Many thanks to J.R. Parz, inventor of the "MASTER PC" stories.

No copyright infringement is intended toward "The Millionaire" television show, which ran from 1955-1960. This story is intended for the non-commercial enjoyment of the author and of free-site story readers. No profit will be made from the distribution of this story.

MASTER PC: I AM THE MASTER

part 3

by Addled Tosevite

email: grim_ghost AT hotmail.com

mc, nc, MF, MF+, Fsolo, teen, FF1st, oral, tg, Mdom, md, magic, size, breast, caution

First chapter

Breaking up with Helen wasn't making amends, this was just giving Helen her emotions and her life back. I made amends to Helen a week later.


A week later, Helen was driving her beloved old car when she came to a four-way stop. A second later, a red late-model car stopped to her right. But by then, Helen was already tapping the gas.

WHUMP!

Helen felt her car shift sideways underneath her. She looked to her right. That red car had hit her on the passenger side!

Helen shut off the engine and jumped out of the car, ready to give the other driver some choice words. But when she saw who the other driver was, her eyes went wide.

I get to meet him, I honest-to-god get to meet him, and it has to be this! Helen had masturbated to his picture on her wall, but now she wanted to slap him.


Until the accident, the Actor had been having a grade-A, solid-gold, peachy day.

The thought had occurred to the Actor several months ago that, while he had the looks still to be a big box-office draw now, the day would come when his looks would be too faded to get starring gigs. By then, he needed to be producing movies, not starring in them. To be able to produce movies in his "wrinkled years," the Actor had to learn how to produce movies now.

The Actor had optioned a script, lined up financing, and was in the process of scouting locations. He was all set to make the movie in Bakersfield, when last week the Actor had gotten an idea: He was going to shoot an all-American story, so he should give all America the chance to host his shoot. The Actor had put a map of the forty-eight states on the wall, thrown a dart, and this was how the Actor had come to Jackson City.

Every minute in Jackson City had been a producer's dream, everything had gone so smoothly! The Actor knew nobody was going to lowball him for his use of their land and buildings, and indeed, nobody did; but neither did anyone demand outrageous rent for the use of their property, or set outrageous conditions.

The Actor had been driving back to the Jackson City Hotel to open a bottle of champagne (and drink it alone, alas) when he'd gotten careless at the stop sign.

The Actor's rental car had hit a Seventies-era blue sedan. The other driver got out, furious, but she stopped and stared when the Actor got out of the car. The Actor was used to this reaction.

Meanwhile, the Actor looked the young woman over. She had bigger-than-average (but not cartoonish) breasts, which in Jackson City were probably natural; blond hair with a hint of dark roots; firm muscle tone; and a pretty face. She was desirable in Jackson City, but in Malibu or Manhattan she'd be lucky to get a callback.

And yet...

And yet there was a magnetism about this young woman. The Actor felt drawn to her. This is the woman I'm going to marry, the Actor thought. The last time he'd thought that, he had paid dearly in divorce court three years later. But this angry blonde seemed right for him somehow.

The Actor felt an emotion that had been gone from his life since eighth grade: shyness around a girl. "It was my fault, I wasn't paying attention, I'll pay for the damages," he blurted.

The blonde put fisted hands on her hips. "How could you? This car belonged to my grandmother. She took me for a drive in it when it smelled new, and had twenty-six miles on it."

"Look, I'm sorry—"

"I have a fond memory of Grandmother Helen taking my parents and me to see Bicentennial fireworks in this car."

"Its market value is probably five hundred, but I'll give you a thousand. I can have cash for you, nine-thirty tomorrow morning."

"That doesn't begin to—"

The Actor took a deep breath. "What if I buy you a new car?"

She glared at him. "And what to I have to do in return?"

"Nothing! You have to do nothing in return. But you're clearly upset—"

"I'm upset because I loved Grandmother Helen, but she's gone, and her new, shiny, nice-smelling car that I rode in to see the Bicentennial now has faded paint, and torn-up seats, and a cracked dash, and worn-out carpet, and a staticky radio, and it smells, and now thanks to you the car will get towed to the junkyard, where they'll put it in the car-squeeze thingy, and by tomorrow it'll be squashed flat as paper."

By now the accident had attracted a small crowd of onlookers, because the Actor had been recognized. The blonde never noticed. She looked at the car's dented doors and sighed. The Actor broke the silence: "You loved your grandmother."

She nodded, sniffing. Then a thought hit her. "Why are you here, in Jackson City?"

"I'm shooting a movie. Next month, I'll be back here for five months."

"Then girls my age will be crashing into you, just to get your autograph." She glanced at the bashed-in doors, and then told the Actor, "A thousand in cash is very generous. Thanks."

"Actually, now that I understand what the car means to you, I think I'll send it to a car-restoration place. I'll make the car look inside and out, and make it run, just like it did in 1976."

"That'll cost you much more than a thousand."

The Actor nodded. "When I throw in the price of your rental car for several months, it'll cost me more than that new car I offered you. But you'll have your grandmother's car back the way you remember it."

The blonde smiled at him, and the Actor's heart beat faster. She put out her hand. "I'm Helen Baxter. This is the most generous thing I've ever heard of."

"Actually, there is one other thing I'd like to do for you."

"Beyond all this?"

Jeez, he was nervous! The Actor took a breath. "I hope you will have dinner with me."

She beamed at him. The Actor had seen more photogenic smiles, and many more famous smiles, but not since seventh grade had a smile gladdened his heart so much.


Three months later, I was invited to the wedding, when Helen became the third (and final) Mrs. Actor. Beth cried at Helen's wedding—with relief: now Beth wasn't Helen's slit-licker slave anymore.

At the reception, Helen told me, "Myron, I haven't forgotten my promise."

I shook my head. "What promise?"

Two weeks later I got a photograph in the mail. At a movie premiere, Helen and her husband were walking the red carpet, holding hands. Their respective wedding rings reflected the camera flash. The Actor was wearing a black tux; Helen was wearing a yellow-green, low-cut, and tight-fitting gown, and she looked hot. She wasn't just pasting on a smile, she was grinning.


February 1992: Sissy, Beth, and I had moved into a three-bedroom house that I (and my bank) now owned. I was using MYSTMIND for a little corporate wizardry when the doorbell rang.

A minute later Sissy, in full French Maid attire, came back to the bedroom that I had claimed as computer room and office. "Master, there's a woman here, Lofna, who wants to meet You."

I gave Sissy a you-should-know-better look. "The rule hasn't changed. No salespeople."

"Yes, Master. But Lofna says"—Sissy now was puzzled—"she talked to someone You used to date."

"Helen?"

"I'm not sure. I'm sure she thinks I'm your girlfriend, so she didn't tell me much."

The "girlfriend" part was actually a reasonable conclusion to draw. If you went to a bachelor's house, and answering the door was what you presumed was a young woman—and not just any young woman, but the most spectacular blonde you'd ever seen—and dressed as a French Maid no less, wouldn't you presume that the young man and this person answering the door were fucking like bunnies? That hard cock was slamming hot pussy, twenty times every day? Alas, Lofna was zero-for-two when it came to presumptions. Seven months after buying Sissy, I still had never used him sexually.

Now as Sissy looked at me in my home office, I smiled. "Too bad Lofna didn't come later. If Lofna thinks you're my girlfriend, Beth would confuse her a hundred times worse." Beth was away at work till three p.m.

Sissy laughed at my joke, then went back to looking at me hungrily, downright eager to be told what to do. So I told him/her what to do. "Tell Lofna to have a seat in the living room, and I'll be there in ten minutes." At this, Sissy yes-Mastered me, dropped a curtsy, and left.

MYSTMIND spent twelve minutes informing me about my visitor. When I looked at Lofna's picture (in grayscale) on my monitor, I smiled. When I learned why Lofna had come to see me, I frowned. I thought, It's unwise to try to deceive a wizard, sweetheart, and then I gave MYSTMIND more commands.


"Sorry to keep you waiting," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Myron Tipton."

"And I'm Lofna Miller. But please, call me `Lofna.'" Lofna held my hand a second too long, before she let go.

Too bad for Lofna: She had already lied to me. Her last name was `Muller', which she was planning to tearfully "confess" when we were about to apply for a marriage license. Well, Lofna's lie already had cost her, as she would realize the next time she got sexually excited.

I grinned, but not for the reason that Lofna assumed. "It isn't often that I get such a beautiful woman visiting me."

"Oh, you don't see beautiful women every day?" Lofna asked, with a slight head-tilt toward Sissy.

Lofna had long, chocolate-brown hair, expensively styled. She was wearing a skirt suit, brownish orange in color and tightly tailored; it looked expensive. The "gold" silk blouse (with unbuttoned top buttons) that Lofna was wearing was definitely expensive. The necklace and earrings that she was wearing were expensive, and the high-heeled shoes probably were.

Lofna's makeup was overdone but well-applied, like what I would see in a Penthouse pictorial. Lofna's body was gym-toned, and she had a great chest: according to MYSTMIND, only 1 American woman in 387 had tits as big as Lofna's.

Too bad for Lofna's nefarious plots that Sissy (who was standing three feet away) had almost as big a rack as Lofna did; combine that with Sissy's photogenic face and well-tended blond hair, and Lofna came out second-best. Not to mention, Beth's tits had passed the 1-in-387 mark when Beth was fourteen years old!

Now I replied misleadingly to Lofna's question. "Sissy is not my wife, and not my girlfriend. We have never had any kind of sex. Our relationship is...unusual."

Lofna relaxed when she heard this; she thought her plan was back on track.

Especially when I turned to Sissy and said, "Go to the kitchen and find things to do. Leave the kitchen only to use the toilet, until I tell you otherwise."

"Yes, Master," Sissy said (which made Lofna's eyebrows shoot up). Sissy dropped me a curtsy, gave Lofna a beauty-queen smile, and sauntered off, hips swinging, to the kitchen.

I turned back to Lofna. "You told Sissy that you'd talked to an old girlfriend of mine. Was it Helen Baxter?"

"You dated Helen Baxter?" Lofna said. Every American woman now knew the name `Helen Baxter', for the same reason that every British woman knew the name `Diana Spencer'.

"I even went to the wedding." I laughed and added, "Helen's dad had to vouch for me twice, to get me past Security!"

"Um-hmm," Lofna said, clearly believing that I was making everything up. "No, I talked to a different girlfriend than Helen Baxter. I don't want to mention her name just yet."

Tsk, tsk, Lofna had just lied to me again. (Before Helen, I'd never had a girlfriend.) I looked at Lofna and thought, Time for the show to start.

Lofna frowned for a second and then said, "Do you mind if I get more comfortable? I've got too much clothing covering me up."

"No problem," I said. "Do whatever you need to do."

Lofna took off her jacket, and unbuttoned her blouse down to where I could see the bra-snap between her tits.

"So, anyway," I said, "An old girlfriend of mine told you about me? That's how you know who I am and where I live?"

"She spoke very highly of you," Lofna said, smiling winningly.

Another lie for Lofna. Tsk. (Three husbands ago, Lofna had asked her older sister Freya Muller, who worked at my bank, to look out for young men who were making lots of money. Yesterday Freya had pointed out to Lofna that I had made a whopping down-payment on my house, and both women had gasped when they had seen what my monthly checking-account deposits were.)

Lofna now said, "I'm sorry, but do you mind if I go topless? My tits are feeling confined." When I waved agreement, Lofna pulled her blouse out of her skirt and completely unbuttoned her blouse. A few seconds later, her blouse and flesh-colored bra plopped on top of her jacket to make a pile on a couch cushion.

I said, "So what do you want from me? Why are you here?"

"I want to meet you, and get to know you better," Lofna said. Which was truth, but not the whole truth.

"Well gosh golly," I said, "are you sure? I mean, you're good-looking, and I'm not. I just turned nineteen, and you're...twenty-five?"

"Twenty-four. But twenty-five in two months, so you're close." She looked at my bookshelves a moment. "I can see you're smart." She gave me a smile that, before I wrote MYSTMIND, would have melted my brain.

Lofna, Lofna, tsk, tsk. (She was twenty-seven years and three months old, not twenty-four years and change.)

Lofna stood up. "I'm sorry to keep interrupting the conversation, which by the way I'm really enjoying, but do you mind if I get completely naked? I'm still feeling confined."

I said, "I like nice underwear on a woman, and I'm sure you've noticed Sissy's killer heels, so I must insist that you remove only your skirt."

"But I want to get naked!"

"Lofna, this is my house."

"Okay, fine," Lofna said through gritted teeth. She removed her skirt, added it to the clothing pile, and sat back down.

Lofna was wearing black, seamed, thigh-high, elastic-grip stockings. Her plan when she came here had been to allow me only occasional glimpses of her stocking-tops. Well, plans get changed.

"Anyway, I'm nineteen," I said, "and not good with women. Well, that's what I think, despite what you've heard. So, I've never been married. How about you, what's your track record?"

"One marriage, no kids, he left me for a hot blonde. Your maid reminds me of her." A second later, thrice-divorced Lofna slipped a hand in her panties. "Myron, I just now realized: you are so hot. Your voice, just hearing it gets me all tingly and wet."

I smiled. "Really? `The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.'" Lofna's reply was a long moan, and her hand picked up the pace.

A minute later, Lofna cried, "I can't come! I'm so horny I can't think straight, and I can't come!"

I said, "It's temporary, I'll bet. I'm sure that in a week, you'll be fine." Miss Muller, you shouldn't have told me you were Miss Miller. Now you'll be orgasmless for a while.

Lofna looked at me as she masturbated. "Now that I've—uh, uh, uh!—met you (mmmm), tomorrow I, I want to invite you (gasp!) to have dinner with—mmmmmm!—me. Dinner by candlelight."

"Whoa. It doesn't sound like call-out pizza's on your menu then."

"Hardly!" Lofna said. "Home-cooking all the way, guy!" Then Lofna slid off the couch, crawled over to me on her knees, exposed me, and moved her mouth close to my cock. I took this to mean that her "home-cooked" meal would secretly have been catered.

Lofna looked up at me. "Oh baby, I'm gonna make you Pinocchio. You're gonna have wood and I'll make it grow longer."

"Funny you should say that. I was just thinking, you and Pinocchio have something in common."

As Lofna started slurping me, I lifted my chin. "SISSY!" Seconds later, Sissy stood before me. Sissy barely glanced at Lofna; by now, Sissy had seen me get a hundred blowjobs from Beth.

"Sissy, when Beth gets home, tell her to get undressed and come into my bedroom."

"Yes, Master."

"`Mmmemm'?" Lofna said around my cock.

Sissy gestured toward Lofna popsicling me. "If Lofna's tired, would You like me to take over?"

"Not today, Sissy."


Lofna sucked me off, swallowed my cum, and went back to sucking me, pausing only to answer my questions about her high-school days. In answer to one such question, Lofna told me that she had a "low" GPA, that she was "stupid." Oddly, five seconds after saying that, Lofna realized she needed to fuck me silly. At three-twenty, Lofna and I were in my bedroom, and she was fucking me with a lot of passion—hip thrusts, screams, archings of her back, pussy-juice by the liter—when Beth walked in. Lofna's eyes went wide as she beheld Beth's naked form.

I had an idea for an amusing show, now that Beth was in my bedroom, but it meant that now I needed Lofna to tell me one more lie. So I said to Lofna, "Do you think Beth here is sexier than you?"

Lofna answered (between gasps and moans), "I don't think she's any prettier, but those are whopping tits. Yes, I guess she's sexier."

A truthful answer. Not at all what I wanted.

I tried again for a lie: "Are you using birth control?"

"Yes, I'm on the Pill. Abortion is not an option for me."

I waited several seconds, but nothing happened to Lofna. Damn!

Then I got a smart idea. I said, "What would you do if you were in Helen Baxter's place, married to You-Know-Who?"

"I'd cook him a hot dinner every night, and give him hot love in the morning, and buy him greeting cards twice a week, and we'd grow old together."

Four lies in one sentence. I pulled my hard cock out of Lofna, and rolled off her. Lofna zoomed across the bed to Beth.

"Please, woman, let me eat your pussy!" Lofna said.

I smiled at Beth. "She wants to eat your pussy, let her. Enjoy." To Lofna I said, "This is Beth, my sex slave. She's been horny for seven months." As Beth started getting tongued—and started shaking therefrom—my hard cock and I went into the computer room.

As I said, I'm not evil, I'm not a mean or cruel man. After only seven months, I let Beth have an orgasm. Or even two or three orgasms. I'm a saint.

After a minute commanding MYSTMIND, I returned to the bedroom. Lofna, as soon as I walked in, stopped eating Beth to say to me, "Myron, please let me become another sex slave!"

"Gosh golly, this is totally unexpected. But before I say yes, one question: Is everything you've told me the truth?"

"No, Master," Lofna said. She took a breath. "For starters..." Lofna talked for five minutes, while I nodded at the right times.

Then Lofna, Beth, and I had a threesome. I hadn't had any threesomes since Helen and I had broken up, and I missed them. Lofna had a tight pussy—according to MYSTMIND, she did sex exercises.

The next day, right after moving in, Lofna gave her car to Beth (who needed a new car). Lofna then closed out her bank accounts (including the one in the Cayman Islands that not even her sister knew about), sold her house (one day after listing it, imagine that), converted all the money into three identical cashier's checks, and mailed the checks to her three ex-husbands. For Ex Number Two, who was in prison for statutory rape, Lofna recanted her damaging testimony; soon thereafter, the district attorney overturned Ex-2's conviction and freed him.

In this manner, my harem gained a sexy brunette, to go with my hot blonde and erotic redhead. And this is when I realized that a harem was what I wanted.


Later on, I rewrote MYSTMIND.C to run under Windows 3.1 and then Windows 95. It was quite a bit of work, but the payoff—multitasking—was worth it. While I was in an "improving" mood, I wrote a graphic display that I'm still proud of. Of course I also password-protected the program, as well as all the records that MYSTMIND kept.

The improvement to MYSTMIND.C of which I'm proudest, is my parser; my parser enabled me to give commands to the program in plain English. (I tested my parser by going to alt.sex.stories, and searching for stories that had either the word `bigger' or the word `hypnosis'. By skimming through stories in which a penis got made bigger, breasts got made bigger, or someone got hypnotized, I found zillions of fictional "commands" to test my parser with.)


September, 1997. Life these last six years had been good to me. Back in July 1991, my parents had spent $1,347.88 to set me up with my own furnished apartment and car—I not only repaid that (with interest) on Christmas Day of 1991, but in March 1997 I had gifted my folks with enough money to wipe out their fears about retirement and old-age hospitalization.

I owed not one penny to any man, finance company, or bank; and I was cash-rich, besides being rich with stocks and bonds. I owned an enviable number of automobiles.

In 1996, I had caught a burglar in my house. By then, I had owned much to steal. It had been the scare that I had gotten then, my realizing that the burglar could access or even steal my magic program, that had led to me password-protecting my software. (As for the burglar I'd caught, I hadn't called the police, but instead had dealt with her myself.)

Of course, my great wealth, amassed so quickly, had brought me to the attention of the Internal Revenue Service. In 1996, Minerva Robertson-Ballard had been sent out to subject me to a "surprise" audit. (I had known she was coming a day before her boss had told her.) Minerva had shown up wearing a navy-blue suit, and carrying a briefcase and a bad attitude. Of course she had found nothing (there are no tax laws against being a demigod), and I had given her an attitude adjustment at no charge, using my Mystery of the Mind-based program.

I still owned The Mystery of the Mind; the book stood on a top shelf in the library of my house. I had forbidden my harem to read the book; nobody ever acted disappointed. To the beauties of my harem, after all, The Mystery of the Mind was merely an old, yellow-paged, smelly book, and so I didn't need to invoke silicon magic for my rule to be obeyed.

My second, custom-built house had twenty bedrooms: my house was filled by my bedroom (huge), and bedrooms for seventeen beautiful women and one beautiful girlyboy. (As with my first house, one bedroom was my home office. It contained my computer and peripherals, everything being the fastest and best available, and all being replaced often.) Thanks to my software formerly known as MYSTMIND, none of my harem took any interest in using my computer.

At the moment, I wasn't at my computer, or in my master bedroom enjoying one or more beauties from my harem. Instead, I was in the kitchen. In the laundry room, I heard open the door from my thirty-car garage. From the time of day, it had to be Beth, arriving home from teaching high school.

"Good afternoon, Miss Henderson," I heard Sissy say. "May I take your satchel?"

"Thank you, Sissy," I heard Beth say. "Where is Master?"

"Master is in the kitchen, or is fucking Deborah."

Both Sissy and Beth walked into the kitchen from the laundry room. Beth was dressed like a professional and serious high-school teacher, but we both knew that this was about to change. Sissy (now long-practiced as a French maid) dropped me a curtsy, then headed out of the kitchen and upstairs to Beth's bedroom to deliver the satchel. Meanwhile, Beth had dropped to her knees in front of me. "Master, which do you wish me to do—pleasure you, change clothes now, grade papers, or pleasure a work-woman?"

(Sissy and Beth are my human tips. Whenever a workman—plumber, carpenter, electrician, etc.—has completed his work at my house, I offer him either a money tip or a blowjob from Sissy. Ninety-five percent of workmen take Sissy. As for women working in my house, the harem does an inspired job of cleaning my house, so that I don't need to hire a maid service, but I do occasionally get a woman in my house for non-cleaning, nonsexual business. Such women get offered either money, or labia-licking from Beth. Minerva the IRS auditor chose Beth.)

Now I answered Beth, "Change into slut clothes with slutty beach shoes. Then grab your satchel, an immodest swimsuit, and a beach towel—Deborah is driving us to Fillmore."

"Thank you, Master!" Beth squealed. She lunged forward to hug my legs, pressing her face against my clothed cock.

"Up, up, up!" I said good-naturedly. "Everyone's waiting on you. Get dressed quick, get dressed slutty. Tell Sissy I order him to change too."

When you have up to nineteen people to transport at once, and you have gobs of money to spare, the solution is to buy a bus. I bought my bus from a guided-tour owner with a cash-flow problem—imagine his surprise when I paid the entire purchase price in cash! Buying a bus creates a new problem, how to legally drive the thing. I solved that by having MASTER PC give three women of my harem expert bus-driving knowledge, so that they bagged their bus-driver licenses no sweat. ("MASTER PC" was what I'd renamed MYSTMIND. I thought the new name had more kick.) My bus wasn't your standard tour bus—many of the seats had been ripped out, and the remaining seats faced the bed.

Ten minutes after Beth arrived home, the bus rolled out of my garage, for the hour-long trip to the ocean. (The bus drove past my 1978 Cutlass Supreme, which was miraculously restored to showroom-condition.) Once the bus was rolling, quickly I got down to business. My head was in Sissy's lap as (s)he stroked my hair, while Connie and Lorraine switched off every five minutes at sucking my cock. Everyone else except for Deborah (who was driving) and Beth (who was grading papers when she wasn't glancing at my crotch) was eyeing my show, mainly because I'd given permission to masturbate to everyone but Sissy and Deborah.

"May I join Connie and Lorraine in sucking Your cock, Master?" Sissy asked.

"Not today, Sissy," I answered. (I had never used Sissy sexually from the day I bought him/her in 1991, nor did I ever give Sissy permission to masturbate. And yet Sissy offered himself/herself to me every day.)

While stroking herself, ex-burglar Kathleen turned her head toward Beth. "How was school today?"

"Wonderful," Beth answered. "Doris—she's the home-ec teacher—said I had great hair, and that I was so beautiful."

"That's because you are beautiful, and you do have great hair," I managed to stammer out as two orally expert ingenues slurped my salami.

Beth now had hair down to the bottom of her shapely butt; her hair was thicker and shinier than six years ago, and there wasn't a split-end to be found in it. Besides Beth now having shampoo-ad hair, her tits, already enormous six years ago, were now three sizes larger, and her waist was two inches smaller. Finally, Beth was less than a week from her twenty-ninth birthday, but only looked twenty-four. Thank MASTER PC for all of Beth's improvements—

—just as MASTER PC had made the rest of my harem look gorgeous and buxom. (Sissy I had "designed" to look as much like a sex-fantasy beautiful woman as it was medically possible for a blond male to look, so I made no changes, other than rejuvenation, to Sissy after 1991. But starting in February 1992, every woman who joined my harem grew three cup sizes in the first six months; their faces, figures, and hair also became more photogenic.) The result: it wasn't unusual for my harem to get off my bus and onlookers to assume that these eighteen beauties were there for a lingerie-catalog shoot.

"Doris who complimented your hair, what's her full name?" I asked Beth.

"Doris Janet Harland, I think she lives on Forty-Seventh street," Beth told me.

It was a standing order with my harem: If I asked for a name of someone, my girl was supposed to give as much identifying information as she knew. Beth didn't ignore this rule, or wonder why I'd made it; indeed, none of the women of the harem wondered about anything I did or any order I gave. As for the name of `Doris Janet Harland', thanks to The Mystery of the Mind, I knew that I would remember the name perfectly till I got to my computer.

I probably wouldn't add Doris the home-ec teacher to the harem. But thanks to MASTER PC, I could recruit Doris to the harem if I wanted to have her; and thanks to MASTER PC, I could know without even meeting her, whether I wanted her.

Deborah stopped the bus in the parking lot of Fillmore's bigger public beach, and the nineteen of us gathered up beach stuff. I told Beth, "Take your satchel, clipboard, and other paper-grading stuff." With that, everyone left the bus.

It was always fun to see people's reactions to me and mine. Beth's magically enlarged tits stopped traffic; I joked that her bra-cup size was a Greek letter. It was fun to watch people's faces when they realized that Beth, whom they had presumed was a porn actress who had gotten "work done," was a teacher grading papers. Sissy was the "poor flat-chested one" in my harem of D-cups, double-D's, and Beth, because Sissy was barely a D-cup.

Since all my harem except Sissy was now bisexual, here on the beach was a lot of back-and-forth rubbing-on of sunblock (which always amazed and aroused onlookers). Sissy started my sunblocking, then sunblocked him/her self; Beth was part of a three-girl sunblocking daisy chain. Eventually everyone in the harem took turns putting sunblock on me (which was something else to amaze and arouse onlookers).

We were enjoying our time on the beach when history repeated itself.


The boy was teenaged, like I used to be; and scrawny, like I used to be; and reading a book, as I often still do. A pretty teen girl walked by, and the boy spoke to her; her reply was brief. I couldn't hear his words, or hers, but it was obvious that he wanted the girl, and she had given him a polite rebuff.

What the kid didn't know is that his little "conversation" had been noticed. Behind him, a muscular teen boy waved to silently draw the attention of a muscular and heavy boy; then the signaler pointed to the bespectacled reader boy and the girl. Sumo Wrestler Boy smiled, and it was not a kind smile.

Sumo Wrestler Boy stomped up to the scrawny kid. He yelled, and he shook his fist at the kid, whom he kept calling "Tiny Tim." I think the bully kid was just putting on an act, but Tiny Tim was scared.

Because I was watching the drama so intently, many in the harem were looking that direction as well. "Beth, Sissy, look somewhere else," I snapped.

The bully boy stepped close to Tiny Tim. If you hurt Tiny Tim, I will put you in the hospital, and all your jock buddies, I thought. But Sumo Wrestler Boy didn't hit Tiny Tim. Instead, he grabbed the book out of the weaker boy's hands, strode fifteen steps to someone's campfire, and threw the book in the fire.

Bully Boy laughed and said something to the red-faced Tiny Tim, then jauntily jerked his thumb to say to his minions, "We're leaving."

Bully Boy and his friends walked to the parking lot, passing just close enough to me that I could hear some of their conversation—

"Luigi, I can't believe you did that," said Minion One.

Sumo Wrestler Boy laughed. "So I burned his book. What's the wimp going to do, e-mail me to death?"

"The guy's crazy, has to be, talking to Kathy," said Minion Two. "Does she look like a girl who plays Dungeons and Dragons on a Friday night?"

"You got it. All Tiny Tim's got going for him is a fucking four-oh GPA, which is useless at getting between Kathy's legs."

I don't know whether it was because the book meant so much to Tiny Tim, or because he was mortified by the public humiliation, but he looked like he wanted either to cry, or to kill someone. My own fists were clenched.

Tiny Tim had no realistic options. I had several, and I was considering them. I really wanted to challenge those boys in the parking lot, take them on (one against three), and publicly humiliate them as they had humiliated Tiny Tim. That I would win, I had no doubt—in 1992 I had MYSTMIND give me the head-knowledge and the muscle-knowledge of a karate black belt, aikido black belt, and a judo black belt; also in 1992, I had MYSTMIND give me reflexes that were twice human-normal. But now, such a fight would distress my harem, who didn't know that I couldn't lose; and it also would bring me to the attention of policemen (and, in the worst-case scenario, lawyers).

What to do, what to do?

But then I thought back about what Bully Boy had said, and this time it was I who was smiling the not-kindly, not-nice smile.

My great-uncle, John Beresford Tipton, had given away million-dollar checks to strangers; Myron Kenneth Tipton would give away copies of MASTER PC to guys who were better with computers than with women.

I made a few changes to the "export version," though: I limited the range that the user could affect around his computer to be the lesser of 869.9 Roman stadia or 41.0 Japanese ri (each about 100.0 miles). I also disabled all search methods except for by name (though I allowed wild-card characters in name-searches). Of course, a hobbled version of MASTER PC was not permitted to affect my computer, me, or my harem.


Tiny Tim (real name, Timothy Percival Colbert, Fillmore Hills HS class of 1998) was the first nerd to get an anonymous e-mail with MASTER PC attached. Two days after Tiny Tim became the first "Master's Representative," Kathy announced in the school lunchroom that she was dropping "the fat jerk" for Timothy. (Timothy couldn't be called "Tiny" anymore, because he somehow had grown five inches in two days, and rumor said that he now had a bazooka in his shorts.) Luigi picked a fistfight with Timothy in the lunchroom, less than a minute after Kathy's announcement. After successfully defending Kathy's honor, Timothy was slipped phone numbers by Judy and Desiree, the two most mammarial of Kathy's girlfriends. Luigi, Timothy's overconfident sparring partner, received two black eyes and a cut lip. That, and months of laughter, scorn, and mockery schoolwide.


Now you know how and why you received MASTER PC, however-many years ago. By now you've certainly noticed that there are limits to what your software will do; and if you're like most recipients, you've discovered that you can't forward your copy of "MASTER PC, export version" to your buddies. Perhaps now you're plotting to come to Jackson City, break into my house, and upgrade your software to the "Master" version of MASTER PC.

Well, guy, I'm ahead of you. E-mailing you this message will have been the last thing that the "Master" version does before it self-destructs. Break into my house and you're going to find virgin hard drives in all my computers, and several totally wiped floppy disks and CD-R's.

Guy, there have to be limits. I felt sorry for you, way back when, which is why I sent you my little gift. But it would vex my conscience if now you destroyed the entire space-time continuum.

So you'll just have to live with the crippled version of MASTER PC that I sent you, however-many years ago, and content yourself with the beautiful women whom you have fucked, are fucking, and will fuck because of my gift.

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