A Bastard Through Time

Hey babe,

I know, this will freak you out. Every time I think about it, I laugh my ass off. Of course, since I gave up the Internet and all modern conveniences, I need some entertainment, but that's what I get for getting caught.

It worked on an old Star Trek episode. Captain Kirk landed on a planet where a sun was going supernova and found everybody escaped to the past; well, one of my buddies has a time machine. That's why I wasn't in court yesterday to get sentenced. Bite me, I'm not spending the rest of my life in jail. Yeah, I didn't check the ages of the girls I picked up, or ask them what they wanted to do. I'm a bastard that way, but I'm not doing the time. It's all laid out, everything's fixed, I did my homework. Was able to look up a bit of local New England history, family trees, stories from old collections, so I knew my plan worked before I left. All I've had to do in 1680's New England is not get too cocky about the future.

But you need proof this is me. You probably think this is some kind of bullshit I cooked up to play with your mind. OK, it is, but remember Valentine's Day a couple of years ago? We went to that really classy place down by the bay, had lobster and oysters and white wine. You wore that pink spaghetti strap dress and I wore my green blazer. Damn, thinking about it makes me hard; you looked so good I wanted to jump you when I picked you up. We sat at the dock of the bay, got pleasantly buzzed; you almost couldn't wait till we got home, and didn't wait until we got to the bedroom. I bent your butt over the end of the couch, hiked up your dress and fucked you from behind while pulling your hair back. We didn't even turn the lights out: the sight of your tits wobbling as I banged you was so hot. You came three times, made me stop while you shuddered and squealed when I slapped your sweet butt. When I shot my load I hit the jackpot: Chris popped out of you nine months later.

You were a great lay, I remember that sometimes. I miss the smell of your perfume, the softness of your hair. Well, I miss everything about modern society, but that's screwed up. I did it, I admit it, but I'm not sorry.

Oh, go ahead and ask any expert when this was written. He'll tell you like he told me, this was written 300 years ago. Makes me laugh. Read the book I found about Justice Clark Collingsworth Griswold of Massachusetts. Yeah, I named myself after that damn movie: I'm so funny sometimes, I make me laugh. You can read about what a great and dignified man I was and how everyone looked up to me. Yeah, I fooled people pretty well. Now let me tell you about the best fuck of my life, the woman who made my life complete.

I was a circuit judge in the late 1680s, on the edge of civilization in eastern Massachusetts. It was easy to claim I'd been shipwrecked on the Maine coast and had a law degree from Oxford, nobody checked it out. A nice spring day, and I'd gotten to some little burg that's a city now. She was a hot tempered little bitch who got into trouble, accused of witchcraft. Tall, slender, dark hair, blue eyes and she'd done something I knew couldn't be her fault, but they didn't. She was 20, which in those days meant she was a spinster.

Her trial was a mess: even by their standards the case didn't hold up very well. Some chickens had died mysteriously, cut up and their blood painted on some trees. Clarinda had a reputation for a sharp tongue, nobody really liked her outside her family, and it was clear she was being set up. They said she was a witch, and she screwed up reciting the Lord's Prayer, so they thought they were right. But her eyes were beautiful and I hadn't gotten laid for a while, so I thought I'd have a chance for some fun.

"Thou art a fool and a charlatan, Judge Griswold, since thou dost not see mine innocence," she said after the evidence had been presented. "I do protest there is no proof in the truth of what my accusers say. Why should I kill all my own chickens in this way? I shall have to work the rest of the summer to purchase more so that I may not starve this coming winter."

"There is reason in what you say," I said from my perch, "But you have shown contempt for this court, which deserves punishment. I sentence the defendant to be stocked until dusk and receive 12 strokes of the lash. If no stronger proof comes forth this day to convict you of witchcraft, you shall be set free."

The crowd give me a mix of cheers at her punishment and shouts of outrage I didn't convict her on the spot. Hell, I knew she wasn't going to hang, so I didn't give a shit. They'd have fun spitting on her and covering her with rotten garbage while she was restrained.

She gave the bailiff a good struggle, and I had to help him drag her to the town square to put her in the wooden restraints. This town had a set for hands and feet rather than a pillar, so she was laying face up on the village green, her head and hands through one beam and her ankles through another. They were on chains, so we didn't have to stretch her to make her fit.. Fortunately for Clarinda, it was a mild, spring day and the bugs hadn't come out yet, so she only had to cope with the sun shining in her eyes. Her dress was a typical number for the time: a full length dark colored garment that reached her ankles with a white blouse, leather shoes and a white cap for her head. Her hands were rough from work, as most women's were them, and she was relatively pale from being indoors most of the past winter.

If looks could kill, I would have been dead. The bulges in her blouse turned me on, and I could see her nipples perking under the fabric. Thank God they hadn't invented bras yet: hell, I could have made a fortune with that idea, but no, it was too soon, and I like to see free boobies. I was getting ideas, as you know so well.

After a couple other cases, we ate. Drinking our lunch at the tavern, the old farts who ran the little burg told me the whole story. Clarinda had spurned all the local boys' pickup lines and they hated her. They'd heard stories of witchcraft that drifted over from Europe, as well as some legends of the local Indians and cooked up a story about sacrificing chickens to find a man. The only problem was the local boys were ignorant dumbasses who couldn't make up a convincing lie, and now Clarinda, whose family had died from typhoid the past winter, would be alone the rest of her life.

At noon, I went back to the commons, and to see how she was doing. She still glared at me, madder than hell, and I could hardly contain myself. Her face was damp with spit and her dress a mess with bits of rancid vegetation. If it were night, I'd have fucked her right then and there, but broad daylight with the whole town watching was enough to keep my codpiece in place. The bailiff came up with at sorrowful look on his face: "My lord, we have a difficulty."

"Yes?"

"When we stocked her this morning, we left her face up. There is no way we can carry out your sentence of 12 lashes."

"Interesting. We could turn her over, but that would be a lot of trouble."

"Yes, my lord. I don't relish turning her loose." His face had a couple of nasty scratches from locking her up.

"Mayhap a morning in the stocks has softened her attitude. I could be merciful."

"Thou art a charlatan and fool, that doest not set me free," she cut in. "Thy wits are curdled, thy wisdom folly, and thy vision a blind man's dreaming. Blast your arrogance!"

A crowd had gathered, curious and hostile. Clarinda really didn't seem to have many friends: there was no sympathy for her in that group. I waited, and more people came over to see what was going on. The bailiff stood looking at me, waiting for instructions.

I addressed the crowd. "We have more justice to render this day, but I need to get this matter resolved. No new evidence has arisen to prove witchcraft, but the insult to my office must be redressed. 12 lashes are fair, do you think?"

The crowd cheered in approval while the bailiff looked lost. My cock started stirring because I'd read before I left the 21st century what happened next (Clarinda referred to it in a letter she wrote me later), and the anticipation was driving me crazy. "I think since the insult was to my person, I will exact the penalty myself. Give me the lash."

The bailiff handed it over without hesitation, still puzzled. "But, my lord. . ."

"I know how we shall do this. Watch me."

Her tits were hanging off the to sides, covered by the blouse but unrestrained by her dress. She was wearing her late mother's dress which was a bit too large for her. I adjusted my leather gloves, which were a little cracked, and tested the whip against them. Then I went over to the bound woman, who was watching me fearfully, and pulled down her blouse, exposing her breasts. They wobbled delightfully, their quarter sized light brown puffy nipples hardened as they met the air. It was all I could do to keep from exploding at the sight.

The look on her face was still defiance. "One last chance: apologize."

She spat in my face, and I brought the whip down on the white, milky orbs with a loud crack. A gasp came from the onlookers, and I hit her breasts again, leaving an angry red welt. She struggled futilely against her bonds, tears streaming from her eyes, but she didn't scream. "Three," I said calmly as I continued my work, and with eight more strokes had turned her mammaries a lovely shade of red. The last blow was the hardest, across both nipples, and brought a loud scream that made the area wildlife grow silent in response.

"That should do to satisfy honor," I said, giving the bailiff back the whip. "You may release her after I've gone back inside."

"Yes, my lord."

The afternoon cases were wrangling over property lines and inheritances, and took way too long. It was really hard to get used to how long people talk in this time, but they've got nothing else to do, I guess. Toward the end of the session, Clarinda slipped in the back door and sat in the back, her eyes red, holding her sore tits as discreetly as she could. As the cases were judged, the crowd slipped away until I was alone finishing the paperwork as she watched.

I put down the quill, spread the sand to dry the ink, and looked at her. She was beautiful in her pain. For several long moments, we looked at each other in silence. "You humiliated me," she said at last.

"I know. Justice can be harsh, but what's done is done. I have a deal for you."

That surprised her. She leaned forward, interested. "I know who you felt about what happened today. You were humiliated, embarrassed, hurt and it excited you more than anything you've ever known. Correct?"

She looked away a quick moment, shocked, but eventually looked back, fascinated. "You don't need to know how I know this," I continued. "It's better you don't. I have a proposal for you: I am a single man of 30 in need of a wife. You will have periods of the solitude you love as I make my circuits, and when I'm home, you'll have excitement and pleasure. We will have enough money to employ servants, so you won't have to do all the hard work yourself. Please me and I'll keep you. And you'll be away from this town where everybody hates you: you'll have friends, respect and security. You will have probably the only chance for happiness in your life. Unless you'd like to stay here as a spinster. . ."

Her mouth dropped open. "This is sudden. I am overwhelmed, sir. What should I expect from you?"

I smiled. "Do my bidding and you will prosper. My needs are simple. Obedience, only to me. You may treat the rest of the world as you wish."

"Done."

She went with me the next day to Boston; I was able to set her up in a boarding house during our "courtship" I taught her how to suck cock and do all the kinky things I love to do, and she went for all of them. We were married when a logical amount of time passed to keep up appearances. Clarinda stayed with me the rest of my life: in public, she was a great trophy wife; in private, the most fantastic slut I've ever known.

You probably wonder why I went to the trouble to tell you all this. Like I said, before I left I researched this on the Internet, and I know tomorrow I'm going to die. It'll be quick, a duel I provoked with a sharpshooter, because I'm getting arthritis and getting older in this time is pretty gross. Another good thing about knowing the future. I know the foundation I started that comes to maturity now will support you and the kids in fantastic style the rest of your life: I checked it and you'll shit when you see how much money's there. Too bad you won't be able show me your appreciation.

I want you to know Clarinda was better than you: smarter, funnier, sexier, hornier. She sucks cock better than you, fucks better than you, takes it up the ass when you wouldn't, lets me whip her ass and tits and does anything I want to her and asks for more. Of course one woman can't satisfy me, but I learned: I've traded in sweet little slave girls to tide me over Clarinda's dry spells rather than get caught again. I learn from my mistakes: I don't go looking for love in all the wrong places anymore. Clarinda's cool with it.

I had to tell you this: I've written several copies of this letter and left them for you to be opened today, February 14, 2014, as my last Valentine to you, my stupid bitch. To tell you about there was a woman who could take everything you couldn't.

One more thing, sweetheart: we had six kids, they all lived, and the family's still around. Check out your family tree: Clarinda was your ancestor. I fucked your family three centuries ago. The last time we met you screamed at me because your babies had my genes. You've got them too, sweetheart, ain't nothing you can do about it. The thought that turns me on most tonight, the last night I'm alive, as I get ready for Clarinda to suck my cock dry after I whip her tits cherry red, is that I got blown by and fucked her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter. Every time I've blown my load inside her, I've been doing it to you.

So baby, enjoy the life I'm giving you. Do whatever the hell you want, send the kids to boarding school, take up whatever. I'll always be part of you, and you'll never get rid of me. Think about that, Sweetheart, and think about me.

Your Daddy from way back.