Misc. Erotica The Problem With Immortality

"Abby. You lost the permission to call me that when we divorced," said Abigail. "Honestly, I think I should have had my head examined to have married you in the first place. My mother warned me about you, did I ever tell you that? She said, 'He's already been married three times before. You'll just be the fourth notch on his belt'. But I was young and naive. I thought after three wives maybe you had finally figured out what you wanted. Was I wrong!"

"I never left you, Abby," said Francisco.

"Yes, I divorced you, unlike your other three chippies, who would have been content to suck at your money teat until the end of time."

"Why did you leave me, Abby?"

"Has your memory left you, as well as your other senses, Francis? You were brutish, and crude, and arrogant, a thoroughly primitive man."

"Then why did you marry me?"

"You... you were all those things, but you were also interesting. You were funny. But then, after we got married, you committed the worst sin imaginable. You became boring. I could tolerate arrogant and crude, most men are that way, but I could never cope with boring. Boring is one of the most unforgiveable of sins."

Francisco slowly got up around his desk and walked over to her.

"And from what I can see, you haven't changed a bit."

"I never married again after you," said Francisco, slowly pulling her up from the chair.

"Why, did I traumatize you? You poor little thing!"

"No," said Francisco, shaking his head. "I just never could find anyone I loved like the way I loved you."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"You never remarried either," said Francisco, looking into her eyes.

"Why buy a cow when I can rent one? I have dozens of boyfriends, of that I can assure you."

"Really?" Francisco smiled. "Dozens?"

"Hundreds, over the years. So many I've lost count."

"Really?" said Francisco, moving his face closer to hers.

"Really," said Abby, feeling a fluttering inside her.

"Take off your clothes, Abby," said Francisco.

"Is that your latest romance line? I'll bet it works wonders with all the whores in Paris," said Abigail.

Francisco reached down and pressed his lips against hers. She felt prickles down her spine as he grinded, pressing, needing, as she felt the heat of his lips on hers. When he pulled back, her face turned red, and she whispered, "Well, that's a tiny improvement," and without being asked again, she started to open her blouse, one clasp at a time.

Afterwards, Abigail slowly put her clothes back on. "You are to be congratulated. You had sex with me without quite raping me. Your technique has improved."

"Did you enjoy it?" said Francisco, tucking his shirt into his pants.

"I would say that you've forgotten everything you've ever learned, except that you never knew much to begin with," said Abigail. "Foreplay is obviously a word not even in your vocabulary. And your intercourse technique is about as intimate as morning calisthenics. It felt like you were doing pushups and I merely happened to be underneath you at the time."

"You seemed to enjoy it," Francisco smiled, wrapping an arm around her.

"Yes, I was trying to earn my keep, " said Abigail, turning around to face him. "The monthly stipend, for me and Nathan. I have a misplaced sense of obligation for that. That's why I let you use me like a whore from time to time."

"I've never had a whore who moaned like you did."

"Well, you're the expert on whores, so I'll take your word on that," said Abigail, pushing away from him.

"Let's do this again," said Francisco. "Let's not wait a year."

"Certainly. Let's coordinate our datapads." Abigail looked at hers, humming. "How about... Never. Could we get together then? I have Never available for you, dear. We'll meet then. There. I've marked it on my calendar. Now you have something to look forward to."

But then she smiled at him, just for an instant, the briefest of instants, and then she turned away again, looking at herself in a holographic mirror.

"Do I have that freshly fucked look on my face? I know the first thing you'll want to do is to parade me outside so you can announce to the world that you've fucked me."

"You look wonderful."

"You sound like you haven't been with a woman in a while. I'll have my manservant send you a list of all the five star whores in Paris."

"I don't want a whore, I want you," said Francisco, holding her in his arms again.

Her eyes flashed at him. "So I'm to be your whore, is that the way of it? Is that the price of my monthly stipend now?"

"If you like, yes," said Francisco.

Abigail sighed dramatically. "I guess I have no choice but to comply. I guess I'll have to become your whore, all in an effort to safeguard Nathan's financial future. I'm sure you'll expect that every time you'll call, I'll have to come at a run, my panties around my ankles, and paint a smile on my face as you exercise yourself on top of me. Feel good about it. You've won. You'll have it all. I have no choice. But don't think I'll enjoy it, not even for a minute, Francisco."

She had called him Francisco. Not Francis.

"I have no doubt that you will hate every moment of it," said Francisco. He put an arm around her. "Let's go back outside, shall we?"

He guided her back onto the patio. Everyone knew that Francisco had spent the most time with Abigail, and it wasn't difficult to figure out what had transpired.

"Dear, you were with Francis for some time," said Pris, smiling sweetly.

"Yes, Priscilla, Francisco was just showing me his will, that's what took so long," said Abigail. "And no, I don't remember seeing your name in it. Wait, do you spell Priscilla with a 'P'?".

"Abigail!" said Francisco, steering her away from Priscilla by the arm.

Abigail hissed, "Do you intend to let me monopolize you for this entire horrendous so-called family reunion?"

"Why not?"

"Look around you, Francis," said Abigail. "You have Mark and Marie teasing Raymond mercilessly, flaunting their relative wealth over him as they always do. Your daughter Polly showed up without her husband Pierce. Do you know or care why? Your daughter Mirabelle is barely talking to her husband Lee. And our own son, Nathan, you never talk to, ever. Why not be a father, even if for only five minutes in your life?"

Francisco looked around at his gathered family and saw things with new eyes.

"And then there's your first daughter."

"What about Melanthia?" Francisco saw her sitting at a table, talking with his son Nathan, apparently, but her eyes seemed to be on Anders, who was standing attentively nearby.

"You've chained her to this place. She's a grown woman, Francis. For God's sake, let her go."

"I'm not keeping her here," said Francisco. "I tell her to leave all the time."

"Open your eyes," Abigail snapped again. "You're keeping her here as surely as if you have her chained up in the basement."

Francisco observed Melanthia. She was looking up at Anders now, smiling at him. Something he said made her laugh. Then Anders said something else, and Melanthia stole a glance back at Francisco, and immediately she became serious again and turned her attention back to Nathan.

Priscilla's children Mark and Marie were chatting with Sibyl's son Raymond. No one here was poor, but Mark and Marie, by virtue of their mother's wealth, were much wealthier than Raymond, and they loved to rub it in.

"So are you still driving that old Ruby Air Car, Ray?" said Marie. "That's got to be what, 40 years old by now?" None of them noticed Francisco walking to the drinks counter, a few feet away, facing away from them.

"No, I got rid of that years ago," said Raymond.

"About time. Was all that rust getting you down?" Marie sneered. Mark laughed.

"I have an Islander 44 now," said Ray.

"An Islander 44," said Mark. "Wow! That's got to be one of the highest-end low-end air cars out there! What's wrong, Rayo, you didn't have the cash for a Sportster 220? Or even a 110?"

"I didn't want to waste money on that," said Raymond.

"But you already save so much money," said Marie. "You live in that tiny house in Pittsburgh, don't you! What a fashionable place to live! Tell me, Ray, what does your house have, four, five rooms?"

"It' a seven room home," said Raymond.

"Wow, seven rooms!" said Marie. "I think that's almost as big as one of our wings on Bubble Hill!" She and Mark laughed. They both had expansive mansions on Bubble Hill, in Bel Aire.

Francisco had heard enough. He went inside the house.

When he returned, several minutes later, he saw that Marie and Mark were still at it.

"Maybe you'd need a bigger house if you found a woman who could stand to be with you, Ray," said Mark.

"I like living alone," said Raymond.

"Alone, in your giant 7 room home," Marie laughed.

"Actually, 29 rooms," said Francisco, stepping forward.

"Father?" said Mark, a little confused.

"Ray's home has 29 rooms. Actually, he has two homes, 29 rooms and 34 rooms. He can alternate between either one."

"What do you mean, Dad?" Marie asked.

"Your homes, on Bubble Hill. They now belong to Ray," said Francisco.

"That's not possible?"

"You seem to have forgotten who was paying the mortgage, and who held the deed in trust for you," said Francisco.

"No, Dad," said Marie. "You wouldn't evict us from our own home, would you?"

"No, of course not," said Francisco reassuringly. "That's up to your half-brother, now," he said, turning to Ray.

Ray looked up at his father and gave him such a grateful smile. That was all the reward Francisco needed.

"Now, you children continue your talk. Don't let me interrupt," said Francisco, turning away. Even as he started walking he heard them pleading.

"Ray, Raymond, you know we were just joking, right? You're not really going to evict us, are you?"

"You wanted to see me, Father?" said Polly, stepping into Francisco's study.

Polly was Francisco's second daughter, the one he had had with Venetia. She was a tall dark haired woman with hazel eyes.

"Yes," said Francisco. "I noticed you didn't bring Pierce with you."

"Pierce and I are fighting. We may get divorced."

"Oh?" said Francisco.

"Pierce is seeing another woman. A blonde named Melissandra," said Polly.

"Is Pierce leaving you?"

"Not exactly," said Polly, starting to sniffle. "He says he just wants some variety. He says that after 104 years of marriage that he's entitled to it. I don't remember anything in our marriage vows saying he's entitled to fool around after the century mark. I don't recall any expiration date on our marriage vows."

"So, are you going to divorce him?"

"I don't know," said Polly, looking down.

"Polly? Polly, look at me."

Polly slowly looked up at him.

"Do you still love him?"

Polly nodded miserably.

"If you had the choice of sharing Pierce, or having no Pierce at all, which would you have?"

"Neither!" she cried.

"But that's not the choice before you. Some, or none?"

She didn't answer.

"Even if he sees someone else, what would that mean for you? That you would have him, what, 80% or 90% of the time?"

She nodded. "He says he just wants an occasional fling."

"So what are you whining about?"

"Dad, it's not that simple!"

"It is. Go and comm him."

"Dad!"

"Do it. Right now."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

Polly, sobbing, took her holocomm out of her purse and unfolded it. "Pierce," she said into it.

In moments the image of her husband appeared.

"Polly," he said, sounding startled. That was the first word he said. The next words were, "I'm so glad! I've been trying to call you. I missed you so much!"

Events unfolded as Francisco expected. Within ten minutes they were both crying their eyes out. When the call ended, Polly looked up at Francisco. "Father... may I have your permission to leave?"

"Of course, dear."

She ran around to his side of the desk and gave him a tight hug. "Thank you, Father," she said.

"Anders! Anders! Why must I always call you twice?" said Francisco.

"Sorry, sir, I was serving drinks," said Anders.

"I'm sure," said Francisco. "Find my daughter Mirabelle and her husband Lee. Bring them to my master bedroom."

"Your master bedroom, sir?"

"Are you deaf? Or must I repeat myself?"

"No sir. Yes sir."

Francisco stared at Anders with open hostility as the man moved to obey his instructions. Good help was so hard to find nowadays.

Mirabella was a red-headed beauty with sparkling blue eyes. Lee was a tall, brown haired man in good shape. They had been a good match. But they had also been married for over a century. Marriages were bound to fray after the century mark. They always did.

"Father?" said Miri, sounding confused. "Why are we meeting you here?"

"Come inside, and I'll tell you."

Miri and Lee entered his master bedroom. Francisco's giant, imposing bed sat in the middle of the room. As they entered, Francisco did the opposite, moving to the exit they had just entered.

"What's this all about, sir?" Lee asked.

"It's all about you. Every time you two come, I always see you fighting. I'm sick of it," said Francisco. "Now, what's it all about this time?"

Mirabelle paused, and then said, "He always hurts my feelings. He never takes into consideration what I want to do."

"Consideration? It's always your way or the highway! You treat me like a personal slave," Lee snapped.

"And you never show me enough affection," said Miri.

"All right, I've heard enough," said Francisco, cutting them both off. "It's rather curious you raise the subject of affection, Miri. You might say it's why I brought you both here," he said, gesturing to his bedroom with open arms.

"What do you mean, Father?"

"I mean I want you and Lee to work out your disputes. When you're done, you can rejoin the party."

"We're not going to work things out here," said Miri.

"Oh, but you are," said Francisco. "Computer?"

"Yes Mr. Odour?" said a human-sounding voice.

"Bedroom windows lock. Bedroom door to lock once I close it."

"Affirmative," said the voice.

"Door lock to only be activated by the sounds of both male and female cries of pleasure."

Miri started to understand. "You want us to... you want us to perform for that thing?"

"My bed is yours," said Francisco.

"No, Father. We won't do it. We aren't puppets here to perform on command," said Miri. She looked at Lee. "Right?"

Lee paused, looking thoughtful.

"I think Lee actually looks a little intrigued," said Francisco. "If you're still here at midnight, I'll let you go."

"Midnight! Father, no!"

"Have a good time, you two," said Francisco, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Father! Father, open up!" he heard as he walked down the hallway, back to the party.

"Anders!" said Francisco. "Have you seen my son, Nathan?"

"Nathan?" said Anders.

"He's right over there," said Francisco, pointing to the corner of the patio where Nathan sat alone. "Are you blind as well as deaf?"

"No sir," said Anders.

"Go and do something useful," said Francisco, disgusted with the man.

He went over to his son, Nathan. Nathan was the only child he had had with Abigail. Francisco never really understood Nathan. He was so pleased to finally have a second son, his only son besides Raymond, who had been something of a disappointment. He had hoped that Nathan would follow in his footsteps and enter the world of business.

But instead Nathan had been inclined to become an artist. A painter, and a sculptor. Francisco could never understand his passion. Where was the money in painting? Nowhere. And so the two never had much to talk about, and Francisco tended to neglect his son.

Still, as Abigail reminded him, he was his son, and he should make an effort. He went over to Nathan, who was looking closely at his datapad. Nathan flipped his datapad over when Francisco approached.

"Hey, son."

"Hi Dad," said Nathan, staring out at him from his dark curls. To Francisco's knowledge, Nathan had never gotten married. Did Nathan even have a girlfriend? Francisco simply didn't know.

"Hi," said Francisco. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing much," said Nathan.

"Show me," said Francisco. When Nathan didn't respond, Francisco took the datapad and flipped it over. It was a flat video he was watching, of an elephant stomping on a painting. Then the image changed, to show an enraged chimpanzee screaming at the top of his lungs, ripping a painting to pieces. Francisco slowly realized what he was seeing.

"You... you like destructive art too!"

"Yeah," said Nathan, giving a shy smile.

"What did you think of what I did with the flamethrower?" Francisco asked.

"It was wonderful," Nathan half-whispered. "The way that painting burned? One of the most amazing things I've ever seen."

Suddenly, they found they had something in common, something they could talk about. They were still talking in an animated fashion, twenty minutes later, when Francisco eyed Mirabella and Lee, coming out of the house, chatting amiably, arm and arm. Mirabella's perfectly combed hair was now spread in all directions.

And off to the side, he could see Abigail, watching him and Nathan, a broad smile uncharacteristically gracing her sour features.

"Anders! Anders!"

Anders showed up at his side. Francisco was sitting next to Abigail.

"I think I will change your name to AndersAnders," said Francisco. "That way I won't have to call you twice, as I increasingly seem to have to do. How does that strike you?"

"Whatever you wish, sir."

"What I wish now is a pineapple crush," said Francisco. "See if you can get me one without delay."

"It would be my pleasure, sir," said Anders, heading to the bar.

"I'm sure," said Francisco. He saw Abigail looking at him, but for once she was uncharacteristically silent.

And there, by the nuclear ping pong table, was Melanthia, staring at the exchange, worry etched on her face. When she saw him look at her, she turned away.

When Anders returned with his drink, Francisco snapped, "About time." Then he looked up at it. "That's a pineapple crush."

"So it is, sir."

"I asked for a strawberry crush."

"Sir?"

"Never mind," Francisco snapped. "I suppose it's amazing you managed to bring me anything drinkable. Give it here."

As Anders reached down to hand him the drink, Francisco grabbed it from his hand. In the process it spilled on his lap.

Francisco jumped up. "You bumbling idiot!"

"I'm sorry, sir," said Anders.

"That's the third time this week you've spilled a drink on me!"

"Sir, I don't believe-"

"Are you calling me a liar?" Francisco roared.

"No, sir."

"I have to wonder why I am paying you so well to spill drinks on me."

Melanthia came running over. "Father, calm down," she said, taking his arm.

Francisco pulled away from her. "You calm down," he snapped. "Does it make sense to pay someone to spill drinks on me? Anders, I asked you a question!"

"No sir, it doesn't," said Anders.

"I think you've hit on it, Anders, I really have. I can spill drinks on myself a lot more inexpensively and cost effectively than you ever could. Your service has been barely adequate for years, but I've tolerated it because my daughter says I need hired help. Well, I don't need your kind of hired help any more. Your services are hereby terminated."

"Father, no, you can't!" Melanthia gasped.

"Can't I?" said Francisco, an eyebrow raised. "Of course I can." He turned to Anders. "Go and pack your things. I want you off my property by the end of the day. Because of your long service, I will give you six months severance, not that you deserve it."

That was the first clue. A six month severance was uncommon. From Francisco Odour, it was unheard of. Usually two weeks was the standard. A month was considered generous. But Anders, proud, said he would refuse to accept it.

"So, see if I care? Now go and pack your things!"

Anders, expressionlessly, spun on his heel and left.

Melanthia was crying. "Father, no, please, reconsider!"

"Why are you crying, dear? He's just the hired help," said Francisco. "Or is he something more?"

Melanthia, with tears in her eyes, spun about and left.

All eyes were on Francisco.

Abigail said, "I've seen cruel, Francisco Odour, but I haven't seen anything this cruel out of you for some time. Today I was vaguely falling for the idea that there might be some hope for you. I can see that I was wrong." Her tone was angry, harsh. But her clear blue eyes said something else. "You haven't changed a bit, and never will. Nathan, I think it is time we were going."

"Yes," said Francisco. "A good idea! You should all go! This party is now over."

Everyone gathered their things and prepared to depart. One by one they made their goodbyes to Francisco. And yet, even though Abigail had been the very first to say that she was leaving, she was among the very last to actually depart.

"Spare me your banal pleasantries," she said as she approached him, avoiding a hug with a restraining hand. "I'm not going to lie. I had a horrible time. You're awful, Francisco, perfectly dreadful. I would be perfectly content never to see you again."

"Mom, don't be so mean to Dad!" said Nathan. "Can't you be nice to him, even for a few seconds?"

For a moment, Abigail seemed to soften. "All right, dear, just for you," she said, and with a twinkle in her eye, she reached up and gave Francisco a kiss on his cheek, and, in the softest of voices, whispered, "Call me soon."

Francisco looked startled.

"There, I've paid my dues," she said loudly. "Come along, Nathan."​