The Mechanic

[An Account from the PRISM Chronicles]

Chapter 1

A Long, Tiring day

Sour wasn't expressive enough for Mark Campbell's attitude. After a day cursed with trying to satisfy impatient customers who were determined to be unhappy whatever the cost, he parked number five of his airboat touring machines, marked its 454-block Chevy engine for a checkup on its reduction drive, sent home Kimberly, his office manager of Everglades Good Times, and the rest of his team, closed the marina, and pointed his Toyota Tacoma TRD short-bed toward home. Home was fifteen miles out on Florida's State Highway 41. He felt like nine miles of rusty railroad track as he shifted through its manual transmission, and a migraine was slowly but definitely sledgehammering its way into position behind his eyes.

He turned off the paved road onto a well-packed graveled trail, drove another two miles, and pulled into his front yard. His golden retriever, Sir Roger de Coverly, roared around the corner of the firmly-built cabin, looking for all the world as if he'd been rolling for a week in something terminally nasty. With Roger every time he saw Mark was the first time; he stood up and put his front paws on Mark's stomach, his tail wagging nonstop and about to separate itself from the rest of the dog's body, tongue licking anything of Mark that was in reach.

"Eeyuuu," grimaced Mark as the stench from something powerful rolled off the once-beautiful fur. "You stink so wonderfully, Roger. Good grief! I've gotta hose you off before nightfall if you plan to go inside this house. What did you meet that was dead for a week?"

The tail wagged furiously at this new idea, certain that it must mean more fun. Because if anything was true of his master, it was that Mark was always fun.

"You make me feel better, you wonderful oversized rat!" Mark laughed through the slightly receding veil of his migraine. He went to the back of the house, unwound the hose, and put Sir Roger through a carwash. Then he dropped the hose quickly and hopped back several feet. The retriever wound himself up and violently shook the water from his fur.

"Aha! Gotcha, you snake. You wet me last time...not gonna happen twice. You dry out for a while and I'll change into something else." Mark checked the door to see if it had been tampered with, then he unlocked it and walked into his quiet, welcoming home. He shucked off his work uniform, showered, and then went to where he'd left his comfortable denim cutoffs that morning. A dead end. He began a systematic patrol of the house, and came up empty.

'Okay,' he thought, 'I'll just stay naked.' As if that would be making an invisible someone pay for his inability to find his shorts. Mark stopped before the bedroom door and closed it to use the six-foot tall mirror behind it. He was pleased with what he saw.

Chapter 2

Indelible Memories

Nineteen years ago at age ten his mother, Lauren, had taken him out of school in a suburb of West Palm Beach because of the bullying that went on, and began home schooling their son. Mark's father, Larry, had a position with NASA as an engineer, enabling them to financially handle this arrangement, and he agreed with his wife Lauren that this would be most helpful for them all.

Mark, their only child, was showing all the signs of being a normal boy who loved his parents dearly, but he really was infatuated with his mother. Lauren was a striking woman with thick, wavy raven hair that fell to the middle of her back. Mark wanted long hair, too, because even at his young age he thought it was sexy. Whatever that meant. So Lauren agreed, ceased all haircuts, which pleased her son enormously, and thus began Mark's "long hair exercise" as the family jokingly named it.

Lauren told him that he had good genes, and the years bore her out. Their son developed a gorgeous mane of black hair complete with waves for which most of her friends would willingly have died. His tresses, and that was what Lauren called them, grew to the middle of his back and showed no signs of stopping, a very unusual phenomenon for a man, according to their family physician. His father was complimentary rather than critical, earning the appreciation of his son. His mother silently grew more and more aroused at the beautiful child they were rearing. She would have died if Larry and Mark had known.

When Mark was off playing with friends or on school projects that involved other monitored locations, Lauren would go out into their back yard by the pool and sun nude. The fact that their neighbors could easily enjoy this visual odyssey caused no hesitation whatever. As she lay in the warm sunshine under a sheen of sunscreen, Lauren thought of the manner in which thick waves of Mark's hair closely framed his face, the sensuous effect upon her of his glossy hair cascading down his back, and his lovely maturing body. Without any inhibitions she caressed herself until she was gripped in the coils of delicious orgasms.

She buried these erotic pleasures deeply in her soul; never would she have given a hint to her husband whom she loved passionately.

Just as quietly her son had slowly developed an infatuation with his mother. At first he felt guilty; this was his mother! Normal guys just didn't get the hots for their mothers. Most of the friends he had did not enjoy the closeness of the Campbells. Instead, about the last thing those guys wanted was any prolonged time around their mothers. Mark went along with feeling guilty for a while, until a casual event turned more exciting than anything he'd experienced.

One afternoon before his eighteenth birthday Mark drove back to his house early from martial arts training. He called out to his mother as he entered the house, but Lauren, sunning herself by the pool, didn't hear him. Mark reached the open sliding door to the pool deck and stopped short.

His mother was emerging from the pool, and she was the most beautiful creature he had seen. She was naked, her skin was the color of rich cream, almost but not quite too light for prolonged sun exposure, and her body was a study in perfection. He never realized that her breasts were so large. They were firm, not pendulous, and shook deliciously with her every step; her nipples were very dark and looked like smaller breasts on top of her big ones.

Her shapely, powerful legs rippled with muscle. She dried herself lightly and lay down on a white padded lounge by the pool. As she sat her breasts trembled heavily, then became soft mountains when she reclined on the couch. God, he thought, please let me remember this forever, and when I get a woman, let her have world class breasts like my mother's!

Mark felt himself harden. When he looked down, his jeans showed the outline of his arousal. He continued watching quietly. Lauren's skin glistened with smoothness. Her pussy bush was a lush strip of jet black fur that began out of sight between her thighs and was sculpted slightly less wide than her legs as it grew up her abdomen. From his position inside the kitchen, Mark could see that her fur was unusually long for pubic hair and glistened in the sunlight. Just like my hair, he thought. Suddenly, his mother arose from the lounge, stood and stretched almost catlike, strolled slowly about the pool, then lay down once more and proceeded to slowly stroke her thighs.

He viewed this erotic scene for another ten minutes, then turned quietly and went to his room. He showered, an act that did nothing to dampen his sexual heat. He could not get out of his mind the sensuous delight of seeing his mother naked and allowing some of their neighbors to watch her. Lauren had wanted their activities, erotic and otherwise, to be in view of anyone who cared to watch, so there was no privacy barrier around their pool.

He dried himself, went into his bedroom and stood by his closet door as he slowly caressed his already-hard penis. His long wavy hair curled sensuously about his face, increasing his arousal. He was so hot that the exquisite contractions began almost immediately. He did his best to restrain the sweetness as hot cream coursed through his body like a river of lava. Of course, the effort was useless, but he always experienced such pleasure in trying.

He gasped as hot, viscous cream spurted from his cock, landing on the side of his desk and sticking there. Mark breathed deeply again and cried out as two more gouts of heavy cum shot forth. The last one he captured and slid his hand down his rigid shaft, bathing it in a sticky smoothness. In spite of himself, he panted with excitement.

He padded to his bed and lay down, still caressing himself. Finally, he rose and washed his hands and body, dried himself, stood briefly before his mirror brushing his long hair, then lay once more on his bed. Sleep overcame him, and he never heard the door softly open. His mother gazed at him longingly, smoothing her hands over her naked body and breathing deeply with desire. Her need all but consumed her and for a second she considered entering her son's room, waking him, and seeking his affection. Then, 'No, I cannot do this! He might not understand.' She closed his door and ambled back to the pool, hoping the water would cool her fire.

Chapter 3

Personal Erotica

After his interlude of that evening, Mark strained his brain to figure out some means of becoming more sensuous and enjoying his body as Lauren seemed to do. It was hardly the sort of thing a young man asked his father, and several days passed before he hit on a solution. His mother's skin was so smooth, and the way in which she caressed herself was delicious, so Mark decided to shave his legs, hips, beneath his arms and sculpt his pubic area.

He spent one evening in the bathroom trying to not slice his legs and bottom apart with the safety razor. Following these delicate ministrations, he shaved his inner thighs to a glassy smoothness, then carefully trimmed a broad oval of his thick fur above his cock. Finally, he used a hair removal solution for his ball sac and anal cleft. Mark thanked his lucky stars that it didn't burn like the earlier ones did. He stood before the mirror to examine the product of his labors and was pleased at what he saw. His skin was velvety to his touch and his pubic bush stood out as a heavy bed of black fur above his thick stem. He drew his fingers through the long hair, once more bringing on a delicious hardness, then laughed silently at the memory of that day in the shower after karate training.

His sparring partner, Jamie Boswell, had stuck his head around the shower stall to make some remark about the day's workout and saw Mark's fully-hardened shaft. "Good Lord, Campbell! How did you get that thing? I'm gonna start calling you 'Fire Hose Campbell'."

"I wouldn't, pilgrim," laughed Mark in his best John Wayne imitation. "You say that and I'll slap you up aside your head until your chimes ring."

He had seen his mother apply a body cream to herself, so he did likewise, then stood once more before his mirror. Reflection showed a beautiful young man, his body creamy smooth with a light sheen, and his gorgeous long, wavy hair nestled closely about his face. Its sensuous weight caressed his shoulders and back. He stroked his thighs, bottom and underarms and watched his stem harden with excitement as he thrilled to the feel of his smooth skin.

Without warning, the delicious contractions began in his abdomen and between his thighs. Mark wanted to see what it felt like to have an unstimulated orgasm, so he didn't touch himself. He stood quietly before the mirror, hands locked behind his head, concentrating on his mother's naked body that day beside the pool, and allowed his orgasm to erupt by itself, spurting ropes of buttermilk-hued cream onto the mirror. A sticky rope clung to the mouth of his shaft, and he removed it with his finger, laying it on his tongue and tasting his cum for the first time. It was pleasing.

Very slowly, as if he were doing something ceremonial, he stroked his thighs, gently cupped his buns, and caressed the smooth track across his anus. The sensation was intimate and erotic. Never had he imagined that a man's skin could be so smooth and lovely. Mark realized that he had finally begun a fetish for smooth, creamy skin.

Mark recalled a passing remark that his mother had made the week before. As he left for after their school work, he passed Lauren in the hall. He stopped to kiss her, unconsciously lingering a bit longer than a son ordinarily would, and instead of offering her cheek to her son, Lauren kissed his lips. It was a delicate touch, nothing prolonged or heated, yet for both of them the encounter was freighted with sensuality. As she ran her fingers through his dark mane, she whispered to him, "Marcus, you are such a beautiful man. You never thought of yourself that way, did you, Honey? Well, you are." She only called him by his full name when she was serious.

That memory went into the vault of those erotic moments that added luster to his caressing and orgasms.

Mark went off to the Colorado School of Mines to study mineral and petroleum extraction, then got a job roughnecking and assisting the "tool pusher" or extraction foreman on a deep sea oil rig, the Elizabeth Varden II, forty miles out into the Gulf of Mexico. He made good money, around forty dollars-an-hour, saved his pay with determination, hardly went anywhere to spend it and enjoyed the work immensely.

His mother nearly had a heart attack when he told her about his job, but after he and Larry talked her down off her plateau of motherly fright, she accepted it and shortly thereafter went back to work several blocks from her husband, Larry, at the rapidly growing manufacturer of stylish, sensuous clothing, Prism Designs, in West Palm Beach. She was talented, was highly skilled in personnel management, and rose rapidly in the company. She and Larry were close and loved each other deeply. What exactly her husband did professionally was another matter. It was a good job, it paid incredibly well, and it had something to do with the federal government. Several times she had watched as he shrugged into a shoulder holster with a pistol before departing their home. Beyond that Larry could and would tell her only a little.

Mark, in the meantime, had several brief relationships with women whose compliments encouraged him to continue his private efforts to increase his sensuality. 'You know,' he remarked to himself one day, 'if anybody knew about this, they'd really think I was having an identity crisis.' This was always a very quiet and intimate process, for he was not a public and exhibitionist type of person.

Once while in New Orleans he visited a girl in whom he was interested. Natalie was a tattoo and piercing specialist with a good reputation, so Mark decided in one of his heroic spur-of-the-moment acts to have a Prince Albert ring placed in the nose of his penis. Natalie, while performing the honors, was also running a 'special' and decided to add a matching gold post in his navel. She inserted a full circle ring of medium thickness in the mouth of his full shaft. The appearance was deliciously sexy, erotic, and actually very pretty.

The process for him remained quite painful, and when she gave him a series of orders about six months of serious personal care for both piercings, it became obvious to Mark that returning to business on the Elizabeth Varden meant some hard work to take care of his decorations in an often grubby environment, while keeping his secret in order to not have to constantly fend off smart-ass remarks from his friends. No one would give the powerfully-built, friendly young man a hard time for his navel piercing, but if they knew of his penis jewelry they would be merciless in their kidding. He enjoyed a wide circle of friends, but in their rough humor on the rig, they'd be more like the group of SEALs he'd met in town. They neither gave nor expected any quarter.

As she finished her instructions and told Mark to get dressed, she said, "Oh, baby...take care of this. You have so much to live for!" Mark would have laughed but he felt as if his stem was going to fall off; any such effort would have been pain central. He nodded meekly and departed with a distinct straddle-legged limp, looking for all the world as if he'd just dismounted from a horse he'd ridden for a week.

Not long afterward, Mark decided to grow up and concentrate on things in life that were more serious. But he still enjoyed his ring and the sensations it delivered. During his personal intimate times and when he dressed for time away from work, he attached one of several three-inch chains to his navel post. Again, for reasons he couldn't describe, the feel and appearance deliciously aroused him.

He continued his work on the rig for several more years until a friend steered him to the owner of an airboat touring and support company west of Miami. Mark decided to buy the small company with part of his savings; a sizeable portion of the remainder of his earnings from the oil rig years he invested in a twenty-acre plot of land well out Florida State 41 near the Everglades. He and a friend did his own contracting, and the satisfactory result was a five room cabin on pilings with a full wrap-around porch in that quiet and lovely wilderness. Shortly after moving in he began a series of installations that would make the area and his home secure from predators, animal and otherwise.

Mark stayed in close contact with his parents, periodically driving up to Palm to spend a weekend. Since his father was often out of town, he took time with Lauren to visit her company, meet some of her co-workers, a memorable experience in itself, and talk with her about her plans for the future. He described his cabin down in the 'Glades and invited her down to see it. He and she were becoming closer and something that troubled him was the obvious pressure under which she worked.

Then his father disappeared. For reasons that only became apparent in following months, any explanation from the government was turgid at best and generally, typically, unhelpful. Mark did what he could to assist her in dealing with this disaster. Eventually a very odd little man came to Lauren's home in West Palm and explained that Larry had been killed in a mining accident in Peru. He produced a death certificate and said as he departed unceremoniously, "This should make your job of collecting insurance easier, Mrs. Campbell. Good day."

Larry's will left his wife a very well-off woman. To Mark he bequeathed the sum of nearly half-a-million dollars and a note saying, "To our beloved son, Mark...you are all that your mother and I could hope for. How I wish I could tell you the details of what I hope will one day become known. Use this, Son, for your happiness and your life. And take care of your Mother. Always care for that incredible woman. With all my love, Dad."

For one of the few times in his thirty years, Mark was overcome; he and Lauren wept together. Shortly thereafter, he returned to south Florida, airboats, and trying to plan something for what lay ahead. This quiet was about come to a screeching halt.

Chapter 4

Taking Care of Business

The insistent chiming of his cell phone to the tune of John Fogarty's "Bad Moon On the Rise" wakened Mark from a Friday evening doze on his front porch. The sun was nearing tree-top level, Sir Roger rolled over and furiously scratched at something that was either here to stay or gone forever, then collapsed once more on the porch in blissful dog-sleep.

"I know you've got some off-the-wall opinion," said Mark in a playfully caustic tone to a large black blob that detached itself from the top of a series of stepped shelves to the right of the door. Two large green eyes with black ovals in the center and a cavernous yawn exposing four gleaming white fangs marked this as his cat, August IX.