New Dawning International Bookfair
presents
GIZMO
The Beginning
By
Dee Dawning
Copyright © 2008 Dee Dawning
Smashwords Edition
Part One
I was watching the Oprah Show early one afternoon, when the door buzzer rang.
Bzzzzz!
I ignored it.
It rang again.
God, who could that be? And just when Angela Joliet was about to reveal the first time Brent made love to her. I just can’t miss that.
A knock.
Shit!
Fortunately, a commercial came on.
I’ll see who it is and if it’s that gossipy, loquacious Lois from next door, I’ll pretend I’m not here.
Ambling to the door, I peeked through the peephole.
It was the postman.
I opened the door as much as the chain would allow. “Yes?”
He scrunched his lips together almost to a pout. “Jesus, lady, what took you so long?”
“I was in the middle of something. What do you have?”
“Special delivery for Constance Palmeroy.”
Constance? I haven’t used that name in twenty years, when I was a Vegas show girl among other things. “I’m her sister, Beth. Can I sign?”
“Sure.” He slipped his clipboard between the door and the jamb and I took it. “Sign on the line that has your sister’s name.”
I glanced at the TV. Commercials. Good, if I hurry, I can still catch Angela. I signed the sheet, handed the clipboard back to the mailman, unchained and opened the door to receive the unassuming package.
“Have a good day,” he chirped.
“Yeah, whatever,” I closed and locked the door.
I picked up the package and headed back to the couch. They were talking about Angela’s new movie. Good, they haven’t got to the juicy part, yet. I looked the package over. The return address read:
TOYCO,
PO Box 24625
Grand Canal City, Mars
MARS! What the hell? I looked at the postmark. It was not stamped, but metered, typical of all postage machines. Strangely, the date read 06-23-2176. June 23, 2176? My God that’s almost a hundred seventy years from now. My curiosity had been more than piqued. It was aroused. I ripped off the brown shipping paper. The colorful box proclaimed TOYCO’s new amazing V1S3X-3 Interactive Transference Device. What the shit is an Interactive Transference Device?
Cutting through the clear tape holding the lid on with the only remnant of my once glamorous past—my long manicured finger nails—I lifted the cover and discovered several strange objects setting in the recesses of a foam divider. The most familiar looking object reminded me of a TV remote control with a large coil appearing apparatus at one end and a dozen wristwatch appearing gadgets. I opened the instruction booklet and a slip of paper fell out.
Dear Ms Palmeroy, Thank you in advance for agreeing to test TOYCO’s latest entertainment creation. Your name was suggested to us as a person of conscience and high standards.
Ms Palmeroy. Conscience? Standards? An ex-Vegas showgirl and occasional high priced call girl? So, this gizmo was supposed to come to me. Well as long as I have it. . .
TOYCO is the entertainment division of CET—Creative Environmental Technologies. The V1S3X-3 will take you beyond the optical limits of whatever ocular delivery medium you are using and allow you to become the object you are watching on your visual decoder.
Please read the included instructions thoroughly before activating your unit and take particular note of the six danger points.
Never deactivate this unit or your optic delivery system while you’re in a vicarious state or you will remain in that state in that scene in perpetuality.
Avoid transference with animals and under no circumstance should you transfer into an inanimate object.
Do not forget your wrist control or you will have no way to terminate your vicariousness. (The state of experiencing what your subject is experiencing.)
Make sure your wrist control band is secure. Since it is elastic it will automatically adjust to the wrist of your subject.
It is essential that you enter your subject as neutral as possible. Clean yourself thoroughly and wear no clothes, scents or devices. (Other than the wrist control)
Once you enter a subject, do not end the transference unless at least thirty seconds have passed. Your wrist control will change color from red to green after the required time.
I was overwhelmed. This thingamabob from the future was a means to go anywhere, do anything, I could see on TV. Speaking of the TV, another commercial had just ended and Angela had come on again. I scanned the directions and found that the remote looking object with coiled antenna was the transferal inducer.
I ran into the bathroom, disrobed and cleaned myself. I ran back into the living room and placed a wrist controller on the wrist of my now naked, less than prime, forty-five year old body. I aimed the coiled thingamajig at Angela and pushed a button that said aim. A red light ominously appeared on Angela’s forehead, resembling a probe from a laser rifle sight. I clicked the lock key and…
* * *
“When did you first realize you were irrevocably attracted to Brent?” asked Oprah.
This is unbelievable. Oprah Windsong is talking to me. About Brent Pittman, no less. I didn’t know the answer so I started to wing it. “Ah.”
Then… “The minute I saw him in person,” Angela said, “he has such a powerful presence, I was drawn to him immediately. I couldn’t sleep—couldn’t eat—couldn’t remember my lines. I was a disaster, until I indulged my desire.”
As the audience oohed at her response. I realized. So, it’s me and Angela. Fair enough, I’ll sift through her memories while she talks. Ahh, there Brent is. We’re kissing. We’re in a bed naked. He’s fingering me… Angela, while I’m…she’s stroking his magnificent specimen. Wow! Can I take that? That’s right, I don’t take it, Angela takes it. Ooh, in her mouth she takes it. Wow, it fills my mouth… her mouth. Funny, I don’t taste anything, feel anything, smell anything. Must be because it’s a memory. When he puts it in me…her, I bet it’ll be different.
But it wasn’t different. When he thrust that torpedo in me…her, I felt nothing, yet when I…she took a drink of water on Oprah’s show, I tasted it. Memories don’t work. If I want sex and be able to feel it, I have to be involved in the real thing.
I hit unlock on my now green wrist control and Zaamm, there I was, back in my semi-shapely body, in my tiny apartment, in my dumpy neighborhood. Well, at least I got to see Brent Pittman up close and personal, all nine fat inches of him.
I went in my bedroom and began searching. I sifted through each drawer of my dresser. Nothing. What, the hell, did I do with the XXX films? Last time I hid them from the kids in my dresser, I was sure Junior found them. Why couldn’t Jr. be sweet and innocent like his twin sister, Sara. She was never any trouble. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still a virgin. I looked through the closet. Nothing. I reached in between the mattress and box-spring of my queen sized bed and ran my hand along. Ahh. I felt something near the foot of the bed. I pulled one of the large Glad Ziploc bags out. Mary Jane? Wrong bag. I reached back and pulled a different bag containing four DVDs. Voila!
I took one called Wicked Wangers out of the case. There was a guy in here that really pushed my buttons. I think they called him Bud in the movie. I couldn’t help it, but every time Richard, my bald, overweight ex-husband, made love to me, at least for awhile, it was Bud that was mentally plowing my field. I’m sure my ex did the same with the women he dug.
I slipped the DVD in the machine. There was Bud and his bitch, a lean but shapely, raven haired beauty, named Wanda. Now, that I’ve seen Brent naked he looked a lot like Bud, even to the thick nine inch banana with a prominent blue vein meandering up his stiff member like a river on a map. No wonder I dug Bud so much. Could Brent have been moonlighting? Nah. It had to be a coincidence.
Bud was teasing Wanda with his cocksickle, but I knew this was just warm-up to the real action. I still had my wrist control on and was still naked, but I needed the remote thingy-wingy. I retrieved it from the living room and within seconds, I was Wanda, sucking on Bud’s oversized organ.