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.

email: grim_ghost AT hotmail.com
teen, hs, magic

Part One

Sometime in your past, you've received MASTER PC as a mysterious e-mail attachment. MASTER PC certainly has changed your life; hopefully, it has improved your life as well. Well, I'm the man who coded MASTER PC and sent it to you. I write you now to tell you why and how you got this gift.

I'm writing this in 2006, but if you're reading this much later, it means that (a) I've just died, (b) you've outlived me, and (c) you live in the big area of USA/Canada that the "Master" version of MASTER PC can reach. The "Master" version of MASTER PC has tracked you down and is sending you this message, by my posthumous command.

Many stories start when a man gets done wrong by a beautiful woman, and my story is one of those. Beth Henderson, bra-buster, is the "lady" who messed up my life.

But my life got ruined first, and my life got ruined more, by a man: John B. "Bubba" Smith. You who reads this, you the receiver of MASTER PC, come read how your life now is completely different because Bubba was a total shit back in 1990.

Blond-haired Bubba had facial hair in sixth grade. He had to shave every day by seventh grade. He had the deepest voice in high school (even deeper than Mr. McAllister's) by tenth grade. Sometime after seventh grade, he'd taken up bodybuilding. By the summer before our senior year, Bubba looked like a cross between a young Arnold Schwarzenegger and the Gorton's Fisherman, with the voice of Barry White.

Bubba used to brag, "The most manly man at Truman High School is still a boy."

Everything that Bubba was, I was not. And everything that I was, Bubba was not. I, Myron Tipton, was of average height, above-average weight (none of it muscle), and the class champ at mathematics, computer programming, and zits. I also wore glasses.

Put Bubba and me together, and the result was bullying—trippings in the hallways, "accidental" jostlings, and knocking me into lockers. Not to mention, he made digs and verbal putdowns about me when pretty girls were around. Back then I couldn't fight him, so all these thousand insults of Bubba's I bore as best I could.

I don't think Bubba was rock-stupid, not quite, but he passed his classes by male-bonding with the male teachers. Bubba also passed Miss Henderson's class; when I was a Senior, I had my suspicions why.

It was September 1990, and school had started less than a week earlier. Both Bubba and I were in Beth Henderson's second-period Senior English class. I got myself in trouble while Miss Henderson was calling the roll: "Tipton?"

I perked up in my seat. "Here. May I say, Miss Henderson, that you look photogenic today?"

And boy, did she. She was twenty-two (and some months) old. She had long hair—it was too red to call `brunette', and was too dark to call `red'. Her brown eyes were almost the color of her hair. She was wearing a dark green blouse and dark green shoes (two-inch heel), and a skirt whose hem came to an inch above her knee. The skirt was white—Miss Henderson had great legs and a muscular butt.

Now, Miss Henderson has great hair. In any large shopping mall, you could find one woman with butt and legs as shapely as Miss Henderson's—heck, at Christmastime, you might even find two such women. But as good as they were, Miss Henderson's butt and legs and hair were outclassed by her tits. She had enormous tits that I expected to see only in Playboy, in strip clubs, or in porn—not on my Shakespeare teacher.

Miss Henderson's smile was plastic, and didn't reach her eyes. "Myron, thanks for the compliment, but it's not appropriate for you to comment on my looks."

But as soon as roll-call was over, and Miss Henderson was walking the attendance slip out to the hallway, Bubba piped up. "Beth, I gotta agree with Coke-Bottle Glasses—you do look good." This earned Bubba a glare from Helen Baxter, Bubba's buxom blond cheerleader girlfriend.

Attendance-slip filed, Miss Henderson turned to face Bubba, hands on hips. "John, I will not tolerate hurtful nicknames for Myron or anyone else in my class." Well and good, but then her voice changed: "And you are to address me as `Miss Henderson', not `Beth'. And as I said before, you shouldn't comment on my looks in class."

Her words said keep it professional, but her husky voice said Tell me again I'm sexy!

Later that hour, Bubba threw down his copy of Romeo and Juliet in disgust. "Miss Henderson, I have a problem."

She left the blackboard to stand by his desk. "What's wrong?"

"I just can't understand this play, with all these old words in it. Your free period is fifth, right?"

"That's right," she said smiling.

"Then mayhap I should come here then," Bubba said, his eyes sweeping her up and down. Helen frowned at Bubba, and Bubba flashed Helen a disarming grin, before turning his eyes back to Miss Henderson.

I don't think anyone noticed, but just for a second, Miss Henderson gave Bubba a pouty smile. "I'll look forward to seeing you," she said in her impersonal, professional "teacher" voice.

Bubba could be counted on to charm female teachers while barely passing his classes. Meanwhile, good ol' Myron Tipton could be counted on to bust the curve and to be ignored by the pretty girls.

It sounds like I'm whining and complaining about my life. I'm not. I was happy in high school—until the second month of Bubba's and my senior year.

It was lunchtime, and I was putting some books in my locker. Bubba, Steve Rivton the quarterback, and some other jocks were walking down the hallway. Bubba bumped me and I fell down, and my glasses fell off. Maybe it was an accident, and maybe it wasn't.

Before I could pick up my glasses, Bubba had grabbed them. "Dude, you lost your glasses."

"So give them back," I said as I stood up.

Bubba tossed my glasses to the smirking Calvin Cooper. "Where are your manners, dude? I didn't hear `please.'"

What a clown. "Please give me back my glasses," I said, letting him hear my annoyance.

"I don't think you respect us, dude. Think you're hot shit because you're a smart guy."

Steve piped up with "I might not be able to get an athletic scholarship, because you keep busting the class curve."

"Tell Steve you're sorry for hurting his grades," Bubba said.

"Fuck you all," I replied.

Bubba stepped forward, passing to my right, then spinning around. I felt his right hand grab my right wrist, and his left hand push my back. He jerked my arm back, enough to hurt. "I said, tell Steve you're sorry."

"Fuck you all with a hot poker."

Bubba pulled my arm the wrong way even more. I believe the term for what he had me in was an `immobilization hold'. It hurt, oh god it hurt, and if he pulled up just a little more, something of mine would snap like a pencil. "I'm waiting patiently, Myron."

"Go sodomize a dead sheep, Bubba."

"Is `sodomize' bad?" asked Steve.

Bubba pulled up just a smidge higher. I decided I wouldn't let these clowns see my agony.

"Hey Bubba," said Muhammed Johnston, "you're having all the fun."

"So get on the other side from Steve," Bubba said. "You two alarm-clock him."

Bubba had me turned so that the lockers were on my right side. Now Muhammed went to the right of me, his back against the lockers. Then Muhammed and Steve started pushing me back and forth between themselves. By themselves, Muhammed and Steve would be just an annoyance—I couldn't keep my balace, but was otherwise unharmed. But their alarm-clock play was making Bubba's immobilization hold much more painful.

"It's just a joke, dude," Bubba said. "We're having a few laughs. Have fun, can't you take a joke?"

I replied (through gritted teeth), "The only joke around here is your cocks. I've seen them; they're short."

Bubba must've made a silent signal, because Muhammed suddenly stepped away. I had just enough time to wonder "What's going on?" when Steve pushed me hard. My shoulder and upper arm slammed hard into the locker, even as Bubba still had me in his immobilization hold. I felt something break in my shoulder, and I felt my arm break at the socket.

I screamed.

"You motherfucking musclebound morons, you broke something!" Their smirks and smiles instantly disappeared.

Miss Henderson was walking down the hall, and saw the whole thing. But when she got close, Bubba made eye contact with her, and held her gaze for a full second. Miss Henderson turned her head, ignoring me, and hurried away.

A second later, moving the opposite direction, the jock herd likewise rushed away from me, leaving me alone when I tried to stand up. I heard the bell ring, but I had no interest in going to class. Instead, I picked up my glasses (where Calvin had tossed them on the floor), then I went to the nurse's office. I grimaced with every step.

My parents and I met with Mr. McAllister the next day. My parents had to take time off from work, and the visit was a total waste of our time.

"Mr. and Mrs. Tipton, I'm glad you could meet with me," said Mr. McAllister. "For one student to make a false accusation against another is a grim and serious business."

"False accusation?" I squeaked. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts to move my right arm?"

"My son is no liar!" Mom added.

"My son had to go to the emergency room!" Dad said.

Mr. McAllister held up a hand. "Which makes a problem. Normally when I have a student with high grades like Myron's, combined with an apparent injury—"

"It's more than apparent to me," I said.

"—I must believe his accusation. But here, there are no witnesses to the alleged abuse."

"Yeah, right, like Bubba's friends would rat him out," I said.

"What about other students?" Mom demanded. "Didn't this happen at lunchtime? Plenty of other kids would have seen it."

I shook my head. "Bubba is state wrestling champion. Whoever goes to the principal, Bubba will beat him up after school, and it's going to hurt."

"I don't know that such is the case," Mr. McAllister said. "And Myron cannot deny that he bears a personal grudge against John Smith."

"Because he keeps bullying me! Notice a trend here?"

"So what do you think happened?" Dad demanded. "There's some kind of shoulder-busting virus going around, and Myron caught it?"

"If it weren't for Myron's GPA, I would be disciplining him for self-inflicting an injury and making—"

"This is not `self-inflicted,' and my accusation is not false!" I said.

"—but if Myron were to make a public apology to John Smith, I am prepared to forego punishment."

"I apologize publicly to Bubba? Never!" Then I realized that in all the excitement, I was overlooking something. "What about Miss Henderson? She saw it all."

"She hasn't mentioned any such thing to me."

"So what? Let's call her in here and ask her flat-out."

"She's in class right now. I don't want to disturb her."

"We're missing work to talk to you," Mom said, "and Myron was taken out of class. Get her in here."

Three minutes later, my big-breasted Shakespeare teacher was in Mr. McAllister's office with us. She looked uncomfortable. "Miss Henderson," Mr. McAllister said, "Myron says that John Smith smashed his arm and shoulder hard into a locker, and that you saw everything."

Miss Henderson glanced at me, then turned her eyes back to Mr. McAllister. "I saw no such thing. I don't know how Myron hurt himself."

"But you had to have seen Bubba messing with me!" I said.

"I saw you at lunchtime yesterday, and I saw Bubba, but not at the same place."

"Thank you for your time, Miss Henderson. You may go," said Mr. McAllister. Miss Henderson gave me a nervous glance and rushed out.

Mr. McAllister now turned his attention fully to me. "Myron, what do you have to say now?"

"That the sex with Bubba must be really good for Miss Henderson," I replied. Beside me, my mother gasped.

Mr. MacAllister's face grew angry. He started to say something, choked it off, and finally allowed himself to say, "Myron, your joke is in very poor taste, as I trust your parents to explain to you."

"I'm not joking."

He glared at me. "Do you have any proof of this?"

"Twice a week for the past month, Bubba has asked for a hall pass to visit Miss Henderson during fifth period. It's common knowledge."

"He might well have an adolescent crush on her. And/or, he might truly be struggling with Shakespeare."

"Well, I don't have naked Poloroids, if that's what you're asking. I don't have undeniable `proof.'"

Mr. McAllister was silent for a while, as his eyes swept back and forth between my parents and me. "Myron Tipton, you are suspended from school for three days."

Eight that evening, I was in my living room with my parents, trying to watch television. (My arm and shoulder were hurting a lot, and so it was hard to concentrate on the show.) The doorbell rang.

At the front door was Helen Baxter, Bubba's hot cheerleader girlfriend. She was holding a box of chocolates.

"I heard you got suspended," Helen said. "Nobody's quite sure why, but you didn't do anything wrong."

Why was she here? "Did Bubba tell you what he did wrong?"

"Listen, it isn't like Bubba to apologize for stuff, but..."

"But he's sorry? Or you're sorry?"

"I don't dislike you, Myron. I would never date you, but I've never said anything nasty to you or about you—"

Which was true; Helen had always been pleasant to me.

"—but on the other hand, I don't always like things that Bubba does," Helen said.

"Such as what Bubba did yesterday?" I asked. I waited for Helen to answer, but she said nothing.

I took the chocolates, using my left arm. Helen noticed, and asked, "Are you left-han—? Oh."

The silence stretched out. Finally I said, "Thanks. Really, I mean it."

Helen flashed me a smile, gave a squeeze to my good (left) shoulder, and turned and hurried back to her car.

Before she got to her car, I called out, "What do you see in that jerk anyway?"

She turned back toward me. "He's masculine, and tall, and hairy, and muscular. All of which revs my engine. And most of the time, he isn't a jerk." With that, she turned back to her car.

I stood on the porch, chocolates in my left hand, and watched her drive away into the night.

It would have been nicer if Helen had given me the chocolates in the school lunchroom. Still, she was the only person (other than my parents) who'd been nice to me during this whole clusterfuck. And considering that she was Bubba's girlfriend, any niceness to me was a miracle.

At school (once I returned from three-day suspension), I could only write and type left-handed. At least my parents were sympathetic, but my father told me that attempting to sue Bubba would just burn up the money set aside for my college.

Bubba's apology? "Whoops, dude, shit happens, y'know?" (said when nobody else was around). I might have thought about forgiving him, if he hadn't been smirking when he said that. And if he hadn't tripped me in the lunchroom the day earlier.

The next eight months, of what was supposed to be my glorious Senior year, was physical agony. If I typed with my right hand for more than five minutes an hour, it felt like red-hot nails were being pounded into my upper arm. My grade average was a B-plus; I was no longer the curve-buster.

On graduation night, my future was grim. How was I going to take notes in college classes? How was I going to type assignments for college computer classes? How in the hell was I going to work in the computer industry with a nearly useless right hand? Thanks Bubba, thanks so much.

George Bush was running the economy into the ground, and so my prospects outside of college didn't look good, either. I told my parents that I needed a year to consider my future. My father nodded sadly, and Mom hugged me; neither of them argued for my immediately starting college.

In a moment of frustration I said, "I wish Great-uncle John were alive right now. I could really use his advice."

(John Beresford Tipton was my great-grandfather's brother, and a family legend. He invented a way to manufacture airplanes fast, with fewer defects. He was already rich by 1941, and obscenely rich by 1945. And starting in 1950, he started giving his money away. But not to charities—nope, he started handing out one-million-dollar checks to strangers. He died in 1955, still wealthy but with much less net worth than he'd had five years earlier. Nobody, not even his personal assistant, ever figured out how he chose who would receive his megabuck gifts.)

Great-uncle John wasn't around for advice, and I couldn't write or type two-handed anymore, but I by God could still read. The day after I told my parents that I wouldn't start college in the fall, I was wandering around downtown, checking out second-hand bookstores. I walked into Paul Johnson & Sons, Booksellers, "Established 1866."

The store had wooden-plank floors, books stacked in the aisles, and books stacked on top of shelves and running all the way up to the ceiling. At the cashier's counter, four feet from the electronic cash register was a mechanical cash register; on its dust cover was markered, "In case of power failure." The store reeked of musty paper.

By the cashier's counter were paper grocery sacks filled with books, under a sign saying, "Bag o' Books, Five Bucks!" Three books that I checked were all from the nineteenth century. But what the hell; I gave the lady ten bucks. I had to make two trips out to my car, carrying a bag with my left arm each time.

My "new" books were all from before 1916, a mix of fiction and nonfiction. I quickly figured out that fiction techniques have improved much since the nineteenth century, and that way-back-then nonfiction writers loved railroad trains. There was only one novel that I even halfway enjoyed, and it was set during the Spanish-American War and its pages were yellow-brown.

Eleven days after I brought the bags o' books home, I discovered The Mystery of the Mind. The date was June 25, 1991.

The author of The Mystery of the Mind was Ioana Sucodru. She had a chapter about how to improve your memory for names—surprisingly, her techniques worked. She called phrenology "preposterous," which was an uncommon idea then. Then, when she'd earned my trust, she got wild.

In her chapter on hypnotism (Sucodru called it `mesmerism'), she claimed that the limitations on hypnotism could be overcome by actually changing the other person's brain, "as discussed in Chapter VII." Chapter VII, it turned out, was about "The Mind and Creation." (The chapter covered telekenesis, hypnosis, and other wild stuff).

    All Creation has a racing heartbeat, and Creation responds to seventeen words of power. By knowing about the heartbeat, and the seventeen words, you can move objects with your thoughts. Do you think it impossible to move a feather about the room, when no hand touches it? You will move that feather, then you will practice making that floating feather dance ballet. With more practice, you can sit in a rocker, a babe in your arms, and hitch a carriage to the horses that you harnessed by using thoughts alone. Once you can push a carriage, it is no effort to push a brain.

Good luck finding a goose-feather quill or a henhouse in 1991, but I had a Plan C. I went to my parents' dresser and pulled out the top drawer. Hidden under lots of "sensible" Mom-clothing, was a red maribou-feather bra. I don't know why she kept it, because I'd never seen her ever wear it, and it sure wasn't suitable for wear in public. Anyway, with a pair of nearby nail scissors, I cut a red feather off the bra. I hid all evidence of my crime, then returned to my room with the feather.

The book explained how the power (Sucodru never called it `magic') worked. You set up a steady beat in your head, thinking (but not speaking) the first Word of Power on the first beat. On the second beat, you think (but again, don't say) your command to Creation. On the third beat, you think the second Word of Power; on the fourth beat, you think your command again. You go through all seventeen Words of Power, in order, alternating with seventeen repeats of your command to Creation. You repeat this, over and over, until you're satisfied.

I put the feather in my hand, and concentrated. Penthuru. Feather, rise! Akáteket. Feather, rise! Hwa'aba. Feather, rise! Uh... Forgot.

I felt foolish. But the long-dead Ioana Sucodru was encouraging.

    Be patient, it will take time for you to see success. When you command your muscle to work, it takes less than a heartbeat for that muscle to work with all the strength it has. But when you invoke the words of power, it takes awhile for the power to build. You must persevere in your practice, merely to lift the feather off your hand. But O reader, when that feather finally lifts, take pride!

Take two. Penthuru. Feather, rise! Akáteket. Feather, rise! Hwa'aba. Feather, rise! Barhoshoko. Feather, rise! Tittatita. Whoa, that sounds like— Lost the beat.

Shit. Well, I got a little further.

    The power will not start if you read the words of power from a list. Once the power starts, it stops if you fail to keep the beat. (Alas, this will happen often at first, because you won't remember the next word of power in time.) If the beat you set is slower than your heartbeat when you are calm, this too stops the power before it starts. So much to go wrong! You will be frustrated and skeptical at first.

    But I have news to make you smile. Once you have mastered chanting in your mind to the beat of your calm heart, if you can speed up your chanting beat, you gain more power, and you gain it more quickly.

Sucodru was right: Three hours later, I was definitely feeling frustrated and skeptical. But I was still plugging away.

The next day, I was still practicing with the feather. Two minutes earlier, I had wobbled the feather—or maybe I'd just breathed on it?

Here I go—

Penthuru. Feather, rise...

...Fulusu. Feather, rise! Aemambus. Feather, rise! Aloha. Feather, rise! Penthuru—CAN IT BE? FEATHER, RISE! AKÁTEKET. FEATHER, RISE! HWA'ABA—

The red feather was a half-inch above my hand. Ever so slowly, like a bubble in a bottle of clear shampoo, the feather was rising.

An hour later, I was making a ball-point pen orbit my lava lamp.

My pen guided itself into my pencil holder, then I turned on my computer.

I wrote an MS-DOS program that I called MYSTMIND.C. I allocated a huge bloc of memory, then I used Interrupt Eight and MS-DOS's Function Six so that, 18.2 times a second, my program erased the memory bloc, and copied a Word of Power to the memory bloc; or else erased the memory bloc, then copied my command-line command to the memory bloc—all this repeating endlessly until I hit a key. I wrote, debugged, compiled, and linked, and then I was ready to try it.

I wasn't sure it would work. (I trusted my programming, but maybe the magic would get offended at a silicon chip speaking the Words of Power.)

But what did I have to lose?

c:\mm>MYSTMIND Feather, rise!

For a moment, nothing happened. Then I felt a gust of air, as the feather vanished! A splotch of red on the ceiling caught my eye: the feather was pressed against the ceiling, defying gravity. I hit the space-bar—and I heard a "BOOM" from my parents' room.

I rushed in there, but could spot nothing to make the noise. Then I got a hunch, and examined my parents' dresser. The exterior wood had a crack in it, and the top wood had a slight upward bulge. I laughed at the realization: I hadn't specified which feather was to rise, and so Mom's maribou-feather bra had lifted the dresser off the floor!

When I came back to my room, "my" red feather lay on the floor. It was covered with flecks of white ceiling paint, and the feather had left a slight imprint in the ceiling.

Wow, wow, and more wow.

My next project became to make my feather (and only my feather, in only my bedroom) rise up two feet and hover. To do that, I needed to give my program feedback.

The solution was in the last section of The Mystery of the Mind's Chapter VII, called "Knowledge"—

    Some of the Romany know things that it seems impossible for them to know. And yet, such things are known to them: The age of someone's lover, whether that lover is faithful, what illness someone's child has, &c. I do not have this gift and—I suspect, O reader—neither do you.

    But the words of power can be worked to gain such knowledge. Make your command to Creation be "Tell me" whatever you want to know. After a time, you will know the answer. The more power from the words that you use to know something, the more secret and hidden are the truths that you know.

I rewrote MYSTMIND.C from the ground up, tried it out, swore, rewrote the source code again, tried the program again, swore colorfully, rewrote again and tried again, pulled out hair—et cetera, ad nauseum. Eventually I figured out that I needed to break apart all long, complex commands to Creation, each into a series of ten words that were alternated with a word of power, so that the "power" (magic) would work how I wanted.

Some time after this discovery, I got the feather to hover; in the process, I invented a command syntax for MMBs (MystMind batch files). This is what the computer screen showed, during and after the feather trick—

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=HOVER.MMB
The program will run until all your instructions are carried out, or until you hit the spacebar.
Executing....
User has hit spacebar; program terminating.

c:\mm>LIST HOVER.MMB
Goal: a
REMARK change a human body or other physical object
Goal body or object: RED FEATHER
Location of body or object: 5010 CARTER STREET, JACKSON CITY, IN THE BEDROOM OF MYRON K. TIPTON
BEGIN MM PROGRAM
L1: allocate_realnum H_START cm "HEIGHT RELATIVE TO THE CPU OF MYRON'S COMPUTER, AT START"
L2: allocate_realnum H_NOW cm "HEIGHT RELATIVE TO THE CPU OF MYRON'S COMPUTER, NOW"
L3: set_realnum H_START
L4: change_body_or_object "RISE"
L5: set_realnum H_NOW
L6: test_realnum "IS (H_NOW - H_START) GREATER THAN 60.96?" NO YES
REMARK Has the feather risen at least 2.00 feet from where it started?
L6NO: goto L4
L6YES: change_body_or_object "STAY AT THAT HEIGHT"
L7: goto L6YES
END MM PROGRAM

Ten minutes after MYSTMIND made the feather hover, I had my pen orbiting my lava lamp again, but this time it was MYSTMIND.EXE controlling the pen.

When I saw my pen making a circular defiance of gravity, there was only one thing left to do: Speed up the "beat" at which a Word of Power and then a command got "thought" by MYSTMIND.C. Over the next several hours, I devised various algorithms, before finally sticking with one. I still am not entirely happy with what I came up with, because the beat isn't as steady (there's a higher percentage of variance). On the other hand, I increased the beat from 18.2 times a second to thousands of times a second, giving the program near-omnipotence—and as computer CPU speeds got faster in 1992, 1993, and beyond, my program became even more powerful!

But be that as it may, two days after making my feather and my mother's brassiere levitate, I magically undid the damage to my parents' dresser, besides healing the birds whom I'd unwittingly hurt with my feather-lifting command.

Fifteen minutes after that, after writing a very important MMB file, I took a deep breath, and (hopefully, for the last time) hunt-and-peck'd with my left hand.

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=ARM&SHOU.MMB
The program will run until all your instructions are carried out, or until you hit the spacebar.
Executing....

Pain!

For one second I felt pain beyond imagining; I gasped. Then the hell-pain stopped.

An instant later, I realized that the residual pain was gone as well. After hitting the spacebar to stop the program, I moved my right arm every which way; it fluttered like a flag in a gale. And for the first time since September 1990, I felt no pain in my right arm and shoulder.

(And in the bathroom I saw that my face was clear, as it hadn't been since age eleven! At the last minute, I'd added a command to the MMB file to clear up my zits.)

Ideas were popping into my head. A plan formed. Actually, two plans formed. Plan A (the `A' stood for `Atlas', as in `Charles') was to use MYSTMIND to give myself a body that was bigger, stronger, and faster's than Bubba's, and then to beat him unmercifully. Plan A had poetic justice to recommend it. But I decided to go with Plan B, which was cruel, unusual, and excessive. But no matter how nasty I get, if I'm nasty to only one or two people, that makes me only a little evil, right?

The first thing I did after choosing Plan B was to use MYSTMIND to surf the memories of my ex-Shakespeare teacher. My program confirmed what I had suspected. Geez, Bubba was boning Beth Henderson within twenty minutes of getting his first hall pass!

The second thing I did after making my new plan was to go to the liquor store and buy a bottle of imported Spanish amontillado. (Somehow my driver's license said I was twenty-one.) Without telling my folks why I was celebrating, I split the sherry with them, but only after the bottle had been in the fridge for several hours. (Some things are best served cold.)

As I drank the wine with my mom and dad, I thought, Perhaps I should invite some friends over. Mr. McAllister, bureaucrat asshole, he definitely deserves a glass of amontillado. That lying slut Beth Henderson, she should get a tall mug of this special wine. And Bubba, he certainly rates a cask of amontillado, at least.

email: grim_ghost AT hotmail.com
mc, nc, MF, MF+, teen, hs, FF1st, oral, tg, Mdom, md, M1st, magic, size, caution; mentions mm (actually, MH)
 

Sucodru had this to say about pushing brains—

    I have a friend, C., who was courted by a man P., and gave her heart to him. P. used her as men sometimes use young women, but asked for her hand to "do right" by her. Liar! He left C. bereft at the church with a swelling belly. She stood there alone, humiliated and carrion for the gossips.

    I had held my tongue, not telling C. that I had from the first judged P. to be a trickster. Now I saw my friend wrecked on the rocks of a broken heart. She wept and wept. She would not eat, she could not sleep.

    I had never used the words of power on anyone I knew. But in the time it takes to boil an egg, I made my friend fall out of love with her cad. When C.'s love for P. left, so did the pain in her heart.

    After healing my friend's heart, I kissed C. on her cheek and told her that I had to catch a train to visit a sick aunt.

    The boy (he was a man only in form) could escape my friend, and perhaps he could elude a Pinkerton detective. But within a week, I found P. in San Francisco—already he was courting a young widow.

    Once when all three of us had been together, C. had told P. that my mother's mother had been of the Romany. The liar P. then had joked about a "gypsy's curse" and had laughed. I had burned with anger, but had smiled for my friend's sake. O reader, when I left P. in San Francisco, I assure you that he was not laughing. But I was merciful: I let him live, and I made only one change below his eyebrows.

    The first thing I did was to make P. lose interest in the young widow. I wasn't nice.

So Ioana Sucodru, long before me, had wielded mind-control as a great tool for revenge. For damn sure, she wouldn't be the last avenger to do that.

To get my revenge on Beth and Bubba, I needed to focus MYSTMIND on them alone. To do that, I needed their full names and addresses. I searched out Beth first.

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /TELLME="WHAT IS THE MAILING ADDRESS OF BETH==>
* HENDERSON, AND HOW FAR IS SHE FROM THIS COMPUTER?"==>
/SORT=HOW_FAR_DISTANCE /FN=BH_ADDR.TXT
Executing....
Results are stored in the file BH_ADDR.TXT.

MYSTMIND found two Beth Hendersons in Jackson City. By asking MYSTMIND the ages of the two women, I found out that "my" Beth Henderson, Beth Annette Henderson, lived at 6344 Jefferson Street, Apt. 2308. But looking through more of BH_ADDR.TXT, I discovered a Beth Carol Henderson listed in Washington, D.C. MYSTMIND's power reached to our nation's capital? Well, well.

When I similarly sought out addresses for "John B* Smith," I found out that Bethesda, Maryland had a John Brian Smith. Even more remarkable, MYSTMIND was reporting back mailing addresses in Canada (but not in Europe). MYSTMIND found a John Barry Smith III who was 1,646 miles from my computer!

If MYSTMIND could work in Washington, D.C., I could hit Bubba with a second kind of revenge. To double-check about Washington, I entered—

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /TELLME="WHO ARE THE SECRET SERVICE AGENTS RIGHT NOW==>
ON THE ROOF OF THE WHITE HOUSE AT 1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE,==>
WASHINGTON, D.C?" /SORT=LAST_NAME_ALPHABETICAL
Executing....
Collinswood, Donald Frank
Travis, Robert John, Jr.

There was no low-key way that I could double-check these two names. But just the fact that MYSTMIND gave me any answer at all was enough to make me chortle. Bubba, I was going to have such fun with you!

For Mr. McAllister, and for Steve Rivton and Muhammed Johnston (Bubba's partners in arm-breaking crime), I devised a nasty punishment that no doctor could fix. Inside each man, two adjacent neurons in a certain nerve disappeared. The result? Each man discovered that his dick couldn't get hard anymore. It couldn't be sucked hard, it couldn't be rubbed or stroked hard, and he couldn't whack off. His situation would be frustrating, it would be humiliating, and wives and girlfriends would be certain to take his constant impotence personally.

Only twice have I used MYSTMIND mind-control on my parents. The first time was right after I healed my arm and shoulder, when I made my folks (and everyone else but me) forget that I was ever injured. The second time I mind-controlled my parents was later that hour, right after I made my plan of revenge on Beth and Bubba.

To carry out my plan of revenge, I needed my own apartment. Chances are, my folks would have agreed to this anyway. But I needed for them to carry no mental reservations about my ling alone, and I definitely needed for them to not show up unexpectedly to check on me.

We found a place, and I used mind control to convince the apartment manager to rent to me for six months, even though I had no job at the time. Dad paid the last month's rent and a pro-rated first month's rent, and he bought for me a car. (Don't get too excited—it was a 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, we bought it from a transmission mechanic, and the rustbucket barely ran. But it was paid for, and it was mine.) Mom got all excited about furnishing my place with thrift-store furniture. I let her have her way, so long as I got a big bed and a couch. Mom paid for, and taught me how to shop for, two weeks' worth of groceries.

Once I moved in, I had about three weeks before the next rent was due. But I had my computer, and my computer had MYSTMIND.EXE. I was a virtual god, able to bend reality to my specifications—I wasn't worried about rent.

I figured out that the ideal way for me to acquire great wealth quickly would be for me to win the state lottery—I would have lots of money, and nobody would question how I'd earned it. The only problem was, my state didn't have a lottery. I did a little tinkering with the minds of the state legislators, and a week later, the lottery was law.

It was another month before the lottery tickets went on sale. In the meantime, I talked an endocrinologist into giving me some programming work. Not only did I make the rent, but I learned some fascinating endocrinology that was useful for my revenge goal.

The first day that lottery tickets went on sale, the big prize was five million dollars. When the first drawing was held, I used MYSTMIND to ensure that this five-megabuck prize got won, and that I won. But I was subtle. The big prizewinner was a woman on the other side of the state. It was she who got the big prize and the publicity (as well as the visits and phone calls from con men). Unnoticed by the news media, I won almost a half-million. I opted for the lump-sum payout. After taxes were extracted, I got "only" a hundred thousand dollars. (Oh, poor Myron!)

I don't see myself as an envious person. With MYSTMIND, I had the power to utterly bankrupt Donald Trump, or Bill Gates, or Steve Jobs. Making one of them dirt-poor would take about a month, but I could make it happen. Did I bother with any of those super-successful men? Nope. Did it bother me that Beth Henderson was much better looking as a woman than I was as a man, or that she could get sex whenever she wanted, whereas I was an eighteen-year-old virgin when I wrote MYSTMIND? Nope again. I wasn't about to cause Beth Henderson misery because I envied her.

But when Miss Henderson saw Bubba in the hallway, as he broke my bones, she had a decision to make. She decided to protect her job, her reputation, and her lover, instead of seeing justice done for me. Did a one-second lapse in her judgment rate her being walled up alive? Nope—but I wasn't going to let her off with only a slap on the wrist, either.

Once my check for $104,397.48 had cleared, and I had started my brand-new capital working for me, I could begin my plan of revenge on Beth and Bubba. Myuhahaha! I turned on my computer, went to directory MM, and fed MYSTMIND three lovingly prepared batch files.

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=ITSAWONDERFULLIFE.MMB /TIME=10SEC
The program will run until all your instructions are carried out, or until 10 seconds have passed.
Executing....

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=BUBBA.MMB /TIME=10SEC /REPEAT=60MIN
The program will run until all your instructions are carried out, or until 10 seconds have passed; then the program will repeat 60 minutes later.
Executing....

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=BETH.MMB /TIME=10SEC
The program will run until all your instructions are carried out, or until 10 seconds have passed.
Executing....

Now I would wait, and soon I would see revenge. And for Bubba—he of the muscles, and the full beard, and the bass voice—I had something sweet planned.

Helen Baxter was smiling with lust. "Bubba" Smith was watching TV with her over at her house—well, that was what Helen had told her gainfully-employed parents. When Bubba was an asshole, she had no trouble reading him the riot act—but damn, he sure got her juices flowing. Like right now, when she was rubbing Bubba's boner through his pants while he was licking her exposed cantaloupes.

Helen suddenly felt odd—sleepy, but that wasn't quite how to describe it. She stood up, as did Bubba. As she was reaching for his drinking glass and pizza crusts, he suddenly bent over, gasping and grunting with pain. She didn't ask if he was okay—suddenly, it was of the highest importance that she get rid of all signs of Bubba's presence. Ten seconds later, while she was shoving Bubba's pizza crusts down the garbage disposal, he walked through the house and out the front door. (Apparently he was no longer bothered by whatever had been paining him.) He did not call out "Goodbye"; and once outside, he did not look left or right as he walked to his car at the curb, got in the car, and drove away. But Helen didn't have time to wonder why Bubba was acting so robotlike—washing Bubba's glass and putting it on the dish rack was the most important job of her life, and it had to be done now.

With the pizza crusts disposed of, and with Bubba's glass washed and racked, Helen went back to the living-room couch. Helen fastened her bra and pulled down her t-shirt, tucking it into her jeans. As she sat down, she had a thought: When Bubba got in his car, he looked different somehow. Not studly, not godly anymore. Ordinary, in fac—

Helen came to, and realized that she must have zoned out in front of the TV. She also realized that she had forgotten whatever she'd been thinking about before.

Which was probably about how sucky her life was. Here she was, a just-graduated Truman High School cheerleader with blond hair and big tits, so how come she'd spent her entire Senior year without a boyfriend? And why was it that, with her parents at work and her younger brother away at summer camp, she had no better way to spend her time than to watch TV and eat pizza alone?

Bubba awoke from his own trance as he was walking into the food court of a shopping mall. His first thought was What the hell am I doing in a mall? His second thought was, That can't mean what I think it means—Bubba was eyeing an orange-and-green "Go Orange Crush!" sign. After seeing many more such signs, Bubba asked a shopkeeper, "How far is this mall from Tyler High School?"

"Tyler is half a mile that way."

Shit! How did I get way over here, without remembering it? Because the last thing I remember is—that was odd. Bubba was about to think getting my dick rubbed at Helen's house. But there was no way that a hot babe like Helen Baxter would give an ordinary joe like Bubba the time of day, much less give him a rubdown.

Now Bubba saw two beefy boys in orange-and-green letter jackets who were coming his way; they were linebackers or wrestlers, judging from their size. Bubba stepped aside to avoid them—he didn't want trouble.

Bubba knew he had to get home. Which meant, he had to find his car. Good luck with that, because he had no idea which door he'd come through, so he had no idea where he'd parked. Bubba was forced to walk up and down every lane of the parking lot, in the hot July sun.

Bubba had been outside about thirty or forty minutes when he suddenly got hit by torturous pains, with no warning. It felt like his bones were melting, and like someone had pointed a blowtorch at his groin. Ten seconds later, when the agony just as suddenly quit, Bubba was slumped on the ground.

Nobody offered him help in standing up. Bubba was, after all, not a feeble elderly person, or a pretty girl—just a youth of puny strength with "peach fuzz" instead of a decent moustache, who was blocking traffic.

I went to MYSTMIND to get a status check on Bubba. No surprise, he had been playing touchy-feely with Helen Baxter when I took over his life. Hot, sweet Helen, who probably didn't know that Bubba had been cheating on her with Beth Henderson. Well, it was high time that both Helen and I got our revenge on Beth. It also was time that I lost my virginity.

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=HELEN.MMB /TIME=10SEC

Among other things that the MYSTMIND batch file did, I again rewrote memories in both Beth and Helen.

Beth Henderson was horny, for two reasons. The first was that the last time she could remember having sex was almost a year ago, on a cruise ship the day before she reported to work as a teacher at Truman High School. The second reason she was horny was that she was thinking about Myron Tipton.

Almost a year ago, on Beth's first day of her first year of teaching, she had made an attitude-changing realization. Beth realized that in Shakespeare's time, there were guys a lot stronger than the playwright, and more athletic than he—but who remembered these strong and athletic men? Nobody. It was William Shakespeare, the genius, whom history remembered and honored. Beth had realized at last: Brains are sexy. Less than a week later, she realized that if brains were sexy, her second-period student Myron Tipton was a sex god. When Beth had been in high school herself, she was an eager jock-fucker, but now? No high-school football athlete, or basketball player, or (yawn) wrestler could compare to Myron.

Every school day this previous year, as fifth period began, Beth hoped that Myron would come visit her during this free period. She would gladly lose her teaching license for just one chance to fuck Myron—and if she took his cherry, so much the better. But Beth's Myron-fucking never happened, because Myron never visited her during free period. A super-brain like Myron didn't need help from any teacher.

So all that Beth had been able to do this previous year was to stand close to Myron Tipton, with desirous eyes and wet panties, during second period. After a week of eyeing Myron, Beth realized that she had a rival for him: Helen Baxter. Helen had maturity enough to realize that Myron was much more desirable than any bulky-muscled jock, but Helen didn't have maturity enough to realize that it was Beth who deserved Myron more.

Helen presented a big problem for Beth. Beth had bigger tits, and much more sexual experience than the girl; but Helen was Myron's age, and bottle-blond, and a cheerleader. Beth was an ex-cheerleader of course, but so were a lot of women.

Nobody else in second period apparently picked up on the rivalry between Beth and Helen. Myron was either just as clueless as everyone else in class, or he had tagged both young women as jock-fuckers, and had no interest in either of them.

Now Beth was stroking her clit. Oh, Myron, I need you to fuck me!

Beth had it bad. There were billions of men on the planet, 90 percent of whom would be inflamed in an instant by Beth's hot body, but she wanted only Myron, and Beth burned for Myron as hotly as other men desired Beth. Beth now decided, while diddling herself, that she would throw away every last shred of her pride and her dignity to get Myron between her legs.

Helen was watching TV, alone in the house except for half a pizza, and she was feeling regretful. Not only was she alone (and horny) now, and not only had she been boyfriendless her Senior year—but the guy who soaked her panties, she'd been too chicken to go after! How pathetic was that?

Oh Myron, I need you to fuck me!

Myron Tipton had always been nice to Helen, in a distant kind of way. But clearly, his ideal girl read Isaac Asimov books when they weren't assigned. Helen would have been thrilled to go on just one date with Myron—she would have fucked him silly a hundred times that night, and sucked him off a hundred more! And even without that date, she would have sucked him dry during pep rallies, had he asked.

But Helen hadn't been Myron's type, and Helen hadn't been able to speak up to ask him out. So now she had a clit and cervix that were throbbing in frustration.

Helen frowned as she remembered something. At the same time that Helen had been too timid to declare her feelings for Myron, Miss Henderson was giving fuck-me looks to Myron in class. Helen hated that cow-uddered, russet-haired witch!

It took me another few minutes to whip up another MMB file. As soon as it was written, I executed it (while cackling with glee):

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=GROCERY.MMB /TIME=10SEC /NAME="BETH HENDERSON"

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=GROCERY.MMB /TIME=10SEC /NAME="HELEN BAXTER"

I had picked the grocery store that was two minutes from my apartment. When MYSTMIND told me that Helen was about two minutes from that grocery store, I fetched my car keys and locked up the apartment. I estimate that I walked into that grocery store less than a minute after Helen did.

"Hi, Helen," I said. "You're grocery shopping?"

Helen started blushing. "Um, hi, Myron. Yeah, it occurred to me that I'm an adult now, so I should help my mom out. So I called her, got a list, and here I am."

"That is adult. Wow, I'm impressed, Helen."

"You are?" Helen beamed. "Cool. Um, so are you grocery-shopping for your mom too? I mean, you're here."

"No, I have my own apartment now. I'm just buying soda."

"You have your own place?" Helen's entire posture changed, and her voice dropped an octave. "Have you and a girl christened it yet?"

"Nah, I'm not one for champagne."

She slapped my shoulder. "I mean sex, silly! Fucking in every room."

I laughed. "Nope, no christening so far, and I doubt I get any volunteers."

Helen was silent, and her body was tense, for several heartbeats. Then she said, "I volunteer."

"Ha, ha, and ha, Helen." I looked around. "So where's the hidden camera?"

"I'm not joking, Myron! I need you!"

I studied Helen's face. "You're serious."

"I sure—"

"Myron!" Beth Henderson was rushing toward me, to the clatter of an empty shopping cart being pushed quickly.

"What is that bitch doing here?" Helen snarled.

"What a coincidence," I remarked, "Miss Henderson, you, and I all at the same grocery store at the same time."

Wandering throught the mall parking lot, trying to find his car, Bubba spotted a pack of teen girls. Three girls wore orange-and-green. Wow, I thought Tyler girls were prettier than that, Bubba thought. Only one girl out of the five got his blood racing; the other four girls did nothing for him.

Beth Henderson didn't give Helen one glance. "So good to see you, Myron! How is life after graduation?"

Helen took my arm possessively. "Myron was just telling me that he has his own place, and I was just about to tell him that I'd love to see it."

"That's fine, Helen dear," Beth said, "but he won't have much time to host you. Myron, you're welcome at my place anytime."

"At your place for what?" I said.

"Why, whatever you want! I can cook you dinner. I'll bet Helen-girl there can't nuke a hot dog—"

"Easy!" Helen snorted.

"—or whatever you want. I can rent movies for you to watch. We can discuss Shakespeare. You can fuck my tits."

"You're disgusting!" Helen said.

"You're envious," Beth replied.

"I'm just not a brazen slut like you!"

"Confidence comes with age and experience, Miss Baxter."

"Well, you clearly have the `age'—"

I cleared my throat. "Miss Henderson, you presume my saying yes. Why, because you're older, or because you have huge breasts?"

"`Older,' right, is that a wrinkle I see?" Helen said.

Beth gave me a porn-actress smile. "Either reason is a good one. Both reasons together are dynamite."

"No. No sale."

Both big-breasted women looked at me. "What?" they both said.

"Look, I'm not going into college this fall, but sometime I'll go. I have worked hard all my school life to get A's in every subject. Whatever A's I've gotten, I've earned. Follow me?"

They both nodded.

"If I go home with you, Beth Henderson, and have sex, when people find out, they'll figure you and I were having sex Senior year. And then they'll say that my dick got me my Shakespeare `A', not my brain."

Helen gave her vanquished rival a fuck-off smile.

"But Myron, I need you to fuck me!" Beth said. A blue-haired woman glared disapprovingly at Beth, then hurried away with her cart.

Still wandering throught the mall parking lot, Bubba noticed a moustached man with cut-off sleeves; the man had muscular arms and a small, tight butt. Bubba wondered what it would be like to be strong like that, instead of ordinary-looking. Bubba decided that if he were strong, he could sure get the sex that looked hopeless now.

Bubba wondered if Tight-Butt Man was gay. The thought didn't disgust Bubba.

"I'll do anything to get you to fuck me, Myron," Beth Henderson continued.

"God, what a slut," Helen muttered.

"Anything?" I said.

"Anything." Beth gave Helen a smile of challenge. Call or fold, sweetie, that smile said.

"Well then," I said, "let's start with the basics. From now on, you are to address me as `Master.'"

Helen, who had not been smiling, now developed a wicked grin, as Beth's smile disappeared. "Well?" Helen demanded.

"Yes, Master," Beth said, quietly and nervously.

"I don't think Miss Henderson really wants me to fuck her," I remarked to the grinning Helen. "That, or I'm going deaf."

"Your hearing is fine, Master. And I beg you to fuck me, Master," Beth said in a normal (if not especially loud) volume.

"Helen, do you still want to fuck me?" I asked. "I am a virgin."

"Oh Myron, I will be gentle," Helen said. She smiled at Beth.

"Then ladies, let's leave the groceries here and go to my place. All three of us."

All told, it took Bubba forty-five minutes to find his car. And then, it was in a far corner of the parking lot! Land's sakes, why did I park it there?

When Bubba pulled out his key ring, he got a shock: He had the Truman High School key ring, but he had no keys on it!

As Bubba stood staring at his car in dismay, a man in a "Security" golfcart was puttering around the parking lot nearby.

Helen and Beth followed me back to my apartment, each in her own car. Once they were in my living room (and I had shut the blinds), I said, "Beth, undress for me, then undress Helen. Fold all the clothing neatly."

Beth agreed, and got naked. In that moment after Beth was naked, and before she turned to face Helen, I noted that Beth's nipples were sticking out like bullets, her pussy lips were dark and swollen, and I'm pretty sure I saw the glistening of oozing pussy-juice. I had not touched Beth, had not licked her; but just from standing near me—seeing me, hearing me, and smelling me up close—Beth Henderson was so horny she couldn't think straight.

Great.

Power corrupts, and absolute power is pretty damned fun.

Beth reached for Helen's blouse; but then Helen looked at Beth, then looked at me, and said, "Am I going to like what you have planned?" At Helen's question, Beth paused.

"You'll like it. For one thing, you've got a personal maid for the rest of the day."

At that Helen looked down her nose at Beth and said, "Continue."

Once both beauties were naked and facing me, I said, "Beth, here are the rules. One, you are to have no other lovers than me—unless I order you to have sex with someone, in which case you will give him or her the best pleasure you know how."

"Um, `her,' Master?" Beth said, glancing nervously at Helen.

"Two, whether I fuck you once an hour or once a year, you will never ask me to fuck you. Impatience is not an option."

Beth sighed. "Yes, Master."

"Three, you are not to ask me to lick your pussy, or to pet you. Don't ask me for permission to masturbate. If you ask, plead, or beg me for sexual relief in any form, the answer will always be no."

"Yes, Master."

"Four, from time to time I will order you to masturbate. You will immediately and passionately comply, regardless of where you are, what's going on around you, and who's there to watch you. You will continue till I tell you to stop; if people thwart you before I tell you to stop, you will resume masturbating as soon as you can."

Beth's face was white. After two heartbeats, she breathed, "Yes, Master."

"Good slave. Begin masturbating now. Use both hands, in whatever way maximizes pleasure for you."

Beth began to masturbate, as Helen snickered. Beth's left hand pulled on first one nipple, then the other; Beth's right hand had two fingers pistoning her gash. Within seconds Beth's skin was flushed and her pussy was slurpy-wet, and she was moaning. Thanks to MYSTMIND, Beth would find obeying any sexual order that I gave to be arousing, regardless of the circumstances.

"Stop," I said. Beth eyed Helen, embarrassed.

I continued, "The good news, or the bad news, depending on your point of view, is that I'll only order you to masturbate maybe once a year."

"You are going to be one very horny Shakespeare teacher," Helen smirked.

I nodded. "Which brings me to my next point, Beth. Five, Helen can give you permission to masturbate. Just as with me, you may not ask or beg Helen for such permission."

"Good, because you'll be wasting your breath if you did!" Helen said.

"Don't be so sure," I replied. "Beth is about to be very nice to you." To Beth I said, "Six, You must eat Helen's pussy for one hour each day, longer if she wants you to—"

"Wow, my own private lezzie slave," Helen said.

"Please, Master, don't tell me to do that," Beth said.

"Oh Beth, I'm sure you'll like it once you try it. Here are the rules—You must eat Helen out, whenerever, whenever, and however she wants, and you must dress however she wants you to dress. But you must refuse her order when that would jeopardize your job, interfere with your teacher duties, or lower your reputation with students or faculty at your school."

"Damn," Helen said, "and I was looking forward to having you teach naughty schoolgirls, dressed like one."

I added, "In case of a conflict in your orders, my orders outrank Helen's." To this Beth said nothing. I mentally counted to ten in the silence. "Well?" I demanded.

"I obey, Master," Beth said, barely loud enough to hear.

We moved into my bedroom. I had Helen lie on the bed, telling her to "get comfortable."

Then I brought a kitchen chair into the bedroom, put it at the foot of the bed, sat down, and told Beth, "Now make Helen very comfortable."

"He means, eat the pussy of your Mistress, slave," Helen said.

"Yes, Mistress," Beth replied.

For the first time, I got to see a real pussy up close. The pussy consisted of a pink gash, surrounded by curly pubic hair—sorry, I forget that other people don't have to wait so late in life to see a pussy. I must remark, though, that a clit is a tiny thing, considering how much pleasure it brings a woman.

Within minutes of Beth sucking on the tiny clit of Helen, both women were thrashing and moaning, the room smelled of pussy, and I had a boner like a baseball bat.

"Oh baby," Helen said to me, "I will make you feel so good when we fuck."

"Then's it's time we start the party, isn't it?" I said. I stood up.

"Roll off Helen," I told Beth. "Come here and undress me." Beth obeyed, glancing often at my hard-on during her stripdown of me. When Beth had me naked, I told her, "Suck me for fifteen seconds."

"Oh Myron baby," Helen said, "I want to do that. I want to give you pleasure."

"And so you will, Helen, in just a little bit," I said.

After fifteen seconds, Helen was kneeling in front of me, as Beth with reluctance took her mouth off me. Helen pushed Beth aside, slid into place, and started tonguing the head of my dick. Then she put her lips on my cock, and started doing Nice Things.

So this is what a blowjob feels like! I like it, I like it.

I had always wondered about pictures I'd seen, of a woman with her mouth on a man's cock. I always wondered, Why is she doing that? To me it looked disgusting. Well, with Helen sucking me, I still had no clue about why women chose to do it, but I figured out real fast why guys asked for it. Oh, this felt great!

After one minute of Helen sucking me, my eyes were nearly crossed. After four minutes, I was big and hard like a baseball bat. "Stop, Helen. Get on the bed and spread your legs." Helen moved quickly to obey. Just before I plunged my virgin cock into its very first pussy, I imitated Elvis Presley: "Thankyuh, thankyuhverimuch." I guess I was nervous.

I shoved in my cock and began pistoning Helen, just like I'd seen done in movies. Soon after, Helen began shaking all over, like a bowl of gelatin in an earthquake. She made strange noises. She thrust her hips up and down, hard and fast, like race-car engine pistons. She raked my back with her fingernails. She screamed. All this I had read about, but finally I was experiencing it myself.

The scratches into my back were painful and somewhat distracting. But in thousands of years of recorded history, no man had ever complained, so I said nothing to Helen.

Fucking, I decided, was at least as fun as getting sucked off. At last I truly understood why sex was Such A Big Deal.

And then I had my first orgasm. I won't try to describe it; I can't. Let's just say, it sure beats debugging Assembler code!

When I had calmed down enough to notice the rest of the universe, I was laying on Helen. We both were panting, and I was as hot as if I'd just come out of a sauna. Helen and I were both covered with sweat.

She kissed me. "Welcome to manhood, lover," she said.

Beth had been watching Helen and me, of course. Beth's pussy lips were redder than they had been when Beth first undressed, and pussy juice made her slit shiny. Beth's nipples jutted like bullets. I had forbade Beth from masturbating; Beth's hands were clasped together so hard that the knuckles were white. "Oh Master oh Master oh Master oh Master," Beth kept murmuring.

I rolled off Helen, onto my back. "Suck my cock clean," I told Beth. "Take at least twenty minutes."

Seventeen minutes later, as Helen was kissing my shoulder over and over, I shot a load into Beth's mouth. I had already decided that coitus orgasms are fun; I now decided that blowjob orgasms are fun, too. Of course Beth swallowed.

I smiled. Life was good. I now had lost my cherry to Bubba's one-time girlfriend, and the sex-bomb schoolteacher who had helped to ruin my life had swallowed my cum.

I spoke to Beth a line from Star Wars, "The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner. Now I am the master."

Beth, who was still milking me, took her lips off my cock. She said, "Indeed, you are the Master."

Bubba decided to call a locksmith to make him a new key for his car. As Bubba was putting coins into the pay phone, back inside by the food court, the two Tyler High athletes walked by. They both sneered at him, as one said something to the other. Both laughed. This made Bubba nervous; but the big Tyler boys didn't know him, besides Bubba being in a public place, so probably he was safe.

The locksmith quoted a price of forty dollars. Bubba pulled out his wallet to check if he was good for the cash—and got his second big shock at Tyler Mall. His wallet was empty, except for cash. Bubba no longer had a driver's license, credit cards, gym-membership card (where had that thought come from?), anything with his name on it, or any business cards. So when the locksmith said, "Before I open the car, I have to see your driver's license," Bubba had to lie and say that he didn't have the cash.

Bubba, having no better plan, went back outside to his car. Maybe my keys and driver's license fell out when I got out of the car? Maybe they're underneath the car?

Bubba saw a police car, its lights flashing, in his car's corner of the parking lot. A strong, street-clothed man was talking to the Security man in the golf cart, and they were both looking through the window of Bubba's car! As Bubba stood there, unsure what he should do next, he was hit with another ten seconds of murderous pain.

Land's sake, I'm going to need to go into the hospital if this keeps up! Pretty Johnny thought when the pain ended. Pretty Johnny stood up, picked up his man-purse, and put it back on his shoulder. With a sense of dread, Pretty Johnny walked toward his car and the masculine men next to it.

Fred, the mall-security man, saw something in the car window's reflection. He turned and murmured, "That's the person I was telling you about."

Detective Carl Hopkins turned to look, and grunted. Coming toward himself and Fred was someone who looked like he (it?) was going to interview for an entry-level job at the drag-queen club. The pants and shirt were too tight and too bright, his blond hair came down to his throat, he had the nonexistent beard and shaped eyebrows of someone using either tweezers or electrolysis, he was wearing Seventies disco shoes with a two-inch heel, and the faggot was carrying a purse.

The fag walked up to Hopkins. "Is there a problem with this car?" No surprise, Prettyboy's voice was high. And Christ on the cross, now Hopkins could see that he had man-boobs! They weren't big—a junior-high girl had bigger—but they shouldn't have been there at all.

Hopkins replied, "A Martha Lockhart in Jackson Ridge reported her car stolen two days ago, and it's wound up here. Mall—"

"Stolen? It can't be stolen, it's..." Then realization hit. "Um, you were saying?"

"Mall Security was telling me that you were taking an interest in this car. May I see your driver's license, please."

"Um, I don't have it." And Prettyboy opened up his purse to hand Hopkins a black-leather wallet with pink triangles stamped into it. Sure enough, no driver's license. Hell, no anything.

Fuck, thought Hopkins, the fag's got fingernails a quarter-inch long!

Hopkins shook off the thought and replied, "Well then, we're going to have some police scientists come soon, and they'll need to get your fingerprints."

"Fingerprints? What for?"

"To eliminate you as a suspect for the crime of felony auto theft."

"All right," Prettyboy said. This flabbergasted Hopkins. (When you ask for fingerprints, you always get an argument.) Prettyboy sat down on the pavement as a girl would, always keeping knees together.

It took the Jackson City crime-scene-investigation team three hours to dust the car for fingerprints, and to compare those fingerprints with the fingerprint card of John B. Smith (a.k.a. "Barbie"). By then, after suffering three more ten-second attacks, Barbie was wearing a bra (because he needed one), a blouse, denim skirt, and women's casual shoes (with wedgy heels) in his size; his fingernails were a half-inch long, filed into ovals, and polished pink.

Barbie noticed a city bus stopping by where his car (Martha Lockhart's car?) was being fingerprinted, and Barbie wanted so badly to get on that bus and flee far away from this mess. But John/Barbie had to stay here. First of all, Barbie knew it wasn't ladylike to run fast in high heels, so very likely he'd miss the bus. And second, the detective had told Barbie to stay, the detective was a Man in Authority, and a Man in Authority must be obeyed.

Besides, the detective was so yummy-looking.

The crime-scene investigators were bantering with each other. "I wish that we could just run the tranny's fingerprints through a computer," the woman said, "instead of having to compare fingerprints by eyeball-check."

"Well, in a few years, you'll probably get that," said the man. "What I wish for is a forensics partner who's an honest-to-god ex-showgirl from Las Vegas."

"Only in fiction," the woman laughed.

Detective Hopkins walked up. "You guys know anything yet?"

"Yeah," said the forensics man. "The tranny isn't involved."

Hopkins raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure? He/she/it was sure acting strangely—"

Forensics Man shook his head. "Does `Barbie' there look like he has the upper-body strength to manhandle a car? We have fingerprints inside the car of Martha Lockhart, and other fingerprints we'll need to run, back at the `store.' But there are no fingerprints of `Miss' Smith inside this car."

Pissed, and not bothering to hide it, Detective Hopkins went over to John "Barbie" Smith and told him that he was free to go. When Hopkins told Smith that his fingerprints were nowhere inside the car, the girlyboy didn't look relieved, he looked shocked.

A very dismayed Barbie was standing at the front door of what had been his/her house only this morning.

"...I don't have a son," Mr. Smith said, "and I certainly don't claim a son who looks like a beauty queen."

Barbie glanced over at his/her mother. Bad idea. Mrs. Smith was standing slightly behind her husband, and clutching his arm as if Barbie had rabies.

"But Dad—"

"We're done here." Mr. Smith shut the door.

Then Barbie realized something. He/she pounded on the front door.

His father jerked the door open. "I told you, we're done here."

"I get that. But can you call me a cab?"

Barbie had realized that he/she was now homeless, and so he needed a job quick. Downtown Jackson City had a drag-show club, and what better place to start his job search?

The next morning, I kissed Helen goodbye, went with Beth Henderson to the hardware store (to make me a copy of her apartment key), and then I returned alone to my apartment. I fired up MYSTMIND, and got updated about John "Barbie" Smith.

Once Barbie finally made it home from the mall, he/she had been thrown out of his house. He had spent his last money on a cab downtown, intending to get a job at Le Femme Faux. Barbie had suffered his last ten-second agonizing transformation during the cab ride.

But out in Le Femme Faux's parking lot, just feet from the entrance door, Barbie had been called over by a bisexual pimp, Harvey Chocolate Milk. Barbie went with him, and within minutes told him, "You are my master."

By 10 p.m., Barbie had been turning tricks, and had made Harvey several hundred dollars already. Not one john all night ever figured out that Barbie was male.

I sat back away from the computer and thought, I didn't make all these plans just so Bubba would be some pimp's hermaphrodite sex slave. I thought for a few minutes more, then started typing.

As I typed, I thought to myself, Memo to self: Make some way for MYSTMIND to show pictures. I didn't even know exactly what John Smith looked like now, and today I had to go get him/her back!

That afternoon, Barbie was standing on a street corner with his/her new master. Barbie was smiling, and humming a Broadway song. Somehow all proof of his/her existence had been erased, so his own parents didn't know Barbie from a stranger, and all this was a major bummer—but at last Barbie had a master, so life was good again. Barbie's asshole hurt, but it was a good hurt.

That morning, Master Harvey had announced, "We going clothes shopping." Everything he had bought for Barbie had been red: red dress, red five-inch heels, red stockings, red lipstick and nail polish, red choker, red earrings, red bracelets, and a red ribbon for Barbie's hair. At four that afternoon, Master Harvey said, "You puts on all that red stuff." Barbie obeyed, happily—it was so wonderful being commanded! Then Master Harvey and Barbie went to "work."

Within minutes of taking their place on "their" street corner, a clunker Oldsmobile stopped, its window rolled down. Behind the wheel sat Myron Tipton. "Hello, Barbie," Myron said.

"You know me?" Barbie exclaimed. Myron remembered Barbie's existence?

"You knows him?" Master Harvey said. "I mean, you knows the bitch?"

Myron smiled. "Graduated high school together. So I know you're keeping a secret from your clientele."

Master Harvey sounded nervous. "Hey, don't tell nobody, okay? Don't nobody needs to know that."

"Tell you what I'll do. Why don't I give you a dollar, and you sell Barbie to me as a sex slave? This way, if Barbie's secret gets out, it's my problem not yours."

Barbie expected Master Harvey to jerk Myron out of the car and beat him up. Instead, Master Harvey said, "Make it two dollar."

"You drive a hard bargain, sir," Myron said. He paid cash out the window to Master Harvey.

Master Harvey turned to Barbie. "This man, he now your master. You obeys only him from now on."

Barbie turned to the Oldsmobile, eager to hear Master Myron's first command. "You are my master," Barbie said. How lucky I am, thought Barbie, to get a master I've known for years.

"Get in the front seat, Barbie," Master Myron said. "Don't break a nail."

Barbie obeyed the first command with haste, and the second command with care. He/she was thrilled—it was so wonderful to be commanded!

Master Myron drove away, as Barbie glanced back at his/her former owner. Harvey looked puzzled and confused.

Master Myron said, "I like that outfit, it makes you look very girly-girl. Keep dressing girly-girl for me."

"Yes, Master."

"From now on, your name is Sissy. Not John, not Barbie—Sissy."

"Yes, Master," Sissy/Barbie/Pretty Johnny/Bubba/John replied.

After a minute of silence, Sissy realized that he/she had not yet been commanded to give sex. "Does Master wish for this slave to suck Master's cock while You are driving?" Sissy asked.

"Not today, slave," Master Myron replied.

Sissy and I left my car and headed to my apartment. For sure, I got looks: "How does a nerd like you rate such a wonder?" As curvy of body and beautiful of face as Helen and Beth had been yesterday, they were Cinderella's stepsisters compared to Sissy (except that Beth can smoke anyone else when it comes to tits). Even Pamela Anderson would have been envious of Sissy.

Once we were in my apartment, I told Sissy to "wait there," and went back to my computer.

c:\mm>MYSTMIND /BAT=HEAL.MMB /TIME=10SEC /NAME="JOHN==>
B. SMITH" /PAINLESS
JOHN B. SMITH will be healed of all injuries and all infections.
The program will run until all your instructions are carried out, or until 10 seconds have passed.
Executing....

I watched ten seconds pass on my computer clock, then walked back into the living room.

Myron, time to enjoy your new toy, I thought.

A stranger walking into my living room, at the same time I walked back into it, would think he was seeing a world-class blonde, who was dressed totally in red, standing there as motionless and patient as a well-trained dog. Sissy did not look the least bit boyish.

"I await your command, Master," Sissy said. Sissy had a high-pitched voice that recalled Betty Boop, Marilyn Monroe, and Melanie Griffith.

"Great," I said. "I need you to take off all your clothes except your panties, fold everything neatly, and make a neat stack of clothing on the couch."

Sissy didn't do any of the things a normal person would do, hearing such a request. Instead, Sissy started removing clothing. When Sissy tried to "fold" his/her five-inch stiletto high heels, I had to correct my instructions. "Don't fold the shoes, Sissy, and put them back on after you're naked except for panties."

With a "Yes, Master," Sissy complied. A minute later, Sissy was standing next to me.

I said, "Pull down your panties, and if you have anything tucked between your legs, take it out. I want to see your genitals."

Again Sissy obeyed, with no more resistance than if I'd asked him/her to roll up his sleeve to get a shot.

Now I saw what MYSTMIND had done to Bubba. Sissy had ass-length platinum-blond hair, pale blue eyes, fingernails over an inch long, and D-cup tits. For someone who was male, Sissy barely showed it: He/she had the bones of a young woman (though with something odd about his elbows and knees, and wrists and ankles), his hands and feet were only slightly too big for a woman's—and he had what looked much like a three-year-old boy's groin. His scrotal sacs were the size of marbles; his cock was only two inches long, and less than an inch in diameter.

I've got ten inches now, so we average out, I thought.

I had specified Sissy's girly-boy body to be medically possible, but one-chance-in-billions unlikely. I was pleased with the results.

And as extreme as the physical changes to Sissy were, they were surpassed by the mental changes.

Without telling Sissy to get dressed, I told him/her to tell me about the last day and a half of his life. He did, wearing only fuck-me high heels, and red panties that were pulled down to his thighs.

"...So then Master Harvey sold me to You."

"Sounds like you don't have a Social Security number either, `George Bailey.'"

Sissy looked surprised, then worried. He/she nodded.

I paused before speaking again. "This is quite a story."

"It's not a story! I can't lie to my master."

I paused, and then I seemed to change the subject. "Have you ever seen a doctor about—about how you look?"

"Yes. He said I had Partial Andro...Andro-something," Sissy said, recalling the false memories that MYSTMIND had implanted.

"Partial Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. Combined with what I'm guessing is a shitload of female hormone receptors, and the result is: You have a very unusual body for a boy, John."

"That's what the doctor said. Also, that all that weird hormone stuff affects my brain."

"Uh-huh, seems that way. Tell me, how many guys were there at Truman High, whose cock you didn't suck?"

"Just three, including You," Sissy replied, "remembering" another implanted memory.

I raised an eyebrow at that. Sissy added, "And You were the only one I wanted to suck off." Sissy looked at me hopefully. "Would You like me to suck You off now?"

"Not today," I said.

So John Smith—state wrestling champion, "the most manly man at Truman High School"—now was a totally submissive effeminate hermaphrodite suck-slut. And furthermore, he falsely remembered always having been that way. Myuhahaha.

I looked at Sissy. "It's time to set rules. I am your Master now, and you will always address me as such, even in public. Your hair and makeup always will be girly-girl, and always perfect. You will be barefoot only when sleeping or showering, you will wear flat shoes only when doing housework or yardwork, otherwise you will wear five-inch stilettos. Whenever you go out of my apartment or house, except when you are doing yardwork, you will wear fivers and a dress—even when checking the mailbox or buying groceries. Inside my apartment or house, you will dress and answer the door as a French Maid, except when doing housework. You may not masturbate except upon my direct order. I can loan you out, or rent you out, and you will have sex with whomever I tell you to; but you never will have sex with anyone, including me, except on my order. You own nothing; if you receive money or property or gifts, you must immediately give me everything."

Sissy walked over to me, then knelt (which was tricky, because his/her panties were still pulled down). "Does Master wish to brand this slave, marking this slave as Yours? Or tattoo this slave?"

"No. No brands, no tattoos."

"Master is so generous! May I hug Master?"

"No. Now pull your panties up, and go make make me a ham sandwich."

Sissy pulled up his/her panties, dropped me a curtsy unasked, and sashayed to the kitchen.

With the hundred thousand dollars in the bank and MYSTMIND on my hard drive, I could really make money. I had been subtle in how I first got my seed cash, and I was again subtle in how I built it up—in the years to follow, I never came to the attention of the Securities and Exchange Commission, the FBI, or the Drug Enforcement Agency; and they wouldn't have found anything illegal, had they looked. This is because what I was doing wasn't illegal, and was undetectable in any case: I would read the mind of one corporate executive, and push the brain of another corporate executive, and voilà—near-instant wealth. (My favorite trick was to buy stock in a company, and suddenly potential customers lost interest in buying from that company's competitors.) But as far as the world could tell, I was just extremely lucky, with solid-gold gut instincts. The increase in my wealth was fast and steady, but nothing I did was ever spectacular, and so I was never in the newspaper or on the local TV news.

Once the money started rolling in, after I was avenged against Bubba Smith and Beth Henderson, my conscience began bothering me about Helen Baxter. While Helen had never showered me with hugs and baked me cookies (before all this started), she had never done me wrong. And yet, in the process of ruining Bubba and Beth, I had altered Helen's memories and had made her love and desire me. I had enjoyed sex with Helen, to which she never would have consented without MYSTMIND. I needed to make amends to Helen.

The first thing I did was ask MYSTMIND a question about Helen, to which only MYSTMIND (and Helen) knew the answer. When MYSTMIND answered my question, I went for a long walk, in order to think undistracted. An hour later I returned to my computer. After half an hour of poking my keyboard to order MYSTMIND around, I picked up the telephone. I called Helen.

When she answered, I said, "Helen? I need to tell you something. In person."

"Huh. Myron, I was just about to call you. We need to talk."

We agreed to meet at her house. But when I got to that house, the garage door was open, and Helen led me into the garage. She sat down sideways on the seat of a Yamaha motorcycle and looked at me.

"Helen, you're a wonderful girl. Woman. You're a young woman whom my life is richer for knowing."

"The same with me, Myron. Our time together has been intense, hasn't it?"

"The sex with you has been off the charts, Helen. Before I say anything else, I want you to know: We've had excellent sex."

"Same here." She sighed. "But—"

"Yeah."

"It's okay that you never came to any games I cheered at. You had homework."

"And it's okay that you never had a straight-A average."

"I don't dislike you, Myron. You're sweet."

"I don't dislike you, Helen. You have a good heart."

She sighed again. "But—"

"Listen, you'll have no trouble getting another guy."

Helen slid off the motorcycle seat and stood up. "But if he's not a nerd, it's not because I still think nerds are bad boyfriends."

"Just like now I don't automatically think that all hot girls are stuck up." I took Helen in my arms.

We kissed; the kiss was rated G. The last time we'd been together, our kisses had alternated between R and XXX.

"When you become Miss America," I said, "e-mail me a picture of you in your crown."

"Oh, sure. And Miss Universe, too. And every time I go to a movie premiere."

I shook my head as I walked out of the garage. Over my shoulder I called out, "That'll be too much of a burden. Just your first premiere."

She laughed. "You got it. My first movie premiere, but only my first, I'll send you a photo."

I started my car and drove away.

email: grim_ghost AT hotmail.com
mc, nc, MF, MF+, Fsolo, teen, FF1st, oral, tg, Mdom, md, magic, size, breast, caution

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.