Again and Again

I'm 21 and being softly adored by mouths everywhere -- a slack-jawed open mouth slathering so gently across my tip in a will-he-won't-he feather, a water-tight sealed pair of lips holding my right testicle in place while the tongue inside shows the mastery of everything my testicles love, and a more playful tongue tickling my left testicle in open air made chilly by the drool all over me. My nipples and shaft are barely dry again from where I've just been enjoyed a moment before.

I'm 40 and I'm the receiver of whatever load comes out of this penis, the penis many people are simultaneously doing things to: I'm the one who gets to lick the tip and drink all the needy fluids produced down below as we make the penis punchdrunk and desperate for more.

I'm 25 and still shocked by how happy it makes me to breathe in the smell of the satiny skin against my face. This is very, very fortunate, because the things I'm doing to this skin make me heave, never having enough air to breathe let alone enough air to prepare for what I want to do to it next. It's very good that I at least enjoy the difficult tasks I set for myself.

I get to experience the same moment again and again. Each time is just as nice, whether I'm taking or giving.

It was inevitable. Someone would have done it. I'm definitely not the first to do it. Once time travel was invented, regulated, banned for military use or espionage, and commercialised, it seemed like it took hours for the sex industry to take over almost all of its usage.

Far before it was invented, one of humanity's biggest fascinations was "How can I give myself oral sex". Sure, for those of us with cocks there's the flexibility option, but even if you're lucky enough to be able to reach it, curling up like that is not a nice, comfortable feeling you really want when you're in a mouth.

I once settled for curling upside down and letting gravity pour my own horny eruption onto my face, the shuddering flexing erection hitting my mouth with about half of it. During those lucky times when people get to have sex with someone, who's to know whether their partner will like their scent, or their privates, or how they act. You get used to each other, and hope they care what you like.

But for a small fee I get to be inside a mouth that knows exactly what I like and I don't have to perform with. It will be as giving and as amazing as I make it when it's my turn to do the blowing. And this is no chore, because not only do I adore getting comfy and blowing a beautiful cock (and luckily I have one), but one thing this technology taught us about the human experience is how much we're comforted by our own bodies:

The scent of your own sweat tells you you're by yourself, and you don't need to be social, on guard. It's nice being with people, but draining too. It's a performance. When you detect no one else with you, you can relax.

But the familiarity does more: smelling your own particular ballsack and tasting your own cum is a shockingly nice experience, especially if you somehow get to do it before you cum. The familiar taste, still piping hot, right into your mouth when you'd still do anything to validate your own horniness... there's nothing like it.

For a larger fee, it's a subscription: meaning among other things you can return again and again, and give yourself an entire orgy. With a bunch of yourselves, you could either get into pairs, or give a single instance of yourself a memory of being completely worshipped with every touch you're eventually willing to pay forward.

('Willing'. Like I don't LOVE it.)

Is this narcissistic? Am I my own lover? Is this advanced masturbation? I don't know. Maybe it's advanced body positivity. Radical self-love. I'm allowed to give my body love, however I like.

I like being the recipient first, because I get to live with the memory of stunning mouthwork and orgasms, and the whole time you don't have to be dignified (we've all performed during sex, it's a strange kind of stage-work). I don't mind one bit returning to give a sexual favour I've memorised step by step -- knowing for a fact I'm about to drink cum or knowing for a fact I'm about to give a ballsack the best moment of its life feels more like subbing than watching a rerun.

But sometimes, in the 'memories' I create and then recreate again and again, I like to receive the pleasure last -- that way, when I'm deciding what kind of pleasure to give my future self, there's still a chance to come up with some creative filthy little ideas to implement right then.

When I finally receive the fruits of my labour, knowing what's coming doesn't make it any less blissful (which somehow also feels like subbing), and a lot of the time these talented obviously-enjoyed sexual favours have me in too much of a stupor to remember what's about to happen.

Time travel isn't like it is in the movies: paradox isn't a problem. Paradoxes are impossible, the universe prevents them. And regulations on how to use the machine prevents time travel logic from breaking the world in any way. It just means that the way things end up happening make an uncanny bizarre kind of sense. It does mean you know you're not going to die for a while, but we know that's likely anyways (world peace and no disease and all that).

I've created my own rules too, to make my little subscription more fun. I only go in when I'm desperately horny and untouched, which makes sure everyone (all of the myselves) is having a great time.

It's all fucking lovely. Don't get me wrong, I have sexual partners and relationships. But this is no more an interference with relationships than it is to have a fleshlight. Some partners who've heard of the 'fad' feel it's cheating, and that's fair and communication is key.

But right now, I'm a single man that not only has desperately nice sex, but is separately attracted to my young, present, and mature cocks.

"Right now" doesn't mean much to me anymore. It all blends together.

---

I'm 45 and multiple younger versions of me time warp into my sunshiny seaside house's biggest room, one giant window out into the sea. We smile and we don't have to say a thing to make each other feel right at home. Fawning at each other, we let ourselves become naked, and ogle at each other.

I enjoy my less hairy self and the strong, tall, energetic fervour of my less experienced hopeful erections. Twenties Me and Thirties Me stare in wonder at what my body is like nowadays. They wordlessly agree that they're kneeling, and now, together, they're positioning my erection back and forth. Twenties Me says he's looking at how pink it's becoming, and Thirties Me is feathering the firmer texture of my pubic hair. From my perspective this feels like soft hands kneading gently along the shaft and an angelic tickle along my balls.

They approach with their calmly joyous faces, and I hear one of them whimper with his first inhale. I remember this moment now: the surprise of a substantially changed scent with matured age. Now more than ever, this young version of me feels like he gets to worship a beautiful stranger.

The youngest mouth smooches along the bottom of my balls first, finding the centre-line all the way up and down that's very-much still there, and exploring north and south along it. Thirties Me spends his first moment enjoying watching the ecstatically happy face slowly beginning a feast below and a shocked face far above, noiselessly showing disbelief and thanks.

The day has begun with one of my favourite touches, and I can tell how much fun the young mouth is having dishing this out.

Thirties Me is lovingly careful not to interrupt what's happening below as he slowly points my tall shaft to the North, just enough to kiss me where I need it most. I feel the buzz of satisfaction from his mouth as he receives his first gift of precum. The buzzing moan has no surprise, just the satisfaction of a favourite dish finally tasted.

I sense no need for dignity, and I let myself squeal and groan and pant and reiterate my obvious consent in funny voices of shock and hope and contentment.

And I stay in that moment as long as I possibly can. My favourite touches happen at the same time, in masterfully skilled ways, from two noticeably entertained mouths. I wouldn't cum this immediately (though it feels as though I could), so I know this feeling will continue as long as my ankles hold out. No...... I don't need to worry about that, about it stopping. It's me, remember. They would say yes to keep going even if they weakened my knees too much to stand and I interrupted the moment.

This isn't what stops the moment. I am. The next time these younger men simultaneously heave for air, Thirties Me and I exchange understanding looks, and we know it's right and good for our youngest counterpart to feel nice next.

Twenties Me notices this and lets himself go from a kneel to a curled perch. He scooches back until he finds a nice piece of furniture and he gets into it.

I kiss along inner thigh for a long moment, the place where I'll never grow hair and where every soft touch fervently awakens more carnal needs. Between these legs I breathe in a scent I'd forgotten, what I used to make with my body. I don't know why it transformed, but just like my counterpart, it feel like I was tasting a long-forgotten dessert. The smell draws me rapidly closer to the gorgeous, scantily-haired penis above me.

As Twenties Me leans forward a little more and the shaft points 45 degrees out, I make sure to watch my younger face as I engulf whatever I can. I watch myself go stunned as I close my entire soft wet palette around his whole self all in one touch, motioning down, motioning up. I allow almost no pressure at all as I drench him. He has been, from the first second of being inside my mouth, some wild thing, barely present of mind. His enjoyment is still so surprised, far more than mine, as though he keeps forgetting his body can feel like this. This is probably why we feel the need to prioritise him.

For a moment I remember the time I was Thirties Me: I remember this sex from his perspective. I remember that Thirties Me's decision to now stand and approach Twenties Me's face is no selfish act. He remembers being Twenties Me, and remembers that just in that perfect moment, the young man's only remaining wish is to enjoy giving and receiving at the same time.

It's hard to remember whether this is Twenties Me's first-ever time getting that beautiful honour, of giving and receiving oral sex at the same time, but the young man certainly looks exactly like it was.

He looks so, so happy to now have a presented erection right at his face, and to clumsily pull himself together mentally and hold it, to find it with his lips, and to calm his slow thrash enough to do something skilled, something kind, something fun.

With every wave of sensation caused by every soft, soaked pump deep down this cute and earnestly engorged penis, Twenties Me transfers the energy of his own pleasure into groaning panting twists an impressive halfway down the shaft of the Me beside his face. He looks like everything that's happening is desperately, urgently important and must not stop. That's how he now seems.

So both of us silently decide he's The One. Today, he must have the gift of first orgasm. He's awakening into too many beautiful things, and when a time traveler notices another moment of himself is about to have a very important very good orgasm, it is no selfless act to commit to making your other self's point of no return truly life-changing.

Of course maybe that's the paradox talking: it probably would be logically impossible for me to be a time traveler if I didn't have the kind of sexual ethics (and worship of nice cock) to give past and future selves lovely times every time.

I reluctantly resolve to stop watching the lovely things that are happening, and focus on watching the pretty erection below me disappear into my face and appear again and again. I know myself well, and so exactly once I pause to give worship to the entire scrotum, replacing his accumulated young sweat with precum-laced drool, saturating the area, before returning for good to where I'm needed. I'm now gentle but relentless in my twisting cascades three quarters down the penis shaft and all the way back up to the last inch of foreskin.

With each change of what I do Twenties Me calls inhuman, monstrous groans into Thirties Me's penis. This isn't a crescendo anymore, he's lost in an unending final moment, having both experiences he enjoys more than anything. With my one stolen glance up, I see how truly happy Thirties Me is for his beneficiary -- though in no small way having fun of his own.

For a longer time than really should be possible, Twenties Me makes many, many 'final-breath-before-cumming' noises, in short bursts of humming, all audibly filled with cockshaft. It was just more of the same sounds continued as I finally feel a flex and a buzz of rushed fluids. I decide the best thing I could do for my younger self this time isn't to swallow, but let the cum pour out of my mouth all over him. For one beautiful, slowed-down moment, as he hangs onto Thirties Me's shaftbase and sings into the head in whispers, I masturbate his base and balls with his own cum, and let myself drink whatever keeps coming for me.

One moment later, Thirties Me and I softly masturbate each other in a kneel where I'd been for minutes, watching the younger body squirm and bashfully accept his right to feel this way. We watched the glistening penis shrink. Thirties Me very, very softly uses his tongue to clean our sensitive-to-the-touch younger counterpart.

With unnecessary words of gratitude Twenties Me reluctantly departs (there are times I can continue after cumming, but there are advantages to orgies with yourself) as Thirties Me brings his still-fresh mouth to my still-fresh shaft.

I have vague memories of being Thirties Me in this moment. I remember how helplessly close he was to erupting into the violently happy mouth of our counterpart. How tricky it was to fulfil Twenties Me's desire to give more first. How his compromise with his aching, hopeful penis was that the worship he would now gratefully give me would be far less gradual.

I lean back, ass on the floor, unable to will myself to do anything more than watch and enjoy.

Thirties Me takes his mouth off and replaces it with a softly masturbating hand, in an upside down grip, pulling up more than down, all to access my dancing balls with one gaping, sloppy, slippery mouth.

I remember being him perfectly now, because of this exact moment: I remember the sunset happening, and the glistening penis in my hand and in my mouth shine bright orange from the sun, and the soft dance along my mouth of two happy balls, flexing and loosening, being the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And now I'm watching the penis in the sunset from the other end, attached to my own body, framed by two calm eyes slow-blinking affectionately as his open mouth kisses my cock everywhere.

I stare at the beautiful sight and I moan. And then I moan louder. And then I whimper. And then I sing. When I sing Thirties Me knows this is the moment my cockhead needs to be fully inside him, in this mouth that knows me completely.

And with my next singing breath a thrash goes through my body, lifting me from floor and slipping penis far further in and shooting liquid rushing into him. And I sing again. And I pant. And I sing more softly, as Thirties Me makes out with my cockhead to love it all out of me.

Seconds are now precious. Precious. This beautiful memory of me needs to end this day with the same loveliness. I remember being him, how this instant happened: I know something he doesn't know about the next minute of his life.

I have seconds of horniness left, and he watches me to read every unspoken instruction. Within two more seconds, with his mouth feathering again along my balls and their stark salt, and along my head and its new sweetness, I have my one last surge of horny energy to give Thirties Me his gift.

The whole shaft is bright pink with what's been happening to him and what he still needs to happen, and now, whether through experience, desperation, relaxation, or destiny, I'm able to slide him in and keep sliding. And keep sliding. With a single extremely slow plunge onto the shaft, and additional push and torsion after I'm already full with him, I'm now somehow balls-to-nose with this gorgeous thing.

Now, instead of plunging back up, I try staying. Keeping myself wide open, my lips feathering along the skin, I use soft twists and slithers left and right to bring this delicious penis from 96% to what I remember was incalculable.

Thankfully, this thing is so grateful and so needy I can tell I don't have to be scared about air. It's not long now.

My body's first request for air clamps down on the erection and probably ignites the process. With hurried movements now, my hands tickle the soaked testicles and softly masturbate the slim amount of shaft that I wasn't already accounting for with my throat and lips.

And the balls contract quickly now, enough to slap my nose, and Thirties Me's pelvis softly humps me. My memory of this moment gives me faith to keep going: I'm able to give his first burst a perfect blow, and the second burst makes me gag, blessedly making my mouth retreat in a motion that gives him one last thing to groan about. I see the erection dance one more flex of cum into my mouth just as the tip reaches my tonguetip, and I get to watch it flex in aftershocks, sparkling and purple in twilight.

Before leaving we spend a long moment giggling and saying variations of 'wow' at the beautiful memories we've just made.

Twenties Me grins mischievously and says, "So who wins the 2068 electi--" and warps out in a glitchy blur. The failsafe of a time machine's interrupted power, preventing a marooned traveller.

And that's why paradox is still impossible. Something unlucky stops you, every time.

--

There's a setting on the Time Machine. You don't have to specify times, you can detect times when the machine had a certain signal, even a series of parameters you choose. There are definitely ways to use this setting to get rich, be a superhero, or invent things far faster than humanly possible. The possibilities are endless. And I've done many of those useful things.

You can also use the settings to signal to your past or future self exactly what sexual acts you're interested in providing and giving. And one time, when I was younger, a friendly and mature version of me gave me some good advice.

And so, I'm 24, and at the end of one very horny week. I am naked and my erection needs me, and it looks particularly hungry today, but there's something else. I've just noticed a rare desire: I am interested in being full. And not just my mouth.

I need to know. I need to feel it.

This is a precious moment. I once tried to play with my ass for fun because I finally had hours with nothing to do. But an ass, I'd learn, has to really want it. You can't request to enter an ass. It invites you. (At least, that's how I feel.)

I kneel in front of a big mirror, legs gaping open. I see the possessed interest in my own eyes. I take a silly amount of lube and slip it along my crack. I don't worry about aim, I'm at first just playing with myself. I watch my own pelvis dance slowly to the touch. I watch my erection bounce with the recoil of my dance.

I take more lube and my ass invites my finger a little in. Soon I've slicked my opening up. I wash my hands.

I set the parameter and the signal is entered and is searchable. The machine now has that setting, and communicates with itself across the fourth dimension. Any day of my life when I decide to set the signals for Anal Bottom and doesn't exclude Twenties or Two Partners, I will find this signal to come fuck this young me.