REMIT

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A man relives one of his greatest sexual adventures.
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Nils Huim
Nils Huim
185 Followers

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of incest or incest content.

*****

My shrink tells me I've been searching my entire life for the father I barely knew. He says that come adulthood this often takes a sexual turn. "Instead of just wanting a hug or to throw the ball around after dad gets home from a hard day's work—simple forms of platonic love in other words—after a certain age the need for recognition becomes sexual. You begin to seek out other men's sexual love, their attention at any rate, often in either an exhibitionist way or as a submissive partner, or both."

And so, intermittently for decades now, I have sought "love" and attention and recognition from mostly cold, opportunistic fellow males looking for a quick, onetime blowjob or, on occasion, a hole to plug. And while I did these things voluntarily, and gladly, there has always been just one recurring problem: these encounters never led to the one thing above all others I was seeking.

But why am I telling you this? All you wanted to know was what moment, what small portion of my life I wanted to revisit while hooked up to your time-travel thingy. And yes I know—I love your 'do by the way—I know you don't call it time travel you call it mind travel. Or, as your website calls it, Regressive Emotive Memory Identification and Targeting. REMIT. Sounds so...I must say, militaristic. I almost feel like I'll be going off on a secret mission behind enemy lines, ha-ha.

It's a tossup, frankly. Going back to a surrogate father's love I could have had, once, or, about a year before that and about thirteen-hundred miles to the chilly north, to the girl I met while sunbathing late one summer. We only went out once—one date. But that's all it takes isn't it? Her name was [deleted], and I've always considered her, despite the briefness of it all—is that a word, briefness? Despite the brevity of it all, I've always considered [deleted] the one true love of my life. That coming from someone who was twice married, ha-ha, with kids.

Life is crazy isn't it? Human feelings? And priorities? But no, in the final analysis I'm gonna go with the flip side of my sexuality—the older man I had a brief relationship with when I was about 25, the one man who expressed his love for me, as I recall, and just might have filled the everpresent void in my life both physically and, well, yes, emotionally, certainly. Spiritually.

That's the moment I want to go back to, the buried memory trace. I know you can't make any guarantees. I know it's hit and miss: I could relive the whole series of events fully, as if watching a movie, or it could be fragmented. Or nothing at all. Let's do this. I'll gladly sign the waiver. Pass it over. Can I give you my credit card?

—walking along the beach, the surf, the morning sun on your left starting to bead sweat. You're naked, self-conscious, heading east-southeast.

The older man has come down the sloping strand from the north, kicking dry white sand. You recognize him. You recognize him from the previous Saturday—your only other visit to this secluded, narrow and curving, "gay" end of the beach. The "straight" end is at your back and out of sight, curving sharply northward. That's where you and your college buddies used to go to drink beer and jug wine and swim—and pick up girls. Now it's six or seven years later and you're back home after your sojourn north and you're slender and naked and modestly hung and walking in the surf along the sparsely populated beach. There are no girls. But there are men in bikinis—Speedos—and there are others naked like you, including the older man who has turned left and is now approaching you, smiling.

"I know you," he says. Shouts it almost, from a short distance.

You falter a step. "You do?"

"I saw you here last week."

"Oh, right." You're relieved. For a second there you thought he might know you from another life. A professor? Your undergraduate days? On the other hand, what would it matter?

"But I haven't seen you around here before."

"No, this is..." You've come to a halt, the sudsy white surf washing over your slender feet. "It's only my second time."

"Welcome back! Sorry I didn't get to say hello last week."

"No...that's OK."

"I had my eye on you, however...

The man wastes no time. He extends a hand—but it's not in the usual greeting. His fingers fall to your frightened little balls which he fondles, gently.

"Nice," he grins.

Your face is tan—tanned brown almost. But you feel yourself blushing. Your new admirer looks to be in his early forties. He has a thick head of dark-brown hair which is salt-water wet and brushed back. Either he hasn't shaved in a few days or he keeps his beard, flecked grey, close-cropped like that. He's about the same height as you, but thicker bodied from middle age, and when he leans over suddenly to kiss you, directly on the mouth, his whiskers sting your lips' surround. Your tongue slides in alongside his—it's a reflex action. Just as your right hand, sliding under to take hold of his balls, a meaty pair much larger than yours, is pure reflex.

"You're a good kisser," the man declares, pulling back.

"Well, I..." You're not exactly bashfully toeing the wet, grey sand but you might as well be. You watch as the incoming white foam washes over, obliterates the metaphorical line you've never drawn. You look up. Say tritely, ask the obvious, for lack of something better: "You come here often?"

The man is now facing in your direction—west. He's come alongside you, hips bumping. He puts an arm around your waist. This is all happening so fast: a fondle, a passionate kiss...now an embrace. Again, a reflex: your slender arm circles his meatier back. You walk, the two of you. You adjust your gait, try to keep in step, hips again bumping now and then, surf washing over your double pair of competing feet.

"Every weekend I can. I travel a lot. Have a little beach house not far from here. A cottage more like it." He gives you a sideways hug: "You should visit me there sometime."

"Sounds..."

Another hug. "Like today."

The two of you walk on, the sun rising on your left. Soon it will be brutal, like fire on the skin. You picture the cool confines of a beach cottage. Rattan furniture, ceiling fans whirring, jalousie windows admitting a cooling ocean breeze, a striped cat on the sill...

You're getting an erection. It shows.

"So it's not a long drive for me. You?"

The man's question jolts you out of your fantasy. "Oh. No. I live quite a ways from here. Other side of the causeway. I ride my bike."

Another hug. "You rode it today?"

You nod.

"Then you could follow me on your bike to my house. It's just a little ways down the road, about two miles. Then we could—" The older man's body has parted from yours. He's laughing, looking down. "Look at you! Someone's happy!"

You're beyond self-conscious now. You're humiliated. Your erection, your uncontrollable passion is pointing above the treeline, the distant whispering pines, the bridge. Christ!

"Sorry," you finally say.

"About what?" the man's left hand returning to your hip.

"I—"

"I'm flattered."

You look over at him, your grinning companion. Your astonishment sincere; naïve. "Why?"

"Why do you think, darling? I usually have to work a lot harder to get a guy hard."

Darling? Had he just called you darling?

"They're all looking at me..."

"Who?"

You gesture forward, up the beach.

"They're looking at you, yes. But they're also looking at me. They're jealous, the fucks. Let's lose 'em," the older man says, steering you, veering you left into the water, the gentle waves. "You're all mine today, right?"

"Right," you nod, the blistering sun in your eyes, wondering about rocks underfoot, half-buried stingrays...

He—

He pulls his tongue from your mouth. Pulls—

Says—

He's stroking your cock. You're on your knees in the sand, the water up to your chests. He's stroking your cock, you're stroking his much thicker one. You're so impressed...

"I think I'm in love."

"Don't."

"What?" whiskered, smiling face wet. Salt-wet.

"We just met."

"So? Love is love."

"Stop!"

"Why?"

You make another attempt to push his stroking hand away. "Cause if I cum I'll...lose interest."

"I'm impressed."

"About what?"

"Well, lots of things. But once again you seem to be most concerned about...about pleasing me."

You've succeeded. His hand has given way—though yours has continued its rhythmic stroke of his under-water cock, beneath mildly buffeting waves.

"I'd like to please you," you say, brushing wet hair from your eyes with your free hand.

"You mean that? I think you do, darling." His hand may've conceded stroking your cock but it has circled back around to your ass, your cheeks, and having parted them, found your hole. He whispers: "Would you like me to fuck you?"

You swallow. Taste of salt. "I'm a virgin. Back there."

"No shit. I never would've known."

The man professes surprise. Although you are unsure if he's mocking you or not. His middle finger, meanwhile, has wormed its way inside you a little ways, no lube.

"You're tight, that's for sure."

"Too tight."

"No one is ever too tight, with a little practice. I'd be gentle. You're not my first virgin, believe me." The sun was beating down. Heads, shoulders. A small crowd had assembled on the shore, watching you. The two of you.

"Do you like gin?" he asks, non sequitur.

"Gin, sir?"

"Why're you calling me sir?" the man asks. "Am I that old?"

His middle finger is now in nearly to the knuckle. Raw.

"No, I..."

He laughs. Whispers over the waves:

"Relax, dear. I'm fucking with you. True, I'd rather FUCK you but—"

Gin—

A martini—

"I'll show you how to...how to make the perfect martini. For me

Jalousies filtering light, ocean breezes

"For me For me For me when I come home from work."

"What type of work do you do?"

Whiskered grin: "I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you. Did anyone ever tell you you're a natural-born cocksucker? Goddamn! You could live here, y'know. Share yourself with me. Your life. This isn't just about sex. I have a spare bedroom. You're, for me, a dream come true. I could—"

"Where do you live again?" He sounds strangled.

"With my mother. Across the causeway. It's just temporary. I moved back here after grad school."

"What was your major? I mean...your area of study? Is she your...real mother?"

"Same as yours. Of course she is!"

"How do you know about me?"

"Philosophy. A waste. Then polysci. You know."

"I don't know. I'm beginning to worry about you, sweetie..."

"I make a mean martini, though, don't I? Three olives? First try."

"Doubt it. I'm feeling...What pud you did in it?"

Your mother, emerging from the shower...you meet her with a towel, broad like the flag but white. A large surrender. She wraps her wet, naked body in it. Turns. Drys off, partly.

"Where have you been all day?"

"The beach," you say.

"The beach? You'd burn up."

"I went over to dad's house."

"Oh. Shit! He's back in town?"

"He's, I take it, rented a little bungalow on the beach."

"What did you do with him?"

"Talked. Had drinks. It was OK. He's...mysterious."

"Tell me about it!"

Your mom tosses her towel aside, her body dry for the most part. She struts to the bed. She's like a featherless peacock, her body pale, slender, slight, smooth, nearly perfect. Small tits, though. Her legs are spread. Her feet slide back, knees rising, opening herself to you. Her sex. Her need. Your need.

You climb between her legs. The cock the man in the water pulled back from is still poised, potent, oh-so-erect. You penetrate your mother. She wraps her slender legs around you. You fuck her. Fuck her! You cum. Cries ring out like church bells in England. It's glorious. The sheets are wet.

You say to the REMIT woman, their rep with the nice 'do, as you come out of it, in the tilted chair, like at a barber shop, electrodes being removed: "I can't say. Something happened. Something got...fucked up."

"I'm surprised. How so?"

Nils Huim
Nils Huim
185 Followers
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AnonymousAnonymousalmost 6 years ago
WTF

Was that?!

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