"Great Scott!"

An explosion of white hair rises from the passenger seat of a Delorean DMC-12, shortly followed by a pair of slender shoulders, two shapely, naked breasts and an expanse of flat stomach terminating in a naked lower body astride a young man. The woman pants, fingers clutching her lover's chest, and then laughs jubilantly even as her hips pick up the previously interrupted pace.

"I needed that, Martin! Nothing ever gives me a brainwave like a nice, heavy orgasm!"

The young man squirms, still very much hoping to find his own release between the woman's thighs, and murmurs softly.

"My name's not--"

"No matter!" The woman, a doctor by degree if not profession, begins to bounce against the man's cock with renewed vigor, each movement making the entire car rock slightly on its suspension frame. "Hurry up and cum; I need your help if we are to get ourselves out of this pickle."

"P-pickle?" The man not called Marin squirms and grabs hold of the woman's ass, leveraging this grip to pull her onto him at an increasingly feverish pace. The vice-tightness of her insides makes his cock throb with pleasure, but his climax is still a ways off, and the woman seems more and more to focus on things outside the matter of coaxing the cum out of his.

"Pickle, yes! The one we are about to get into."

"Wha--?" His incomprehension does not seem to faze the woman, whose pelvis is now smacking loudly against his crotch while her knees dig into the seat beneath him. Not-Martin gasps, feeling the tightening at the base of his cock that heralds his impending orgasm, and the next ten seconds are a blur as he completely disregards everything she is saying in favor of pulsing, churning bliss. He bucks against her, forcing her milky ass against his thighs, and holds her there until he has run out of juice. Slowly, his hearing returns.

"--before we mounted the satellite dish. But because of that, the recursive causality of space-time convection is going to cause an immediate disassociation of reality with you, which seems a shame all things considered. But that's why you need to find your mother before that happens, and get her pregnant so you don't pop out of thin air like a soap bubble."

The crazy-haired woman pops open the door and slinks off Not-Martin's lap, and with the spunk still trickling down her inner thigh she walks around to the trunk and starts fiddling with something that sounds suspiciously like heavy machinery. Meanwhile, Not-Martin sits with his eyes closed, savoring the last of the climax and not really internalizing the words that are being slung at him.

"If my calculations are correct, we'll have optimal conditions for it tonight." The doctor comes back round and pops the driver's seat door, her naked body coated in a thin sheet of pearly sweat. The high noon sun of the Arizona badlands reflects off of her shiny skin and makes her seem luminous. As Not-Martin opens one eye and glances over at her, she reaches in between her legs and dips a few fingers into the mess he's left inside her, before licking the digits clean. She grimaces, and then nods confidently.

"Hmm.. Strong stuff. Ought to do the trick."

"Mh." He chuckles softly, still lost in post-orgasmic la-la land. "For what? Getting you pregnant?"

The professor scoffs and shakes her head. "Of course not! Your mother, like I said."

"My-- my mother?" Not-Martin opens his eyes, suddenly aware of his surroundings. "What about my mother?"

But the woman is getting dressed now, a pair of tight trousers and a lab coat to hide her naked torso, and Not-Martin begins to fumble for his own pants on the floor even as the woman gets in behind the wheel and turns the ignition.

"It's not meant to be used as a car, strictly speaking, but needs must when the Devil drives.."

The woman grins madly, and the guy scrambles to shut the door on his side as the car suddenly jumps into motion, hammering down the dusty road headed west. Not-Martin finally manages to pull his pants back on, and turns to his half-naked companion, whose breasts are still clearly visible through the open lab coat. He can still feel the shape and taste of her nipple on his lips, and hear her enthusiastic moans as she rode him to completion. The whole scene feels slightly surreal.

"So, where are we going?"

"1969." The doctor smirks gleefully. "More specifically, California."

"Is that an area code?"

The woman looks at him with a dubious expression. Her eyes linger on him long enough that he starts to get nervous, as the needle on the speedometer never falls below 90 mph. Finally, she pries her eyes off of him and returns her attention to the road.

"Well?" He is genuinely curious now. "Like Beverly Hills, 90210?"

She scoffs. "It's a date, Martin."

"My name's not Martin."

"And it's an important one. Free love. The moon landing. And, more importantly, your mother meeting your father at an all-you-can-eat shrimp barbecue and condom-free orgy retreat."

"I-- what?! How do you know that?"

The woman scoffs again. "Who do you think invited her to the retreat? Anyway, because of all the things I already explained, we have to make sure she goes and gets properly spunked up. I mean, really filled, you know? As much baby batter as we can get in there."

He groans. "Why? A-and how, I mean, you can't--"

"Because, Martin, if we don't, you will cease to exist. Don't want that, do you?"

"My name's not-- look, what are you talking about?"

The woman takes a sharp turn, hammering the car into the fourth gear as it pulls onto the highway. Her eyes flick down to a metal briefcase wedged between the seats.

"You see that?" He nods. "That's rarefied plutonium. A few pounds of it I stole from the Syrian army."

"What?!"

"With it, and this car, I am going to carry your cock back to your mother in 1969, so you can knock her up. Do you understand that? I mean, I'll bring all of you, but primarily, she needs your cock. She needs your cock, Martin! To knock her up so you can be born!"

"B-but-- I wasn't born until '95."

"Details." The woman grins, and leans over the steering wheel. "Details, details. Just get your baby batter factories producing. We'll be there in a few hours."

Not-Martin frowns, blinks, then frowns again. "In 1969?"

"In California. But yes, that too."

Trucks and featureless scenery rush past as the woman drives like the hounds of hell were after her. Not-Martin looks to her, opens his mouth, and then leans against the window with a sigh. So much for an uncomplicated Tinder hookup.

Turn-ons: Plutonium, flux capacitors, going exactly 88 miles per hour

Turn-offs: Technobabble,, pseudoscience, causality