I’m sure you’ve heard a bunch of age old questions, such as: Why did the chicken cross the road? If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there, does it make a sound? Which came first the chicken or the egg?
I have a question in my life much more bizarre than any of those.
I’m Warren Thomas, a basically normal male, born in Galena, Illinois on February 15, 1977. Galena is about 140 miles NW of Chicago. I was raised by a single father, George Thomas, in California. I never knew my mother, nor have I even seen photos of her. My father said she died in a fire in our house in 1978 while he and I were out, and we moved to California right afterward to start over. All our memorabilia was destroyed at the same time. My parents were both only children whose parents died even before they got married.
My dad was not the warmest most communicative guys in the world. He rarely talked about my mom, and answered questions about her tersely. The only things I really got from him was that her maiden name was Karen Kolb, she was good looking, a waitress, 35 years old when she had me, and a 5’10” medium build brunette.
When some people have unanswered basic questions in their life, like I did about her, they fixate on them. I’m one of those people.
Though I didn’t get much help or encouragement from my father, I became one of those Silicon Valley whiz kids. I had made my fortune by the time I was 29, which gave me an opportunity to pursue my obsession. Hiring private detectives got me nothing more than some suspicions about the accuracy of my birth certificate, and my father’s pedigree. Then I came across a group of “mad” scientists.
Called the Bidirectional Clock Group (“BCG”), the scientists needed just $2 million more to perfect backward time travel, which they maintained was easier and less risky at this stage than forward time travel. [If you think time travel is complete science fiction you don’t know about the OPERA experiment which in 2011 showed neutrinos travel faster than light, starting a rewrite of physics. The BCG knew that four years before OPERA confirmed it.]
I gave the BCG the money for a percentage of the company and the right of first refusal to allow me to be the initial time traveler. Within three months after – by March of 2011 – they said they were ready to test.
I didn’t understand the technology although I hired an independent expert to explain it to me. It was something about a mathematical algorithm that could predict when the space-time continuum was susceptible to being uniformly warped, and using the power from a fusion reactor to pass through the warped continuum. However, since I had no romantic interest in my life at that particular point in time, and lieutenants to run my businesses, I was willing to let my obsession control me, and take a chance.
There were some practical restrictions. The closest I could get to Galena where the space-time continuum could be effectively warped was about 30 miles away. Also, you can’t travel with any metal (if I had an artificial hip it would be a no-go, and I had to have some gold fillings in my mouth replaced with a non-metallic material). I was able to find some really old U. S. paper currency that would have been in circulation at that time, about $5,000 worth, and I could take that and the clothes on my back with me. To be safe I also got clothes that were from that era – not just the style, actually in existence then.
A window for travel opened up April 25, 2011 for travel to April 25, 1976. Another window would open up at the same place as my drop zone on May 30, 1976, to return me to the present on May 30, 2011. That was my only chance. I miss that and I would never return and history could be altered.
I studied up on the Galena of the 1970s to the best of my ability so that I would know the geography, and something about the people and what their interests and concerns were.
I’ll make a long story short. I arrived in Galena late in the day on April 25, 1976, having hitchhiked from my “drop” zone. I found a cheap week-to-week rental and bought some new clothes. The rental agent “knocked my future socks off,” so to speak.
Susan Cobb was a really cute 5’5” young woman, probably about 25 years old. She had dirty blonde hair, and intense blue eyes – similar in color to mine. I had developed an entire scenario about why I was looking for Karen Kolb which she bought completely. I enlisted her help, as well as that of the only person resembling a Private Investigator in Galena.
Most of my time during the day I talked to anyone who would talk to me, asking not only about Karen but about George Thomas. There was a newspaper account about a George Thomas, but I couldn’t find a photo or anyone who actually knew him.
Hey, did I mention that Susan was really cute? I ignored the fact that based upon our birth years she was probably about twenty five years older than I was rather than about nine years younger and found excuses to meet up with her all the time. Boy she looked good for someone in her late 50s (ha, ha).
Within about ten days of my arrival I had developed a “thing” for Susan. With my knowledge of the future, such as predicting baseball games and horse races, including the Kentucky Derby (I was an amateur sports historian), she found me amusing and attractive. I was determined to get her in the sack. I succeeded by the middle of May.
We went to a local horse track. Not big time enough that I would ever have studied the results. However, I am part of a very small percentage of people who actually win at the track, normally leaving the track with about 10% more than I bet. Susan, on the other hand, had really bad “horse sense,” and was losing all the time. I cajoled her into making a bargain with me: Even though it wasn’t her job she would intercede for me with the landlord if I had problems with my rental if I picked some winners for her.
She agreed, I picked some winners for her, she netted about $20, and got about $10,000 worth of enjoyment out of it. She was virtually giddy as we left the track.
Once we got back to town I told her there was something “wrong with the plumbing,” and in view of our bargain at the track, could I show her so that night so that she could tell the building manager. She was no dummy and knew that the only “plumbing” that had a problem was mine since my obvious hard-on needed relief. But she smiled even more broadly than when leaving the track, and played along.
When we got in the apartment, I told her that my shower would only go on when I was naked.
“Well isn’t that the only time you need it?” she laughed.
“Yeah, but as a matter of principal it should work other times too,” I replied with an evil grin on my face.
“Show me,” she said, giving me a poke in the ribs.
She went along perfectly with my good-natured ruse, and within about ten minutes we were in the shower together. Since I didn’t have a condom as I was rubbing her bare tits and tickling her tonsils with my tongue, I inquired if she was on “the pill.”
“Fuck yeah, now stop talking and get banging,” was her response.
I wasn’t quite ready for banging, though. I wanted to taste her pussy first. So I got down on my knees, pinned her against the wall, and started fingering and licking up a storm. Wow did she taste good, and she was so receptive. She had to have climaxed at least twice just from my “touches.” It seemed to be a new experience for her. Maybe guys in Galena in 1976 didn’t eat pussy? Too bad for them!
After her second orgasm she really wanted my dong badly. She virtually pulled me up by my hair and started kissing my pussy-juice coated lips and slamming her crotch into me. I lifted her up by her thighs, kept her against the wall, and stuck my rock hard cock into her lubricated gash.
Holy shit did she feel good! She tightly wrapped her arms around my neck, and was nibbling on my neck as I pushed in-and-out of her. She had me so hot that it wasn’t long before I blasted in her, triggering her third orgasm. We sank to the floor of the shower stall, and I reached up and turned off the water.
Though we looked like a couple of water dogs, we kept hugging and massaging each other. After we dried off, we went to my bed and continued our festivities.
When I got her in bed, I sucked on her nipples for a good 10 minutes, then played with her pussy around ten minutes more, waiting for my cock to reload. I wasn’t quite ready as I was pussy-playing when I inadvertently came into contact with her rosebud. She almost jumped off the bed (not a mad or bad jump, just a jump).
Apparently they didn’t do anal in Galena in 1976 either. I salted that away in my brain for future use.
Once reloaded, I turned her on her hands and knees and proceeded to whack her big time. As I pummeled her I alternately grabbed her nice tits, held onto her hips for better traction so that I could increase the speed and power of the banging I was giving her, and grabbed her ass. At various points in time I moved a finger over her anus just to test her reaction, always getting an involuntary twitch from her.
Once she climaxed, I unloaded in her big time, and even after the last spurt was long gone stayed inside and slowly reciprocated. She said all sorts of nice things, and emitted all sorts of low groans and moans. I hadn’t had as appreciative a sex partner in years.
When we woke up the next morning she had a big smile on her face. I asked her if she wanted to try something different.
“Sure, if you think I’ll like it,” she replied.
“Oh, you’ll like it,” I responded with a sly grin.
Using the combination of my cum and her pussy juice that was leaking out of her cunt, I lubricated my dick and her anus. My dick was already rock hard just thinking about pounding her virgin ass. I’m not sure she was expecting it, and it initially took her breath away, when I slowly but purposefully entered her asshole. But once I was balls deep I stayed still for about 30 seconds until she adjusted, and actually started twisting her pelvis back and forth.
Boy did I have fun taking her ass’ virginity. It was really tight, she instinctively knew how to exercise sphincter control, and actually had a small orgasm when I came inside her.
All in all, we both had a fantastic time.
I had been straight with Susan from the start that I would be leaving May 30. Susan was a “free spirit,” and just having sex was fine with her. Though she was from a religious family – two very old parents and a brother who was in the Army, stationed in Germany I believe – she wasn’t interested in a long term commitment, which, considering my situation, was fantastic.
I continued my search for my mother, but I have to say, having sex with Susan every few days made the search a lot more fun than it otherwise would have been. Though I had many memorable orgasms, and Susan loved experimenting, I came up with a big fat zero in my search for my mother. It was like either she was the most unassuming person in the world, or my father gave me bum information. I was beginning to believe the latter was a distinct possibility.
I finally resigned myself to the fact that I would never find out anything worthwhile about my mother, and was starting to get anxious to leave. But I sure wanted a few last nights banging Susan’s phenomenal little pussy and ass. I was very disappointed when she declined to “sleep over” either the night of May 28 or 29, although she did offer to give me a ride to my “drop zone” (I told her it was the bus station, really about a mile from where I needed to be) on the 30th .
After I kissed her goodbye, she handed me a sealed envelope. “I want you to have this,” she said, “but promise me that you won’t open it until you get to your destination.”
Very curious; but I agreed. I insisted she take all except a couple of bucks, “for gas money,” of what I had left of my old money, and gave her the clothes I had purchased while in Galena. To be safe I wore exactly the same clothes I had come in, again no metal. I waved goodbye as she left, sticking the envelope inside my shirt.
Even more surprising to me than my arrival in 1976, was my uneventful return to 2011. Even the mad crew of the Bidirectional Clock Group seemed surprised – which by the way didn’t make me happy.
I got back into my normal clothes and rode to the airport with one of the BCG guys. As we were flying back to California from the “drop zone” in Illinois, I felt good – real good. I now had done everything I could and hoped my obsession was a thing of the past. Actually, the last couple days in Galena, once I started to look forward to my return to 2011, I think I had put finding my mother behind me.
As I was relaxing on the plane with a drink, I took out the envelope from Susan. It had a note, short and to the point: “I just found out what I am about to tell you two days ago, and didn’t know how to break the news. Therefore I have taken the cowardly way out and have put it in writing. My pharmacist, and from him my doctor, found that my birth control pills were from a bad lot. They did look different than normal, but I didn’t think anything of it. They likely have not been effective the last two months. Since you are the only one I’ve had sex with in that time I wanted you to know. I don’t expect to get pregnant, but if I do I will keep the baby. I don’t expect you to contribute to its upbringing; this was not your fault. I just thought you should know. Sincerely, Susan Cobb.”
What the fuck! Yeah, I guess I wasn’t going to contribute to its upbringing since I was more than 30 years away! Shit, did this mean I was going to move from my obsession with finding my mother to an obsession with finding a possible son or daughter?
Just as I was pondering this possibility, I got a call from my office. “Your father had an accident and is in bad shape in the hospital and is asking for you.”
Well at least I was temporarily distracted from figuring out whether I was about to embark on a new obsession.
When I got to the hospital the doctors told me Old George had had too much organ damage and internal bleeding and likely would not make it. He definitely was in bad shape, though still lucid. He shooed all the nurses and everyone else out of his room as I knelt next to his bed and held his hand. I am omitting the coughs and other interruptions in reporting what he told me:
“Warren, I know I haven’t been the best dad to you. But I did love you as much as if you really were my son. And I want you to know about your mother.”
“What do you mean Dad
?” I asked after a few seconds of shocked silence.
“Get my wallet from the dresser, son. Look in the zippered compartment for a photo. It’s of your mother.”
As I was looking through George’s wallet he started violently gasping for air. I yelled for the doctor and nurses. They came running in, but within a couple of minutes I knew, and they told me, he was dead.
After having a good cry, and once they took George away, I returned to his wallet and took out the photo.
There was sweet, perky, dirty blond hair, blue-eyed Susan.
I blacked out trying to answer the question if I really was my father.
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