Time Isn't Real Pt. 01

'One more for luck,' I whispered, licking the head of it before I pressed the slick, bulbous tip into the tight pucker.

I pushed.

And pushed.

The pressure was almost getting to the point of me giving up, but eventually, with a soft squchssh, the head popped in. I let out a sigh, not realising I had been holding my breath, and pressed the full head of Bryson's cock into his own backside.

'That... is... way too sexy for what it is,' I Mumbled to myself as I fed in another half-inch or so of cock, before the angle became too sharp, and I backed away. 'If it wasn't for the size of your cock, we wouldn't be doing this,' I told him as I pulled his leg back down, watching his balls, which had been pressed to one side by his shaft, squeeze into place. It wouldn't be comfortable for him, of course, but I was curious as to whether it would cancel out all of the fucking I had done.

All of that hard work, wasted. Maybe.

I shrugged. Fuck 'im.

The next stage of the plan was simple. I pulled his boxers up, over his folded cock, which made the front of him look oddly smooth, despite his frizzy pubic hair, and pulled up his jeans. Sealing him up. Then, his shirt, buttoned badly and untucked.

Then, I opened the living room door, and the front door of the flat, paving my way to the mildly-busy street out front, for me to take him out.

I dragged him, not taking as much care as I had moving Shannon, and took him out the front gate to the patch of concrete described as our 'front garden', facing outwards. There was a park across the road, but I had long-since decided I wanted to see the fallout of my revenge, so this would have to do.

I got his stuff, packed it quickly and carelessly, and threw it into his bag, before holding it next to him - about four feet off the ground. His laptop would have to survive the fall.

Then, I went back inside, locked the door, and set myself by the window.

To myself, I whispered, 'Time isn't real.'

The initial sensory overload of all of that noise - the road, my moans all snapping in at once only to dissipate, made me wince as I watched the mayhem of Bryson's implosion.

His feet lost their balance, first, and I watched the back of his head as he stumbled, reality pouring in. For him, he had just teleported outside, and was currently enjoying the long, indulgent fucking I had provided him in one hard, fast experience-dump. And all that cum he was currently producing, as his hips twisted on the spot and his hands flew to his crotch, was being poured into his own bowels, warm and thick and unmistakable.

'WHAT THE F-' he howled, his voice trailing into inhuman grunts as he dropped to the grass, ass-up and pointed at me, while he buried his face in the grass and moaned/screamed.

I watched the dark patch find itself in his jeans, and as his ecstasy and horror passed, his post-orgasm clarity kicking in. Bryson rolled, grabbing his back with the likely-shattered laptop, stood on shaky legs, and walked away like a man whose cock was still embedded in his own arsehole, tucked in by his own clothing.

He gave a frantic, furrowed glance back at the house, perhaps seeing me through the window, and fled.

A few people who had been walking past were watching, half-shocked and half-overjoyed to have experienced something so weird. A few people laughed, some scowled and carried on. One old man barely seemed to notice. And, once Bryson was out of sight, down the hill, I turned away from the window - only to see Shannon behind me, watching me with wary eyes as she crossed into the living room.

Before I had a moment to speak - to come up with any kind of excuse - she stopped me with three words.

'Time isn't real?' she asked.

I must gave gawked like a fish. 'Shannon-'

'What the fuck does that mean?'

She was angry. Understandably. Rightfully, in fact. 'Shannon, it's...' I didn't know what to say. What to try to convince her of. What lie to make up. For a moment, I wish I'd asked Hugo what my Dad had said to the people in his life, when strange things happened. Or, what happened when he got caught.

I also considered just, pausing time, fucking off, and then denying everything to Shannon tomorrow. Gaslight her into thinking she had some fever dream, or something.

'Brooke,' Shannon said, with a mix of emotions in her eyes that made me feel like a monster for even considering manipulating her in some way. 'I know, after everything with your Dad, that you would be... you know. Acting differently. But this... this is mad. And don't you dare try to bullshit me, because something is going on here, and I can see it in your eyes.'

She paused, giving me room to talk. 'I was trying to protect you,' I said. Whether I meant from Bryson, or from the truth of me, even I wasn't sure.

'Protect me?' she scoffed. 'I'm here, studying away with a guy I know you know I like. All of a sudden, I feel like someone's feeling me up, and me and Bryson are closer. Then, touching - and he's... hard, and - tell me you didn't do that. To him. To me.'

I couldn't deny anything. As soon as she needed me to assure her the worst wasn't true, she saw it in me that it was.

'I'm sorry,' was all I could say.

'You - I don't know how, Brooke, but you did that to us. Then, he... he...'

'He tried to-'

'I know what he tried to do!' she snapped, cutting me off. 'He... and then I was in bed. Alone. And I look outside, and I see Bryson in the front garden, screaming and hollering on the grass, and running off.' She straightened her back a little, and I felt small before her. 'What did you do, Brooke? Tell me.'

I looked at her, the pain in her eyes, and I saw no way out. No way to escape this... this mess.

Well, I thought. There's always one way out.

And I took it. Like a coward, I thought the trigger words and paused the world around me, enabling my escape. Only, I could feel that pressure in my mind, the alarm within me telling me to make it quick. Without arousal fuelling my power, it was weak. As weak as me.

I gave Shannon one last look, and tried not to think about how hurt she would be when time started again and I was gone, without an explanation. Without anything.

Then, I left.

Out the front door, jogging a little to put some distance between us, and up the hill - I had no intentions of running into Bryson right now. The pressing headache, when it crested like it had when I was robbing - jesus, who am I turning into? - caught up with me as I turned a corner a few houses away. The grey sky hung overhead, and as I looked up at it, the clouds started to move again.

The street rushed back to life, and I heard voices and birds, felt wind again. And, for reasons I wasn't totally sure of, I began to cry.

CHAPTER TEN - THE HISTORY

'Hugo? Hey - it's Brooke. I, uh... I could do with some help. Let me know when you get this message. Thanks.'

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I took a breath as I sat on the mouldy old bench on the south side of Heaton Park. It sprawled out beneath me, sliding downhill between trees and pathways, filled with people braving the threat of rain overhead.

Less than an hour since what had happened with Shannon, and I hadn't heard anything from her. I was expecting a call, or at least a confused text. Instead... silence. And I was struggling to figure out whether that was a good thing or not.

Hugo hadn't picked up on either call I'd made, and that was starting to add onto that growing sensation of isolation I was feeling.

Then, my phone buzzed in my hand, tucked into my pocket. I pulled it out, and saw the icon of a person I hadn't expected to hear from.

Mum.

'Hey,' I said, picking up.

'Brooke,' she breathed, as though thankful to hear from me. 'Sweetheart, hi.'

My lips tightened. After years of... of nothing, she thought she could just call me 'sweetheart' and be done with it?

'What's up?' I asked.

'Well - okay, we've been organising all of your father's effects, and some of it, even though it was specifically left to me in the will, has your name on it. And a lock. I was wondering if you wanted to, you know, take a look?'

I looked over my shoulder, in the direction of the flat. Where Shannon would be waiting.

'Of course,' I said.

* * *

After sneaking a twenty-pound note from an affluent-looking guy with plenty more money in his wallet, I booked myself a bus ticket southward from the station. It was a new coach, comfy and warm, and yet there was an... uncertainty in me. Growing unease.

How had my father managed this his whole life, I wondered. I've barely had this gift for two days and I've already cocked it up.

The rain started to patter on the windows as I got myself settled in, waiting for the journey home to start.

'Home' was perhaps a strong word for it. Dad was estranged, and Mum was... not much better. The sooner I could get out of that house, the better. I think I reminded her of her better years, and resented me for it.

Hugo, eventually, texted me back with a cryptic apology;

H / Sorry Brooke for missing your messages. Will get back to you soon - we have much to discuss, and even more to explore.

I tried to come up with an explanation, the combination of words that would let him know what had happened without making me out to be a complete idiot, but nothing came to mind. So, even though I knew he was probably the only person who could help me.

B / Catch up tomorrow

That would buy me enough time to work this all out, and to see what was at my Mum's, without raising any eyebrows from Hugo - he'd asked for time anyway.

H / No problem. Keep up the practice in the meantime

There. Brilliant.

* * *

It was dark by the time the coach rolled into North Yorkshire. I was tired from doing nothing, and the absence of activity on the other seats told me I was alone enough to do as Hugo had suggested. Keep up the practice.

Only, I wasn't much in the mood. I had heightened a consensual sexual experience, once, but since then I'd just been... assaulting people. And justifying it. After considering Bryson, and the choices he'd made... I didn't want to be anything like him. Not at all.

My power was linked to sex, but that didn't mean it had to be used as a weapon. I could use my abilities on people in a positive, constructive way. Maybe. Somehow.

I had no idea, to be honest - but the space that going home and getting away from Hugo and Shannon gave me was nice. A little weight off my shoulders.

Mum was waiting in the public car park across the walkway, so I disembarked quickly, having no luggage to take with me, and made my way through the heavy downpour in nothing but the jacket I'd worn to see Hugo that morning to save me from being soaked through.

She was in the car, an old green Honda, and flashed the lights at me when I was close enough in a way that reminded me of being picked up from school when I was in my teens. That memory was... strange. Stomach-tightening.

'Hey,' I Mumbled as the door popped open for me, and I got into the passenger seat, sodden.

'My baby,' Mum fussed, touching the arm of my coat. 'You're wet through! We'll get you back, heating's on. Have you eaten?'

I smiled, the nicety of being smothered temporarily pleasant. I knew she was just making up for lost time, but that was fine, at least for now. 'No,' I smiled.

'Pizza it is, then,' she said, starting the engine.

* * *

Mum's house was smaller than I remembered - or my memory was just catching up with reality. The corridors seemed a little tighter, the doorways a little shorter. I wasn't a child anymore.

We had picked up a pepperoni 12-inch on the way home, and Mum had made a joke that made the image of Bryson's length eclipsing most of my arm come to mind. I was miserable, and trying to distract myself, but the simple truth that I hadn't cum through that whole ordeal was starting to rear its ugly head.

'Your room's mostly the same,' she said as I walked through the bungalow. The back rooms were three bedrooms and an office at one point - now it was Mum's room, her office, the spare room and my museum. The door creaked open and we both hesitated at the door, peering in.

When I moved out, I made a point to take the things that made me happy. The things that made me me. So, what was left was the stuff Mum had imposed upon me. The violin I was never good enough at, in a corner covered in dust, was opposite the easel I had been forced to do charcoal impressions on at 13 years old. I wasn't a musician, or an artist - not in the way Mum needed me to be after Dad left.

Dad, my brain repeated, echoed, as I saw the outlier in the room - the box, cardboard and opened, and inside sat a collection of clothes, and a lockbox. No bigger than a shoebox, it was locked with a huge combination key on the front.

I took a closer look, picking it up to find it rattled slightly. 'Any clue?' I asked, but Mum just shook her head.

'This was with it,' she said, grabbing the note from a side table.

For Shannon, it read. Nothing more.

'Right,' I hummed, thinking. I looked at the box, squinting. 'Are those letters?'

'Yup,' Mum said. 'Twelve-digit phrase. I mean, I thought it would be three years at first, but there's no way to get to numbers, even if you spin all the way round. So, I have no idea.'

She patted me on the shoulder, and frowned at the window. The rain was getting worse. 'I'll leave you to it. Let me know if you get anywhere!'

I nodded, and she left.

As soon as she was gone, I started to turn the small brass dials to the letters I knew unlock it.

T. I. M. E. I. S. N. T. R. E. A. L.

The box clicked open, and I gasped - half-expecting golden light to pour out, or harmonic music to start playing. It felt like a magical moment. Important.

Instead, the inside of the box was felt-lined, and black, and there were a selection of USB memory sticks inside, labelled. Numbered, in fact. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. It was all very dramatic, and even a little silly. I wanted to laugh, but instead just smiled, and went to the door.

'Mum?' I called down. 'Can I borrow your laptop?'

'Uhh, why?' Classic. Always had to know everything.

'I want to search some things. For that combination.'

'Oh. Sure. Living room,' she called back. I rushed down, my socks silent on the carpeted stairs, and found it in the front room, placed nicely on the sofa by the front window. I opened it, and quickly made a new login so Mum wouldn't accidentally stumble on anything, and took it upstairs. I ignored the familiar smell of childhood and the cozy atmosphere and the family pictures from over a decade ago.

I snuck back upstairs, and caught a glimpse of my Mum through the kitchen doorway, on the phone to someone - just chatting away. Whether it was a show of respecting boundaries, or if she'd already forgotten I was there, it was hard to say, but I didn't stop. Once I was in my old bedroom, I clicked the door shut and sat myself on the bed, taking the memory stick labelled 1, and plugged it in.

A single video file.

I opened it, and the first frame was of my Dad's face, frozen with the play button hovering over his features. I'd almost forgotten what he looked like. When I clicked it, he came to life, inside what looked like a very cushy office room, a large leather chair framing him.

He sat back, having obviously just pressed 'record', and began.

'Brooke,' he said, with a warmth I barely recognised. I hadn't seen it since I was, what, five? 'My darling daughter. And, in many ways, my heir - if you excuse the self-flagellating term.'

He was casual, despite the suit he was wearing. Calm. Kind-seeming.

'If you haven't already, I'd like you to take a moment to find yourself a private space. Somewhere you are certain no one can overhear you.' I looked at the door, and thought of Mum downstairs on the phone. 'Either way - soon enough you will be free of consequence. But that's me getting ahead of myself.

'I want to begin by apologising. The life you have lived... this is not the life I wanted to share with you. It's not the way I wanted things to be. And, despite having this... gift, which I have passed onto you, I allowed my arrogance to ruin any chance of making things right.

Brooke... this ability we share - it is not simply a means to stop time. Part of the gift which was never shared with me, and it took me decades to reveal and longer to understand, is that we can wield entropy. Defy it. We can move backwards, sending our consciousness as it is now into the previous version of ourselves. Start again. I was a forty-three-year-old man when I discovered this, and I had been working with my good friend, Hugo, for some time, when the legacy I inherited was shared with me. Teachings from our family, passed on from parent to eldest child. Teachings that led Hugo to... to believe he could steal our gift. He tried to murder me, Brooke. And, in my instinct-led state, I rolled time back.'

I paused the video, releasing a held breath from my chest. Backwards through time. It was stupid. Impossible. Ridiculous.

Though, how much more ridiculous was it than what I'd already experienced?

I pressed play, and he continued.

'Only by an hour - but I had done it, Brooke. I saved my own life, and confronted Hugo about his plan. We had discovered, see, from my mother, a wrinkle in the gift. If a parent dies, their eldest child inherits the powers of time - but if that child dies before they themselves have a baby? It reverts back, up the genetic chain, to the other parent - preserving the gift for a chance of being passed on again. She told me this a month before you were born, and - naturally - I told Hugo. My partner in crime.

'Hugo had been plotting until you were - to put this crudely - of childbearing age. He wanted to murder me, have a child with you, and then kill you and the child. As the father of the power-given infant, he would then inherit the power for himself.'

I glanced at my phone - wondering if it was possible. The man Hugo had presented himself as... a lie. To get close to me. Impregnate me. A cold shiver went up my spine, as I listened on.

'I went back to the day you were born, Brooke - but could go no further. The ability had been shared with you the day you arrived, and I was unable to roll back time further than that. I couldn't stop myself from working with him for years, or from him learning about the way it was inherited. I also learned that, when we go back, we can't go forwards again. We are unable to jump ahead in time. When I went back to the day you were born, to my late twenties - I had to stay there. Live my life again.

'This began a... a sort of routine, Brooke. I would live my life a certain way, and Hugo at some point would murder me, with intention to save you. At the point of death, I rolled back and started again. I ran from him, fought him - it never worked. Some lives I spent as a caring father, attentive and loving, using the stock market to grow immensely wealthy... but, it soon became clear that going backwards in time had a cost.

'I was getting ill. Cancer, Brooke. At first, I thought it was just bad luck - I went back and started again. I'd lived for hundreds of years, my mind full of memories - but I wasn't able to give it up. And, with each life, I was falling ill earlier and earlier. It was the gift, punishing me. This life, I fell ill almost as soon as you were born, but I've managed to fight it. I thought I might... I thought I might do it once more. Spend a life with you, make you happy. But, I realised I had run out of time. I wouldn't survive a good life with you, so instead I decided to try and keep you safe.'