Bob’s Memoir: 4,000 Years as a Free Demon
52
Happy Days
I GREW UP in the 50s. “But, Bob,” you say, “you’re 4,000 years old. How can you claim to have grown up in the 50s?” Right. Well, I was recently dead… I should go back just a little further.
Early in the 1900s, after I’d left the vineyard to Maureen and was free, I decided to do a wine tour of France. We’d been in the wine business for fifty years, switching back and forth as to who owned the vineyard. It worked out well, and Maureen was getting the hang of being a neutral demon instead of being evil. I know she still had a taste for souls, but she’d cut back. Her story was quite different than mine and she’d had a hard time adjusting to impersonating humans without killing them.
Anyway, my wine tour in France took the better part of three years, during which time I met Gabrielle. She was a French beauty who happened also to be a vintner’s daughter and a very knowledgeable oenophile. I visited her father’s vineyard and while tasting wines, got to know Gabrielle, who then mysteriously attached herself to my arm as we toured about a hundred more vineyards and compared notes on what we thought of each wine. I bought several cases of wine on that trip and moved them into the infinity room when I was alone at night.
Yes, I was alone at night. Gabrielle wanted to travel with me and taste wines, but she was a good girl and always had her own room—which frustrated me no end. Which is why I ended up marrying her and then fucking her until my eyes nearly bled. It takes a lot of fucking before a demon’s eyes bleed from it. Gabrielle’s only comment was to ask why I’d waited so long before I married her.
We finished our tour and I proposed that we buy a vineyard in California and make wine together. She suggested we do that while having sex. I agreed.
So, after a very pleasant ocean voyage, followed by an equally pleasant cross-country train trip, we arrived in San Francisco to take over the vineyard that I recently acquired from Maureen. She’d decided to take a break for a while and go back to Ireland to see what was happening there.
I’d dropped a number of hints to Gabrielle about my not being totally human and she nodded. She had no interest in what I might be as long as I had a usable erection. Which was most of the time.
She patted me on the head and said, “Yes, dear. Just keep your hobby in your den and I won’t interfere with it.”
My den was in a shed behind the very attractive villa I’d built at the vineyard. Of course, she didn’t know I’d built it, because that was years ago. The vineyard had been functioning since the Civil War, some fifty years past. Our Goídel Glas Wines were well-received, and Gabrielle pronounced them palatable. French snob.
Anyway, the US declared war on Germany in April of 1917 and passed the Selective Service Act in May. As a new US citizen, I had to register for the draft and was called up as we were harvesting.
I might have pled for a deferment as an agricultural worker, but I could hardly claim wine was an essential service, though later, I decided it would have been. I reported and with my imported French records, I was made a lieutenant after basic training. I was sent back to France where it was considered my experience in dealing with the French would be useful.
I’ll not dwell on my role in that hellish war. Ten thousand Americans a day arrived in France to support the war effort. The losses were high. By the time of the Armistice in November, I was a Captain and was one of the few draftees who were retained in France to help with the reconstruction.
I was given a regional peacekeeping responsibility right back in our old neighborhood. I spent any non-duty time I had acquiring and tasting the local wines, just as I’d done ten years before with Gabrielle.
I was looking forward to getting home and fucking Gabrielle some more, but my departure was delayed when I was shot by an upset local. I will not say if the incident did or did not involve several casks of good wine and his wife. Nonetheless, I ended up in a hospital and made the decision to die there and take on a new identity. I’d done the kind of body swap where I took over the identity of a dead man and disguised his body as my own. That was how I became Odysseus almost three thousand years before.
Thus freed of responsibilities, I spent a few years wandering post-war Europe—a depressing thing to have done. I’d adopted a young look—something noticed by sergeant McAuliffe and his wife when they spotted me. It was mostly to keep myself from being drafted in postwar France. I pled with the Americans to adopt me and thus emigrated to America.
Sadly, the McAuliffes and I ‘got separated’ soon after reaching their home in Georgia. I decided to switch identities when I discovered the McAuliffes were Southern Baptists and expected me to be one, too. I adopted several identities over the next twenty years and moved around the US a lot. That is a different story entirely. But my brief time as a boy left me with a desire to have that experience, and so I convinced Maureen to pose me as her son, a strapping young lad of twelve in 1951.
Hence, back to where I started this harangue. I grew up in the 50s. Maureen acquired the vineyard from my widow, who was ready to retire and return to France.
The hardest part of being a teen was disciplining myself to act the part of a young teen and not a horny old goat. Fortunately, I had access to the infinity room, where my wives and concubines had a perverse pleasure in sex with a teen boy. And Maureen was always happy to welcome me home from school in the afternoon with wide open legs. Between the two, I was kept from fucking several delectable underage girls.
Until I was sixteen. What a glorious year!
I found school to be quite informational. I was nearly four thousand years old and had never had formal schooling. It was not what I expected at all! They lie! Oh, they talked about history as if they understood it, but half of it was wrong. They simply skipped over the racism in California as if the Chinese weren’t still discriminated against. The Japanese had only been released from concentration camps ten years before and many never got their homes and property back. During the California gold rush, more than 150 Mexicans were lynched because they were successful miners. And whites invaded Chinatown in San Francisco to kill eighteen Chinese people because some white idiot choked on a wonton. California had a history of enslaving people without calling it that and I attempted to set the record straight.
I was sent home from school and suspended for a week for causing trouble.
I guess, like students of every generation, I learned to keep my mouth shut. It hurt to see so many of my fellow students accepting what they were told without question. The ‘A’s they received on tests were a kind of badge of ignorance.
But not everything was bad. I moved into San Francisco to an apartment Maureen rented for me over a little store on Haight Street. Yes, that one. She registered me in public school for my junior and senior years of high school and then didn’t really show up again in San Francisco until I graduated. By that time, I owned the store and was using my girls to operate it. I, on the other hand, had a new T-Bird and was a popular date on Saturday nights. I didn’t play sports because I didn’t think that was fair. It was too easy to enhance my body to make it faster, stronger, and more durable. On the other hand, some of the faster girls at my high school liked the idea of a fast car and a guy with a big dick.
“Bob, I can’t believe your mom just takes off and leaves you in this fab pad. She won’t be back and spoil our fun, will she?” Bernice said.
I don’t actually remember if her name was Bernice. It seemed like such a common name at the time. I’ll just call whoever I was with at the time Bernice. I might have to use Bernie for short.
“Mom says I’m sixteen and the trouble I get into is my own problem to deal with. I don’t mind getting in trouble with you,” I said.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d do the right thing, wouldn’t you, Bob?”
I kept kissing her as I opened her blouse to display her very padded bra. There wasn’t nearly as much under that as she made it look like. I didn’t mind. That was one of the differences between San Francisco girls and Los Angeles girls. Girls near Hollywood were often augmented in order to get considered for parts in movies. The Bay Area girls were usually all natural, whatever they sported. Fashions, however, wanted everything pushed together, up, and out. This bra made her look like she was wearing torpedoes on her chest.
“Do you mean trouble like pregnant?” I asked. “If so, you don’t need to worry about it. I had mumps when I was little and it left me completely sterile. I can’t ever have kids.” It was only a little lie.
“Oh, that’s so sad. Does it… all work okay?” she asked, stroking my cock.
I finally managed to get the catch on her bra opened—don’t laugh; it was my first time opening one of those—and revealed two absolutely delectable champagne glass breasts, which I worshiped with my tongue and hands.
“I think you’ll find it’s all in operating condition.” She had my cock out of my pants and was trying to get her hand around it. “Now, if you’re worried about getting in trouble with your parents, I’ll do all I can to get you home before curfew, but other than that I don’t know if I can help you with any trouble.”
“I’m not worried about that. Right now… um… I’m worried about this. It’s huge. We might have trouble… um… I don’t think it will fit.”
Her skirt was lying on the floor around her ankles as I continued to undress her. I debated leaving her stockings and garter belt on, but she’d put the panties on first and I’d have to unfasten the contraption before I could get them off.
“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. Gee, you’re pretty, Bernie. I just can’t believe how beautiful you look. I want to make you feel so good you’ll forget your name.” I was working on the four hooks that held her stockings up and trying not to get frustrated.
“You’re so sweet. You know it doesn’t work that way for girls. Boys get a big blast and forget about everything else, but it’s something girls just do to please their guys.”
What? Bernice had told me she wasn’t a virgin and I just assumed she knew about sex and pleasure. I was going to make especially sure she had a different opinion about it before our night was over. The stockings finally came loose and I started working her panties down. She pushed away and stripped them and the belt off. Then she jumped on the bed as I finished pushing my own trousers down.
“Are you sure it won’t hurt, Bob? None of the other guys were as big as you.”
Other guys? It took a while before I found out Bernice was kind of the school bike. Well, she was going to find a new standard on this evening. I started kissing her and let my fingers explore. Hmm. If she was no more turned on than this, she’d never have any pleasure from sex. I worked my way down her body, paying special gentle attention to her breasts. I was sure she’d been mauled a lot, but I didn’t think she’d ever been made love to. It was time to bring 4,000 years of experience to bear on this sixteen-year-old slut. When I continued down across her belly and between her legs, she gasped.
“Oh, Bob! That’s so nasty. What are you doing? I smell! You’ll have me all messy down there. What about hair? Oh, my god! Oh, Bob, no boy’s ever… Something’s happening to me. I’m going to… Oh, sweet angels!” There was no question in my mind that Bernice experienced an orgasm, and if I were to believe her responses, it might have been her first one ever.
She lay there with her eyes glazed over, staring at the ceiling, and trying to catch her breath.
“You okay?” I asked as I gently petted her. I hadn’t moved from between her legs and I kept taking occasional swipes up her slit with my tongue. Yes, she did get messy. Her fluids were thick and creamy.
“What did you do to me? It was like I blacked out for a minute because all my senses went into overload.”
“I think I just gave you an orgasm,” I said. I took another lick and she shuddered with aftershocks.
“You mean, like come? Like boys do? Did I squirt stuff?” she asked in alarm.
“Not exactly. Some girls do squirt, but it’s rare. But otherwise, that feeling is a lot like a boy has when he comes.”
“I don’t believe you. I’ve never had a boy pass out when he comes.”
“Practice. Boys practice coming from the time they can get an erection until the day they die. You just haven’t had enough practice yet.”
“Can… you do it again?”
“Oh, yes, Bernie. I was just waiting for an invitation,” I said as I resumed lapping with intent and curled my tongue up inside her hole. She skyrocketed into oblivion again and this time I worked my way up and slid into her.
“You’re in me! It doesn’t hurt! And I’m going to… Do me, Bob. Do me again!”
I did her again and again. And finally, I let loose and poured what I’d been saving for the past hour into her waiting pussy. She came again and passed out completely. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly ten and I needed to get her home. I didn’t think she should go home smelling so well-fucked. I went to the bathroom to see what I had available to clean her up. I went to the satchel and stuck my arm in. I was handed a tray with a bowl of warm water, wet and dry cloths, powder, and deodorant. When did my girls learn about that?
I went about bathing and drying Bernice as she lay on the bed, watching me and not attempting to escape, even when I washed all the way back along her butt crack.
“I think I’ll strangle my mother,” she said at last. I helped her pull her clothes together. “She said good girls didn’t enjoy sex, they just put up with it in order to get a husband. She told me it always hurt. She lied to me and I’ve been making her lies come true every time a guy fucked me.”
“Sex is intended to be enjoyed by everyone. It’s never just an obligation,” I said.
“No offense, but I don’t think I should date you again,” she finally said as we drove to her house in my T-Bird. “Not that I wouldn’t like it. I know I would. But I know that you’ll find someone who isn’t just an easy lay to settle down with eventually, and if I see you again, I’ll just be heart-broken when it happens.”
“Bernice, I really like you a lot,” I started.
“But you wouldn’t have dated me if the guys didn’t suggest me. Recommendations. Go fuck Bernice, then you can find a real girl. Maybe they didn’t say that all out loud, but you got the message. But that’s the old Bernice. I know what I’m looking for now and I won’t settle for less. Besides, when the other girls at school hear my report, you’ll have them swarming all over you.”
“Your report?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be talked about in the girls’ locker room.
“Yeah. Good old Bernice will fuck the new guy and tell us if he’s worth wasting our time on. It happens every time. Don’t worry, Bob. I’ll give you a good report. Not as good as it was. No one would believe me. But you’ll have no problem getting dates.”
I kissed her gently at the door and said goodnight. Then I drove home thinking about what she’d said.
That was kind of how it went growing up in the fifties. In the fifties, I never lacked for a date on Saturday night. Not all dates included sex. There was an unspoken rule about good girls, and even if they thought they would get a good sex experience, they insisted that the first date would include a little light kissing, the second could include petting, and the third—if it went that far—was the earliest that they’d sleep with a guy.
Of course, most also refused to believe that I was sterile, so I had to wear a rubber. But word spread that I was a great date and those that reached the magic number often went several beyond that. I encouraged the girls to not confuse an orgasm with love, and to consider our time together as a learning and testing time, not a lifelong commitment.
There was one who became very attached to me, and I had to sit down and explain the facts of life to her. She was a smart girl named Virginia and had taken a lot of teasing in school about how long she was going to stay virgin. I was surprised to find, after five dates, that she had been a virgin until the night I made love to her.
We’d continued to date every weekend for the next month when I was beginning to feel a little pressure. She’d uttered the L-word once when we were making love and I didn’t want it to turn to the P-word.
For having been a virgin, Virginia was very smart and quite lovely. Undressing her for the first time was a breathtaking experience. Her breasts were slightly more than a handful—and I have large hands. Her flaxen hair hung straight to her waist. Her hips were wide and her mound was covered in a mist of fine yellow hair. She was much like the flower girls of the next decade.
When we stretched out to make love, she pushed me to my back and mounted my shaft as I held her breasts in my hands and guided her up and down. There was a slight gasp of pain when I broke through her maidenhead, but there was no question that she was well-lubricated and ready for my invasion. She stared intently into my eyes and rose to her first climax on my shaft before relaxing forward and rolling us over so I was on top.
It was the first time I’d missed a girl’s curfew.
“Bob, I’m not a dummy,” she said.
“Of course not,” I answered. She hushed me and looked me in the eye.
“We’ve been together for almost three months. Lovers for more than a month. We hang out together and I’ve visited where you live when you weren’t there. Yes, I was spying on you. I wanted to meet the girls who worked in the shop and I listened to them as they spoke about what a great lover and master you were to them. No, I won’t tell you who said what. But I hung out there nearly all of the day I cut school a week ago. The thing is, I know you aren’t what you appear to be.”
“What else would I be?” I asked.
“Species unknown. Probably alien. Carrying out an experiment on earth, seducing high school girls, maybe taking samples from us for your study. I know you’ve slept with at least fifteen girls in our school since you got here two years ago. I probably missed some. You’re a great lover and every one of those girls speaks highly of you. There’s never been a bad breakup. That in itself says you’re an alien.”
“You’ve found me out,” I laughed. “On my planet it is a disgrace to part with a lover on bad terms.”
She looked at me over her glasses and frowned.
“Bob, I want to go with you. I know enough to realize I won’t be your only lover. The girls in the shop were very… um… friendly with each other, so I suppose there’s a lot of free love wherever it is you’re from. But the bottom line is that I want to go with you. One way or another, I want to be part of your world.”
Well, that got us into a pretty heavy discussion. It took a lot of planning on our part and I included Nimia and Josie in the planning stages. It wouldn’t do for Virginia to simply disappear. We were too well-known a couple and suspicion would land on me right away. We made our plans and when we graduated from high school, Virginia moved into the infinity room. We’d long since broken up in the school’s eyes, so the amount of time she spent with me had gone unnoticed. She kept a presence as a student at UC Berkley, a liberal hotbed even in 1959-63. She went to classes, but drove my T-Bird to and from the University. I ‘sold’ it to her and it was registered in her name. By 1964, she was a force in the free speech movement and civil rights protests.
Then in 1965, she sold the T-Bird (might have been to someone I know) and went to Selma, Alabama to join the Civil Rights March on Montgomery. And that’s where she disappeared. To the world. To me, she was back home in the infinity room and welcoming me into her arms whenever she could. During my high school years and a few that followed, she was the only new resident of the infinity room. Of course, during the mid-sixties and later, we began picking up the stray flower children who simply couldn’t cope with having turned on, tuned in, and dropped out. Virginia was significant in getting them settled and recovered.
My point was—there was a point—that the girls in the competition fed off each other like the girls in high school. They compared notes and they arrived at conclusions that defied logic. By the time of the sixth challenge, they were all sleeping with me on a regular basis. I wondered why I’d never held auditions for the infinity room before.
They all had an inkling that there was a lot going on behind the scenes that they didn’t know about, but that being eliminated might not be as big a deal as they were afraid it was. I don’t know how they arrived at that conclusion, but it was out there. Probably pillow talk with one or more of the people from Areola. Nonetheless, no one wanted to lose a competition.
I gave Suhani immunity from the sixth elimination.
“This will test your ability to work with each other, to contribute to the plan and execution of the exercise, and to support each other in achieving your goals,” I said. “Suhani is going to participate, but she will be separate from the group. She’s going to be lost in the mountains.”
They all gasped and Suhani’s eyes got big when it dawned on her that she’d truly be alone.
“It will be your task as a group to find and rescue her. In some of the places where you will be going, it will be almost impossible to send a camera person, let alone a crew. You will be equipped with body cameras, and there will be drones tracking your progress. An independent team of survival and rescue experts will be monitoring you and evaluating each member’s performance. I expect you all to excel in this exercise and it would be impossible for anyone in the family to judge it. The person with the lowest evaluation by this independent panel will be eliminated.”
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