In the Clutches of the Law

July and August were sweltering. The flood damage had been cleared away, and now people and animals alike were gasping for air in the scorching summer heat. Julia’s windows faced east, so she had morning sun, but during the day her apartment was in the shade, allowing her to work — sitting on her office chair in just a negligee — without breaking out in a sweat. When she rolled over to the pond, she wore a sleeveless T-shirt whose fabric let the sunlight through and gently tanned her skin, but also allowed her breasts and nipples to show through — because that’s how she wanted it. She loved that her body, that her skin, was sun-tanned. Sometimes she took a day off work and drove the arduous route to the New Danube, where there was a nudist beach. There she let the sun tan her, just as Alfie did — it was his first time at a nude beach. Of course, he’d read about it, but in Chicago, such a thing hadn’t existed for a long time. He had to slather himself thickly with sunscreen because he was afraid of getting sunburned. Julia never used sunscreen, because her skin was used to the sun; it would turn a little red at first and then tan quickly. She was used to the curious and lustful glances from men, but thankfully, hitting on girls was frowned upon at the nude beach.

She had her tablet with her and read her documents when she wasn't chatting with Alfie or when Alfie was dozing. Alfie covered his face with his T-shirt and dozed in the sun; he was often working through the night these days, so he could afford this luxury — spending time with Julia here on the beach or at her apartment — with a clear conscience. Julia always brought her cooler bag, so they could drink their own lemonade and didn’t have to rely on the overpriced drinks from the beach vendors. They both loved these sunny vacation days and didn’t go to the pond.

On other days, Alfie would come to her apartment; she’d stop working and lie skin-to-skin with him on the bed. Unlike her, Alfie was groaning from the heat, so she took a damp washcloth and washed his body from head to toe, letting the evaporating moisture cool his skin. She knew every inch of his body; she hadn’t blushed while washing him in a long time. He dozed off, and she sat down at the computer to continue working on her thesis.

The myths and legends she read came mainly from the second half of the 19th century, the heyday of Neoclassicism. How different the German and French legends were! The French texts were cheerful, cheeky, and tongue-in-cheek — they called a hammer a hammer and an anvil an anvil without any hesitation or beating around the bush. The German texts, on the other hand, were already heavily self-censored; after all, you couldn’t call a hammer a hammer — or even mention it at all! The poets and writers were aware of society’s repressive pressure, so they either hid the hammer and anvil entirely or modestly concealed them behind a rosebush. Julia smiled knowingly and diligently noted down the offending passages. Sometimes she read the passages aloud to Alfie, and they discussed the differences.

Later, Julia wouldn’t have been able to say exactly when she’d started touching him intimately. It had happened completely naturally, because when she washed him with the cool, damp cloth, she touched him there too, claro. His body reacted to the harmless touch; Bacchus poked his little head out and looked around curiously. Smiling, she reached out and did what her grandfather had taught her. Moaning and groaning with pleasure, Alfie relaxed, and she continued to wash him with the cool, damp cloth, smiling contentedly. It became second nature, and Alfie just looked at her with wide eyes. “You do it far better than any little machine, Julia.” She nodded knowingly, for he hadn’t brought a little machine from the future with him. “Grandpa patiently taught me, and now I can put it into practice.” There wasn’t much more to say about it.

Just as naturally, she would rest her head on his broad chest whenever her desire threatened to overflow, murmuring that she, too, wanted to relax now. Her finger blindly followed the familiar path. A butterfly spread its wings, fluttered back and forth, and settled on a small hillock, on a flower’s calyx, only to spread its wings again moments later and flutter on, from hillock to hillock, alighting on a flower and plunging its proboscis deep into the flower’s pistil. Oh, there were so many little hillocks there, so many blossoms that opened their pistils to the butterfly’s proboscis. And then the butterfly gradually transformed into a hawk, which now circled widely in the sky. These circles grew smaller and smaller until the hawk locked onto its target and dove toward it like a rocket, driving its talons into the flesh. Julia buried her face, trembling, in Alfie’s armpit as her body twitched in the hawk’s talons, and her lips kissed the delicate skin. When she looked up, Alfie was smiling. “So that’s your definition of ‘exuberant,’ sweetheart.” Julia nodded wearily, “Yes, that’s me — exuberantly happy and wonderfully relaxed.” She no longer hid this secret from him.

A text message from Alfie alarmed Julia. “They’re arresting me…” she read the incomplete message. She suppressed her panic and called Yvonne. Yvonne was wide awake immediately. “Arrest is the key word here, Julia. You have to go to the police station and have them look for him there.” Julia picked the nearest one, the police station on Juchgasse next to the 'Wien Mitte' train station. She grabbed her purse and rolled her Ferrari for 15 minutes, past the Stadtpark. The reception area was completely empty; she rolled up to the counter, but could barely see over the edge of the desk. The young officer in uniform motioned for her to roll around the counter and she looked at her curiously. Julia explained that her boyfriend had recently been arrested.

The clerk frowned. “I’m not allowed to give you that information,” she said. “Well, what’s your boyfriend’s name?” she asked, typing in “Alfred Von dem Steine, American citizen.” “Yes, dear young lady, he’s listed here, but that’s all I can tell you.” Julia’s shoulders slumped. “Wait,” said the clerk, “I’m going to take a smoke break right outside the door.” Julia got the hint and rolled out onto the street. Moments later, the clerk came out and awkwardly lit a cigarette. “In the Gray House, pretrial detention,” she muttered into the flame of her lighter. “No, unfortunately I can’t tell you anything more specific — that’s all it says.” Julia mumbled her thanks and rolled away. She called Yvonne. Yvonne thought for a moment. “You can only go in there with a lawyer, sweetie. But he’s American — just call the embassy; they’ll send someone.”

Julia called the American Embassy in broken, school-level English. She was transferred, transferred again, and after five or six transfers, she got a young man on the line who, thank goodness, spoke German. He wrote down Alfie’s name and his address in Huntington Heights, Chicago. That was all Julia knew. She had told him she had limited mobility and was in a wheelchair. He said he could be at the Landl — the Gray House — in two hours, at 1:00 p.m., and asked if she could make it there too. Of course, Julia said, breathing a sigh of relief. She called a taxi that could accommodate a wheelchair user and had herself driven to the Landl, the downtown prison. She waited patiently, and at a quarter past one, a young man approached her and held out his hand.

She touched his hand with her fingertips and said, “I have brittle bone disease, so I can only use my fingertips, Mr. …?” “Andrews, Frederick Desmond Andrews,” he said. “I work at the U.S. Embassy. I just checked our records and found seven people with the last name “Von dem Steine” in downtown Chicago, but not a single Alfred and no one in Huntington Heights either. “Well, we’ll see.” Good Lord, was she dragging the nonexistent Alfie even deeper into the shit!?

Andrews led the way, showed his ID, and they were escorted to a burly correctional officer who was more nibbling than puffing on his cigarillo. “Smoking is strictly prohibited here, just like everywhere else. Here, help yourself,” he said, pushing the overflowing ashtray across the table with a crooked grin. He motioned for them to sit down and picked up a thick folder. “Yes, he’s here, in pretrial detention. Unfortunately, that’s all I can tell you, Mr. Andrews. And it goes without saying that we treat him like a gentleman — after all, he might be innocent. I’m just following my instructions, Mr. Andrews, and I’m not authorized to provide any information about prisoners in the political section.”

Andrews nodded. “I see. But could you tell me who I should contact and which department I can reach out to for more information?” The officer looked at the file. “A Captain F. Münzinger, extension 1423, is the officer in charge. Wait, I’ll give you the phone number.” Andrews wrote it down and stood up. “Thank you very much,” he said and walked out into the hallway with Julia. “I’ll have to discuss this with my superior; I can’t just ride 'Yippie-Yeah' into the Corral like that — you understand, don’t you, Ms. Herrnthaler?” Julia nodded. Andrews promised to call her in two hours at the latest; after all, he had her cell phone number. He left quickly.

She had told Yvonne everything. Yvonne said that if she couldn’t make any headway with the embassy, she could consult a lawyer, but that would be expensive. Julia waited anxiously for Andrews’s call. He actually called, even before the two hours were up. “Well, we spoke with Münzinger on the phone. He was pretty annoyed that the embassy had gotten involved so early on. Yes, there had been an anonymous tip, and the American had been arrested on suspicion of espionage. He acknowledged that the man would, of course, receive legal counsel, and tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. he would visit the prisoner at the Gray House with Andrews so that Andrews could see for himself. With the prisoner’s consent, a search of the two apartments on Pálffygasse had been arranged; his colleagues were already on site. In any case, Münzinger concluded, if this were indeed a case of espionage against the Republic, they would contact the ambassador through official channels, as required.” Andrews waited to see if Julia had anything to say about it.

"We've known each other for a few weeks — maybe two and a half months — Mr. Andrews," said Julia. "Of course, I can't vouch for Alfred; I don't know him that well. But I'm absolutely astonished that he's supposed to be a spy. That strikes me as very strange; I surely would have noticed something. A spy? No, Mr. Andrews. It must be a case of mistaken identity or a misunderstanding — Alfie is absolutely, positively not a spy!” Andrews seemed to nod over the phone. “Keep in mind that a girlfriend is often the best cover for a clever spy, and very few girls notice his double life. But I’m certainly not implying that your friend could be a spy. At least he’s not one of our spies — I can assure you of that!” he chuckled. Turning serious again, he said, “I’ll bring a colleague with me tomorrow who will meticulously examine Mr. von dem Steine’s documents and passport. Then we’ll see.”

Julia hung up after Andrews promised to call her back tomorrow around 3:00 p.m. Julia talked for a while longer with Yvonne, who was quite pleased with how things were going. “Don’t worry, Julia, everything’s on track now. That’s all you can do right now.” Julia drove out to the pond that very afternoon to feed the birds. Then she threw herself into her work and immersed herself in the myths of ancient Greece.

At night, she tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. What if they discovered that Alfie didn’t even exist? He would never reveal his time travel — they’d lock him up in the loony bin on the spot. What if they thought his passport was a forgery? After all, his passport didn’t bear the likeness of President Donald J. Trump, but most Americans still had passports featuring the American bald eagle. That couldn’t be his undoing. But what about the house search? Would they buy his explanation that he was collecting and scanning lost documents? What if they investigated whether and when there had been a fire at the National Library? And whether an Alfred von dem Steine even worked for the National Library at all? Question after question to which she had no answer. Loose wires dangling from the ceiling. She fell asleep restlessly, dreaming wild, frightening, and violent dreams, but when the alarm clock woke her at seven, she couldn’t remember any of them.

She was sitting by the pond feeding the birds, but she drove home as early as 1:00 p.m. and waited for Andrews’ call. He called at a quarter to three. “I was just with Münzinger at Mr. Von dem Steine’s. I can reassure you, Mrs. Herrnthaler, he’s well taken care of; he’s dressed in civilian clothes and is being treated courteously. Münzinger and I spoke with him for 20 minutes. My colleague thoroughly examined the passport — it’s definitely genuine, thank God. He is definitely an American, and I’ve sunk my teeth into this case — I have every right to do so. Münzinger asked him questions about the house search. The answers were quite satisfactory. Mr. Von dem Steine works for a patron, searching for and scanning documents, books, and newspaper articles from the last century. Münzinger was able to confirm this information; nothing else had been found. He remained silent about the patron’s name — there was no obligation to disclose it. If a patron wished to remain anonymous, he was entitled to do so.”

Andrews paused. “There isn’t the slightest indication that he’s spying for a foreign power — and certainly not for our country; I’ve checked it twice and three times. Münzinger said that without concrete evidence, they wouldn’t even be able to present the case to a magistrate and would have to drop it. Münzinger seemed relieved to me, because catching a real spy was something truly extraordinary and would drag a whole trail of red tape in its wake. No, he would close the case immediately and release Mr. von dem Steine. Münzinger shrugged; he had to investigate every suspicion, even if it ended up being a dead end, like this case.” Andrews hung up.

The next morning, around a quarter past nine, Alfie called; he was already downstairs at the front gate. Julia pressed the door opener and waited for him. Without a word, and in tears, she threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, how wonderful to have you back, my little spy!” she sobbed, overjoyed. She invited him to sit down and made some tea. She served croissants and a cold platter for breakfast. She watched him silently as he tucked heartily into his breakfast. “In prison, I got a cup of brown sludge at 5 a.m. that wouldn’t even pass for coffee in wartime,” he grinned. “It was an interesting experience, 48 hours in pretrial detention. I’ve checked that off my tourist to-do list — I don’t plan on visiting again.” He lit a cigarette. “That was really nice of you to get the embassy involved — it sped up the process considerably.” Julia said it had been Yvonne’s advice, and she was absolutely right.

Julia said there might be a problem with his passport. Andrews had written down the passport number and would surely figure out that he was a U-boat, an underground operative. Alfie wasn’t fazed. “I’m confident, Julia, don’t worry. I’ll just blame it on the passport office’s sloppiness, of course — it won’t be a problem.” (And that’s exactly how it turned out; they never heard from Andrews again.) Alfie set off quickly; his scanners had surely been waiting for new input for 24 hours or even longer.

Julia had gotten her hands on the pill. She was absolutely determined to have sex with Alfie, but she didn’t want to take any risks. She was just waiting for the right moment, because now, after the espionage scandal, Alfie had to focus on his main task. No, she would wait until everything was back to normal, just like before the espionage incident. At noon, she strolled over to the pond and fed her birds. She had also bought birdseed, grains, and dried berries from a pet store so the birds would have something other than stale bread to eat. The man at the pet store had agreed with her — the birds needed supplements like minerals, salts, flaxseed, and hempseed for natural fats. “I’ve learned something important again,” she thought to herself. From now on, she would buy birdseed so the birds wouldn’t just get stale bread.

A few hours later, she was lying on Alfie's bare chest again. She asked him for the hundredth time what it was like to be intimate with his mom.

Alfie patiently described it for the hundredth time. “We lay still and silent next to each other, not touching one another; each of us was focused on ourselves. Our little machines were running, humming quietly. My little machine is easy to describe; really, it was just a primitive contraption, and it was done after only a few minutes, whereas Mom’s always took a very long time. But how Mom used her machine — I never figured that out for sure in my earliest youth; I never asked her and only rarely spied on her. That was the boundary of her privacy. Presumably, there was some kind of tongue that Mom used, but I didn’t know that for sure back then. There was a vibrating plunger — I knew that for certain, because I could usually see it in action. I always assumed that Mom first let that hidden tongue do its work, and when she was already panting loudly, she’d switch on and activate the piston. But maybe I was wrong, and my imagination was running wild like a crazy bronco.” Julia nodded thoughtfully. “It seems plausible to me — the wet tongue first, and then the dildo at the end. That way, it makes sense. At least that’s how we humans do it.”

"Once my little machine had relaxed me, I rested my face on Mama’s beautiful chest and listened to her heart pounding and racing. Mama, born Isolde von Hohenheim, had been the most fieryest mare at the Hohenheim horse stud farm in her youth. I mainly watched Mom’s facial expressions as they shifted from a soft smile to focused, introspective attention and finally to a relaxed, blissful smile. When I lifted my head, I could see the vibrating plunger tirelessly thrusting into her bush. Her fingers were always in her bush; she’d adjust the plunger’s movements, and her finger would circle a little. My sisters had shown me long before how girls do it. Mom tensed up toward the end and set the plunger to top speed — that fascinated me a lot back then. When she reached the end of the stroke, she pushed it out, looked at me happily and relaxed, and little stars twinkled in her eyes. Mom knew for sure that I was watching the plunger pistoning, but she didn’t say a word; she probably wanted me to see it. We never talked specifically about how I or she used the little machine. She surely thought I could have seen everything.”

He thought for a moment. “Just once, back when I was still a little kid, she showed me exactly where this wet tongue was licking and how she shoved the plunger deep into her bush so the guy could really pound her. But I forgot all about it right away — it was really boring, and I was just a little kid back then. Sex was boring; I categorically rejected that stupid little machine, and Mom should keep doing it for me herself by hand.” “How old do you think you were back then?” Julia asked. “I think 7 or 8 — that’s when I hit puberty and my little guy became fully functional.”

Julia always closed her eyes when he told her about it. Yes, she could picture it — the boy’s face against Mom’s breasts and his gaze fixed on the pestle as it pounded. Yes, she could easily imagine that. “I think your mom was smart and wise. Introducing you to sexuality — yours as well as hers — in this way was exactly the right thing to do under the circumstances.” Alfie nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, she was — a very good and conscientious mother who didn’t let me go astray during puberty and my teenage years.”

Julia asked if he’d ever been able to see the plunger directly, like… well, inside? Alfie thought for a moment, formulating his words in his head before speaking. “I was in middle school — probably 15 or maybe even 16 — when Mom let me see it, all of it. From the front, not just from above, down from her chest. No, she let me kneel between her thighs and gaze in wonder. Filled with awe and a sacred shiver, not with greedy lust as I would be now. How she stretched out her little mound toward the wet tongue to be licked, while her finger circled lightly and tirelessly. How that kindled her fire, and she finally pressed the button. Now the piston began to thrust, and I was allowed to see it very clearly as it drove into her bush and then into her body. My whole body trembled; my mother had never given birth to a child, and everything looked as delicate as it had with my sisters.

The plunger dug its way through drilling a hole and dutifully pounded its way in and around inside. Of course, I knew in theory how the girls did it with their fingers, but now I saw it up close, because Mom didn’t just guide the plunger with her finger — she made her finger dance and jump busily. And I understood that she was only revving the plunger to full throttle to intensify her climax. From then on, she let me watch whenever I wanted. Mom’s glances were always shy and full of shame, because she was letting me see her sinful thoughts and her best-kept secrets. And she had gotten into the habit of reaching out to me just before her final ecstasy and letting Genghis Khan’s blessing rain down on the piston and her most sacred part. I think she longed for closeness, for union. As a fiery mare at the Hohenheim stud farm, she’d never lacked for that.” Alfie closed his eyes. He’d come so close to the truth that it made him dizzy. He didn’t dare take the final step — the most painful one — not yet.

Julia put off the topic of Genghis Khan for later and interjected, "Your sisters!?" Alfie didn't want to leave her hanging and found a way to skirt the truth. “Mom once asked me what she could get the girls for their — I think it was their fifteenth — birthday? I suggested little relaxing machines — they made them for young girls, too. Same functions, but everything a tad smaller. That’s how my sisters, the twins, got their first little machines. And I think that was just the right thing to do, and it came at just the right time.” Julia sensed that a big fat fly and a big fat lie were lurking in the undergrowth here, but she pushed the thought aside. She had no right to pry. She could guess as much.

She told Alfie about the dream she’d had that night: once again, she had floated into his mom’s bedroom and seen her and Alfie lying there, with the little machines on her lower abdomen. They were holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes, and smiling. She floated around the two of them and spotted the dildo thrusting into her bush, and she heard Alfie’s mother’s panting sighs. But it wasn’t a nightmare; instead, she rose high into the air and landed in a meadow full of flowers, their blossoms turning hungrily toward the sun. Alfie smiled, because he liked it when someone experienced something beautiful in a dream.

Julia asked where his father had gone? Alfie’s face expression darkened. “Dad fell madly in love with Almut, Mom’s youngest sister — she was 15 or 16 at the time. They committed the sin of the flesh for months right under Mom’s nose, and Dad died a miserable death from the virus.” Julia paused in her movements. “Oh, I’m so sorry — how terrible!” But Alfie waved it off. “Almut didn’t take the testing very seriously, and that ice-cold vixen let Dad walk right into his doom with his eyes wide open — it was his decision, after all.”

Julia could tell this was eating away at him. So she changed the subject. She wanted to know how society as a whole was reacting to the virus. “It’s a bloodbath,” Alfie said, “there are far too few men for far too many women. Some of the smarter ones live without sex, just like me. Others rely on condoms and tear into the lambs and sheep like wolves; unscrupulously, they stop at neither virgins nor shy wives. — I dare say that my great-grandchildren, freed from the yoke of the virus, will reintroduce polygamy out of necessity so that, like the Bedouins of old, they won’t die out as a people.” Julia nodded thoughtfully; he might be right.

Alfie, just like Julia, had found his rhythm between work, feeding the birds, and lying on her bed. He worked late into the night and made sure his scanners ran tirelessly day and night. He was glad he’d bought the most expensive models; the devices could easily distinguish between books, newspapers, and magazines. They retrieved the next item from the stack and turned the pages on their own, one by one. Where appropriate, they scanned two pages at a time. They slid the finished item into the tray and picked up the next one from the input conveyor belt. Each scanned item was given a descriptive folder name that included at least the title, type of item, and date of release. This allowed him later — 900 years later — to have them neatly cataloged.

Damn, it was Tuesday — and Yvonne’s afternoon! And Alfie was lying naked on her bed, sleeping soundly. “Can I…?” Yvonne asked Julia, and took off her clothes as she usually did, so all three of them were naked on that sweltering afternoon. Yvonne lay down next to the sleeping Alfie and looked him over from head to toe, taking a very close look at the naked guy and the sleeping Dionysus. Julia wasn’t sure if it was right to lie down next to Yvonne, but then she decided to go for it — Tuesdays always meant girl-on-girl sex, every damn Tuesday afternoon. And Yvonne should stop staring at Alfie’s thing, that sex-crazed slut!

Alfie woke up a little later, held out his hand to Yvonne, and told her his name. “Yvonne Pospischil,” she said, and they shook hands. The “Von dem Steine” fascinated Yvonne, but Alfie said with a smile that in the U.S. there was no nobility and no “Von” as in Germany. Julia reached for a cigarette and offered one to Alfie and Yvonne as well. She found the situation very embarrassing — first, the girls having sex next to the sleeping Alfie, and now they had to pretend nothing had happened. Yvonne’s fingers brushed against Alfie’s inner thigh, and she stared at the head of Bacchus, which had risen and was looking around curiously. “May I…?” Yvonne asked Julia, but she just shook her head, firmly refusing. “No, don’t — Yvonne, behave yourself!” Could she have said yes? No, of course not; girlfriends shared everything, absolutely everything, but there were limits, too. “Alfie is mine, please respect that!” Julia said, giving Yvonne a slap on the buttocks. “You’ve got five on every finger, so please leave him to me — he’s my one and only!” Yvonne reluctantly took her fingers off the shaft and head of Bacchus and turned to Julia: “So this is your spy?” All three of them laughed freely.

Of course, everything revolved around Alfie’s arrest. He thanked Yvonne again for advising Julia to enlist the embassy’s help. That led directly — and unspectacularly — to his swift release. He and Julia proceeded with great caution. Not even the slightest hint was to be made about time travel. Alfie blamed the mess with his passport on the sloppy negligence of the passport office, and Yvonne nodded in agreement. “Here, too, there’s far too much sloppiness on the part of the authorities; with my French first name, I know a thing or two about that.” Julia and Alfie took turns telling Yvonne everything worth knowing about Alfie, since she wanted to learn all about Julia’s new boyfriend. Without having coordinated their stories, they stuck as closely as possible to the facts and the truth — that caused the fewest complications. The afternoon flew by in the blink of an eye. Alfie couldn’t take his eyes off Yvonne’s breasts; they were what one would call 'massive'. Not a gram of silicone — all raw, feisty nature. They then discussed Julia’s thesis and Yvonne’s current lover. “He’s useless and certainly no stud,” Yvonne sighed. She glanced at her watch and got dressed slowly, lasciviously, and frivolously. Let Alfie stare all he wanted — she knew full well just how beautiful she was. She gave them both a little kiss on the cheek and left.

Julia pressed herself against Alfie. “While you were sleeping, we were having girl-on-girl sex. I would have been so embarrassed if you’d woken up right in the middle of it, Alfie.” He ran his flat hand over her back; she was so slim that he could have counted her ribs. “It’s really none of my business — she’s your partner, Julia, not mine.” Julia teased him: “But you’d probably like her, wouldn’t you?” Alfie didn’t pick up on her playful tone and replied in all seriousness: “She’s probably a beautiful and desirable young woman in your world. She really is very shapely, but next to you she pales in comparison. To me, she seemed dominant — almost domineering — and I can’t stand that. Besides, first of all, I don’t want to be her two hundred and seventy-ninth conquest after the two hundred and seventy-eighth — and to know that tomorrow the two hundred and eightieth will already be in bed with her. Besides, and secondly — my first physical encounter with the female sex should be with someone very special, not with a slut, if you’ll forgive me for using that vulgar term.” Julia punched him in the ribs. “Yvonne isn’t a slut — she’s promiscuous, yes. But not a slut!”

She picked up the breadcrumb again. “So you want your first time to be with someone very special?” He remained silent and didn’t pick up on the hint. Julia waited in vain.

"I saw my doctor this morning. She did a bone density test: a 17% increase! Alfie, your healing powder is working — the improvement is phenomenal! I’ve been on a high all day and have been dying to tell you how overjoyed I am! 17%, and that’s after about 50 days!” Alfie purred contentedly. "That’s good news — damn good news!" Julia gave him a squeeze from the side. "So, what do you think — am I special enough to be your first?" Alfie held his breath. "That’s exactly what I was trying to say earlier: you and no one else!"

Her overflowing libido felt like a lump in her throat. She wanted — no, she had to — feel him, the gentle lapping of the waves as well as the surf thundering powerfully against the rocks. Julia murmured in a husky voice, “You can hold me gently by the hips while we have sex now.” And she turned on her side, presenting her ass to him. Alfie gently placed a hand on her hip, and they had sex for the first time. Julia rejoiced almost silently, letting the butterfly flutter busily from blossom to blossom and, finally, letting the hawk swoop down with a cry of joy.

They lay there, tightly entwined, letting their heartbeats slow to a rhythm. Julia kissed him for the first time — a deep, sincere, and heartfelt French kiss. “Alfred von dem Steine, I want to be your girlfriend, your sexual partner, your wife — as long as you’re here in my time!” Alfie gently pulled her close. “Julia Herrnthaler, I take you as my girlfriend, my one and only sexual partner, and my wife, for as long as I’m allowed to stay in your time!”

Yeah, that really was a damn profound change.

Alfie muttered about how liberating it was not to have to think about the deadly virus. Julia smiled, “Of course, my doctor tests me regularly — I might have caught something from Yvonne — but all the tests have come back negative so far. So yes: you don’t need to be afraid when you have sex with me, Alfie, my husband!” Julia let the words melt on her tongue: my husband!

Julia didn’t think about sterilization anymore, because she was on the pill, and that was fine. Her daily life hardly changed, except for the sex, of course. Julia admired his sexual stamina. “Your little machine did a great job getting things started, Alfie. You’re way more potent than any of my previous lovers — and even most of Yvonne’s lovers. And that makes me damn happy to finally be having sex; in a way, you’re giving me back a bit of normalcy, Alfie, my dear husband!”

Oh, she could say it out loud over and over again, shout it out to the world: Alfie, my husband!