezra and his party trudge across the sunny plain to the Mariner Settlement to start his long-delayed salvage operation, we turn to his family on Earth, who continued with their lives, trusting he was well. His younger sister, Danielle, who thought most often about him in the last year, had twice been too preoccupied by sex with her boyfriend (in chapter 2 and chapter 4) to learn why Samothea had been cut off from the rest of the galaxy.

1 Roger surprises Danielle

Danielle and Roger had been together more than a year and settled into a comfortable rhythm. Both had apartments in Cambridge, England. Danielle, who earned the most, had a spacious modern flat in the town-centre but worked in a high-rise office at an out-of-town science park, except for the class she taught once a week at Trinity College. Roger worked at the university but shared a house with a buddy in the suburbs, where accommodation was cheaper. He saved his money to take Danielle out.

Had they put their brilliant minds together, they could have found a simple way to save money and improve their living arrangements; but they were always busy with work and, when they had time to see each other, had much better things to do than talk about accommodation.

After two weeks apart, during which Roger went home to Boston (Massachusetts, not Lincolnshire), to deliver a lecture, do some research and visit his folks, they decided on a special trip for the coming Saturday. He arranged to pick her up in King's Parade.

It was the first warm day of spring and the dull yellow-grey stones of the Gothic King's College entrance gate, so dismal on a rainy winter's day, now almost sparkled under a clear blue sky. Not only was the college looking good, so were the women of Cambridge, relieved at last to go out in short skirts and skimpy tops. It made a man's heart glad to see them.

Danielle sunned herself on a stone ledge on the Parade, turning the heads of passers-by and attracting the admiration of a group of horny male students. Her flowery sun-dress exposed her generous cleavage. She pulled the dress up to let the rare sun warm her legs.

Like most beautiful women, Danielle was convinced she had flaws. Sometimes she thought her eyes were the wrong shade of blue. Sometimes she thought her forehead was too high. Sometimes she thought her breasts were too large. Sometimes she thought her legs were too plump. Today, however, she was convinced her bum was too big; hence the sun-dress with its wide skirt.

The cause of all this dissatisfaction was the fashion industry, of course, which, even in the twenty-fifth century, elevated emaciated and drug-addled teenagers to the pinnacle of feminine beauty.

The admiring students instinctively knew better. Their erections proved that, to red-blooded males, a woman's physical allure was measured by her pretty face and her curves.

Danielle wasn't offended by the gorping boys. She was teasing them quite innocently, but their enjoyment of the view was spoiled when a tall man appeared behind them. Roger put his hands on the shoulders of the two outlying students and said:

"Gorgeous, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes!" one randy youth agreed before looking around and recognising the history lecturer.

"Oh, God! Sorry Sir."

The boys made a quick escape with barely a glance back at the sexy woman.

"Hello, you're late," Danielle said to her boyfriend.

"Sorry. You ready?"

She stood up and kissed him.

"Yes. Where are we going?"

"I'll tell you on the way. More important is how we get there."

That was intriguing and Danielle waited for the surprise as Roger pressed a button on his communicator. A minute later, the crowds of ambling students and tourists in the high-street parted as a beautiful bright-red vehicle came out of the side-street where Roger left it, and rolled up, its engine making a throaty growl. It stopped at the kerb. Low to the ground, looking muscular and sleek with a chrome grill and wide cooling vents. There was a hiss as its gull-wing doors swung open.

"Is this yours?" Danielle asked.

"Sort of. I've hired it."

"What the devil is it?"

"A car. What your ancestors would have called a motorcar and my ancestors an automobile."

"This isn't a car," she said. "That's a car," pointing at something that looked like a thick mattress with half an Easter-egg on top. It shimmered with vibro-lucent colours in the current fashion, like an electrified cuttlefish, and zipped along almost silently on mag-lev beams about ten feet off the road.

"That's a soulless ugly people-mover. It's plastic, robotic, functional ... it's ..."

"Antiseptic?" she helped him out.

"Exactly!"

"I agree your motorcar looks wilder but you're not telling me it's as safe."

"No but it's more fun. Come on, let's get in."

"I'm not going in that until you tell me how it works."

"Darling, I'm a historian, not an engineer. I've no idea how it works. I just know how much fun it is to drive."

"You've been in it before?"

"A little way this morning, but I've had lessons on other automobiles and practised for hours on a simulator."

She was impressed by the effort he made to surprise her and cut him some slack.

"All right, tell me what you know about the motorcar."

"That I can do. It's an Aston-Martin-Williams. A wonderful collaboration of the Anglosphere two-hundred years ago: Hong Kong money, Yank marketing, British design, Japanese gears, built in India."

"It's two-hundred years old?"

"Re-modelled and rebuilt, though it's based on an original four-hundred years old."

"Four-hundred years! You're joking?"

"Things were solidly built in the past, before everything was metallo-plastic."

"It's ancient!" she protested.

"It's vintage," he countered.

"It's obsolete."

"So am I," he admitted. "I don't fit into the modern world, either."

"That's true."

In fact, it was a reason she loved him. Roger wasn't predictable, like the other antiseptic men she knew. She relented a little.

"What are those?"

"Wheels."

"I can see they're wheels. I mean, why was it rolling on them, not levitating?"

"That's how it works. It's driven by its wheels."

"Good God! You mean it runs on the ground?"

"Of course."

"How fast does it go?"

"220 mph."

"That's about 350 kph, and it's in contact with the ground! How does it turn?"

Roger pointed to the steering wheel.

"That wheel turns the front ones."

"My God! Have you never heard of centripetal force? Friction? Newton's laws of motion? That thing's a death-trap!"

"Yes, but fun. Come one. I'll do my best not to kill us both. Besides, we're insured."

"Just so long as we're insured," she said indulgently. In fact, she was interested in the ancient vehicle and trusted her boyfriend. Even more, she felt a frisson of excitement from the idea of taking a risk. Lately, her life had been so dull.

They got in and the doors closed. Roger addressed the onboard control system:

"Computer."

"Hello, my lover."

It was a woman's voice, a thick West-Country burr, honeyed and sexy, instantly conjuring up the image of curvy blonde woman with plump rosy cheeks and big buttery breasts.

Roger didn't need to look at Danielle to see her arched eyebrows.

"Previous user," he explained. "I forgot to change it. ... Er, Computer, do you have another voice?"

"Sure, buddy. Hank here, where d'you dudes wanna go?"

Danielle's eyebrow hadn't dropped.

"Er, do you have someone more reserved, please?"

"Good morning, Sir. I am Aston. How may I assist you?"

"Thank you, Aston. Can you drive us to the motorway, please? We want to go to north."

"Yes, sir. The motorway is seven miles away, twelve minutes in present traffic. Please fasten your seat-belts."

With a throaty rumble and a slight lift to the front, the car trundled slowly off down the high street. Danielle was impressed by how smoothly it drove over the cobbles and turned sharp corners, weaving through the narrow streets to the main road.

"Why aren't you driving?" she asked.

"I'm waiting until we're on the straight flat road. I'm pretty good at the wheel but I don't want to risk running anyone over."

"Very thoughtful, I'm sure."

She was amused. It was an experience and not unpleasant.

"Tell me why the English and Americans have different name for cars."

"Well, I'm not exactly sure, but I think it's mainly because, in the Twentieth Century, we Americans were trying to forge our own identity and break all ties with the mother-country, even linguistic ones. So this perspex window is a windscreen to you and a windshield to us; the front of the car is a bonnet to you and a hood to us; the back is a boot or a trunk; and this is the gear-stick or a gear-shift."

"Interesting. Who's right?"

"It's half-and-half: we perfected the automobile but you perfected the language."

"Very diplomatic, Roger."

She settled back into the white leather seat and began to enjoy herself. Soon they were at the main road, which they had almost to themselves.

Personal transports generally followed magnetic-levitation strips, which took direct routes across open countryside, so many roads had decayed; but the main roads were maintained in case of emergencies and for heavy freight traffic; and small country lanes were in better condition than ever, dedicated to walkers, cyclists and robot farm vehicles.

"Aston," Roger ordered, "give me manual control."

"Very good, Sir. Would you like me to navigate?"

"Yes, please. We are going to Woolsthorpe Manor, Lincolnshire."

"Woolsthorpe, Lincolnshire, sixty-four miles: forty-eight minutes at top legal speed."

"Here we go," Roger said and put his foot down. The powerful motor roared and the front of the car rose up as it surged forward, pushing them into the backs of their seats.

Now Danielle began to understand the thrill of a powerful sports car. The speed; the thrust of the engine when he accelerated; the vibration of the road felt through her seat; the intimation of danger; and the sense of being safe in his (relatively) expert hands all combined to turn her on. She felt the familiar buzz and longing in her pussy.

"You know," she said, "those antiseptic Easter Eggs have one advantage over this contraption."

"What's that?"

"They have back seats. We could have lain them down and fucked for an hour on the way."

"Yes, that is a disadvantage," he agreed.

"Still, there's nothing to say I can't make you happy while you drive."

"Happy?"

It was a bad habit to repeat what she just said but she was kind enough to forgive him.

"You remember happiness? You studied it in school."

"I recall. ... What are you doing?"

She had her hand on his thigh and stroked gently toward his cock.

"Really, Darling, your education!"

She unzipped his fly and put a hand inside his trousers. His cock's reaction had been so quick that she had to undo his belt and the top of his trousers to get it out. Now it was standing proudly upright, pink and smooth. She began to wank him slowly, with the barest of touches. He sighed deeply.

"I've missed you," she said.

"I've missed you, too."

"I wasn't talking to you, Roger."

"Right you are, Darling."

She tried to lean over to plant a kiss on his cock but the seat-belt restricted her. She took it off.

"Please put your seat-belt back on, Madam."

"Shut up, Aston."

"Yes, Sir."

Now Danielle leaned over into his lap. She put her soft lips around the head of his cock and, with a fluttering tongue, began to lick. He hardened further and she swayed her head as she swirled her tongue around, making pleasant sloppy noises.

Turning her head to one side, she licked with a sawing motion up the shaft, from base to tip and back down.

"Oh, God! That's beautiful, Darling."

Pleasantly distracted, Roger none the less managed to drive surprisingly well, though the road was a dead straight line and the car had emergency steering and brakes.

It was harder to concentrate when she eased his balls out of his trousers and began to lick them, her hand gripping his shaft more firmly and slowly wanking.

She licked upward from the bottom of his cock, her fingers pressing around the base of the shaft, until she got to the tip. She licked around and around it until he groaned: "Oh God! That's beautiful!"

Now she made dipping motions with her head, capturing his cock-head in her mouth and sucking gently before releasing and tonguing around it again.

It was driving him crazy. His cock was full size and straining, the head bright red and hot.

She swallowed down more of his dick, sucking gently, teasing him, half-an-inch more each time, until she had a mouth full. Now she was bobbing her head, adding pressure to her sucking, gently cupping his balls.

He groaned loudly, trying to keep his eyes on the road.

She slowed, making him last, using her hand, sucking only the head, her saliva glistening sweetly in rivulets down his pole.

He wanted to hold her, or stroke her hair, but he daren't take his hands off the wheel. It was increasingly hard to concentrate and he dangerously closed his eyes a couple of times.

Her fingers tightened at the bottom of his shaft. Her head bobbing, she raised his tension wickedly, pulling with more pressure then flicking with her tongue.

He groaned as she sucked, getting more vocal as he neared his peak.

"Oh, God! That's beautiful. Just like that!" he exclaimed.

She bobbed and sucked.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!"

She swallowed more of his cock down, even getting it into her throat a little. She felt his cock begin to twitch. He was almost there.

"That's wonderful!" he said, groaning.

She turned her head more, so her tongue rubbed on the sensitive top of his cock-head.

"God, Darling! It's perfect!"

She bobbed faster and swivelled her tongue side-to-side as she swallowed him down, pulling up with a firm suction. He couldn't last a minute longer. She felt the orgasm starting in the swelling and heat of his cock.

"Oh God!" he cried out.

She sucked down strongly once more.

"Oh God!"

She braced herself, his cock deep in her mouth, her tongue along his pole. She wanked the base of his shaft. It was now!

"Oh my God! My God! ... AUTODRIVE!"

She almost choked from trying to laugh and swallow his cum at the same time. He spurted long deep surges into her throat, but she managed not to spill any and she finished him off nicely, sucking to the final spasm and licking up the drips with relish.

She sat up, one hand on his cock, wanking away the final moments of tension, while he breathed heavily. A small drip of semen ran down her chin. She collected it up with delicate finger-tip.

"Tell me, Roger," she mused. "Are you going to yell 'autodrive' every time you orgasm?"

"Ha, ha. What you were doing distracted me from driving. I almost steered us off the road."

"I thought you said driving is safe."

"It would have been, if you hadn't been slutting me up at the same time."

"Slutting you up? Is that good English?"

"It's not even good American-English but it's apt."

"I don't know if it's apt but think how it would sound: 'Do you, Roger Harcourt, take this woman to be your lawfully married slut?'"

He didn't laugh. Did she know, he wondered?

"I'm joking," she said.

"I know. I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else. There are a couple of things I have to say to you and I want to try to get them right."

"What things?"

"Can I tell you later?"

"Of course you can, Darling. Actually, I've some news for you as well. We can both wait."

They were silent for the rest of the drive to Woolsthorpe Manor, which Roger left to Aston to accomplish, while Danielle sat back in her seat, enjoying the ride, smiling with self-satisfaction, chewing a stick of mint-gum.

2 At Woolsthorpe Manor

When they parked and set off for the entrance, Roger said:

"I'm shocked you've never been to Woolsthorpe Manor, Danielle, the childhood home of Sir Isaac Newton, the greatest scientist there has ever been, a fellow of the very college at which you now teach physics."

"Yes, my education has been a miserable failure. Thank heaven you're here to put it right."

"Indeed. I'll start your instruction immediately."

He gave her the brief facts of Isaac Newton's life, adding:

"In 1655, when he was just twenty-two, Cambridge University shut due to the plague. Newton came home and, in two years of effort, invented the laws of optics, mechanics and gravitation and something called calculus, having previously discovered the binomial theorem."

"Gosh, Roger, that's wonderful memorising. How much of it do you understand?"

"Not a thing," he happily admitted. "Though I've picked up some science from listening to you."

"Like what?"

"Well, I know the sun goes around the earth and the moon goes around the sun. Beyond that, however, I'm clueless."

"Idiot!"

"Charming idiot?"

"No, just idiot." But she graced him with one of her happiest smiles.

At this moment, a fluffy pink lady, with a big red jolly face, a long flowery dress and sensible shoes, came bustling out of the old stone farmhouse. She'd spied them out of the window of the reception. Fussing busily, she carried communicators hanging on lanyards over her wrists and a small stack of thin clip-boards with crayons.

"How many little angels?"

"I beg your pardon?" Roger replied.

"Children? How many children have you got?"

"None," he said, not following her line of enquiry.

"Oh, what a relief! I know we're supposed to think young people are delightful, especially as most of our visitors are school parties, but, really, they can be such nuisances! ... These clip-boards are for them, to keep them happy and stop them disturbing other visitors and breaking things."

"I'm Gladys," she said, by way of self-introduction, "It's my job to sell you tickets. Two is it? ... Very good. ... I'll bring you some change ... You'll have to tell me if I'm talking too much. I have a habit of running away with myself. It's so nice to have visitors who are normal people, not mannerless schoolchildren or fusty antiquarians."

"Well, one out of two isn't bad," Danielle consoled her. "Do you show us the house or do we go around on our own?"

"You go around on your own. There are holographic guides in all the rooms. Feel free to talk to them but, frankly, they're too inhuman for my taste. You can use one of these devices instead. Press here and a nice man will tell you about each exhibit. ... When you're done, take a seat in the garden and I'll bring you over some tea and cakes. I bake them myself."

"Thank you, Gladys. We look forward to tea."

"Very good. Come this way: I'll show you where the exhibition starts."

Though old cottages can be quaint, Woolsthorpe was not a beautiful house. The countryside around, dissected into uneven fields by grey stone walls or low hedges and festooned with sheep, had a featureless beauty of its own, especially in the sunshine, but the main attraction of the house was its age and its association with one of the greatest minds in history.

The exhibition was light on Newton's science, assuming only physicists on pilgrimage would care to learn any mathematical details, but it was impressively thorough on the man himself, outlining Newton's alchemical experiments, his studies in Biblical chronology and his work at the Royal Mint, besides mock-ups of his experiments in optics and his reflecting telescope.

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