VirtualExile

September 4, 2059

Tate was on his way back from his first block of four 12-hour shifts working for Marco, helping Alessio to develop into his own adolescence as an organic personality in a cloned adult body.

He'd heard, of course, that android Luke had been summarily recalled by Marco's company, along with all the other sex androids of that experimental model.  Again, NOTHING EVER GOES AS TATE PLANS.  So Matt didn't spend four days and three nights at the mercy of Sir Luke as Tate had expected.  Yeah, beta testing.

On his way home he called Matt, he'd just been too busy and too tired to speak with Matt earlier in the week, although they'd texted a few times each day.  He's still too tired, but the car ride will take a while, may as well catch up with his boyfriend.  Matt sounded sad about Luke's recall, and about missing Tate.  Matt said tomorrow, after Tate was well rested, and after breakfast, he'd like to have a relationship status chat, because so much had happened recently.  Tate agreed, that would be a good idea.

Tate thought about how taking care of a brain-wiped adult body was much more physically demanding than taking care of a baby.  Babies don't weigh 180 pounds.  When babies make a mess of their breakfast, there's not as much breakfast to make a mess of, and babies cannot throw it as far.  Tate heard from others on the team how the worst will be when Alessio has learned to walk, they'll have to keep him securely locked within a special safety wing of the complex for a while.  But it was just the first week, Alessio was the equivalent of a one-month-old baby.  He'd develop at roughly 4x the rate of a gestational baby, although various development stages would occur either faster or slower than this 4x rate.

OK, Tate's going to nap for the rest of the car ride.  See you soon.

-----

This is what seat belts are for, as Tate's car wakes him with a hard slam on its brakes and a loud thump.  He hears the car automatically calling 911, and the sound of air bags deflating, having completed their job.  WTF.

He's fine, he thinks.  He's all in one piece.  Not bleeding as far as he can tell.  The car is warning him not to exit the vehicle, as there is high-speed traffic nearby, "Your safest place is to remain seated with your seat belts fastened."

But where's his phone?  Not sitting next to him anymore.  Ugh.  He can use the car's phone to call Matt, which he does.

Matt goes into panic mode, having barely lived through a car accident of his own, and says he and Alex are on their way in another car to pick him up, says the local rescue team should get there first.

"I'm fine," Tate assured him. "I might have bruises from where the seat belts grabbed me, but I'm fine."

-----

The car had hit a deer.  On their way back, Tate snuggled into Matt's side and they held hands.

Matt was more upset than Tate was, Tate was ready to resume his nap.  Tate felt like the car's safety systems had worked, he's OK, he's even more exhausted now.  But Matt's been triggered.

Matt suggested, "We should have your memories backed up every three months, just in case."

Tate thought he was too sleepy to make this decision, and replied, "Not everybody is as excited to keep all their memories as you are."  But then he thought of Ma, and yeah, maybe he should sign up for memory backups, if Matt is paying the bill.  Ma would be devastated if he didn't remember her anymore.  But he'd heard the backup process takes all day when you don't have brain implants.

-----

A quick nonsexual shower together at the house, where Tate got to feel Matt's bruised butt, a protein shake bedtime snack, then Tate wanted snuggles instead of foot rubs, so he fell asleep spooning with Matt while Matt continued to fume about what he considered "a close call, you could've died".  But he can't forbid Tate from ever leaving the house.  He wishes Tate had followed through with getting his vision fixed, the implants would have made it easier to backup his memories regularly.

Cars became steadily safer as AIs took over the driving task -- safer than human drivers ever were.  But shit still happens.  Human drivers are still legal, though most accidents involve human drivers.  And even an AI driver cannot avoid every obstacle while traveling at highway speeds.

A couple days ago, Matt had asked Alex whether they could back up Luke's memories before the company team showed up to retrieve him.  He'd worried that the connection he'd made with Luke would be completely erased by the recall fix, or that they'd send back a different unit.

"They already do continuous remote backups," Alex told him.

"But can't we do our own?  They might wipe him!"

"They'll probably just upgrade his software, while leaving his save files alone.  It depends on what the fix is." Alex had said while unlocking Matt's ankles from the sling.  "If they have to change how the save files are organized to fix the problem, then making our own backup won't help."

Matt had worried, already, about losing Luke, when Luke probably isn't even sentient, and now he was triggered about losing Tate.  Fucking cars!

Tate had intuited that Matt needed somebody who was around all the time, until he truly recovered from the trauma of that botched storage tank back in June, and getting Luke was a good idea for this purpose, but now we know Luke may not be around all the time either.

Yeah, we need a dog, Matt thought.  Well, I need a dog.  But with Tate they'd qualify for a trained service dog.  Maybe two dogs, a service dog and a puppy.  He thought about his conversation with Luke, when he'd sorta called Tate a 'sex puppy'.  Of course he won't have sex with the dogs!  But maybe Matt does need the combination of a sex android and a puppy.  A larger family.

Is this what he wants now, needs now, a family?  He's got Alex, his "Chief of Security", ex(?) boyfriend, and sort of all-around caretaker.  He's got Tate, his default bed partner, boyfriend, and Sir.  He'll have Alex or a similar replacement unit.  Maybe when Talon gets out of prison he can live here.  Matt thinks of Talon as a "he" even though Tate thinks of Talon as "she".  How confusing for a kid when his mother switches genders on him.  Anyway.  Today's kids probably aren't confused by gender fluidity.  They've grown up with it: take a pill and in the morning you've got breasts.  Or a cock.  Or both.  Take a different pill next week and switch back, like Alex does a few times per year.

But Matt's got this old-fashioned attachment to masculinity.  We'll have to get female dogs, to diversity this place.  With frankly feminine names.

He wants a family.

And then he realizes he has a family.  Heh, as Luke said, when you're privileged you just change your framework of description to match your desires.  Matt whispers to himself, not quite out loud, "Tate's not my sex puppy.  Maybe he's not my family either.  But I want a family.  I think tomorrow, I'll ask him ... if he'll marry me."  And then he holds Tate like he'll never let him go, as Tate snores softly into his pillow.

-----

And that's the end of this story cycle, I'm done with NaNoWriMo.  Happy Thanksgiving to all my US peeps!

August 29, 2059

Having Matt sleep inverted on the bed meant he kicked Tate in the face or head a few times during sleep.  In the morning, Tate ordered Matt to drill two velcro ankle shackles into the headboard where Matt's pillow would normally lie, "Do it now, get whatever you need and do it now."  From now on Matt would sleep with his feet shackled to the headboard to avoid kicking.  Of course, Tate accidentally kicked Matt in the face also during the night, but that's fine, Tate is the Sir.

Tate texted Marco to let him know Matt would commit to buying one of his company's forthcoming Android BDSM Sirs and to please enroll them in the beta testing program.

And then Tate listened to the employment contract Chris's attorney had negotiated with Marco's attorney.  Lots of mumbo jumbo, but they'd also sent an "executive summary" that laid things out in plain English with bullet points and stuff.  Bottom line, it would be enough for Tate to live comfortably on his own for three years, if that's what he wanted, and he could also save up for future college or employment training, and there would be free on-the-job training for job-related topics -- so by the end of the three years he could qualify as a certified Clone Development Aide.  Tate felt he'd probably say yes, but he wanted to think it over for a couple days, so he texted the attorney that he wanted 48 hours to decide.

The beta android would arrive in about 48 hours also, he learned.  There'd be training materials for setting it up, with "free" online 24*7 voice support and remote programming assistance.  For now there was only one standard physical appearance for the android during the beta testing.  They'd spin up other appearance options later.  Not that Tate cared about appearance, but eventually he'd want Matt to choose the appearance option that looked most domineering to Matt's eyes.

What to do for 48 hours now?  Mainly he wanted to hang out with Matt, snuggling, talking, listening to audio together, and spanking his ass "red" twice per day before fucking it.  That ass was never going to feel normal to the touch again, heh.  Maybe he should brand the right cheek with a big "T".  He asked Matt whether that would go beyond his limits.

Matt thought quietly, then asked, "Sir, do you mean with a hot iron or just a tattoo?"

Tate replied, "If it matters, tell me."

More quiet thinking.  Making verbal commitments and even exchanging rings is different from getting a permanent mark on the skin.  Sure, he could have it undone, at a price, by seeing the right specialist.  Matt asked Lisa to explain the side effects of branding the skin -- damn, doing it the professional way means 2000 degrees F -- damn.

Matt thought, if I say it's OK, I need to say so confidently.  But would it be OK?  Most BDSM players either assume "no permanent marks" or make sure to say so explicitly.  They hadn't discussed comprehensive limits yet, but here Tate had asked him specifically.

"Sir, either way, if you decide to brand me, that is within my limits.  Thank you, Sir."

Damn, thought Tate, "Good boy, but I haven't decided yet.  I'll think about it."

"Yes, Sir."  Whew!

"But when you next have free time, I want you to fill out a standard BDSM questionnaire from the Internet with your likes, dislikes, and limits.  Be sure to tell me the difference between "dislikes" and "limits".

"Yes, Sir."

"Meanwhile, I'm going to keep your ass red, and maybe deeper shades of blue or purple, I'll keep your ass marked daily while I decide whether to mark it permanently."

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir."

Then Tate reached for a sock and stuffed it into Matt's mouth, "Let's listen to the next episode of ..."

August 23, 2059

His first full day at the beach had been quiet, uneventful, what he'd wanted.  The second day he started feeling a deeper relaxation -- nobody needs him here, nobody telling him what to do.

Something he'd never done before was build a fire at the beach.  He knew that's something people did after dark on cool nights, he wanted to do this also.  He spent time querying the Internet, figuring out how his apps could help.  He'd have to search for dry driftwood and kindling, find a lighter inside the beach house -- yeah, why not, this would be his goal for the day.  Use some of the paper he brought to help start the fire.

He's also been doing light cooking for himself, making sandwiches and small meals on the stove, stuff like scrambled eggs for breakfast.  It's easy enough having groceries delivered.  He starts to imagine -- what if he made his fortune and then retired to a beach house by himself.  With his dog.  And he could have visitors from time to time.  Well, by then Ma would be long out of prison.  Maybe buy a duplex, let her live in one half, he lives in the other.  They could both have dogs, take them on walks together.

Also jerking off, pleasuring himself.  Yeah, this vacation was the right idea.

-----

Starting fires ... not more complicated than he thought, but taking some patience and do-overs to really get it going.

He's not sure he's got it going yet when he hears somebody clearing their throat from a polite distance.  Yeah, there's been other people on the beach, but it hasn't been crowded, mainly people walking past him at a distance from time to time.  Nobody had stopped to talk with him yet.

"Do you mind if I join you for a spell," asked a surprisingly familiar voice.  No, was it really him?

"Marco?" Tate asked?

"Well, yes, that's me, although I'm wearing some clothes now, and I've had dinner, and I have all my memories.  Good evening, Tate, how are you?"

Tate jumped up from tending the not-quite-a-fire-yet, and stumbled over his words, "I'm, here, fine, OK, wasn't expecting, eek!"  It was easy to feel adult-like when he didn't need to interact with other people, now he felt like a stupid kid wasting everybody's time.

"I'm sorry, I tried calling ahead but you turned off your phone.  But I wanted to see you again.  If you're willing, of course."  Marco's voice sounded a little different, still recognizable, but perhaps the weight of one's memories could be heard in their voice.

Tate wanted to say, "How did you find me," but surely Marco either asked Chris or used his own skills to track him down.  It's not like he was trying to evade the trackers and hackers, not like a spy on a mission.  And he'd met Marco before that crazy week, they weren't total strangers.

At least without implants, Tate didn't have to worry about Marco trying to hack him.  Another complication he was ready to avoid by staying blind.

Tate had been silent for longer than is polite, so Marco was about to apologize and withdraw, but then Tate said, "Would you please join me here by the fire?  Well, it's not much of a fire, I've never started one before."

"Sure," Marco said; Tate could hear him approach and then sit down on the other side of the fire. "It's been a long time since I started a fire, I think you're doing OK, it can just take a while to get going."

"Well, I'm trying to use the helper apps to describe what's happening, but I don't know the correct parameters ... well, if it doesn't work tonight I can try again tomorrow."

Marco decided ... not to offer to help ... it seemed like a personal Tate project, or maybe even a sort of therapy.  Fire therapy.  Marco had heard of music therapy some time ago, when his sister was recovering from a bad accident and was receiving physical therapy, occupational therapy, and also music therapy.  She'd taken a poem he'd written about her, wrote music for it, and sang it.

So this is a slow conversation already, on the beach, after dark.

After fiddling with the fire a bit, Tate asked, "How is your recovery going?  I don't know whether I should apologize or not for my role in what happened to you.  It feels complicated."  Tate struggled with how to speak with Marco now.
 
Marco replied easily, "It's going OK.  No apologies needed, you were the best part of that week.  I remember all of it.  I must confess quite the crush on you, but if that bothers you -- I'm only here with your consent.  Tell me to go, I'll go."

Tate breathed out, didn't realize he'd been sort of holding his breath, was feeling tense.  But his cock jumped at the emotional confession from Marco.

"I feel confused about all that.  I liked you, but it was also role playing, and you were not yourself.  So who did I actually like?  Who are you now?  And I have a lot going on in my own life.  Ugh."  Tate wanted to rewind this entire encounter.

Marco tried to sound soothing, "It's OK, I know, it's complicated.  But I wanted to be honest in saying that I have a crush on you.  It's not an obligation.  Just a statement.  And it's not even the main reason why I'm here."

"Oh," an almost-disappointed sound. "Yeah, reasons.  You should have come here to sit on the beach, that's why I'm here," although Tate smiled at this swerve into assertiveness.

Marco laughed, "OK, then that's why I'm here, to sit on the beach.  I will not speak of my reasons."

Tate laughed also then.

-----

Much later, after the fire had swelled and then faded, and Marco's arms were wrapped around Tate from behind, Tate asked, "OK, what's the main reason you're here?"

"Yeah.  Well, I unexpectedly have a child now.  I'm looking for help raising him.  Chris told me you're not working for him anymore, I was wondering whether you'd want to help me raise a child."

Tate hadn't been expecting this! "Wow, did you forget your sterility pill or something?"  There's no way a billionaire has an accidental child!

"No, that would've been much simpler.  I don't know whether you knew that one of my clones was helping you on that mission.  He's decided to undergo a complete brain wipe, so he can develop into his own person.  Although adult clones can 'grow up' much faster than babies can, because their brains and bodies are already fully developed, it still usually takes two to three years for them learn to take care of themselves and, then, start career training."

Tate was trying to think through this ... "Wow, on purpose?  Wow."

"I remembered how well you've taken care of me, both as a visitor and during that week, and in a real way this would be taking care of me -- a different version of me.  And you'd seemed willing to do it if I'd been the one undergoing the wipe, although maybe that was just role playing, part of the bullshit that week."

Tate didn't like the reference to 'bullshit', "Hey, don't call it that."

"OK, I'm sorry.  You're not a bullshitter.  I know that."

Tate was quiet for a bit.  Then he said, "If I agree to do this, I'm going to have somebody negotiate a contract with you, we aren't working this out here and now."

"Of course.  And please take your time to think about it."

Tate did think about it for a few minutes here and now.  As he passively felt Marco's warm body.  Then he said, "I'll let you know.  Now come back to the house with me, fuck me, and then go home."  He turned to kiss Marco on the lips before he could reply.

-----

After Marco left, a satisfied Tate texted Chris, "Please have somebody negotiate a full-time child-care contract for me with Marco, but that doesn't mean I'm saying 'yes'.  Have them send Marco a bill for 'negotiation costs'.  And don't bug me about it until I get back.  Love, Tate"

Telling adults what to do is fun.

Matt had gone along with Tate to the jail, although he had to wait outside, and although Tate had insisted on paying for the car, and paid for the car to wait to take them back.  Between that viral YouTube poll and his bonus from Chris, Tate had enough cash to feel independent for the first time, even if it wouldn't last.  They hadn't been sure how long a bail payment would take -- would Talon be able to leave with them today?  Would they have to come back tomorrow?

As soon as Matt could see Tate approaching, he knew something awful had happened.  At first Tate wouldn't even greet him, wouldn't talk, just sat in the car without moving, without touching, without telling the car where to go.  Matt decided to quietly wait with him, patiently, he's practicing submission with Tate all of a sudden, and also giving Tate space to explore all of his options as a young adult.

Matt saw some tears welling and dripping from his lover's -- his new Sir's face.

A few minutes went by, no words.

Tate ordered the car to take them back to Matt's house.  Then he finally opened up, but only fractionally, his disappointment was too large a volume to move through his vocal cords.  "Ma's lawyer told her to accept a plea deal, so she did, so I can't bail her out, so I can't fix my eyes yet."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Tate, that sucks."  Matt had known a plea deal was a likely outcome, but hadn't heard it was imminent.  There were no electronic communications with prisoners, and lawyers don't discuss details if you aren't the client.

Then Tate resumed silence.  Matt fully expected Tate to break down and collapse into him, was waiting for Tate to scream and whack him in the chest, like he usually would when life didn't go his way.  But this was too big.  Tate must be in shock.  What should Matt do?  Should he reach out and hold Tate's hand?  Matt didn't know Tate had already thrown a fit inside the visitors area, and had been physically restrained.

Better to ask.  Matt asked, as gently as he could, "What do you want me to do?  I can sit here quietly with you if you want.  Or I can ... do anything you need."

Tate shook his head, "No, let's go home."   Heartbroken, headbroken, gutbroken, Tate hadn't believed his Mom could be found guilty, it wasn't possible, and now she'd given up.  He'd gone from feeling independent for the first time in his life, to feeling there's nothing at all worth doing.  Three years.  How could they take three years of her life.  Later at the house, Tate asked to sleep by himself in a guest room, and went to lie down by himself.

The next morning, he said he wanted to rent a beach house by himself and spend a week by himself.  No indoor surveillance, he knew Alex would put up some sort of perimeter, or Chris would as his legal guardian; these billionaires would never truly allow him to get lost, but he wanted to be alone.  Let me have a week to myself.  No emails, texts, or calls.  I'll be fine, I just need time to myself.  Matt can't help but hug Tate as he gets in the car to depart.  What happened to his touchy-feely overly-emotive Tate?  Give him some time, Alex said.  You've given me time when I needed it.  Give him time.  He's not your boy anymore, he's your Sir now, you give him what he needs, what he says he needs.

That evening, Matt made dinner, as Tate had made lunch -- Tate had sent down a portion of the caesar salad for Matt to eat in his studio.  While Matt was cooking, they made small talk, which was no small feat given all that had happened recently.  As they talked, Tate finally checked his email, and logged into his YouTube channel.

"They voted against!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah, I know," Matt replied.

"I don't care!" Tate declared.

"Good!"

"I'm gonna visit Ma first, to bail her out.  Then after she's settled back home, we can schedule the surgery."

"OK, that's fine."  Matt was listening out of one ear, but this was a complicated dish: fried fish tacos, with Mexican vegetable fried rice, lots of flour everywhere, and oil splattering.

But it all came together.  Matt assembled the plates and brought them over, saying, "I'm so hungry! I forgot to have my snack this afternoon."

Tate warned him sternly, "But before we start eating, I have something to tell you.  Sit down, though."

Uh oh.  From his office, Alex started paying very close attention.

"OK.  Um ... is everything OK?"

Tate gathered himself together, took a deep breath, and began, "From now on, I'm your Sir."

Matt couldn't believe his ears.  "Oh!?"

"That's right.  Say, 'Yes, Sir' back to me."  Tate waited.

Matt's brain made no sense.  Alex piped up, "Do it, Matt, I'm no longer your Sir.  Tate's your Sir."

"Don't I have a say in this?" Matt asked sort of angrily, although he was also getting super aroused.

Tate took another deep breath, "Your 'say' is to say 'Yes, Sir' and to get on your knees.  Either do that now, or I'm going out for a while.  Maybe I'll get a hotel room with my bonus.  Figure out my next moves."

"Damn," said Alex, from the ceiling.

"Alex, shut up, emergencies only." Tate ordered.

"You're the Boss now," Alex agreed, signing off.

Tate waited.

A very confused Matt did the only thing that made sense to him, he said it, "Yes, Sir," and got on his knees.

"Good boy.  Now get down on your belly and kiss my feet while I eat the dinner you made for me."

WTF, but Matt did what he was told, his cock hardening like an iron rod in his pants.

"And after I finish eating, you're going to clean up and meet me in the dungeon.  We'll send your plate to Alex.  I'm your dinner tonight."

"Yes, Sir," Matt said, as he hungrily kissed Tate's feet.  WTF just happened!

Tate pinballed between memories and guilt and uncertainty, although the pace of these thoughts slowed a bit as the Benadryl kicked in.  It was great how Matt had labeled all the bottles for him in Braille.  Just one of the small ways Matt showed he cared and was willing to change his life to include Tate.  Matt wasn't an angel, he got grumpy about things ... ugh.

Tate was just starting to feel sleepy again when Matt popped his head in the doorway and softly called his name.   Tate didn't know what to do or say.  He pulled the pillow from Matt's side of the bed over his face, forming a Tate sandwich.

"Oh, dear," Matt said, moving to join him in the bed, kicking off his shoes along the way.  "What's wrong?  Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No," Tate whimpered softly.

"Lisa, please have someone send up Tate's favorite breakfast."

"OK!"

"I don't want to eat," Tate said into the pillow.

"You don't have to eat," Matt replied as he moved to snuggle with Tate.  Tate then tossed the extra pillow aside and tried to burrow deeply into Matt's chest, then he started to cry again, choking sobs, which would've alarmed Matt if he hadn't been warned by Chris yesterday, and Alex this morning.

"It's OK, whatever it is, it's over now, you're safe, and I'm here."

More sobbing, but less intense over time.  Matt caressed his young lover, tried to massage his muscles a bit.

Then Tate announced, "I cheated on you," and resumed his heavy choking sobs.

"Shhh, it's OK.  You're the one who wanted me to be monogamous, I didn't ask that of you."

"And I have feelings for him," Tate managed to say.

"That's fine, that's what humans do, we have feelings for each other."

But Tate started punching Matt in the chest and yelling, "But I love you!" and more crying.

"I know, I love you too."

Tate screamed, "UGH!" but allowed himself to be touched, hugged, kissed.

"Plus, if Mom lets me bail her out, she'll want me to move back in with her."

"I suppose she would, she misses you very much."

"UGH!  My life became so complicated!"

"Yes, for now.  But you also can make choices, and as you get older you can make even more choices.  Right now I'm choosing to sit here with you, for as long as you need me to.  Because I love you."

More sobs, but Matt could feel some of the tension evaporating from Tate's body.

"I can't tell you more details, but I cheated on you, and I feel horrible about it .  But he loved me.  He needed me.  He needed me like nobody has ever needed me before."

"Shhh.  I know you like to take care of people.  It's something you liked about your job with Chris, that you got to take care of his visitors.  Like you took care of me."

"Yeah, but I didn't have SEX with them."  Tate resumed punching Matt in the chest and belly.  Matt just tried to hold him tighter.

"Do you want me to be mad at you?  Because I'm not."

"UGH!  Yes you are, because it's not fair.  I made you promise monogamy, then I have sex with the first naked guy I spend time with."

"Really, the first naked guy?  You had sex with him because he was naked." Matt couldn't help but smile, and kiss Tate some more.

"No.  I had sex with him because I like him."

"That's good.  Shhhh, it's OK.  OK with me, anyway, I'm used to open relationships.  And I've experienced some of their complications.  Alex was very mad that I wanted to go visit Chris that first time.  Although he didn't stop me.  On the other hand, he's very supportive of my relationship with you.  People have emotions, there's nothing wrong with having emotions."

"But what if I want to hang out with this guy again?  I mean, he's not dead now or anything."

"I'm glad he's not dead now!  Well, if you want to see him again, and he wants to see you again, then we all talk about it."

"UGH!"  But Tate was still calming down, despite himself.  The Benadryl, the snuggles, the sobs, the talking.  It's all what he needed.

Matt suggested, "But maybe first, go visit your Mom.  Tell her you've got the cash for bail now.  She needs you also."

Tate shrugged, "I was supposed to get my eyes fixed before I visited her again, so the next time I could see her."

"But you hadn't really decided about that yet."

"I want to see her, I want to see you, I want to see Chris -- well, he probably won't allow me to.  I want to see ... this other guy.  It's very confusing!  I was happy here with you!  I would still be happy here with you!"

"If you moved back in with your Mom, I'm sure she'd let you have sleepovers with me, and visit Chris, and probably hang out with other guys, she's pretty laid back."

"I know.  She's too laid back."

"Hah!  You don't have to decide anything right now.  You're plainly exhausted by your long week 'saving the galaxy'."

Tate stuck a hand into Matt's face, "Shut up."

"OK.  I'll shut up.  You shut up also.  Let's take a nap together."

Just then, somebody was showing up with breakfast for Tate, but they both yelled, "Go Away!" and the bedroom door was closed from the outside.  Leaving them alone, together.

August 16, 2059

Chris sent a car to pick up Matt, so Tate could ride back home with Matt together; it's normally a three-hour drive (without emergency clearance).  Earlier this summer, as the summer began, Chris and Matt had planned a 3-day BDSM hookup that went horribly awry because of technical difficulties, and then Tate had surprisingly decided to go home with Matt -- a man he barely knew!  Apparently because he was fed up with working as a houseboy for Chris, a job that required Tate to remain blind, although who can know the mind of a 16-year-old, blind-from-birth, gay teen whose drug-abusing mother is in jail for the alleged murder of his grandfather ...

Now Tate is 17, his mother still awaits trial, and he's recovering from the weeklong ordeal of supporting Marco through Marco's Wild Week, as parts of Vancouver are still on fire.

-----

Early in Matt's ride over, Chris called him.

"Hey," answered a worried-sounding Matt.

"Hey Matt, how are you?" Chris sounded concerned as well.

"I'm OK, had been a little worried about Tate, although I knew he was in good hands with you, but all this 'emergency' and 'life-and-death' and then 'top secret' ... and now the first nuclear weapon explosion in over a century ..."

"Yeah ... I'm sorry about the lack of details on Tate's assignment.  But Tate was never in any danger, not in any more danger than anybody is these days.  The nuke didn't land on top of us, and he was in the sub-basement anyway."

"What the hell with Tate working on 'top-secret' stuff -- how does a 17-year old have that kind of clearance?" Matt sounded more angry than worried now.

"Yeah ... well, one thing about top-secret assignments is we don't talk about the details of how people get clearance for top-secret assignments.  He shouldn't even have told you it was top-secret, but he's young, and it was his first."

"Then, I'll have to assume his emergency assignment had nothing to do with a nuclear explosion going off 100 miles from your house."

"That would be best, Matt."

They were quiet for a while.

"Matt," Chris started, gently, "Tate is having a lot of guilty feelings about what he did this week.  He might tell you about some of it, although he's not supposed to.  I would ask that you be supportive in whatever way he needs, don't condemn him no matter what he says happened.  He's a hero, and part of him realizes this, but another part of him feels like he betrayed you."

Matt sighed, "Well, yeah, he disappeared in the middle of the night, to return to a job he'd quit, and wouldn't tell me any details, so ..."

Chris continued, "It's not just that.  He had to make some adult decisions, in the moment, and feels extremely conflicted about his behavior and his role.  Ideally he won't talk with you about it, but he probably will, he probably needs to, and I want you to be ready to listen and to forgive."

Matt barked back, "Of course!  All I do is support him!"  Then he pulled back, "I'm sorry.  I realize you're trying to help, that you're Tate's foster parent, whereas I'm just a billionaire playboy who plucked him out from under you."

Chris couldn't help but laugh, "Matt, I don't think about you that way!  Something horrible happened to you on my watch, and I think Tate's natural caregiver tendencies led him to follow you out the door, and that's OK.  He's old enough to start making his own decisions.  And you were thoroughly vetted before you ever stepped foot into that bar where we met, of course."

"And," Chris kept going, "Tate thinks the world of you.  And his Ma likes you also.  I'm just asking you to ... not react in the moment.  No matter what Tate tells you, if he tells you anything, because he's not supposed to."

"Got it.  My new young lover went through something traumatic, isn't supposed to talk about it, so I need to take care of him for a while."

"Thanks, Matt.  I've gotta go, but I'll greet you when you get here, and no need for a blindfold this time."

"See you soon, Chris."

-----

During the rest of the ride, Matt worked on his special update episode about Vancouver -- he'd been publishing a podcast series about the history of the Free City of Vancouver for a couple years, and now Vancouver was THE ONLY NEWS STORY IN THE WORLD, so his podcast was hitting #1 on the charts in several English-speaking countries, and he'd just signed a contract for translations into French, Mandarin, etc.  Not that he needed the money, the price of gold had doubled since the explosion, and most of his billions were invested in gold-denominated bonds.  He wondered whether the explosion had been engineered by the gold mining industry.  He thinks he should sell half of them while people are panicking, but, what to buy instead?

Yet, "Top-Secret" Tate!  The day before Tate left the house he'd been an emotional wreck about teenage social media drama, now he's some secret agent flying around Chris's galaxy of world-class hackers and multinational intelligence agencies.

OK, don't prejudge, allow Tate to be who he is, to make his own choices.  Let him grow into an adult.  Maybe he wants to become a secret agent and live the Top-Secret Lifestyle.  It's just very strange.

Matt always figures Tate's maturation process will inevitably mean Tate leaves him.  He's just too young, this is all too soon, and Matt was his first boyfriend, his first fully voluntary sexual experience, and Tate jumped into Matt's life without knowing anything about him.  Except that Chris approved.

-----

Their reunion was joyful, tearful even, hugs all around, kisses, even hugs and kisses for Chris.  Tate looked exhausted, and instead of bombarding Matt with guilty details, or any details, he quickly fell asleep in Matt's arms once they were underway in the car.  Poor kid.  My poor kid.  My sexy poor kid.  Sex can wait, of course.  Tate can sleep all he wants, and then re-engage with his life, and decide whether to get the vision implants.

He'd thought Tate was thoroughly asleep, and then Tate half-mumbled, half-shouted, "Oh, with my bonus from this week I can pay for Mom's bail!"

"That's great!  She'll be thrilled!"

But Tate may not be aware he'd said that, because two seconds later he resumed snoring into Matt's chest.

After about 90 minutes, halfway home, Tate woke and started petting Matt, sort of like you'd pet a puppy dog.  Tate loves being physical, but in strange ways!  Then he wanted a kiss.  Then he said softly, "I'm sorry."

"Shhhh, it's OK, Chris kept me posted, sort of, that you were safe, but busy, and not-to-worry."

"I'm still sorry."

"Shhhh, I love you.  Go back to sleep."

August 14, 2059

They never told me the date, never even mentioned the exact year, and I didn't ask.  I was afraid off forcing them to lie, or make up a reason for not answering.

Spending time snuggling with and talking with Tate was a beautiful endless dream.  Touching his flushed, naked skin, looking at the patterns of infrared colors steaming from his body, as though he were made of dry ice, but remained warm to the touch.

And they never told me the time of day.  But now that I had picked a day to orgasm and die, they kept me apprised of the countdown.  Days of snuggles, cocktails, drinking cups of Tate's semen, my hardening cock straining inside its metal cage.  Listening to Tate tell me about his life, until he ran out of stories to tell and we spooned quietly on the sofa or the mattress.

Tate liked teasing me and keeping me horny, keeping me hot with desire for him.  Fucking him on that last day was going to be so sweet.  Men always joke that they want to die in bed while fucking a hot date.  This was my fate.  With Tate.  I'm going to write fucking poetry about him while I'm fucking him, I'm going to sing his name while I'm cumming, taking that name with me into my next world, "Taaaaaaaaaaaate!" as everything goes dark.

I'm more worried about Tate than myself.  He's basically a hospice sex worker at this point, easing my path along the stages of grief, putting up with me when I get angry and depressed, even when I ranted loudly about how all of them were lying to me.

I know they're lying to me!  Chris, Tate, Mama Bo, they're all lying.  Mostly lies of omission, I think.

I accused Chris of lying to me, screamed at him, demanded he tell me the complete truth, and Chris said, "The 'complete truth' would take longer to tell than you have left to listen.  Be thankful we've spared you some of the details.  But your situation is truly dire, we're not lying about that."

Tate would just get more playful and teasing when I asked him too many questions.  Calling me "sassy", that's his favorite complaint about me, that I'm "sassy".

Mama Bo pretty much ignored me, having told me enough to secure my consent that I should delete myself (and her) from the universe before it is too late, before the time bomb reaches into the past and figures out how to take control of me again.

That's the main part of this entire story that makes no sense to me.  That all this effort is to keep me from being controlled by a future sentient stochastic time bomb that doesn't exist yet.  Nobody will tell me what the extent of this control had been, nobody will explain how I escaped it.  But it is clear I have escaped it.  But there's zero faith this happy freedom will last.  So ... we must destroy "me".

-----

We put away the mattress, set up the sling, set it up so the head side is lower than the ass side, because Tate is shorter than Chris and I want to suck Tate while Chris fucks me, but then I'll want them to switch holes, so, I'll just flip around 180 degrees in the sling.  They're playing with my nipples while spit-roasting my body, and I wonder whether I really can cum while caged -- we haven't removed the cage yet.  I'm dripping wet from precum, so much precum, but precum is not an orgasm, so we continue playing.

I'm begging for release, to cum, but Chris says there's still 15 minutes until we hit exactly one week from when I first woke up, so they continue the fucking, sucking, teasing, and I get closer to cumming while caged, I figure I'm 95% of the way there, and I tell them so.

Tate shouts, "Let me know when you hit 99%!"  But this is also the saddest sex scene ever, because they're literally fucking me to death.  But we're all on the appropriate drugs to remain hard, to enjoy touching, like a combo of Viagra and Ecstasy, I grab Tate's ass while sucking him, while Chris fucks me, then they swap positions, then they swap again.

"OK, one minute left," Tate proclaims as he removes his cock from my ass to grab the key from the other room.

He can only remove the tube portion of the cage, because I'm instantly too hard to remove the ring.

"I want to stand up now, and fuck Tate to pieces," I announce, so they help me to get up, hold me while I'm dizzy from the blood rushing to my feet, and now my hard cock is ready, ready to fuck this beautiful young man who loves me so, who I love, while Chris reaches around me from behind to twist my nipples, tease my ass with his cock, tease my right ear with his tongue,

Damn, I want this to last forever, but I haven't cum all week, and despite my horrible hunger pangs my cock is roaring ready.  I've found the pace that will push me over the cliff, I'm maintaining that pace,

"Mama Bo, I'm sorry,"

"It's OK, Marco, fuck your boy."

So I fuck my boy, and he's moaning, and Chris whispers, "It's OK, I'll catch you, we'll catch you, we'll take care of you, let it go"

I'm 99% there, I'm starting to yell Tate's name, I'm 99.9% there, I can feel a wad of semen ready to shoot,

"HONK, HONK, HONK, HONK,"  a super loud honking like a fire alarm is going off, and even through the blindfold I can see a bright light is flashing in tune with the honking.

"Shit," Tate said, "we forgot to turn off the emergency broadcast alarm down here,"

Mama Bo says, "It's OK, Marco, fuck your boy."

Chris says, "It's OK, Marco, fuck your boy."

"HONK, HONK, HONK, HONK,"

Tate yells over the siren, "Fuck me, Marco!"

So I do.  I roar the loudest I've ever roared as my body shakes loose volleys of cum into Tate's young asshole.  And then everything goes dark.

He'd already cum like uncorking a champagne bottle earlier "today", because he's still so young.  Now after taking one of those cum volume pills, it was drenching, like half a cup I think.  I had to work at swallowing all of it, and licking up the rest.  Damn.  Not that I remember having sex with anybody else but these guys, but this was damned impressive.  All I got to do in return was leak a bit from my frustrated cock.  I am going to ask them for a cock cage soon, because ... I'm trying to think of ways to make this work over the long term ... ways to keep me alive for as long as possible.  So I can't afford to have an orgasm.

After I licked it all up, and Tate had a chance to return from his O headspace, I ... had a super serious question for him, or suggestion, or ...

"Tate, is there a sort of safe maximum level of that cum pill that you could take, I mean, regardless of what the label says?"

"I dunno, we can look into it."

"I mean, what if you and Chris -- especially you, because you're younger -- could max out your semen production, to the point where you could actually keep me alive.  Sort of like mother's milk, only, daddy's milk."

Tate tried to stick his foot in my face, he's so physically playful.  Trying to stick his foot in my mouth because he thought I was being silly and should shut up.

I grabbed his foot and moved it away, "Tate, I'm serious.  Somehow I remember that a half cup of semen is roughly equivalent to one egg white in nutritional value.  I think you just produced about half a cup.  If you could produce that much several times per day, or maybe an entire cup several times per day, you might just keep me alive ... maybe even until after the time bomb goes off.  Throw in some extra from Chris, and I'm fucking serious.  Along with some vitamin water, and the Gatorade and alcohol, and if I conserve my energy -- which won't be difficult as I'm confined to this tiny suite,"

Tate tried to put both his feet in my mouth, "Living for a year off my cum?  You're so crazy!  I love you!  Hahahaha."  He tried to wrestle me with his legs, then jumped on top of me, rolling us around on the floor.  He pinned me down, and tried to spit in my face, the little fucker!

I rolled and threw him off me, and ordered him, "Go talk with Chris about it.  I'm serious.  We may have found a loophole for keeping me around longer than just a couple weeks."

"OK, OK, go in your room and wait until we come back."  But he still tried to put his foot in my face as he got up to leave.

Could I really live on their semen for a year?  A lot of fucking semen for a year?  There could be other loopholes.  I wish I were a lawyer instead of a hacker, because there's no way I can hack this memory bomb, it's way too good.  I've become certain that I didn't design it myself.  It came from somewhere, someone, somewhen, else.  A foreigner living in my head with a knife to my throat.  I need to talk with Chris about what I've learned -- maybe if I describe certain aspects of the bomb, he can do some research, and figure out something we can use.

I guess the combo of the sedative, the massage, the lullaby, the love, I fell asleep.

When I woke, the blindfold was gone, but the back of Tate's neck was at my lips, my arm around his chest, his legs tangled with mine, my cock at his buttcrack, hard.

Damn.  Would be so easy to fuck him as I wake, half asleep.  I think we're going to have to lock up my cock, or I'm going to cum and die half asleep tomorrow morning.  Not that it is "morning" ...

Tate is snoring gently.  As I slowly move to extricate from him, the infrareds light turns on, but dimly.  Thanks, I whisper, but perhaps it was automatic, not Chris watching my every move.

But as I stand I'm confronted by the door, which is closed.  I don't know how to open it.  Well, I have to pee, so there's the bucket.  And the beverage cart is still here, with glasses, ice, Gatorade, I pour myself a tall one and gulp it down, because I'm super hungry.

"Alcohol has calories also," Tate volunteers.  I guess I woke him while peeing.  "The alcohol will convert to fats in your liver, the Gatorade has sugars, you need both.  I wish there were a way we could get you some protein."

"Should I spend the rest of my life drunk, then," I laughed.

"Sounds fun to me!" he replied as he started to get out of bed.  I grabbed his hand and helped him up, until he was standing on the floor next to me, then I kissed him, and he kissed back passionately, rubbing his hands all over me, until he stopped, "Now drink your calories!  Door, 'open'."

And the door opened!  That's easy.  I'll see later whether it works with my own voice.  Gatorade and alcohol?  I added a shot of vodka from the cart, hoping it would be the least offensive option.

"Follow me, I'll show you around,"

 So I did.

-----

It's a compact suite, similar to the bedroom, not much going on, and nothing wasted.  There's a small bathroom with toilet, sink, and shower stall, so I took a shower and Tate toweled me off.  There's a kitchen corner but no food, only beverages.  There's a comfy loveseat.  Across from a wall where the TV would've been, but they'd removed it so we couldn't trigger the memory bomb by watching TV or accessing the Internet.

I'd been expecting more of a dungeon, so I said so.  With chains and butt toys and stuff.

"Marco, you don't remember, all the equipment and stuff is stored in the walls and the floors."

"Equipment?"

"Yeah, just about everything you'd want to play with.  And in the bedroom we could stow the mattress and pull out a sling.  It's all a tight fit here, not enough room for a gang bang party, but enough room for a triad."

I felt sad all of a sudden, "Is that what we three were, a triad?"  Although Tate was pretty young for such a complicated lifestyle choice.

He moved to give me a hug and a kiss, "I think I do love you in a way, you've always been fun and respectful and generous, but I'm not in a romantic relationship with Chris, he's my employer, and you're a terribly terribly busy guy, not much time for somebody simple like me."

"But you're beautiful, and sweet, and ... I feel like I'd never leave you."  Yep, I'm smitten, and I'm making myself another goddamn Gatorade cocktail.  "Want one?"

Tate was blushing, "I'm not supposed to use drugs or alcohol at work.  And I know you're feeling terribly dependent on me right now, and I hope I can provide what you need.  I'm not going anywhere until your situation is ... resolved.  I'm here, 24*7, at your service."

Damn.  I'm in love with a 17-year old (?) sex worker.  Because there is nobody else in the world.  And I'm about to die.

-----

"Oops, Chris is coming, we have to go back into the bedroom and close the door while he enters this room.  And you have to put on your blindfold."

After Chris yells, "All clear!" I try opening the door myself.  I hear it open, it works!  I'm not a prisoner after all!  Sort of.  Tate leads me out by hand.  Chris welcomes me enthusiastically with a hug, I'm high on sugar and vodka.  He says, "You seem much more relaxed and at home," and I nod, wishing I could look at beautiful Tate.  I want nothing else, except maybe a bacon cheeseburger and tater tots.  Gatorade and vodka only get me so far.

"So," Chris says, "What do we all do next?  I don't want to rush you, unnecessarily, but ... are we going to try to solve this thing, or do you just want us to tease you sexually until you either cum or starve?  I mean, we can definitely do that.  Or, what's clue number two?"

Tate helps me to sit down on the love seat, Chris joins me, Tate sits on the floor at my feet, massaging my feet, damn.

"I don't know whether there is a 'clue number two'.  Somehow, the fact that this memory bomb has to go off someday, because I have to eat someday, has disrupted my PTTD.  I'm guessing because it will destroy my personhood so completely, that I will not be able to travel to Vancouver in a year.  Not mentally or physically capable of achieving travel, no matter the strength of the motivation.  How could I even have a motivation?  I'll just be a baby in a man's body, still learning how to say 'MaMa'."

Chris paused to think, "I don't know if you recall, Marco, but some people have found another way out.  Some people have been able to kill themselves -- somehow suicide breaks the causation loop also.  If you kill yourself, then you can't possibly travel to Vancouver.  But that's a horrible solution.  It seems you found a way to escape the PTTD without killing yourself per se, but when the memory bomb triggers, the result will be almost as comprehensive for you as death.  You'll never be 'you' again.  You'll develop into somebody else, over time, over a long time.  I'm hoping there's another way."

I nodded, "I think the only way we can disarm the memory bomb is if we can convince it there's another way."

Tate suggested, "Why don't we just keep you locked up in this suite?  Like I said yesterday, just don't allow you to travel to Vancouver.  Ever."

"Sure, but how can we guarantee that I won't be able to escape?  Because I will do anything I can to get to Vancouver in time for the blast.  Anything.  I'd kill you if I had to.  I'd kill you both.  I'd try digging through the walls with my fingers.  I would use my hacking skills in any way required to break out of here.  Or I'd trick you into letting me out.  Or I'd torture you mercilessly until you let me out."

"You would not torture me!  Hmmph."  Tate was neither amused nor convinced.  But Chris agreed with me.

Chris suggested, "How about keeping you in an induced coma?"

"I wouldn't let you do that to me.  Plus, we're talking about a year from now.  May as well allow the memory bomb go off if you're going to turn me into a vegetable for the next year anyway.  You know how long it would take to recover from a year-long coma?  Virtually the same thing as a complete personality wipe."

"What if a minute before the Vancouver Time Bomb is supposed to go off, we nuke the city?"

I hit Tate on his head, "You mean the two of you nuke the city with your somehow stolen nuke, and kill a million people, right before I get there, hoping that the blast and radiation somehow stop the time bomb, and that I wouldn't just crawl through the radiation and flaming debris to reach the time bomb's radius as it explodes anyway?"

Tate twisted my foot, ouch, "If this Time Bomb is so all powerful, why did it let you build and trigger your memory bomb in the first place?  How did you win?"

Yeah.  Why did it let me.  How did building and triggering this memory bomb allow me to sidestep the PTTD?  Why was I allowed to do this, despite my bidirectional causation prison?

"You guys keep saying that I did this.  Are you sure I did this?"

Chris answered, "That's what you told us.  You're a good enough hacker, that, sure, you could've done this.  And you said you did this.  And you had the motive.  Means and motive.  So I believed you.  I've known you for a long time, Marco.  Everything felt genuine, although I disagreed strongly with what you were doing."

"Maybe 'I' wasn't the entity speaking with you.  Maybe the memory bomb was speaking with you.  It is sentient, and perhaps it had already been triggered, perhaps it had already imprisoned 'me' and was impersonating as 'me'."

For that matter, maybe "it" is still impersonating me.  Maybe I'm the sentient memory bomb.

Chris asked, "Do we know whether the Vancouver Time Bomb is also sentient?"

Um.  No, I shook my head.  "I mean, I don't know."

Tate exclaimed, "Maybe you are the sentient Vancouver Time Bomb!"  I whacked him on the head again, he twisted my foot harder, OUCH.

"Oh my God," Chris exclaimed.  "Maybe you are.  Reverse, recursive causation, the time bomb causing you to become the greatest hacker in the world, so you could design the time bomb, but this memory bomb is also you trying to stop yourself from designing the time bomb.  Bomb vs. Bomb."

I need another drink.  Or another dribbly prostate massage.  Or both.  Am I allowed to ask for that?

"Chris, I can't leave this place.  You guys can.  What if you guys found the person or people who are building the time bomb, and you stopped them from completing it?"

This time, Chris hit me on the head.  He also said, "There's probably already plenty of intelligence agencies trying to do that."

"How would we convince my memory bomb that they've succeeded?  This is all ridiculous.  I feel like we're going down the entirely wrong road."

At that, Chris gently placed his hand on my cock, to distract me.  Mmmmm.  "We could end it all here, right now, Marco, just fuck my hand, that's right."  Tate did his part by twisting around and playing with my nipples.  These guys are too evil.  Fuck.  Then they stopped, right as I was about to yell, "Stop!"  I did start to yell, but they'd stopped.  Tate went back to my feet, Chris rubbing the back of my neck, me humping the air for a minute.

Chris whispered in my ear, "I think you think better when you're horny,"

So, yeah, I am the sentient Time Bomb and this Memory Bomb is intended to destroy me, and because it will succeed, I'm not experiencing PTTD anymore.  Makes sense.  No it doesn't!!  What if it's all bluffing and I can have an orgasm now and nothing will happen.

"Shhhh," Chris blows in my ear. "All work and no play makes Marco blow himself up.  I think we should both take you to bed and give you a good spit-roast fucking."

Damn.  These guys make me want to keep living.

-----

I would figure out how to stop Time entirely if I could just live here with them indefinitely.  Maybe that's what I did.  Except I'm going to starve.  Does swallowing their cum count?  "No, swallow all you want," replied the sentient memory bomb, right before Tate's young cock exploded in my mouth.  Young guys cum a lot.  Well, I found my source of protein then.  Gatorade, vodka, and semen, that's my new diet plan.  Yes, the memory bomb can talk to me.  Maybe it can help me figure out how to stop the time bomb a year from now, before I blow myself up next week.  If I could disarm the time bomb, then I wouldn't have PTTD.  Ahh, then Chris exploded up my ass.  The perfect way to start my second day in the Garden.