Memory Master

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

"I can remember whatever I want, whenever I want?" Amanda asked.

The salesman nodded, patting the dome of the Memory Master. "Whatever you program." He'd already explained the procedure twice, but he'd explain it a hundred more times if need be, to make a sale. Besides, he knew that the lady probably had understood what he'd said the first time. Usually, customers asked him to repeat the steps of the procedure several times for no other reason than to convince themselves—or to let him convince them—that it was a perfectly safe process. "You just input the date and the time period, in hours, minutes, and seconds, and, viola, you are there. It's the next best thing to time travel. In fact, since time travel is fiction and the Memory Master is real, it's better than time travel."

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"I wouldn't let my teenagers use ours if it weren't."

"Wasn't the Memory Master recalled not long ago, because—"

"There was a recall, a few years ago, more as a precaution than anything else. Seems there was a small problem with the synchronicity mechanism, but that's all been fixed."

"What's this synchronicity mechanism?"

He shrugged. "It prevents memory diffusion."

"Memory diffusion? What's that?"

Forgetting the present-past as you revisit the past-past or vice-versa."

Amanda didn't like the sound of that. "I'd really like an owner's manual," she declared.

"Sorry, but, like I told you, owner's manuals don't come with the used models, not unless the previous owner includes it with the trade-in or we happen to have an extra one on hand." He smiled his wide, nothing-to-worry-about salesman's smile. "But you don't need a manual for this baby. You could operate it in your sleep."

Amanda bit her lower lip, frowning, as she considered the offer. The salesman had offered her an unbelievable deal—only $1,800 for the Memory Master. Of course, it was used. She'd been a little anxious that a used Memory Master might not operate as well as a new model would. It probably wouldn't, the salesman had agreed, but it would certainly operate safely and dependably. The company's engineers and mechanics had given it a 100-point inspection before they'd allowed it to be released for sale.

"Can you deliver it?" she asked.

"You'll have it this afternoon," the salesman assured her.

 

Amanda was ready when the Memory Master was delivered. She'd kept a journal of her life, both before and after she'd taken hormones, had breast implants, undergone the surgical reduction of her larynx, submitted to electrolysis, and learned to think, feel, believe, and move as a woman. Although many of her transsexual friends had opted to "go all the way" and undergo the sex-change operation, trading their cocks and balls for artificial vaginas, Amanda had decided she preferred to keep her male genitals. She found the incongruity of having a female's womanly breasts, long, smooth, tapering legs, and round, feminine bottom and a male's penis and testicles extremely sexy. Besides, she didn't feel like a male or a female; she felt like a third sex, like a combination of the two, like Hermaphrodite, the bisexual divinity in ancient Greek mythology. She was neither-nor and, at the same time, both-and. Neither a male, a female, nor a post-operative transsexual could claim as much; she liked being sexually unique. However, when it came to romance, she most definitely identified with the feminine role. As a shemale, she liked to make love as a woman and to take love as a woman.

As a man, she'd enjoyed the role of the male. However, she hadn't adopted that role since she'd begun her partial transformation into a woman, three years ago. Sometimes, she missed making love to a woman. Occasionally, she'd like to play the part of the man she had once been. She did, in her imagination, sometimes, fantasizing that she was still equipped with an obedient and virile penis that would rise and thicken and stiffen with lust at the sight of a woman's naked breasts, pubes, sex, or buttocks. However, she seldom was able to achieve an erection, and, when she did, it tended not to last long. Although her cock and balls were still functional, she seemed to ooze, rather than to ejaculate, sperm, her seed welling up inside her urethra to trickle down the flaccid shaft. She missed seeing the gushing white streamers of her warm, thick semen, erupting as if from a volcano while her prick, hard as a nineteen-year-old stud's, lurched and strained as if it might explode. Now, thanks to Memory Master, she could relive those memories whenever she liked, as often as she liked.

Actually, the machine would enable her to do far more than simply remember such experiences. The Memory Master would virtually re-create them, allowing her to relive them in her mind as if they were happening again, in as much detail and vividness as they had when they'd actually occurred. The machine enhanced the memory to such an extent that a customer could see and hear and taste and touch and feel his or her recollections as vibrantly and intensely as they'd been perceived when they had actually transpired. That's why the cost of even a used Memory Master was $1,800.

Consulting her journal, Amanda chose a date from five years ago and set the time parameters from eight p. m. to midnight. Then, she sat in the thick, upholstered cushions of the chair that was attached to the Memory Master's power supply and instrument-control panel, closed her eyes, regulated her breathing, relaxed, and pressed the activation switch. Her last thought, before the memories came alive in her brain, was to wonder what the salesman might have thought about her wanting to recapture her past as a man. Would he find a shemale's desire to experience again the gender she'd left behind—in part, at least—amusing, pathetic, or repulsive, or fashionable and trendy? He probably wouldn't care at all, as long as he received his commission for having sold her the product. She smiled, and, then, she was no longer seated in the Memory Master recliner, with electrodes attached to her head.

She was a he again.

Amanda was Adam.

His chest was flat; gone were the bouncy, perky breasts that had jutted out before him as if they were advance scouts reconnoitering the area ahead of the rest of him—or, of the her he'd become, as Amanda. In addition, a thick, unsightly mat of hair covered his flat chest. His legs were hairy, too, and the space between his nose and his upper lip, like his chin and his jaws, was covered in gritty stubble. His hips weren't as wide, either, and his buttocks weren't as sleek and round. His hair didn't cascade over his shoulders, spilling to the middle of his back, and he was wearing a sports shirt, jeans, and suede boots instead of the skirt and blouse or dress that had, with appropriate jewelry and other accessories, become his daily attire for—he couldn't recall, exactly, but it seemed a good while. It didn't seem to him that he was wearing makeup, either, and a glance at his fingernails confirmed to him that his nails were neither long nor painted. In addition, it seemed that his penis had enlarged considerably, as had his testicles, and he felt more virile, strong, and self-confident than he had in—well, in a good while. In fact, he was more than a little horny; he was half-mad with lust. He had to find a woman, and soon.

But whom could he find who would fuck him at a moment's notice? Ah! Becca, of course! Why hadn't he thought of her at once? Maybe, he worried, his memory was slipping. No, he thought, dimly aware of something else having occupied his attention just a few moments ago, it wasn't memory loss; rather , it had been distraction; he'd been thinking about—he couldn't recall, but, he reassured himself, it couldn't have been all that important. All that mattered is that he had remembered Becca, and, he was quite certain, she would welcome the opportunity of their being intimate again. Becca had always been fond of him. Well, tonight, she could have all she wanted of him—and maybe more than she could handle. He grinned. He hadn't felt this good for—well, a good while.

If his memory served, her e-exchange was 555-5588L. There was an e-exchanger at the corner of Orion Avenue and Neptune Street. He could contact her from there.

 

He'd expected Becca to welcome him without reservation; instead, the image on the e-exchanger's monitor looked, by turns, shocked, horrified, and angry. "What the hell is this?" she demanded when she'd read Adam's typewritten message: "Hi, Bec; this is Adam Waters. Long time, no see. Are you busy tonight?"

He frowned at her message and the darkness that clouded her face. His hands moved rapidly over the e-pad's keyboard as he typed his reply: "What do you mean, 'what the hell is this'? It's ADAM, Bec. You remember me."

He watched the letters of her reply flash on the e-exchanger's monitor: "Adam disappeared five years ago."

Of course! Adam told himself. He had vanished half-a-decade ago, when he'd decided to become—no, not when he'd 'decided,' but when he'd had to become—Amanda. He'd told no one where he was going or what he planned to do. In becoming a transsexual, Adam had ceased to exist, as far as anyone knew. He'd quite literally vanished. No wonder his showing up unannounced like this, claiming to be a man who'd disappeared five years ago, had shocked, frightened, and angered Becca. What could he say or do to put things right? Anything?

"Please, let me explain," he typed.

"How did you get my e-exchange?" she demanded. "Who are you? What do you want from me? Are you stalking me?"

He tried to answer her questions, but they came too thick and fast, so he just sat, numb and silent, reading her messages. Her last communiqué was, "I'm notifying the regulators!"

Frightened at the thought that the regulators might be able to trace his location through the e-exchanger, Adam signed off. He looked at the chronometer that pulsed in an alcove above a local teleport. It was just after nine o'clock. He frowned. For some odd reason, he had the strongest intuition that something significant was going to happen to him at midnight, but he had no idea what it might be or why.

The transition period between the temporary, but complete, loss of his old identity as Amanda and the adoption of the self (Adam) that he'd been at the time and date that Amanda had input into the Memory Master had just ended. The synchronicity mechanism in his Memory Master had failed for the very good reason (unknown to Amanda-Adam, of course), that its previous owner had not taken it to the dealer to be repaired when the machine had been recalled for this very reason.

He was not cut entirely off from his past as a transsexual—not yet, anyway; however, his sense of himself as a man and his lustful craving to have sex with a woman as soon as possible remained. He glanced at his crotch. His penis was a foot long, thick as a regulator's stun-stick, and throbbed painfully. His balls ached, too. He had to get laid, and soon!

Becca had cut him off, threatening to call the regulators on him, but there were plenty of other women he could fuck, right? he asked himself. Wrong! he answered. Becca had been pretty much the only chance he'd had of getting laid, and he'd scared her half to death, calling her out of the blue after five years of being missing. Why had he allowed himself to lose contact with a beautiful babe like her, anyway? What the hell had he been up to for the last half-decade?

He had a moment of intense panic when he realized that he hadn't a clue what had transpired during the past five years of his life. He felt terrified as he realized that he had developed amnesia, but a very specific sort of amnesia. It covered only the five years previous to this evening. He could remember well the details of his life prior to five years ago, and he could remember everything that had happened since an hour ago, but the intervening five years between those time periods were a complete blank to him; they might as well never have occurred. Suddenly, getting a piece of ass seemed the least of his worries.

 

Think! Think! Adam told himself. There had to be someone besides Becca to whom he could turn for information concerning what he'd done and where he'd been for the past five years. There had to be someone—but whom? A face flashed before his mind—a Valentine's heart-shaped face—with wide, blue eyes, freckles in an arch across the bridge of the pert nose, red hair, a small, pink bow of a mouth, and a friendly smile—Britney! Britney Sullivan! He remembered her now. She'd had a crush on him—hadn't she? He had no idea why, but he seemed to be having a hell of a time remembering even the simplest things. If anyone could tell him what he'd been up to for the past five years, it would be she, he reckoned. Now, what was her e-exchange? 555-1231M? Or was it 555-1321P? Maybe it was 2311T? He'd try the e-exchanger's numerologist; if the numerologist couldn't help him, he'd just have to try all the exchanges, he supposed. He typed in the first exchange, and a Valentine's heart-shaped face, wide, blue eyes, freckles in an arch across the bridge of the pert nose, red hair, a small, pink bow of a mouth, and a friendly smile—"Britney!" he cried. "Don't disconnect! It's Adam! Adam Tremont!"

She didn't disconnect. She traded e-messages back and forth with her contactee for over an hour. It was after 10:00 p. m. when she'd finally agreed to let him visit her at her condo-unit.

 

Making use of the nearest teleportation booth, Adam teleported himself to her address, arriving within three-tenths of a millisecond, cursing the heavy traffic, and rang her portal alert. He expected a hug and a kiss when she opened the portal; he got a hard slap across the face instead.

"Ow!" he cried, rubbing his smarting cheek. "What was that for?"

"You don't know?" she retorted, shaking her head in a mixture of pity and anger. "You disappear for five years, after leaving me jilted at the altar, and then come back, claiming to have amnesia—"

"Jilting you?"

"We were going to be married, as you well know."

"I don't well know; I don't know at all. I don't remember anything about the last five years. That's why I came to you, so you could help me remember."

She looked at him closely. The anger in her eyes softened to sorrow. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"No."

"Come in. We have a lot of catching up to do."

 

It was 11:15 by her living room chronometer when she'd finished refreshing his memory. Unfortunately, she hadn't succeeded. He still remembered nothing about the mysterious, lost five years. Her recapitulating what he'd done during that time period seemed more like a story than a reminiscence. He stared at her potted flora, looking exactly as he felt—dazed and confused. "I wanted to become a woman?" he repeated incredulously.

She nodded. "You had a hard time telling even me, but you finally did—after we'd dated for three years."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be!"

"I am."

She shook her head. "I can't stay angry with an amnesiac, but I wish you'd had the courtesy to tell me you wanted to become a woman before you proposed to me."

"I guess I was confused."

She chuckled. "That's the understatement of the century."

"I can't believe I wanted to be a woman."

"Well, you did. The medics said you had gender dysphoria, which, simply put, means that you thought of yourself as a woman trapped in a man's body. They recommended sex-change surgery, provided that you wanted to go through with it after you'd been on hormone therapy and lived as a woman for a year."

Adam gawked at her. "You're kidding!"

She frowned. "Does it look as though I'm kidding?"

"Well, I want to be a man now."

"Now that it's too late."

"It's not too late, Britney," he said. He looked into her eyes, and she looked back. "Is it?"

He saw the longing in her gaze. It was obvious to him that she loved him. She'd always loved him, even after he'd jilted her to become a woman instead of being her groom. She'd waited for him all these years, hoping against hope that somehow, by some miracle, he might come back to her.

"No," she agreed, a tear coursing down her cheek.

He kissed her. She kissed him back.

 

Neither of them remembered leaving the living room and entering the bedchamber. Neither recalled climbing into her elliptical bed-cushion. Neither recollected disrobing. They cared to know only one another. They wanted only to kiss and caress and hug and hold. Eventually, their bodies adopted positions remembered more through habit and reflex than conscious thought, and Britney positioned herself upon her elbows and her knees, with her legs spread and her buttocks high. Adam knelt behind her. He guided the shaft of his gargantuan penis into the cleavage of her buttocks. Pressing forward with his hips, he shoved his cock past the sleek, soft walls of her buttocks, through the tiny, tight opening of her anus, and into her rectum, filling her with his massive, rigid organ.

Britney moaned as her sphincter fluttered around his cock. He paused, thrilled by the clutching, squeezing sensations that gripped his prick. When her anal spasms subsided, he withdrew his monstrous penis until only the glans remained within her asshole. She moaned again as she felt the thick, hard shaft retreat, drawing against the tissues of her rectum and sliding backward through her anus. He plunged forward, his member thrusting deep into her bowels. The sensation of the smooth, tight ring of her anus gripping his cock as it slid into the warm-smooth-softness of her rectum excited Adam. It had been a long while since he'd fucked a woman in the ass, and he was enjoying it immensely. He couldn't understand why in the world any man would want to be a woman, not when it meant he'd have to forego the pleasures of butt-fucking a beautiful woman like Britney. He rammed his cock back and forth within the tight sphincter, thrusting harder and faster. Her ass cheeks jiggled and bounced with every thrust, her buttocks flattening before each advance and springing back into their glorious fullness each tine that he momentarily withdrew, his balls striking her perineum and his pubes grinding hard against her derriere.

She was whimpering, as she often had when he'd fucked her this way, hard and fast and as impersonally as if she were nothing but a fleshly machine built for his delight. It hurt her for him to pound her so mercilessly, but he couldn't help doing so. He was no longer in control of himself; lust had claimed him, and it drove him now. All he cared about was the feel of her tight, snug anus around his cock and the soft-but-firm cushions of her ass cheeks bouncing before his plunging lunges.

They were going to be married, he thought, smiling. Her ass would be available to him any time he wanted to fuck it, and he planned to make frequent use of her rectum, anus, and buttocks, just as he had in the past, before he'd—well, before he'd disappeared.

Despite her discomfort, Britney shoved her ass back to meet his thrusts, so that she could take his cock as deeply into her depths as possible. She grunted. She groaned. She whimpered, but she was giving as good as she got, wanting to please her fiancé. "Uhh!" she would moan, slamming her ass into his crotch. "Uhh!" she would moan as he withdrew his thick, hard prick, drawing it backward, past the walls of her rectum and through her impaled anus.

Passion welled in his loins, flooding him, and he seemed to lose all his strength at once, collapsing atop his bride-to-be. His eye caught the numbers displayed on her chronometer. It was 11:59:57. Again, the thought flashed in his mind that something was going to happen at midnight, something not only significant but also life-changing. Then, all thought vanished as the building orgasm swept over him, and his straining, lurching cock spurted semen onto his belly.

He frowned, as, looking down the length of his body as he reclined in the Memory Master's chair, he saw the pert, firm breasts, the sleek, concave tummy, the trim patch of pubic hair, the diminutive penis that had not spurted his copious life-fluid inside the firm-soft buttocks of Britney but had, rather, oozed the fluid onto his groin, where, already it was cool and sticky instead of warm and thick. Adam—why had she thought of Adam? She hadn't been Adam for years. She was Amanda. Already, the memory of her as a man, fucking a woman deep and hard in her round, bouncing ass, was fading. She frowned at the semen that had drooled from her flaccid penis. She'd made a quite a mess of herself.

She rose, to shower, and she inadvertently jiggled a control on the machine's instrument console.

"Happy memories!" the Memory Master's recorded voice cried.

  

  

  

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