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The Fountain of Youth

By: dave_jones_50



(AFP) Paris, May 14, 2021. 

A new study released today reveals that male semen may significantly defer menopause if absorbed orally at least once a day over a period of years. It may also significantly slow the aging process in women between 25 and 60, although it does not appear to prevent menopause, or lengthen life spans overall. 

The effect was discovered accidentally when a researcher into sexual practices in France noticed an anomaly in the data: a very small number of participants did not begin to undergo menopause until their mid 60s, considerably later than the median. 

Correlating this with other data in the survey revealed that all these women practiced oral sex on their partners frequently, and swallowed the semen as a matter of preference. Researchers say that semen, if absorbed quickly, appears to interact with female hormones to produce the slowdown in the female aging process. 

It is not yet known what effects additional amounts might have. Asked why wasn't this discovered a long time ago, lead researcher Eva Dornee said "No one did clinical studies. The effect is apparent only if the semen is absorbed daily for many years. This would have been extremely rare, and if it happened, no one connected it with delay of menopause." Further studies are planned. 

(AP) Los Angeles, October 5, 2042. 

Results of a long term study involving over 1000 females aged 25-70 confirmed a pioneer study conducted in the '20s which indicated that daily oral absorption of semen slows the aging process in middle-aged women, delaying the onset of menopause 10 years or more. 

As a result of the earlier study, thousands of women volunteered to be included in the new research. It not only confirmed the earlier results, but revealed that as yet unknown catalysts in semen, if immediately ingested orally, interacts with female hormones to delay many of the physical aspects of aging. Volunteers remained slimmer, retained their figures, and showed little aging in facial and muscle tone well into their late 40s. 

"They generally looked at least a decade younger than their peers," said researcher Angela Jennings. According to the new study results, women under 25 derived slight benefit, owing to their high hormone levels. Although semen taken over many years delayed menopause for approximately a decade, it appeared to have no benefit afterwards. 

A still mysterious aspect is that semen only works when absorbed in the mouth, at least once a day. "We do not know the optimum amount, just the minimum. Attempts to save semen for later use all failed, as the active catalysts degrades rapidly. The potency disappears in a few seconds, so if it is administered other than directly by ejaculation, there is no benefit," said Ms. Jennings. 

In addition to slowing aging, semen appeared to yield significant health benefits, including reduced rates of systemic disease as well as a notable increase in sex drive. Major pharmaceutical companies are looking into identifying the active ingredient to see whether it can be incorporated in a new drug.

Las Vegas, July 15, 2054

Spencer Robinson entered the Silver Roxy Club about 8:00 PM, conscious of the sexily clad women hanging about the well-stocked bar. He knew what they were looking for and was ready to provide it. There were no other males in the room. The women looked at him eagerly, one busty blonde with a big wedding ring pulling her dress up to display a black stocking clad white thigh and a glimpse of pussy, another brunette tugging at her low neckline to display her ample boobs. 

Spencer approached the blonde, appreciative that she had welcomed a black man like himself. 

"Hi," she smiled. "I'm awfully hungry this evening. Perhaps you can help me?"

"I think so," he replied. "I can give you what you want."

She walked over to a doorway covered by a thin red curtain. He followed her into a medium size room, with dim lighting and several low, comfortable looking couches around the walls. Two couples half undressed were in the room. One of them was engaged in a strenuous fuck, the large beefy looking man shoving his engorged prick into his pretty companion's juicy cunt, her legs wrapped around him. 

The other rather petite woman, stripped to her lingerie, was seated on a couch, vigorously licking an older man's erect penis as he leaned back in obvious pleasure. 

The blonde led Spencer to another couch and sat down. "You can fuck me if you want," she said. Spencer knew the protocol: the lady decided if fucking was included and the man was always to finish in her mouth.

"Yes, I would like that," he said, pulling down his trousers and pulling out his stiffening black cock. She pulled up her short red dress, exposing a panty-less crotch and nicely trimmed cunt ready to receive him. She bent back on the couch, holding her legs in the air. Spencer eased in his fat penis, feeling her wetness. 

She grunted and then pulled him to her, encasing his whole cock in her slippery sheath. He began to fuck her slowly, enjoying the sensation of a new cunt. 

Her wedding ring glistened on her left hand. Spencer had seen a lot of these. The married women wanted their daily dose to keep their youthful glow and Spencer was happy to oblige. Some men were doing it for money, in some cases a lot of money. Spencer had not gone this route. He wanted to pick his sexual partners and he liked the idea of giving the lady what she wanted. The blonde began to groan with pleasure. He increased the pace, feeling that he could bring her off without much trouble. 

A few minutes later he felt her body shudder with her climax. She gripped him hard so he nearly came himself. He pulled his cock out of her wet pussy and put it to her mouth. He felt her tongue on his full erection along with expert sucking as she tickled his balls. He took his time, letting her pleasure him. 

Spencer appreciated the expertise of her technique, an expertise he found widespread among women of a certain age. After about 20 minutes of the most delicious tongue teasing he pulled her head a bit toward him and unleashed his load of hot sperm. She ate it eagerly, sucking him dry before pulling away.

"Thank you," she smiled.

"You're welcome," he smiled back.

Rockford Illinois, May 2, 2072

Nina called the familiar number on her phone, as was happening more often in the summer afternoons. She tried to keep her evenings free for her husband and sons, though they did not mind when she had "visitors" in the evenings if need be. 

"I need a man to come by my house around 4:30pm if possible. Do you have anyone free?" She waited a bit for the answer. 

"You're in luck. We have very good young man available. He's 19 years old and gives complete satisfaction. $150 and no tipping expected."

"That will be fine," said Nina, relieved that she had found another source for the day. Often she could count on her friends in the neighborhood to send around their sons home from college for the summer. She returned the favor, sending her college age sons to her friends. This morning her friend Colleen had sent her boy Ned over, her first time with him. 

Ned was just 18, having just finished his freshman year. He was easy to please, and she did her best, hoping he would become a regular, at least on his visits home. 

She had dressed in her best "elegant slut" outfit, popular and very fashionable with middle-aged women in public. It emphasized her ample bust and bottom, with a very tight fitting mini skirt, long black stockings and garter belt, platform 6" pink heels and her must alluring perfume. At 51, Nina looked at least 15 years younger, with a youthful face and round, flattering figure. She had gone to great lengths to maximize her daily Semen intake, nearly always managing to get two loads a day. 

If it was to be just one, she made sure it was from a big cummer, like Norm Benson, a 72-year old widower who lived down the street. Norm could only do it once a week, and Nina devoted a full two hours to her visits to his small, neat house on Thursdays. He required a lot of teasing, but, like many older men, once fully aroused he produced a huge load. 

Nina teased him with the sexy lingerie, leather boots, and striptease shows he enjoyed, giving him hours of the cocksucking he loved. In return she always got a huge mouthful of fresh cum.

She had employed some of the same treatment on young Ned. Not that he needed it, but because she hoped he might favor her through the summer with frequent visits. She knew most of the other women in her neighborhood employed similar enticements. Her specialty was to be extra raunchy with the young men. A half an hour of this and they usually needed to cum. 

That morning she had employed her sexiest striptease moves, shaking her buns in front of Ned's nose, punctuated by playing with his good sized prick. She tickled his balls and flicked his hard penis with her tongue for a good lone time. Then she masturbated him a few minutes until he spurted his hot cum into her mouth. She gripped his cock tightly in her lips to prevent any deadly oxygen from ruining the precious seminal enzymes that would work their magic. 

Next time she would fuck him, if he wanted it.

Her husband Tom was a tremendous help. He was able cum five times a week, sometimes more when particularly aroused. Like many modern wives, Nina found it helpful to arrange swap parties and orgies to stimulate and excite her husband. She kept up with the advice columns on how to sexually titillate middle-aged men. Still, she was worried about the future. Demand for fresh semen was increasing rapidly and far exceeded the available supply. 

More and more women were compelled to pay male prostitutes, or "donors" to get their daily requirement. She expected her sons to go pro this summer as well, as the money was quite good. She had read that many women were resorting to visiting military bases, colleges, and even the dwindling number of prisons to get free semen, or, increasingly, paying for it. 

At 4:30 the doorbell rang and Nina admitted a tall, pleasant looking young man who introduced himself as Nick. He was home from college and earning some money for a planned trip to Europe next year. Like the others she had paid when necessary, he know what he was doing. 

"Hello," she said. "Thanks you for coming on such short notice." 

He smiled. "I'm rather good at cumming on short notice."

They both laughed at the pun.

He dropped his jeans and presented her with a nice big cock, already semi hard. 

"I'll fuck you if you want it," he said, without embarrassment. Nina knew that some women liked to be fucked before sucking a man off. 

"I don't need to, but would be happy with a fuck if you would like it," she replied. Truth be told, Nina did want it. A pleasant side effect of the semen regime was that it preserved, if not enhanced, female sexual desire. Nina had the sexual appetite of a healthy, lusty 35 year old.

" I think I would," said Nick, looking appraisingly at her slutty outfit. While quite common on the streets these days, the slut look rarely failed to give men the urge to copulate. He slowly inserted his long prick into Nina's wet vagina. It felt smooth and slippery, like the dozens of cunts Nick had fucked in the last few months. He fucked her lustily, feeling her rapid response. 

He knew she would cum quickly. She groaned and whimpered as the climax swept her body. Nick enjoyed giving older women orgasms in the afternoon. Nina liked them too. As he emptied his balls she sucked his cum greedily, swallowing it with relish. 

Nina paid Nick $150 in cash. After he left she worried about how she was going to manage the next day. She couldn't count on her present sources whenever she needed them, nor could she afford to pay for it regularly.

Cleveland, August 8, 2077

Jenna drove along the dark street in a bad part of town, watching for a good spot. There were several heavily made up middle aged women standing on the street corners, wearing high heeled pumps or boots, tiny miniskirts, and revealing blouses. Several decades ago any such women would have been whores. Instead they were customers of male prostitutes who sold their precious potion. 

Women like Jenna were in search of young black men who preferred white women and would give them their semen for nothing, or, increasingly commonly, for a modest cash payment. A few decades ago this would have been too dangerous, but crime rates had fallen dramatically. It was widely believed that frequent sexual release on the part of young males had a lot to do with the decline.

Jenna parked the car on a nearly deserted corner. She walked slowly up the street, allowing the street lights to capture her figure. She was wear 7" platform spike heeled red shoes, with a jangly red band around her ankles. Her long legs were clad in black fishnet stockings, which rose almost to her crotch and were secured by a red vinyl corset with garters. 

Her bright red mini skirt was also vinyl and the short cutoff black top showed her big tits off splendidly. In her mother's day, such an outfit would have been considered fit only for street sluts who roamed the streets. 

Now it had become fashionable. Jenna had even seen women wearing much the same thing at upscale parties. Certainly the fashion magazines were full of more extreme outfits, which were also the rage in Europe.

Jenna had been having luck in this area for the past year, usually finding a man within an hour or two. But it was becoming more difficult, and usually ended up costing her a bit of cash. She knew of wealthy women who were paying over $500 for a single swallow of fresh semen. 

Some were reputed to buy three loads a day, with magical results, though to date this had not been confirmed. A new study was said to be in the works to demonstrate whether ingesting semen more than twice a day would make a difference. 

It looked like this night she would be in luck. A large black man approached her from the shadows and looked approvingly at her scanty outfit.

"I can give you what you want, but it will cost you $50," she said. Unlike most of the males she had encountered in the area, he was considerably older than she was. Jenna knew that it might take a bit longer to bring him off.

"OK, she said."

"Come this way." He led her into an alley and produced a small pillow. 

"Kneel on this," he said, placing it on the ground.

Jenna knelt on pillow, grateful for the comfort it afforded.

The man pulled down his trousers and pulled out his long, thick black penis. Jenna took it in her hand and began to stroke it, fondling his balls with her other hand. She did this expertly, concentrating on the sensitive tip and underside. Slowly it stiffened, until it was ready for her mouth. She took it in and sucked it hungrily, twirling her tongue around the penis head and then licking up the underside. Her other hand stroked his big balls, more firmly now, as he began to respond with heavier breathing. 

She sucked and tickled his prick for a long time, feeling the climax slowly build in his aging frame. Finally, after another long time, he grunted hard and she felt the warm spurts of sperm flooding her mouth. She carefully let it swirl around in her cheeks before swallowing it all, making sure not to let any air into her mouth until it was well down her throat. 

Jenna rose to her feet and got out a $50 bill. 

"Thank you," she said. "I come here often. Please look for me."

He nodded, still breathing heavily from his orgasm. Jenna knew he probably wouldn't seek her out again, because there were so many women on the streets from which to choose, many more slutty looking than she. It was going to be very difficult to find her daily allotment.

(AP) Cambridge, Mass. November 14, 2079 

The pharmaceutical world was stunned today by a scientific breakthrough at the McAnn Bio-Genetic Research laboratory connected with Harvard University. After decades of fruitless research all over the globe into isolating the "Fountain of Youth" catalysts found in male semen, the McAnn Lab reports that it has found a way to splice a gene, derived from cattle, into the human male which increased semen production by a factor of two to six, depending on the individual. 

"It is known that human males produce seminal fluid continuously in small amounts. When sexually aroused, the male produces more seminal fluid. The total amount depends in part on how long between ejaculations and in part by how much and how long the male is sexually stimulated. Typically these proportions are about 50% each. 

The new gene therapy increases both factors, particularly the latter. If greatly aroused, a genetically treated male can readily produce four to six times the amount of semen he would otherwise produce," the lab stated. 

As yet unverified reports say that males who underwent the gene therapy reported much stronger climaxes. "The feeling is totally awesome," said one participant who did not want to be identified. "It's keeps building and building to a tremendous orgasm. It's like the difference between a hill and a mountain." 

As the research was funded with public money, the results will be posted on the internet for any drug maker to produce the gene therapy without patents, making it quickly and widely available. Women's groups around the world hailed the announcement. "If true, this will make up for the severe semen shortage worldwide which has caused great hardship for so many women," said Felicity Maidstone, spokeswomen for the Seminal Research Foundation.

New York, June 3, 2099

Tom Robinson looked at the time on his phone display. It was nearly noon and he had just finished three hours of exams at NYU. It was the end of the Fall term, and he felt he had done rather well for a freshman. He left the lecture hall and made his way to the busy street outside. He was glad he had chosen an urban school. 

It offered a lot more excitement than a rural campus. He was feeling very horny, having not cum for nearly 24 hours, much longer than normal. The long hours of studying for the exams had interfered with his usual practice of cumming three or four times a day.

In a few minutes Tom was entering one of the many "Coffee Houses" that served the thousands of students attending the university. They were all similar, catering to male students mostly and frequented by women from their late 20s to early 60s in need of a mouthful of fresh semen. The light inside was dim, but he could make out the small tables were the women were sipping coffee and chatting with one another. A couple of male students were talking with two of them, obviously about to make their choice. 

Tom walked up to an attractive blonde woman wearing long black vinyl boots with prominent spike heels, and silver studded stockings. Her close fitting top revealed a pair of big boobs. It was difficult to guess her age. She could be anywhere from 40 to over 60; it depended on how much semen she consumed.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Nina. I'm sure I can give you some relief. Perhaps you would like to come into a booth?" The interior of the Coffee House was surrounded by about a dozen small rooms furnished with lounging couches big enough to lie down on. He followed her into a booth where she sat on the edge of the couch. The room smelled of her perfume. 

"How old are you," she asked.

"Almost 19."

"Perfect."

He unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. Nina took it in her hand and began stroking the length.

"You have a beautiful penis."

"Thanks. I haven't cum in a long time," he told her. "I've been studying for exams."

"How long?" she asked.

"Almost 24 hours. I'm feeling very full in my balls."

"I understand. I'll take my time to be sure we get it all out."

She gently tickled his scrotum with her fingers until he was fully erect. Then she took his long prick in her mouth and began licking and sucking it, expertly teasing the tip and then the shaft. His breathing grew more rapid as he felt the pleasure surging into his loins. He could cum very quickly. Nina knew that by teasing him lightly, varying the pressure and easing off as he neared orgasm, she could both prolong the pleasure and increase his load by a factor of two or three.


The Fountain of Youth



"I want some of the weed you've been smokin'!" Sam Beckett exclaimed, "Or a taste of your psychedelic mushrooms!" 

"You can call off the narc squad - I'm as clean as a set of bowels after a gallon of polyethylene glycol colonoscopy prep," bantered Tom Kiernander, one of Sam's poker buddies and a fellow sales associate at Kevvexx Pharmaceuticals. "Besides, I have the information on the highest authority." 

"Whose? The redhead's in accounting whose skirt you've been chasin' the last couple of weeks?" Sam chortled. 

The other two men at the table joined in Sam's laughter. Tom did not. 

"Higher," replied Tom, "someone privy to the executive suite. Can't name names or I'll be cut off." 

"Better there than with the redhead," said Sam. 

The night got deathly quiet. Tom's face lost all expression. One might have heard Kenny Rogers crooning "The Gambler" somewhere in the darkness. How appropriate for a poker game. 

"Samantha," scowled Tom, rising to his feet as if preparing to do battle. A fair maiden's honor was at stake. Tom's chivalrous instincts had kicked into high gear. 

"What?" asked Sam. His deer-in-the-headlights look registered blatant confusion. 

A blue cloud of cigar smoke performed a primal dance between the two men. 

"The redhead. Her name's Samantha. Sam for short. And she's classier than any other Sam I know." Tom's fists were clenching, his knuckles alternating between white and a reddish purple. 

"Touché," admitted Sam, the leer abandoning his mouth but not his eyes. "Forget I mentioned her - sorry about that." 

His friend slowly unclenched his fists, stretching his fingers as if to re-engage the blood flow. 

"But I still don't believe your imaginary executive suite pal's story," continued Sam. 

Tom reluctantly parked himself back in his chair. "Your choice," said Tom, a slight smile tickling the edge of his lips. 

An awkward pause was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. 

"I heard about it from a girl in research," interjected Harjinder Singh, crushing his cigar butt on a paper plate. Classy card games call for classy dishware. 

Harj worked in IT but spent most of his time developing simulation programs for colleagues in the research department at Kevvexx. 

"You guys are pullin' my leg - you're in on it together!" Sam retorted, deliberately withholding the inappropriate aspersions that he would routinely have cast in the direction of Harj's unidentified female research colleague. Sam's relational perspective had never really graduated from the schoolyard. 

"Not from what I hear," offered Thurston Grosvenor, the most poker-faced of the poker foursome. 

Sam's attention flitted in butterfly fashion, landing on the owlish figure seated across the table from him. 

While often difficult to decipher, Thurston was not known for feigning the truth. He was a master of misdirection and media spin in his work as a communications advisor for Kevvexx, but he was no bald-faced liar to his friends. 

"They have us working on plugging the leaks on this," he continued, "The top dogs in the corner offices want to control the flow of information like this were Roswell or something." 

Thurston, the government conspiracy theorist. The believer in past and present terrestrial visits from intelligent life on other planets. The quantum physicist turned media gatekeeper. The bespectacled egghead with impeccable credibility. Dead serious no matter the role he played. The younger, Ivy League bookworm version of Clint Eastwood. 

Sam fixed his stare between Thurston's Coke-bottle lenses. The stare-down continued for a good fifteen seconds. Sam raised his left eyebrow in typical Spockian fashion. Finally, he spoke. "T.G., you wouldn't shit a shitter, would you?" 

Thurston flashed Sam his most potent Eastwood nose flare. His steely gaze gave Sam the answer he sought. 

"For real?" asked Sam. 

Thurston's barely perceptible nod provided full affirmation. 

Sam's mouth gaped wide, his eyes once again flashing their Bambi-in-the-spotlight pose. "The fountain of youth? Oh, my God..." 

"Shut up and deal," Tom whined. 

* * * * * 

Natalie Beckett tried not to fidget as she waited in the oncologist's reception area. She badly needed a cigarette. But wasn't that a large part of the reason she was here in the first place? 

Her ring finger satellite phone began playing Pachelbel's Canon in D. "That's Sam," she thought, recognizing the ring tone, "the big oaf still hasn't lost his sense of timing." 

She raised the false gemstone to her lips to respond, but then noticed the death stare being leveled at her by the colossal figure seated across the magazine-strewn coffee table. She noted bulging biceps and a scowl that spoke of possible constipation. The man pointed toward a digital sign instructing patients to "Please disengage all communications devices." 

"End call," Natalie instructed the gemstone, using the device's voice technology to end the call prematurely. "Poor fella," she thought while returning the bodybuilder's stare, "all those 'roids probably shrunk his gonads. No wonder he's in a testy mood." 

She immediately felt a pang of remorse. She decided she needed to purge herself of negative thoughts. Now was no time to focus on the petty side of human nature. She breathed slowly while counting to ten, then managed a bland smile at the Hulk Hogan wannabe. 

"Ms. Beckett!" shouted the receptionist, "you're up!" 

Natalie stood, wondering momentarily why doctors' offices did less to protect their patients' privacy than Red Lobster restaurants did for their dining clientele. "Get some of those vibrating pagers, already!" she willed silently. 

She moved toward the front desk, where a white-stockinged nurse with white-frosted hair directed her through the door to one among a cluster of identically nondescript patient examination rooms. 

"You can keep your clothes on, honey," the wizened woman advised her. 

"Gee, thanks," replied Natalie absently. She sat uncomfortably on the swivel chair in the corner as the nurse closed the door. It was either that or hop up onto the vinyl gurney covered by a paper sheet. Neither option left her in position to have an eye-level discussion with Dr. Messina, and the chair was the lesser of two evils where comfort was concerned. 

Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Natalie found creative ways to uncross and re-cross her legs. She wished she had brought a book. Or maybe she should re-engage her ring finger satellite phone. 

The finger phones were simple and sleek, having shed all the progressively gauche distractions that Steve Jobs and his ilk had foisted upon a mesmerized constituency over the past few decades. And the gemstone with its counterpart stud earring synchronized hearing device had single-handedly (and single-earedly) brought unisex jewelry fashion back into vogue. Now that's progress. 

The examination room door flew open suddenly, without pomp, without circumstance. Natalie was momentarily overtaken by a constriction in her chest, squeezing like a bra that was bought twenty pounds ago. Dr. Messina's stoic face revealed little regarding the diagnosis. 

"Hello, Ms. Beckett - nice to see you again," stated the doctor, as if this were just another ordinary day on which to exchange pleasantries. Natalie half expected him to begin talking about the weather. 

"Hi, Doctor." She managed a saccharine smile, clearly sweeter than the pallid one she had directed at the muscled communications enforcer back in the waiting room. She waited for the oncologist to take the lead. 

Dr. Messina maintained silence but not eye contact. His attention seemed to have landed like an errant dropping of bird excrement on Natalie's shoe. 

"No, they're not Prada," Natalie wanted to say. Dr. Messina labored to clear his throat. 

"Um, Ms. Beckett, I have your test results," he proceeded slowly, as if defusing a particularly intricate explosive device. 

"Yes?" 

His hand stroked his chin thoughtfully. "As you know, our screening procedures have advanced exponentially in the last decade or so, especially since 2017 when the 2020 Project was launched by the American Cancer Society." He paused expectantly. 

Natalie followed his lead. "Yes, I think I've heard something about that..." 

He caught the metaphorical ball she had tossed back his way. "Tens of billions of dollars were raised and spent on developing early detection techniques for a large number of forms of cancer. The idea was to have the technology to eradicate all deadly forms of cancer by the year 2020. That was six years ago. We're now able to identify potential tumors before they metastasize in nearly ninety percent of such cancers." 

"That's encouraging," Natalie answered. The expression on his face still revealed nothing. Dead silence. 

Finally, he muttered, "Then there's the other ten percent. Like yours." 

Natalie wanted to give him a swift kick to the groin, to lash out at his insensitivity. But she seethed silently, as still as a south Georgia summer breeze. 

"Unfortunately," continued Dr. Messina, "pancreatic cancer treatment hasn't advanced much in recent years." 

"So - what's the prognosis?" she muttered. 

Dr. Messina re-commenced his visual inspection of her non-Prada shoes. "I'm sorry," he replied. 

"How long?" Natalie heard her own voice from afar, as if being roused from an extended nap. 

"Three months. Maybe six. A year if you're extra lucky." 

This couldn't be for real. She'd just had her thirtieth birthday. "Extra lucky" to have a year left? Something's wrong with this picture. People don't die at the tail end of their twenties unless they're in a bad accident - right? 

But there it was. "Exponential advancements, my hind leg," she thought. The 2020 Project had brought no progress in pancreatic cancer treatment. 

Statistics deal with populations. To an individual like Natalie, outcomes are Bernoulli variables. A zero or one outcome; on or off like a light switch. Actuaries and other misfits feast on this type of insight as fodder for party conversations. 

As Natalie made her way back through the reception area, she called Sam on her ring finger phone. "Dial Sam," she commanded the gemstone. Muscle Man looked up from his seat and glared at her. She extended the finger beside her ring finger in silent retaliation. Pettiness in the face of one's own mortality - humanity stains even the gentlest soul. 

* * * * * 

Armond Devereaux was pissed. His contacts in a couple of the big pharmaceuticals were hearing rumblings about a breakthrough drug at Kevvexx. And he'd be damned if his company were going to foot the bill for thousands of clients to go chasing after another wonder drug. 

"Get me Fleischmann on line two," he demanded of Julia, his executive assistant. Not secretary. Not even administrative assistant. Executive assistant. As in: Devereaux was a big wig. 

Armond Devereaux was president and CEO of Heartland Assurance, a mid-sized insurance company in southern California. Here in the mid-2020's, the good ole USA remained the last bastion among "civilized" countries that failed to provide basic medical care for all its citizens. The dark side of rugged individualism was to be found in conscienceless capitalism - the profit motive trumps the public good. 

The major pharmaceuticals were kings of the American medical profit hill. And the insurance companies were the jesters of their courts, spinning their exclusions and pre-existing conditions in a desperate effort to keep their slice of the pie. Hills and pies - a mixed metaphor lover's delight. 

But Armond Devereaux was no simple jester, no easy fool. 

"Mr. Fleischmann on line two," called Julia to her irate boss. Heartland Assurance was old school, opting for traditional land lines rather than the state-of-the-art ring finger (or in the case of weightier callers, pinky finger) phones. Devereaux pushed the speaker button on the base of the archaic desk phone. 

"Myron, it's Devereaux," spat Armond. 

"So I gathered," replied Fleischmann, "what's up?" 

"I need a favor." Armond's tone was less demanding than with Julia, more persuasive. Something about catching flies with sugar or vinegar drifted across Armond's consciousness. 

"Gotta know what's going on at Kevvexx," stated Devereaux, "it's got me worried." 

"So you've been hearing the rumors, too?" 

"You bet your sweet derriere, Myron. And they're whoppers. Imaginative enough to make a fisherman blush." 

"So you what do you want to know?" asked Fleischmann. 

"I need you to look into it. Talk to some people. Substitute facts for appearances, demonstrations for impressions. Ideally, get copies of the paperwork." 

Myron Fleischmann was an ex-employee of the U.S. Postal Service. The USPS was now a relic of a simpler time, drowned in the wake of the onrushing digital age. After its demise, Myron had needed to find gainful employment. He turned to private investigation, occasionally tapping into his roots by "going postal" to intimidate potential informants. 

"Are you asking me to break the law?" he queried. 

"You and I both know you aren't getting a straight answer to that. Just do what you have to do. I'll make sure you're compensated appropriately according to the level of assistance you're able to provide." 

Without further pleasantries, Devereaux slammed the receiver back in its cradle. 

"Son of a bitch," Myron murmured. 

* * * * * 

Sam Beckett spoke to the ring on his right hand. "End call - please," he stated beseechingly, his voice quivering with each word. Waves of sorrow cascaded mercilessly over him. 

He leaned back in the lumbar chair provided to him by Kevvexx, tears surging past his squeezed lids in microbursts. His desk gave him no privacy. Kevvexx sales guys and gals were expected to spend minimal time in the office and maximum time chasing clients. The second floor of Building 3 on their corporate campus was littered with dozens of tiny cubicles designed for sales force drive-by use only. 

Sam needed privacy to process the news he'd just received from Natalie. He grabbed his jacket and strode purposefully out of the building, toward Building 2. He reached his destination, kicking a locker as he entered the men's change room adjoining the Kevvexx corporate fitness center. In no time he was changed and running at 8 miles an hour on one of the state-of-the-art treadmills. 

"It can't be!" he thought to himself, sweat beginning to trickle down his brow. "She's my baby sister." 

His initial shock had begun to morph into something resembling anger. "This is some friggin' nightmare! I'll wake up and everything will be okay..." 

Truth be told, Sam had a propensity for bad relationships with women. Thirty-three years old and his brain remained stilted by teenage hormones. Look up the word "objectify" in the dictionary and you'd find Sam's picture. 

But then there was Natalie. Sam's beloved younger sister had captured his heart from the moment he pointed a chubby finger toward the bundle on the other side of the glass at the hospital nursery. 

Despite his otherwise misogynous ways, Sam placed Natalie squarely on the proverbial pedestal. She could do no wrong in his sight. Well, maybe her fondness for eating boogers when she was little was simply wrong. 

But throughout her adolescence and young adult years, Natalie's biggest fan was her big brother, especially after their parents' divorce and their mother's subsequent death. None of Sam's high school buddies dared utter a word of innuendo about his sister, despite the fact that Sam himself was the master of sleaze talk where other girls were concerned. A handful of years later, Sam erupted in a "YOU! YOU! YOU!" chant when Natalie crossed the stage to become the family's first college graduate. Even in her divorce two years ago, Sam cheered her kahunas in tossing the lying, cheating bum out. Too bad she wouldn't let Sam beat the living crap out of him like he'd wanted to do. 

Sam's legs chugged with unchained resentment at the unfairness of the news. "I can't make it without her," his inner voice whispered in his inner ear, "I'd do anything to save her..." 

* * * * * 

Thurston waved across the Kevvexx cafeteria to Harj, motioning for him to bring his tray over to Thurston's table and take a seat. Harj hesitated, not wanting to get entangled in one of T.G.'s notorious philosophical rants. "It's okay," grinned Thurston, "we'll keep it light." 

Harj gingerly placed his tray on the table, careful not to spill any of his prized acquisitions - two burgers, onion rings smothered in ketchup, and a strawberry milk shake. Taking his seat, he noticed Thurston's butter chicken, basmati rice, chickpeas and naan bread. Oh, the ironies of the great melting pot. 

"So, what do you think about the news on the fountain of youth?" Harj queried. 

"Do you really want to know?" toyed Thurston. 

"Well, yes..." Harj responded, leaving off the "I think so" and the "but keep it short" qualifiers that were top of mind. 

"Well, if the end result has been achieved, I'm very curious about the particular methodology that they've used to get there." 

"You mean the kind of chemical compounds they've used?" 

"Not exactly. For that matter, not even remotely. I'm thinking more about process than component parts." He took a bite of butter chicken and eyed Harj's body language. 

Harj was blissfully enraptured by a tasty morsel of juicy onion ring. A trail of vegetable oil dribbled down his chin. "Go on," Harj managed to semi-articulate. 

"Well, as the saying goes, there are many ways to skin a feline," Thurston offered. "One might start with a slight incision at the base of the tail, for instance, or peel back layers from the umbilical region. Of course, any method is highly influenced by whether the cat is dead or alive at the outset. But the same end result may be achieved along numerous paths." 

Harj's grimace suggested that his bliss had been interrupted by visions of the unfortunate tabby. He dropped the remaining morsel of onion ring on his plate. 

"Sorry, Harj," Thurston apologized, "I'm merely attempting to illuminate by way of analogy." 

"And your point is?" 

"If Kevvexx research has come up with a wonder drug to slow down, halt, or even reverse the aging process, there are some interesting questions as to how they've gone about it. For instance, I think we can eliminate some of the possibilities from the world according to Einstein..." 

Harj's eyes began to glaze over. "You promised to keep it light..." he murmured. 

"More like speed of light. Which is key to the tie between space and time, at least according to Einstein," T.G. continued. 

"Tell me more. Please. Really. I mean it..." Harj rolled his eyes and raised his hands in mock surrender. 

"Humor me, Harj. I need to bounce a couple of ideas off a rational human being. But you'll do," he laughed. 

Harj's eyes repeated their roll, but he nodded his assent for Thurston to proceed. 

"One way - albeit an indirect one - to skin the cat of aging is to affect the passage of time with respect to the individual," Thurston postulated, "and that's where Einstein comes in. He demonstrated that time is linked to speed - as in motion, not amphetamines. The passage of time depends on relative motion between observers. If one is traveling near the speed of light, one ages at a much slower rate than if one is stationary. It's called time dilation." 

"So when the Star Trek crew travelled at warp speed, they should have aged more slowly? I guess that's what keeps William Shatner so spry at nearly a hundred years old," quipped Harj. 




The Fountain of Youth



"Well, either Roddenberry or Einstein was wrong. Just look at how Leonard Nimoy aged after forty years of warp speed space travel. But you're missing the point." 

"Which is?" 

"A wonder drug doesn't send one crashing through the cosmos at the speed of light," Thurston explained. 

"I see," Harj replied, scratching his head absently in apparent consternation. "So you raised a possibility just to shoot it down?" 

"It's good form. Doyle perfected it with Sherlock Holmes." 

"Ah," sighed Harj, "the game's afoot." 

"Indeed," affirmed Thurston. "Now, to the problem at hand. The most direct route to the fountain of youth would be something that slows down or reverses the damage that accumulates to human cells, tissues and organs with the passage of time, rather than affecting the passage of time itself. But I still have to wonder whether they've gone after the problem by direct or indirect means. The indirect approach of altering the passage of time for individuals seems so much simpler and more comprehensive if it were achievable..." 

* * * * * 

"I'll definitely see what I can do. But I wouldn't pin my hopes on it. Insurance companies are notorious for dragging their feet on approving new benefits. Especially where experimental drugs are involved." She hesitated, placing her hand on Natalie's. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. 

Natalie discerned genuine empathy in Joan Ramsden's tone and actions. Joan had been the head of HR at Copter Design Ltd. for the full seven years Natalie had worked there. In fact, she was one of Natalie's closest friends at the company, though that wasn't saying much. "But," Natalie thought, "it's interesting how you gravitate toward people who go out for smoke breaks with you." 

After Natalie left the HR counseling room, Joan instructed her gemstone phone to connect her to her benefits advisor at Heartland Assurance, the insurer for Copter's medical, dental and prescription drug benefits. She would negotiate for all she was worth. 

Back at her desk, Natalie recalled wisps of last night's conversation with Sam. 

"But Nat, you've got to try..." he pleaded. 

"I'm not willing to go through radiation or chemotherapy. There's nothing that stops it. The key will simply be to manage the pain," she retorted. 

Sam had been momentarily silenced. Then a glow came over his countenance. 

"Hey, wait! There's a new drug that Kevvexx is fast-tracking to market. It'll slow down the growth of anything that damages human cells..." 

And there it was. A ray of hope. At least for Sam. And after much discussion and brotherly manipulation, Sam had secured Natalie's agreement to pursue it through her company's employee benefits plan. 

* * * * * 

"It's called TimeWarp," the old research leader coughed. A trickle of blood flowed from the corner of his lip. 

Myron let his raised fist, adorned with its designer brass knuckles, drop to his side. He wasn't sure whether the old man's hemorrhage was from a split lip or caused by internal bleeding from the blows to his body. 

"Might have been a little too rough on him," thought Myron. 

Myron didn't believe in bribing informants. If people who had information he needed wouldn't give it to him freely, he'd beat it out of them. He was a card-carrying member of the macho school of private detection. And he had friends on the police force who could keep him out of hot water, as long as he didn't go overboard. He hadn't killed or maimed anyone - at least not yet. 

Myron's moment of concern for his victim (and himself) was swept away by the need for more information. 

Myron didn't mince words. Or shred them. Or skewer them. 

"Go on," Myron demanded. 

"The original idea was for the drug - TimeWarp - to act as an inhibitor." The old man wiped the blood from his lip, exhaling deeply in apparent relief that the attack was over. 

"What's an inhibitor?" groused Myron. 

"Well, sort of like a preservative or an antibiotic, only with super-strength and super-scope," the man replied, eying Myron warily. "In a similar way that a preservative slows down fungal and bacterial growth in food," he continued, "TimeWarp would slow it down in the human body. We're talking organic material in both instances. Antibiotics work on a similar basis." 

"But TimeWarp has super-strength and super-scope?" 

"Yes, that's right." 

"Sort of reminds me of rabbinic views of God from my days in Hebrew school. Omnipotent and omnipresent," Myron wise-cracked. 

"Indeed," replied the researcher gravely. "When you're seeking the fountain of youth, in essence you're playing God." 

Switching gears from his unrequited attempt at levity, Myron asked, "Is TimeWarp ready to market?" 

He fixed his most intimidating squint on the old man, silently warning him against duplicity, while keeping his un-minced word count intact. 

The old man cowered noticeably. "I - I wouldn't say that. Not exactly. We've had some successes, but we've had some failures. We expanded the scope and direction of our research with encouraging results. We're in the process of applying for some new drug patents." 

"You expect the insurance companies to cover it?" 

"We'll be seeking FDA approval after our clinical trials are complete. FDA approval is the key to getting insurance companies to cover the cost of prescriptions." 

"That's all I needed to know," Myron grinned malevolently, "unless you got some papers to back it up." 

"No individual has the clearance to get at the documentation. It takes three joint authorizations to access it," assured the researcher. 

Myron nodded and left, not wanting to waste further words. 

The old man shivered as Myron walked away. 

* * * * * 

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," whispered Natalie, kneeling reverently in the confessional booth, "it's been three months since my last confession. These are my..." 

Natalie faltered, choking back tears. But in the end, she couldn't. Neither could she spit out the word "sins" or the examples that followed. Her shoulders heaved with emotion. 

The gentle soul on the other side of the lattice gave Natalie time to let the tears flow, wishing fervently to be on the other side of the screen in order to comfort and console. Alas, hugs were not part of approved Roman Catholic priestly practice. Too much baggage from too many predators. 

As Natalie's tears subsided, the priest spoke. "Go on, my child." The words were soothing, as if spoken by a truly loving parent. 

"I'm... I'm dying," Natalie revealed. 

The priest hesitated, then spoke in a noticeably higher pitch. "And, you are... seeking absolution from your sins?" 

Natalie detected an unusual quality in the priest's voice. "I honestly don't know, Father," she replied, "I just needed to talk to someone. Is that okay?" 

"Certainly, my child," returned the priest, "I'm used to listening." 

Natalie smiled for the first time in two days. 

"I... I guess I want to know what's on the other side. And even if that's good, I might still be troubled." 

"In what way?" The priest's tone was burgeoning with surprise. Its pitch seemed somewhat out of kilter to Natalie. 

"I want to know that my life mattered. That I made a difference." 

The priest's smile swelled with parental pride. 

"That's good," comforted the priest, "it's the quality of the life that matters, not the length." 

"I'm not sure mine boasts a Grade-A quality, Father," rejoined Natalie. 

"The message of the gospel is about God's grace and love, not your performance. But your humility is virtuous," encouraged the priest. 

Again, Natalie sensed something remarkable in the priest's voice - not just spiritual, but physical and emotional as well. 

"I do tend to have a self-defecating sense of humor," Natalie replied with a grin. 

The priest laughed a high-pitch cackle, followed by a snort. Self-deprecation had never been expressed in such ribald fashion to the priest's cloistered ears. 

"Priests don't laugh," scolded Natalie. In truth, she took a guilty pleasure in breaking through the priestly armor. And that last cackle had parted the clouds of mystery surrounding the unusual quality in the priest's voice. 

The priest spoke with candor. "Priests are human beings. Humans laugh. And humans cry." 

Silence. Natalie felt herself choking up. Then she heard a rattling sound from the other side of the lattice. Moments later, the knob on the confessor's door slowly turned. The door swung open. 

The priest motioned for Natalie to come out of the booth. As Natalie stood, she saw that the priest was indeed, as she had suspected, a woman. 

It had been three years since the Vatican endorsed the ordination of women. Though they had finally dispensed with the long-held exclusion of women from the priesthood, the Church could not yet bring itself to drop the priestly moniker of "Father." 

The priest reached a hand toward Natalie's hand. Nat spotted a tear streaming down the priest's cheek. 

The priest was the first to speak. "Our Lord told his disciples, 'Let not your heart be troubled. You believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.'" 

"So it will be okay on the other side?" Natalie queried tremulously. 

The priest smiled. "You believe in God?" 

Natalie nodded. 

"And that God showed His love and grace toward you through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus?" 

Another nod. 

"Then you are His disciple, so He was speaking to you." 

Natalie smiled tentatively, then asked, "And what about making a difference in this life - living a life that matters?" 

"You've made a difference to me, here and now. I'm sure that's just one small sample from a life that matters. And you're not done yet." 

Natalie did the unthinkable - she hugged the priest. The priest returned the hug, and allowed herself to weep with those who weep. 

* * * * * 

"Julia, bring Mr. Fleischmann his payment," Devereaux called gruffly to his executive assistant. Turning to Myron, he said, "No documents, no bonus." 

"Fair enough," Myron responded tersely. Two words constituted a lengthy conversation, nearly exhausting his repertoire. 

As he waited, Myron noticed the sheen of the overhead light glinting off Armond's shaved head. "Bet he has that Mr. Clean look to ratchet up the intimidation factor," mused Myron. "Maybe I should try it." 

Moments later, Myron accepted a wad of bills from Julia, waved a two-fingered goodbye to Devereaux and left the building. 

Armond stood, pressing his index finger and thumb into the bridge of his nose. He stomped out of his office and turned the corner, leaving Julia to stare. At the far end of the building, he took a hard left into the office of Harland Bozer, Heartland's chief actuary. 

"It's true," Devereaux declared. 

"Ever hear of knocking?" Bozer replied casually. Then, without waiting for an answer, he asked, "What's true?" 

Devereaux fixed a nasty glare on Bozer. "For being so smart, you can sure be a moron sometimes," he admonished. "The fountain of youth - like we talked about - it's true." 

"Oh, shit," responded Bozer, a man not prone to expletives. 

"So what'll this do to our annuity portfolio?" asked Devereaux, going straight for the bottom line. 

"It depends on the magnitude of the extension of life expectancy," answered the actuary, in typical evasive actuarial fashion. "Those payments are guaranteed for life. With the size of the annuity portfolio, even with offsets in our other lines of business, anything over ten or so years of additional life expectancy would be death to the company. It'll sink us." 

"Damn!" replied the president, "I'll have to find a way to stop it. We'll start by leaking some bad press about it - extremely harmful side effects and that sort of thing. And there's no way we'll cover the cost of prescriptions for it under our medical coverages..." 

* * * * * 

"End call," Joan Ramsden uttered into the gemstone of her ring finger phone. She hung her head in dismay. 

"She needs to know sooner rather than later," thought Joan, "procrastination won't change the answer." 

She trudged the entire way to Natalie's desk. Procrastination can manifest itself in a variety of unequally insidious ways. 

She mustered her courage as she approached Natalie. "I need to speak with you," she advised, "Let's head over to the HR counseling room." 

The journey back to HR felt like an eternity to both of them. "At least she's protecting my privacy better than the oncologist's office does," thought Natalie randomly. 

As Joan closed the counseling room door behind them, she motioned for Natalie to take a seat. 

"No thanks," Natalie insisted, "I can take the news standing up." 

"Okay," agreed Joan, "I'll cut to the chase. I just heard back from my benefits advisor at Heartland Assurance. They're refusing to consider any coverage for TimeWarp." 

Natalie exhaled forcefully. She looked up to the ceiling, then down to the floor, studiously avoiding any eye contact with Joan. It was easier to keep her composure that way. "Thanks for trying," she managed to whisper. 

"I'm truly sorry," Joan empathized. 

"I know," Natalie replied. And then she did the somewhat more thinkable. She gave her HR director a hug. 

Joan returned her embrace and squeezed back tears. 

Natalie didn't return to her desk that day. She gave her brother a call with the news. Then she drove to the beach, took off her shoes and socks, and let the waves lap against her ankles. She enjoyed the feel of the wind whipping her hair into a tangled mess. She listened to the caw of seagulls screaming for human visitors to pitch them a piece of bread. She breathed in the salty scent of the seawater, laced with the rank odor of fish. 

She watched fishermen bring in their hauls, and thought about the fishermen among the early disciples. She watched parents holding the hands of their children, raising them above the choking splash of the waves, and thought about a loving heavenly Father raising her out of the storm that raged around her. 

She hung around until dark, gorging herself on the visual feast of an amazing sunset splashed by colors from the Artist's palette. 

* * * * * 

The Steve Miller Band's tune "Fly Like an Eagle" still found frequent air time nearly fifty years after its release. As Sam Beckett brooded over his sister's plight for the umpteenth morning in a row, not wanting to get out of bed, the song played on his clock radio. Its haunting refrain of "Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin... into the fyoo-ture..." penetrated Sam's brain like an ice pick. 

"That's it," Sam complained, "I can't just sit here waiting for a solution. I've got to make it happen!" 

He quickly dressed, forming a plan in his icepick-skewered brain as he moved. 

"The testing team is three floors up from sales. My access card works on every floor in the building," he thought aloud. "I can come up with a better-than-lame excuse for being there." 

For the first time in weeks, Sam felt a sense of renewed optimism. Each ounce of optimism seemed to weigh that much heavier on the accelerator as he drove to work that morning. 

In the end, it turned out to be quite simple. Sam had decided on the direct approach. He would lie as if it were a pathological compulsion. And he'd take some props with him. 

Midway through the morning, at the time of his usual coffee break, he rode the elevator to the fifth floor of Building 3 on the Kevvexx campus. 

After swiping his access card across the laser security panel, Sam made a beeline for the testing center at the north end of the building. He approached gingerly, recounting his plan point-by-point before initiating his inquiry. 

"Hey there, beautiful," he flirted with the homely middle-aged woman seated at the desk in front of the testing center. She was wearing a white lab coat and a pair of oversized goggles. 

"Won't work, prick," she countered matter-of-factly. 

Sam stepped back a pace. Maybe he'd lost his touch with the ladies. On to plan B. 

"Let me start over," he suggested. 

"Good idea. Whaddya want?" 

"Heartland Assurance has a courier waiting downstairs," Sam began, carefully spinning his yarn, weaving his web of deceit. "They've been given authorization to acquire a sample of two hundred TimeWarp tablets to begin their own third-party testing, so they can determine whether to provide prescription coverage once the drug is FDA-approved. I have the paperwork right here." 

He handed the woman a sheaf of paper and his ID card. She peered through her goggles at the three signatures on the form. They looked authentic. That was because Sam had used image technology to lift the executive signatures from a hodgepodge of company intranet documents, then drop them onto the forged authorization form. 

She looked at the ID card, then up at Sam's cherubic visage. Sam had years of practice at lying to the ladies. The look of innocence now came as naturally as a bowel movement after a bowl of bran. 

"Okay, wait here," she commanded and turned away, passing through the double doors into the testing center. 

Sam momentarily feared that she was about to call security. Within seconds, however, she returned with a small plastic bag. 

"Two hundred - no more, no less," she stated flatly. 

She handed him his ID card, the authorization form, and the bag. Sam offered up a silent prayer of thanks that she wasn't keeping the form. Less evidence to nail his lying hide to the wall of criminal activity. 

"Have a nice day!" he gushed, winking at the stoic woman in the goggles and lab coat. 

"Yeah, whatever," she replied. 

It was time to make a slick exit. It was also time to beat the bushes. 

Sam dropped the bag into his backpack in the trunk of his car and headed off to begin his circuit of doctors' office visits. Doctors made their rounds, pharmaceutical salespeople made theirs. With experience, Sam had learned to time the circuit in such a way that the doctors were nearly always in. Sort of like mutual biorhythms. 

All day long, he looked forward to the look on Natalie's face. He drove to Natalie's place after work that day to deliver his treasure. The optimistic accelerator got him there in virtually no time at all after his final office visit. He grabbed his backpack from the trunk. 

When Natalie invited him in, Sam practically bounded into her living room. "Have a seat," she encouraged. It was good to see Sam so excited. 

He sat, but kept in constant motion. Natalie recalled the way he'd bounce around while playing video games as a boy. She half expected him to pee his pants like he sometimes had when he'd gotten lost in the rush of Street Fighter II as a 7-year old. 

When Sam failed to speak - perhaps his facial muscles were frozen by the goofy grin - Natalie asked nonchalantly, "What'cha got?" 

Sam pulled the small plastic bag out of his backpack. At thirty-three, the trappings of high school were still evident in Sam's accessories as well as in his mindset. "It's something to help you out," he beamed, handing her the bag. 

"What is this?" she inquired, looking at perhaps two hundred yellow plastic wrappers, each stamped with a "TW" stencil and each containing a tiny spherical pill. 

"TimeWarp," he announced proudly, "enough to last at least six months. One a day is the recommended dosage." 

Natalie's face registered unbridled astonishment. "Where did you get them?" she asked. 

"From the lab at Kevvexx. They were free samples," he lied. 

Natalie's eyes conveyed her disapproval without the need for words. 

"I know what you're thinking," he insisted, "You think I should deliver them to doctors, who would then dispense them to patients. But the doctors can't dispense them until they're FDA-approved. And that could take another year. Time that you don't have." 




The Fountain of Youth



"Well, you're right about that," Natalie agreed. "But how do you know they work if they haven't been approved?" 

"The guys in the lab told me these things will break down the aging process, with no nasty side effects. That's why they're calling TimeWarp the fountain of youth. It stops the little microbes that cause aging; it'll stop the progress of your pancreatic cancer, too." 

Sam's newly acquired pathological compulsion had reigned supreme for the day. 

* * * * * 

Six months had passed since Sam had given Natalie her supply of TimeWarp. Natalie's health had continued to spiral downward. 

"I don't understand it," Sam confided to Thurston, "Natalie should be getting better. Or at least not getting any worse." 

"Why not?" asked Thurston, "Not to sound crass, but she's in the clutches of a diabolical disease." 

"But... but..." Sam wrestled with the decision as to how much to disclose. He had no desire to rot in a federal penitentiary. But Thurston was his friend. And, better than that, Thurston was the smartest person he knew. 

He decided to take the plunge. "She's on TimeWarp." 

The bombshell had dropped. Thurston's face registered no hint of an explosion. He was indeed the master of the poker face. Instead, he voiced a simple, "And how is that possible?" 

"Let's not get into that," Sam retorted, "the less you know, the less you become an accessory after the fact. And the less testimony you can provide at my trial." 

"I know nothing - nothing," answered Thurston in his best Sergeant Schultz imitation. Among his other dabblings, T.G. was a Hogan's Heroes aficionado. He still had yet to unravel the creepy irony of a situation comedy having been set in a Nazi prisoner of war camp. 

"So, anyway," continued Sam, "Nat's been on TimeWarp for six months. But she keeps getting worse. It should be slowing down her aging process. And slowing down the progress of her cancer." 

"Oh, man, I'm so sorry - but you're mistaken," Thurston responded, attempting to flex the atrophied empathy muscle that surely existed somewhere deep in his heart. 

"What are you talkin' about?" asked Sam. 

"Well, it's like this," replied Thurston, "I became curious about the rumors I was hearing about TimeWarp. I wanted to find out about the method behind it. So I looked into it. Cashed in a few chips, so to speak." 

"And what did you find?" 

"Well, I thought TimeWarp might be using an indirect method rather than a direct one. I didn't see how it could effectively inhibit each and every type of virus and bacteria. They're mutating all the time. So I postulated that it used an indirect method instead. But I was baffled by how it could slow down the passage of time in individuals, without resorting to speed-of-light travel. In that sense, my thinking was flawed, even though it was right about the method being indirect," Thurston admitted, flashing a sheepish shrug. 

"How so?" offered Sam, trying to suspend his growing confusion long enough for Thurston to complete his explanation. 

"Speed-of-light travel causes the traveler to age more slowly than someone at a fixed location. It's called 'time dilation'," he explained. "Time dilation slows down the actual passage of time, not the sensation of the passage of time. And that's where my postulation had failed to grasp the loose thread." 

"I'm not sure I follow," Sam replied. 

"The solution is quite simple. TimeWarp affects only the sensation of the passage of time. Like an athlete who's 'in the moment.' And to complete the simile, it likewise enhances cognitive and physical performance. But first and foremost, it gives the user the perception of time passing slowly. It will be used for people who fear aging - to slow down that ever-accelerating sense of time flying as we age. It's not a cure to anything that's dependent on the actual passage of time." 

"Oh, shit," gasped Sam. 

* * * * * 

Myron Fleischmann sat across the oak desk from Armond Devereaux, watching the cloud of bewilderment blanket Armond's face. Devereaux had demanded that Myron be present when he made the call to get the latest news on TimeWarp. A confidential memo had apparently found its way to one of Kevvexx's competitors. 

"So it's a treatment to provide the mental perception of time that's associated with youth, not to slow down physical aging?" Devereaux huffed into the speaker of his relic-of-the-past desk phone. He scowled with disgust in Myron's direction. 

Myron looked away. He heard Devereaux thanking the president of Lantrum Pharmaceuticals Ltd. for the update. Myron sneaked a glance back at Devereaux. 

Frowning, Armond swiveled in his executive chair. He steepled his fingers. It had long been his means of projecting a false aura of deep reflection. It had become a habit. But the ploy had evolved into a harbinger of genuine contemplation. 

Armond's misty idea finally crystallized. It would be okay! TimeWarp wouldn't affect the life expectancies of the people owed benefits under policies in his existing annuity portfolio. And for offering exciting new benefits on prescription drug coverage, he could charge higher premiums to medical insurance clients going forward. The chief actuary's nightmare was still just a figment of his pea-sized imagination. 

"I think I like it," he smiled. 

Myron breathed a sigh of relief and wiped his glistening brow. It apparently didn't matter that he hadn't beaten the duplicity out of the old researcher at Kevvexx. 

* * * * * 

Sam held Natalie's hand as he sat by her bedside. He pondered the question of long life while watching the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled for breath. 

The irony of it all was that the word "long" can mean either "extended" or "slow and lingering." Sam was filled with remorse at making Natalie's last few months "slow and lingering" when he had intended instead for her life to be extended. 

The cancer had wreaked havoc on her formerly vigorous body. Her skin was jaundiced. She had experienced severe weight loss. There were purple splotches mottling her legs. She would no longer eat. And the pain kept growing. 

Sam felt Natalie squeeze his hand. Her eyes opened and her lips began to move. Sam leaned closer in order to hear her raspy whisper. 

"Promise me you'll treat every woman the way you treat me, Sam," implored Natalie. 

Sam squeezed Natalie's hand. 

"A wise priest once taught me," she continued, "that even priests are human beings. You need to learn that even pretty women are human beings." 

Sam felt something welling up behind his eyes. "They have to be," he sniffled, "You're the prettiest woman in the world, and you're the best human being I've ever known." 

"Now you're exaggerating," she smiled weakly, "just drop me down a notch or two on the pedestal, and bump the others up a few." She drew an arduous breath, then continued dreamily, "Remember that they're somebody else's sister, or at least someone else's daughter. And we're all God's creation, deserving of being treated like brothers and sisters in the human family." 

Sam began to sob. He lay his cheek against Natalie's. "I need you to stay and teach me. I can't do it without you." 

"Sure you can. I'll be in your heart," soothed Natalie, "And I'll ask for help for you from the other side." 

And she faded off to sleep. And in her final words Sam found an ace that he could keep. 

* * * * * 

THE END



The Fountain of Youth



"I can make it last," she said. "Would you like that?"

"Yes."

He had experienced quite a few older women since he had been given the gene therapy shortly after this 18th birthday, but none this good. Nina had an uncanny ability to tease him right to the point cumming and then back off just in time to prevent the ejaculation. She continued this treatment for a full half an hour, keeping him right on the edge with the most exquisite tongue technique. He desperately needed to cum.

"Can you take any more?"

"No. I want to cum, please!"

Nina grasped the shaft of his long penis, and began to stroke it, taking the bulbous head tightly in her mouth. He felt the cum shoot against the back of her throat. He kept spurting, delirious with pleasure. The orgasm seemed to last forever. When it stopped she swirled the creamy liquid around in her mouth for a several seconds and then swallowed it.

"Thank you," she said. "That was a very nice load."

"You're welcome. You certainly know how to tease a cock. How old are you, if I might ask?"

"I'm 63, she answered. I don't feel a day over forty, thanks to you and many others."

"My God," Tom marveled to himself. "She's almost old enough to be my grandmother."

Oxfordshire, August 12, 2166

Nigel and Mary Ransome were just about ready to receive their guests, who had been invited to dine at 8 o'clock. It was a much anticipated celebration. The two other couples were friends as well as colleagues at Oxford, where Nigel lectured on 20th century history. He had been awarded a much prized chair at his college, which meant a considerable increase in pay as well as academic stature. At thirty-four, Nigel knew it might be considered premature, but didn't doubt that his friends, who all taught at other Oxford colleges, would be happy to share his good fortune. 

He was in a good mood, as was his wife, and both were looking forward to the evening. 

Nigel looked approvingly at Mary as she put on a dainty pink lace suspender belt. It framed her neatly trimmed pussy, and held up long black stockings with a prominent back seam. As they were entertaining, she wore no panties. On top she wore only a tight black bra, pushing up her round, full breasts, the nipples barely covered. 

She added a finely wrought transparent mesh jacket, a light pink, which gave visilibilty to the black lingerie underneath. Lastly she stepped into her high heeled pink pumps, which added a good four inches taller to her small frame. 

"Lovely," said Nigel. "I'm sure our guests will be delighted." He had dressed formally, in a white shirt with studs and cufflinks, and a grey pleated kilt, which didn't quite cover his thick, 9" long penis. It hung down just beneath the hem, a bit like a sword centuries ago, Nigel mused. A short thin dinner jacket and black bow tie completed his attire.

Their friends were right on time, arriving together. Nigel recalled that they lived on near one another. 

Dennis and Audrey Lightner greeted them cheerily.

"We've been looking forward to this evening all week," exclaimed Dennis. " It's been too long since we've been out." He was dressed almost identically to Nigel; only the plaid was different. Audrey dropped her thin wrap on the hall table, revealing a very pretty red velvet bustier, with silken gold inlay, holding up long fishnet black stockings set in very stunning ankle bracelet heels. The ensemble must have cost a small fortune. Her pubic mound glistened with short brown hair, trimmed to a narrow wedge above slightly pouting pussy lips.

"Come in, come in! Lovely to see you."

Mary led Audrey and Dennis to the drawing room, as Nigel greeted their other guests, Terrence and Roberta Matthews. Terrence was a quite well known biologist and his wife was a physician in a local surgery. Nigel wore a dark green tartan, also rather short, exposing a rather large penis dangling about his thighs. 

His wife was dressed a bit more conservatively, in a white bustier with baby blue accents, fitting quite nicely, along with taupe stockings and blue platform heels. She wore her dark pubic hair a little fuller than the other ladies, making her attractive mound the centerpiece of her appearance. Nigel led them into the drawing room where, as it was the custom to "whet the ladies whistles," he served them champagne. 

Dating from the 18th century, the Ransome's drawing room was elegant, populated by choice period pieces along with modern chaise longues. The oak paneled walls were graced with several old portraits from the 20th century, evidently some of the Ransome ancestors. 

After the ladies had downed their champagne, Terrence, as the senior male of the group, observed the honors by leading his hostess to a pretty 18th century settee. Mary sat down and looked appreciatively as he pulled aside his kilt, exposing his formidable cock and balls for her inspection. 

She eagerly took them in hand, in a few seconds massaging him to a stiff erection. At 45, Terrence could produce a tremendous hard on. A bead of pre-cum appeared at the tip. Mary knew that out of courtesy for her hospitality he had almost surely not yet cum that day. His balls felt especially fat and full.

Dennis took Roberta to another well upholstered couch and Nigel did the same with Audrey. Nigel too had refrained from ejaculation that day so as to ensure that the ladies would be fully satisfied. He pulled aside his kilt to give Audrey access to his stiffening penis. He would endeavor to give her a good load.

Intense pleasure filled his loins immediately with Audrey's accomplished technique. Nigel felt he would have difficulty holding back his spend. He need not have worried; Audrey had mastered the fine art of cocksucking, no doubt having taken several courses in Advanced Fellatio at one of the many schools throughout the country. 

He let the pressure build in his balls, relying on Audrey to sense just how close he was to an orgasm. She did not disappoint him. She teased him for nearly 20 minutes during which he heard the loud sounds of first Terrence and then Dennis reaching their climaxes and the gurgling as the ladies took in their repeated spurts of hot semen. 

Nigel felt the overwhelming need to cum; the pressure was almost unbearable. He whimpered as Audrey squeezed his balls with one hand while she stroked his penis with other, the big head well into her mouth. He felt no embarrassment when he lost all control and cried out as the thick sperm-laden liquid gushed from his balls though his penis. He thought he might faint as he kept cumming and cumming, pumping more and more semen into her sucking mouth. Audrey didn't miss a drop, taking the whole load down her throat in a single swallow. 

Afterwards he couldn't speak for several moments until his rapid breathing slowed. He hadn't had so big a cum in several weeks. It was both satisfying and, it was said, good for his health. 

"Thank you, that was wonderful! Aren't doctors now recommending that men have big cums at least one a month"

"Twice a month or more, actually," said Roberta, the doctor amongst them. "It's good for the heart and respiratory system as well as your general fitness. I recommend it to all my patients. The best way is to skip the usual morning cum and then ensure that the evening session continues for at least twenty minutes, with good cockteasing on the part of the female. Thirty or forty minutes would be even better. The lady will also feel better from the bigger load."

"And the hornier," laughed Audrey. With that the gentlemen availed themselves of champagne until dinner was served.

The food was excellent. The eight friends talked convivially around the polished mahogany Hepplewhite dining table and chairs, all in excellent condition for their great age. "Congratulations once again," pronounced Terrence, after a rather long winded toast in honor of Nigel's new appointment. "It seems the 20th century merits ever greater scholarship." 

"Actually, it does," replied Nigel, acknowledging the toast. "It's the last century before the great genetic advance which has brought us our present relative tranquility. The 20th century was particularly savage and brutal, worse than the century that proceeded it. It degenerated into bad government, failing societies and perpetual wars lasting well into the 21st century." 

"Certainly most historians agree that the recent, that is recent by historical standards, genetic evolution of the human male has brought about a profound improvement in civilized life, though one can't discount progress overall." 

"Indeed, I agree wholeheartedly," said Dennis, a respected sociologist and author of several scholarly books." 

"Since the middle of the last century rates of crime, armed conflict, divorce and general irresponsibility have declined where ever the genetic change took effect, which is by now nearly everywhere on earth," he continued. 

"Because the 'zeta gene', as it is now called, it is inheritable and dominant it has spread very quickly throughout the species. That spread in turn has reinforced the physical and social evolution. Young males of 18-25 today normally have six or more orgasms in a day. We can trace statistically the consequences." 

"Sociologists have long known that the worst aggressive tendencies occurred in males, particularly between those ages. Evidently, readily available sexual release combined with the greatly increased frequency and intensity of that release, weakened the aggressive and anti-social urges." 

Dennis' long-winded explanation seemed to make sense to his listeners.

"I'm glad at least that there seems to plenty of semen to go round. Young men today are encouraged to give it to women who find themselves alone and in need. It makes eminent sense that they should."

"But why divorce," asked Mary. "Why has divorce declined so steeply as well?"

"We think it's in part the decline in male frustration generally, as well as the changing way males and females choose their partners. In the past centuries sexual attraction played a dominant role, whereas today people put more emphasis on character and compatibility. "

"I see," said Mary. "But didn't young men 200 years ago find sexual release when they needed it?"

"Yes and no. It wasn't always available and not nearly as powerful as today. In 2010 the average 40-year-old male was likely to orgasm at most two or three times a week, often through lonely masturbation. And it was a few drops compared to the abundant quantity of ejaculate today."

"Poor dears," said Audrey. "How awful! Today a man of that age likes to cum three times a day."

"Remember that women in those days didn't get as sexually aroused, nor were they as attractive, as now," added Roberta. 

"People from that time look haggard in photographs, to say the least. Not as repressed as the 19th century, but bad enough."

"And they dressed so appallingly," said Mary. How could they wear such unattractive clothes?"

"Well, tastes change over time, darling" said Nigel. 

"They look like tramps to us in their hideous baggy outfits. But we would look like pimps and sluts to them, albeit stylish ones."

"I think it's been a great improvement," said Roberta. 

"Especially for women. I like today's fashions perfectly well, though one has to pay practically a king's ransom for the most exclusive thigh-high leather boots." 

"Have they given up trying to find a drug to reproduce the benefits of fresh semen?" asked Audrey, changing the subject.

"Pretty much," answered Terrence, glad to enter the conversation. 

"None has ever been found, and there seems to be a consensus these days that none is needed. After all, semen is readily available to all but very few isolated women, and there are charitable services to bring it to them. More importantly, women don't really want a drug. They like the sexual arousal they get from frequent encounters with horny males. And don't forget that one of the side effects, if you can call it that, of the genetic change is the increase in penis size, an average of 28% over the past 50 years, along with much larger testicles. I believe that most women appreciate it."

"It's quite true," said Roberta. 

"It's also true," she went on, "that women today like their orgasms almost as much as males do theirs. I understand that fucking is becoming increasingly required by ladies before they will suck a man off."

"It certainly is true with the young generation," said Audrey. "Girls today like to be fucked several times a day."

"Some of us older ladies like it as well," said Mary, smiling. She led the ladies from the dining room to the study, leaving the men to their wine. It was an old ritual rarely practiced even in England, except at Oxford where it somehow survived, along with other traditions.

"I so much admire your choice of outfit," said Mary to Audrey. "And yours is lovely, too, Roberta," she added, politely. "Where do you get them, Regent Street?"

"Well actually, yes," answered Audrey. 

"I get into London frequently and the shops there have the nicest things. Evening clothes are so simple these days, yet it's challenging to find just the thing to flatter one's figure." Her ample tits fitted her bustier perfectly, revealing just the right amount of cleavage. "We have it much easier than our ancestors, at least as far as variety is concerned and our figures are ever so much better."

"Yes, I agree," said Mary. "I do like a bustier which fits just right. I like your trim, too," she added, indicating Audrey's pussy. "Do you have it done professionally?"

"No. That is, not often. I get it styled once or twice a year. I find that men like the variety."

"Oh yes," interjected Roberta. "It pays to keep close attention to ones pubic hairstyle, as well as one's hair on top." Her long dark hair was done up in an comely twist.

About 20 minutes later the gentlemen joined them in the drawing room. Nigel served them brandy. 

"Two hundred years ago we would have been smoking cigars," he said. "They're unknown today, thank God."

After another half hour of pleasant conversation, Nigel clinked his glass. 

"Before we begin the postprandial festivities, would anyone like to watch a holograph?" He pointed to the 3-D projector on the wall. 

"We have a wide choice of the latest productions, of whatever fetish you desire." He knew it was only polite to offer his guests pornographic performances for their viewing pleasure in case anyone needed extra stimulation before they began. 

"Thank you very much," said Terrence, who as the oldest, would probably be most likely to appreciate it. "But I think I'm ready, if everyone else is."

They nodded their assent, and then paired off. As a matter of courtesy, Dennis chose his hostess Mary, and led her to one of the low couches. Nigel did the same with Roberta, and Terrence with Audrey. 

Nigel was particularly attracted to Roberta's dark cunt, so fashionably displayed between the pink and white garters holding up her nylons. He had a stiff hard on just looking at the short curly hairs surrounding the beautifully pouting lips. Following the accepted custom after the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies and made their choices, Roberta leaned back on the sofa, grasping the undersides of her knees and spreading her legs wide, so that her orifice was as open as it could be to Nigel. 

Naturally he could not resist this pretty invitation. He plunged his big prick into her vagina, feeling its wet smoothness engulf him to the hilt. It had been some time since he had last fucked Roberta, and he knew how much he had enjoyed it. He pumped her hard, watching her passion rise with his thrusts until she clenched him hard in her first orgasm. 

He knew she liked a breather between her climaxes and withdrew his cock for a few moments. The second time she came faster and harder. Over her heavy breathing Nigel heard the unmistakable sounds of his wife cumming while Dennis rammed her cunt. He could just see Terrence doing the same to Audrey on the sofa across the room. 

For some time the room was filled with the load moans and cries of orgasm. Nigel felt the wonderful pleasure filling his loins until he was ready to explode. He pulled out and quickly got his penis into position. The hot thick semen gushed from his rod in some twenty spurts as he emptied his balls into Terrence's sexy wife. 

He looked over at his wife, and saw that Dennis was shooting his cum into Mary's mouth, his body wracked by spasms. It seemed to go on for some time. Mary was an experienced cocksucker and found no trouble taking it all in.

A few moments later Terrence let out a loud cry as he shot repeated wads down Audrey's throat. She sucked it greedily until the ejaculation subsided.

The ladies and gentlemen decoupled from one another, and adjusted their clothing. Tucking his still elongated penis beneath his kilt, Nigel caught the unmistakable whiff of semen on the ladies' breath. The scent was a source of keen satisfaction, confirming that everyone had truly enjoyed themselves. Once again they availed themselves of his fine French cognac, the men beaming with the ease of post-coital relaxation, the women swishing down the last drops of salty semen.

"Thank you so much for a wonderful evening," said Terrence as he and his lovely wife exited the house an hour later. "You always entertain so splendidly. Let's do it again, soon." 

Dennis and Audrey echoed these sentiments, grateful too for the delightful dinner party, presented, as always, with exquisite taste.