My hand splits the air, landing on the soft delicious curved flesh of my big butted companion.
The firm smack shakes the bed, waking her up, with a pained fleeting moan, a sensation diminished with the natural secretion of skin, turning the burning red print into a glossy silhouette of my hand, augmenting the pleasure she feels with the strong squeeze of my grasp.
Leaning, my mouth roughly nibbles the neck and nape of my mature affair. "It's time to go to college, Professor". I whisper teasingly into the ear of the woman below me.
She squirms, turning to face me, gently but ephemeraly kissing my lips, as i step away, ending the interaction.
In private, she doesn't have self-control, i could comply with her desires, because i don't really care about my studies. But. The university has many opportunities to seduce a wide variety of «Females», each of them being a potential «Broodmare».
"How malicious you are…". She complains weakly, standing up, spreading her bouncy, bountiful rear, letting me have a nice view to start my day. "Look how damped you made me…".
"It's your own fault Professor. First thing i see after a good night of sleep, is your naked ass. In good heart, i can let unattended such inviting buffett".
I playfully bite the air, and she blushes profusely.
Truthful compliments are always well received by any older women, especially widows, and considering the spasm of my deflated girthy manhood, she can infer that i am not lying.
Deviating her sight, the Professor courses her index finger on the edge of a photograph frame on the nearby nightstand.
It is not the only one, there are several. I am in all of them, along with my old friends that practiced parkour with me, the comrades from the military service, and then, my squad during my active deployment in the conflict of the past year.
"Who's this fine ripped man?". The Professor asks, showing a picture of a nineteen year old me in the woods, standing next to me, is my father.
{The first hunting trip i had with him}
My mood switches abruptly. "Is my old man".
As expected from a mature woman, she notices the change of my expression, along my somber attitude. "Bad memories?".
"Not really. He wasn't in my life, my mother died. I went to an orphanage… , one that was later destroyed in the tsunami of nine years ago…".
I grunt. "He was the one who rescued me from the debris, and readopted me later on".
"How come that Social Services didn't call him?. Or sued him?".
"I didn't born in this country, Professor. He visited my homeland, had a one night stand with my mother, and returned here…".
She smiles lovingly. "You don't hate him. On the contrary. You respect him… , Do you resent him too?".
"He earned my respect. And i don't resent him for abandoning me. He didn't knew about my birth".
"So?".
"The idiot is dead!". I say spitefully. "Shot in the head by a burglar who broke into his house, and «Accidentally» turned on the gas too, exploding the whole complex".
"That…". The puzzlement in the Professor is extreme, not knowing if i am lying, and not believing an appropriate investigation was not carried out.
My fury rises up. "Nonsense!. I am able to dodge the bullets fired from a rifle with absolute certainty if it's eight meters away from me!. I never beat my father!. On anything!… , You, yourself Professor, called him «Handsome» when i'm right here. Even dead he is better!. How am i supposed to accept the crappy story about a robbery that went wrong?!".
I sigh, trying to calm my altered state.
It is not my usual bearing, but it enrages me that we would give years of our lives on the front lines of a war, only to die in the sanctity of our own homes.
{What the heck was the point behind fighting and protecting this country then?!}
"My late husband also got frustrated at not beating his father". Comments the Professor with kindness and tactfulness. "Is it really that important?".
I take a moment to reply. "I don't know, Professor. But for me, it's the ultimate proof of «Filiality» that any descendant can express. Surpassing your own father demonstrates that he didn't waste his time and resources on you, as well as highlighting how good of a role model he was…".
My steps take me towards the adjacent bathroom. "I had his guidance for a third of my life. «How good i could be, if he had been with me from the start?». That question will forever remain unanswered…".
My speech is cut short by the weird motion in the corner of my eye. The mirror is not showing my reflection, instead, is rippling, like a vertical puddle of molten mercury.
{What the…?!}
The malleable mass shoots out from the center of the mirror, its speed is astonishingly high, the proximity is less than a meter, making my attempt to avoid the jet-stream, blatantly futile.
The metallic fluid covers and encapsulates my body in an instant, swallowing me into the mirror.
The sensation of being wrapped in metal is suffocating, constraining me temporarily, as i twist my frame violently, popping up the bubble.
Cold sends a chill through my spine, shaking as my vision fails to adapt, the darkness around is unsettling, vast, illusory and confusing.
Dizziness strikes me, followed by muscular soreness. My balance is altered, stumbling, strangely, every step i take to the left, gives me the sensation of moving forward.
I regain my equilibrium, walking to the right side, believing i am returning to my starting point, but i still feel like if i were moving in the same direction as before, forward.
{What is going on?!}
The lack of light should impede my sight, but after a few minutes of strolling blindly. I begin to visualize a silhouette in the distance.
It is blurry and difficult to distinguish at first, but slowly, it becomes clearer and larger
{It's… , It's me?!}
My mind freezes momentarily. The person before me has a shorter height, an arrogant stance, and is wearing a scaled burgundy bodysuit that still remarks his smaller physical build. While my own body is naked.
He does the first action, swaying his hand diagonally, as if his arm were a blade unsheathed from his waist.
"«Cutlass»".
His voice is the same as me.
Nevertheless, the motion unleashes a blue crescent slash of energy from the nails of his fingers.
The shock almost prevents my prompt sidestep, ultimately, i evade the slow aggression, a nine millimeter bullet shot from a pistol is faster, even the speed of a regular paintball is higher.
I groan with reignited rage. My previous upsetness has not been completely dwindled, and as the saying goes, «When we reach our limit, it doesn't matter who or what was done. Whoever is near, it's going to pay all along»…