Misc. Erotica The Problem With Immortality

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The Dysfunctional Family​

The Scream burned really nicely.

Francisco Odour had always hated that painting, a blurry, messy painting of a man screaming that every art connoisseur in the world thought was so tremendously brilliant, but Odour thought was both talentless and repulsive.

So he had bought it, for 200,000 million credits, at quite a premium, given how much in demand classical art was these days, now that it was all being destroyed. Odour could have gotten a Picasso for a quarter of that price, but he really, really wanted to destroy this one.

Odour had an old fashioned flame thrower strapped to his back. He aimed the nozzle at the painting, which was sitting in the middle of his outdoor patio. His guests watched fearfully.

Odour gave one last vicious stare at The Scream, and then said, "Scream about this, heh heh heh," and opened fire.

The flames burst out of the nozzle, in an unexpectedly wide fashion, also setting fire to one of his outdoor lawn chairs. His guests all screamed and ran for cover.

The ugly painting burst into flame. The image of the man grabbing his head in the painting started to curl up, turn orange, and then blacken behind recognition.

"Heh heh heh heh," Odour chuckled. He was having a good time.

Anson Ford still hadn't found Odour a reason to live. But his suggestion that Odour go and view destructive art performances intrigued Odour. He went to the Louvre and saw a monkey ripping up a priceless Gauguin to shreds. He liked it, but knew he would enjoy it more if he was the one to actually be the one doing the ripping. So he had bought The Scream and toasted it.

As usual, Melanthia hadn't understood. His daughter had lived with him on and off for the past 20 years. After Odour's marriage to his fourth wife Abigail ended in divorce, Odour went into a deep depression. He didn't take care of himself, didn't dress properly, and he barely ate. His house was a mess.

Melanthia, fresh off a divorce herself and free of obligations, decided to move back in with her father and take care of him. The two fought on a regular basis, but Melanthia restored at least some semblance of order, making sure her father ate regularly and dressed and bathed himself properly.

She was also the one to insist on this family gathering.

"If you're not going to talk to your family on holo, you should see them, at least once a year."

"Why?" Odour had asked.

"Because they're your family, Father."

"Family," he snorted. "Ex-wives who are bleeding me dry, and ungrateful children who never show me any affection."

"Ungrateful children like me, Father?" said Melanthia.

Odour looked sharply away, and Melanthia knew she had won this argument.

So the yearly family gathering was being held now, but Odour, as usual, insisted on doing his act of rebellion, to register his opposition to the event. But burning a world famous work of art was over the top, even for him.

As the painting burned and Odour cackled with glee, and the guests screamed from the sidelines, only Melanthia had the courage to march up to her father. "Father! Take that silly weapon off! What are you trying to do, burn your family?"

Odour slowly unslung the flamethrower. "Yes. I was aiming for them. I just have very poor aim."

Melanthia stepped forward and pinched his arm.

"Ow!" Odour said.

"Father, you promised to behave!" she said, anger flashing in her eyes. She gave a flat hand gesture to servants hovering about, and they moved to remove the burned painting and lawn chair which was now smoking silently.

One of those who rushed to obey was Odour's manservant, Anders. Melanthia had met Anders eight years ago, at the party at the Chateau of Verbotony.

Before she even knew who he was, she was captivated by his brilliant smile. It hadn't been so long since she and Rolph had divorced each other, not so long that she was desperately aching for a man, but it was still long enough that she wasn't blind to an opportunity when it presented itself.

The current focus of her interest was a man named Anders Karlsen. He was an up and coming mathematician at the University of Verdun. She found his short, black curly hair very attractive, and when he smiled at her, something came alive within her.

They started talking, and she quickly learned that he was brilliant, and not just in math. One thing led to another and they quickly became involved. They started dating, and became quite close, but when Anders asked her to marry him, she sadly declined. "I have to take care of my father. He was hard hit by his divorce from Abby, his fourth wife. You should have seen him, Anders. He stopped eating. He wore the same clothes, day in and day out. He stopped bathing. He stopped shaving. His hair was long and unruly. It was like he had given up on life."

"And how long have you been doing this?"Anders asked.

"12 years," said Melanthia, feeling embarrassed.

"But what about your needs, your life?" Anders asked, gently caressing her cheek.

"I'm sorry, Anders," she said, turning away.

They stopped seeing each other after that, and Melanthia spent a lot of time mourning his loss.

In fact, Melanthia didn't see Anders again, until three weeks later, when she found him serving breakfast to herself and her father. Her jaw dropped as Anders waggled his eyebrows, and put a glass of orange juice in front of her.

"You look surprised, daughter," said Odour. "Oh, did I fail to introduce our new hired help? This is... what is your name again?"

"Anders," said Anders, smiling. "Anders Mueller." His real name was Anders Karlsen.

"Yeah, I knew it was something like that," said Odour.

"Father... you never want help. Why now?" Melanthia.

"You're always nagging me to hire someone. So I hired someone. Are you going to complain now? Do you want me to fire him? Say the word, and he's gone," said Odour.

Melanthia, open-mouthed, looked at Anders, Anders the famous mathematician wearing an apron and serving them breakfast, and then back at her father. "No, I was just... surprised," she said, smiling quickly.

Odour had already stopped paying attention, reading the news on his datapad.

After breakfast, when Father wasn't around, she cornered Anders. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"Serving breakfast," he said. "Was the meal not to your liking, Mistress?"

"Anders!"

"I missed you," said Anders.

"But... but... your life... as a mathematician...."

"Inconsequential compared to being with you."

"You... you would give up your career, just to be around me?" said Melanthia. She reached out and kissed Anders. The kiss was seasoned by the fear of discovery. It was totally delicious. When she parted, she said, "How long are you going to do this for, Anders?"

"How long do you plan to continue living with your father?"

And Anders was as good as his word. He had now been employed by Odour for eight years. If Melanthia thought he would tire of pretending to be a servant and leave her for the world of mathematics, she was mistaken.

The first time he tried to kiss her, however, she was in a panic. "What if Father sees?"

"He's upstairs in his bedroom. We're safe." And she hadn't resisted when he stole a kiss.

That kiss lead to more kisses, at other times, both safe and dangerous. But one time Father came into the kitchen unexpectedly just as they were ending a kiss. Anders quickly turned to the sink and started washing dishes, while Melanthia turned to Father, guilt written all over her face as she tried to see if he had seen anything. But he just gave her his usual morose glare. Still, it had been a close call.

Later that day, she found Anders and said, "We can't do this anymore. We'll get caught."

"Then fine," said Anders. "I'll turn myself in for recycling at a Soylent Green Center."

She slapped him in the face. "Don't say that, not even as a joke."

"Who's joking?" Anders asked softly, rubbing the red spot on his face.

"Anders, I can't. I just can't," she said.

He took a step closer. "What if I come to you at night? After he's asleep."

"To fuck me? In the same house as my Father?"

"Why not?"

Melanthia thought rapidly. "My bedroom is next to his. He would hear."

"This is a big mansion. Move to a bedroom in the east wing."

"How will I explain it to Father?"

"Think of something."

And so when the movers came to move her furniture to the east wing, Father naturally asked what was going on.

"I... I..." Melanthia couldn't look him in the eye.

"Spit it out, girl!" Odour snapped.

"You snore, Father. You sometimes wake me up at night."

"You can hear it... through the wall?"

"I'm sorry, Father. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Fine, whatever," he said, stomping off.

Anders came to her the first night, an hour after Odour had gone to bed. The door to her bedroom opened. She knew who it was without looking. And then he was in bed with her, kissing and hugging her.

"We shouldn't be doing this," said Melanthia, kissing him fervently. "We really shouldn't."

"You're right," said Anders. "Can you move over a little, please? I'm on the very edge of the bed here."

Melanthia complied, still objecting, only quieting when Anders removed her nightclothes and his own, and in moments was thrusting between her legs. They made love vigorously and quietly. Melanthia cried out, in a whisper, when he came inside of her, as she climaxed too.

That one night visit became several night visits, which became many night visits and before long, Anders was visiting her bedroom several times a week.

One time, as they lay together, Melanthia touched his body and said, "Sooner or later, Father is going to discover us."

"Hopefully later, rather than sooner."

"Anders!"

"I live for the present. That's all there ever is, anyway," said Anders.

If Melanthia couldn't fully understand Anders' motives, neither could Anders' parents. When Anders commed his mother Abba in Switzerland, she looked at him like he was crazy.

"A servant, Anders? You went to all the fanciest schools in Europe to become an old man's servant?"

"I love her, Mother," said Abba. While she was over 400 years old, her cosmetic age was in the 60's, unusually old.

"And what about your mathematical career, Anders, what about that?"

"I still work on my theories," said Anders.

"Where? When?" Abba asked.

"In here," said Anders, pointing to his head. "When I'm washing the dishes. When I'm cleaning the living room. Many times. Most of the day, in fact." When I'm not daydreaming about Melanthia.

"Dear, you're wasting the best years of your life," Abba protested.

"They are his to waste," said a new figure, coming into range of the holopickup. It was Anders' father Heycom. He looked at old as Abba, in fact, even a little older.

"Heycom!" said Abba.

"He is pursuing what he loves," said Heycom. "What could be more important than that?"

"What about his career?"

"He will always have time for that," said Heycom. "Our lives are effectively eternal. What is a decade, or a few decades dalliance to pursue that which he loves?"

"That's not what you did, Heycom. You pursued a career. You were one of the greatest Fixers of all time."

"And I would have given it all up in an instant, if it were a choice between you and my work," said Heycom, giving his wife an affectionate kiss on the cheek. She shivered, feeling something deep inside. "In any event, I have given all that up now. To be with you. How is Anders any different?"

"He has more of a life ahead of him," said Abba. She had given birth to Anders relatively late in life, when she was over 400 years old. It had been over 200 years since she had a child, and she wanted another, and Heycom had readily complied. Anders himself was only in his 30's. Still practically a child.

"Then let him live his life as he will. Good luck, my son."

"Thank you, Father," said Anders, gratefully.

And so things continued that way for eight years. Melanthia's father never caught Anders during his nocturnal visits to her bedroom. And if Odour caught Melanthia looking longingly at Anders, or their hands accidently brushing each other as they walked across the room, he never said anything. Melanthia slowly became convinced that Father was so fixated on his own problems that he was oblivious to everything around him.

"All right, bring in the first petitioner," said Odour, sighing. This was the part of family gatherings he hated the most.

The first to come, of course, was Odour's first wife Pris. Priscilla claimed seniority, not only because she had married him first, but also because they had been married the longest, for more than 70 years. About 50 years too long, in Odour's later estimation.

"When are you going to think about your will, Francis?"

Odour hated being called Francis. But he knew Pris didn't give a fuck about that. And it was telling that the first words out of her mouth were about money.

"Why, Pris? Are you thinking of killing me?" Francisco asked.

"You may think you're immortal, but people still die! They have accidents. You have to provide for your family!"

"My family, meaning you, above my other wives," said Odour. "Is that right?"

"I was married to you the longest. That makes me your primary wife," said Priscilla.

"I'm not sure Venetia, Sibyl, and Abigail would agree with that," said Odour. "Be assured, there is a will, and all my family members are well cared for."

"Where is this will? Why can't we see it?" Priscilla asked.

"Because I choose not to let you see it," said Odour. This conversation disgusted him. His wedding to Priscilla, if not exactly arranged, had been pushed by his parents. Priscilla came from a rich family, just like Odour's, and the industries controlled by her family (mineral extraction) meshed well with Odour's (manufacturing). It was more like a merger than a marriage, Odour reflected in retrospect.

Their marriage had been happy at first, as all his marriages had been, but he felt that she lost interest in him over the years. Once she bore Mark and Marie and later Melanthia and they grew up, she developed her own interests, her own hobbies, and her interest in him seemed to become perfunctory and shallow. She still made love to him when he asked for it, but it felt more transactional than based in love. Francisco had picked up on this and returned her superficiality with disdain, and over time their marriage became a sham, and after a few decades of being a sham, he divorced her. His only regret had been not divorcing her sooner, a mistake he never repeated with later wives.

But even after the divorce, he gave Priscilla a monthly stipend, though she hardly needed it, having accumulated wealth from her own family. No, this was about a wealthy woman simply wanting to be even wealthier. It was also about status and prestige; she wanted to be sure to receive more than his other wives.

"Think of your children, dear. Mark and Marie, and dear, sweet Melanthia," said Priscilla.

"Melanthia always has a special place in my heart and is well provided for. As for Mark and Marie, I'll think of them when they think of me. Which is usually never, unless they comm me to ask for more money," said Odour. "It's lovely as always reminiscing with you, Priscilla, but I see Venetia hovering outside, and you wouldn't want to keep her waiting, would you?"

Priscilla didn't give a fuck about Venetia, but that didn't stop Odour from giving a small hand gesture, and having Anders escort her from the room.

Odour had mixed feelings about Anders. Most people had household robots, but they made Odour's skin crawl. Human servants were rare and hard to find, and Odour had hired and fired a goodly number, usually on their first day, but Anders, somehow Anders seemed to have lasted for years and years. He seemed to do a good job, better than others who Odour had hired and fired quickly enough. That didn't stop him from berating Anders constantly, however. He yelled at Anders whenever he wasn't fast enough; he yelled at Anders whenever he failed to anticipate his needs for a drink; and he yelled when he sometimes saw Anders just standing there, staring into space, or even worse, seeming to stare at Melanthia.

Melanthia was a problem. Odour wanted her to move out and get on with her life. But whenever he nudged her to move out she refused, saying he "needed" her. Well, Odour didn't need anyone.

Anders escorted Venetia, his second wife, into the room.

"Francisco dear," she said, smiling broadly. Venetia looked as sexy as ever, still apparently 22 years old, still with large, tanned breasts that were practically spilling out of the tight blouse she was wearing. Francisco let her give him a tight hug, and then a kiss.

"Oh, I never see you enough, dear," she said. "I miss you so much."

Francisco simply raised an eyebrow and sat back in the chair behind his desk. "What can I do for you, Venetia?"

"Do for me, dear? I'm your wife!"

"Ex-wife," said Francisco.

"That doesn't mean we love each other any less." And then she actually went around his desk, and slowly sat down in his lap.

"I saw you talking to Pris just a moment ago," she said, whispering in his ear. "The word is that she's trying to get you to cut us out of your will."

"Where did you hear that?" Francisco asked.

"You know I would never believe rumors," said Venetia, running a finger up his arm.

"But you want to be sure, just in case."

"Francisco, I still love you! Unlike that harpy," said Venetia. "Surely you will take good care of me and your daughter Polly."

"You get stipends from me every month, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, rubbing his chest gently. "But... if anything happens to you...."

"So you want to know what's in the will too."

"Not for me," said Venetia. "For Polly's sake."

"Of course. All for Polly," said Francisco.

"If only we could talk a little more about this in a more intimate setting... like your bedroom?" said Venetia, making eyes at him.

Francisco looked at Venetia and reflected. After his marriage to Priscilla, he had decided to marry for beauty. Not that Priscilla had been ugly, exactly. Pris was blonde, and had a nice smile (when she smiled, which became increasingly rare), but she was of a thin build. After Pris, Francisco felt the urge for the road less travelled--a woman with large breasts.

And Venetia, with her double DD titties, fit the bill. She smiled, was vivacious, and lot of fun in bed. They got married after a whirlwind romance of only six months.

But over time Francisco realized that that was all he had married--titties. Venetia was fairly vacuous, not very bright, shallow, and manipulative. His marriage to her was the shortest of all, only 25 years, just long enough to get Polly grown up and out of the house.

"I'm sorry, but I just had sex with Priscilla, and I can't perform again so quickly," said Francisco.

"You did?" Venetia asked, looking shocked.

"Sorry. Next year, you should see me before she does."

"Oh!" she cried indignantly, jumping off his lap and leaving the room.

Odour laughed quietly while his third wife, Sibyl, was escorted into the room.

Francisco really thought he had it made with Sibyl. She was attractive, she was bright, and she was attentive. She had everything the others lacked and everything he liked about his first two wives. They married after dating for only a year.

Things were fine, for a while at least, until Mirabelle was born. Sibyl gained weight during her pregnancy and never lost it. To the contrary, even after Miri was born, Sibyl continued to gain weight. Francisco had complained about it bitterly, but Sibyl had responded, "I can't help it. I'm big boned."

"Well, you weren't big boned when I married you," said Francisco.

Soon, the truth of it became very clear. Sibyl had felt the need to be attractive when Francisco was courting her, but now that she was married, now that she had hit the jackpot, she didn't feel the need to be pleasing to him. Oh, she still had sex with him, when he requested it, but Francisco felt that her body, with its larger and larger folds, had become a stranger to him. This wasn't what he had married. Her first love was supposed to be him, but he had been cuckolded by food.

So he divorced her even as Miri was growing up. He simply couldn't stand to see Fatty McFatster waddling around his house, calling herself his wife. It offended his sense of aesthetics.

After that he resolved never to marry again, and kept that vow with one girlfriend after another, at least until he met Abigail. Abigail was not especially pretty; and she didn't have the largest breasts; and she wasn't always nice to him, but she did have a sharp wit which Francisco had grown to appreciate.

In fact, even as he talked to Sibyl about whatever nonsense she was asking about (ultimately, it was his will--always about his will), he saw Abigail hovering outside, looking increasingly impatient and bored.

"Yes, yes, of course," said Francisco, not even listening to what she was saying. "I'm sorry, but my time is most limited. It's time for Abigail."

"That shrew?" said Sibyl, making a face. "You hate her most of all. I'm surprised you even invited her."

"Well, she is one of my wives," said Francisco, giving Anders the signal to escort her out.

"Barely," said Sibyl, as she was led out of the room.

Francisco took a deep breath as Abigail came into his office. She looked the same as ever, with a cosmetic age of 32. Abigail said she liked looking a little older because it helped to distinguish herself from long lived adults who had minds of children. Abigail always said things like that.

As Abigail entered, Francisco turned to Anders. "That's all, Anders, you may leave," said Francisco.

Anders looked surprised. He had been present for the visits from all the other wives. But he nodded, bowed slightly, and left.

Abigail sat stiffly in the chair opposite his desk. For a moment, neither spoke. Francisco just stared at her, taking her in.

Abigail grew more and more annoyed. "Well, aren't you going to say something?" She said finally.

"Hello, Abigail," said Francisco.

"You've learned some manners! So you can teach an old dog new tricks. They'll have to revise that saying now," said Abigail. "So why have you brought me here, Francis?" She knew he hated to be called that. "Have I been brought here, like the rest, to humiliate myself and plead for a place in your will? Because I won't do it, you know. This is just a way for you to amuse yourself, isn't it? To flaunt your power at our expense."

"I didn't call you here to ask you for anything, Abby."
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