The Massachusetts Vessel

- - - - - last edited October 27, 2003 - - - - -

[I’m not going to use my, nor her, real name. Duh. So, for anonymity I am Franz and she is Crystal.]

I had recently met Crystal through a friend of a friend. I’d known of her: seen her on the street, beating the hills on our shared block, hair beautifully, perfectly unkempt by the wind and her speed. She’d become a regular cameo in friends’ photos and stories. We’d obviously meet at some point in this small city of ours.

Naturally, we keep seeing each other. But it isn’t very long before she prompts me to join her for a mini-cation in Massachussets. Outside of Cambridge, of all places. But, she showed me pictures, ensured me that it belonged to her grandfather and was very private; she also rubbed her ass tight against my crotch, so, yeah, I was going.

[Stop asking, I’m not going to give anyone specifics on the location of the cabin, and definitely not the machine.]


As you could guess, the drive to Mass was boring, so I’ll spare you the details, save for: We were two-thirds to the cabin, when the vibration of the drive and smell of each other began to be a little too much to handle. We tried to remedy this by fondling each other through our jeans — like some teenagers in a Wendy’s parking lot outside school grounds — but I could only do so much to assuage the urge to have her on my lap and forget that I was driving in the first place. Safety, and a quicky, in mind, we stop at Sheetz. MTO and bilateral JO.

On the way out of the bathroom, I noticed the utility room door cracked a significant amount enough to warrant a curious peak. My immediate attention went to the security screens. I quickly scanned all six: curious as to whether we’d been caught in the family bathroom and subsequently be put in Sheetz jail (which is probably a subsidiary of McDonald’s Human Resources®). Nope. Safe.

[The reason I mention this, beyond the pleasure of recounting sexual adventures with Crystal, is because of the silver dot book I will later come to find. Looking back after all of this, I realized a similar copy was in this utility room, above the computer and beneath hundreds of days worth of envelopes and cashout receipts.]


After driving another three hours through thick forests solely by her memory and Rand McNallys riddled with notes and highlighter, we come to the cabin. Most of the trail was high weeds, so I was lucky to borrow a friend’s truck.

The cabin was your basic rustic rambler, all wood, built by her grandfather in his early fifties, by hand. Quite an incredible job for a dude in his fifties, too;— divided by 2x8 cedar planks the four rooms consisted of kitchen, library, bathroom, and a large bedroom. The patio served as the dining room, and the living room was the entire outside. The lake banked no more than fifteen yards from the cabin and beyond the trees, rocks, dirt, and water, we definitely felt like the only ones around.

The door was locked when we finally got our shit out the truck. Turning to her to begin a brainstorm session, she, instead, quickly disappears towards the back of the cabin. By the time I finally catch her around the corner, all I see are her legs slipping beneath the cabin under the exposed crawlspace.

She eventually opened the door, although it appeared the wait was so she could fix a sandwich. I promptly delivered a medium slap to her ass, ensuring to tease my fingers over her crack. She brings me on a tour of the house, and by the library, I had to have her.

She was spreading her arms like an overdramatic realty agent; back to me, face to the window facing out to the lake. The dust kicked up from our movements gave the light from the window a glow like an early Ridley Scott. I unbuttoned her jeans, lowering them slowly so I could kiss its trail down and off her legs. Then back up with a deep inhale of her entire body, sweat and funk drowning out the detergents and deodarants. Anyone could’ve turned me into a zombie with the state those mixtures (her, cedar, and aging books) put me in. I run my hands up her leg and through her panties, she is warm and wet. I take a little and taste and can’t stand it any longer. I turn her around and kiss her neck. Peel off her shirt. Unfix her bra, and bite her nipples like gumdrops. I drive my tongue from her collarbone over her navel and mons and into her sweet pussy. Each drop I take makes my dick that much harder until she heavily breathes out a "fuck me". I push into her, and warmth rushes over me and I could cum at any moment. I grab her wrists, hold them together behind her back, holding her so close to me that if she wasn’t a solid woman, able to handle it, she’d break. She holds, breaths heavier with each thrust, tickling my ears and sending electricity through my body. When I feel her getting close, I let go, feeling my dick get impossibly hard inside her. Her body shivers as I lick the sweat from her neck.

We lay for a good ten minutes, until I notice the book with a silver dot on the spine. I instantly remember it from the Sheetz. I picked it up, thinking it must've been some new NYT best seller, since some at Sheetz and the cabin had a copy. Except, there is no cover title, title sleeve, or author on the burgundy cloth binding save for the embossed (silver metallic ink) half-inch diameter circle on the spine. Marked on the title page, however, were two stamps in red ink: "MIT: School of Engineering" and “DARPA No. ST2766”. The rest of the book is typewritten math that might as well be ancient shinto for all I knew. On the last page, there were notes and "coordinates".

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