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 The Love Song of Doctor Diabolical by Wrestlr

   //Begin Standard Headers//

   Author: Wrestlr

   Title: The Love Song of Doctor Diabolical

   Summary: Doctor Diabolical, the super villain synonymous with brilliance
and evil the world over, describes his latest plans to his boyfriend

   Keywords: MC, MM, Hypno //End Standard Headers//

   Disclaimer: The naked hypnotist strides confidently into your room.  His
lips curl in what might be a smile as he dangles his shiny crystal pendulum
before your eyes and announces, "Listen and obey.  If you are not of legal
age, or if you offended by sexual situations, you will leave this place
immediately.  From here on, no matter how realistic it may appear,
everything will seem like fiction to you, a pleasant dream where scientific
possibilities and laws may change according to my suggestion.  Now, if you
are willing, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."
Copyright - 2018 by Wrestlr.  Permission granted to archive if and only
if no fee (including any form of "Adult Verification") is charged to read
the file.  If anyone pays a cent to anyone to read your site, you can't use
this without the express permission of (and payment to) the author.  This

paragraph must be included as part of any archive.

   Comments to wrestlr@iname.com

   Wrestlr's fiction is archived at the following URLs:

   o /~wrestlr (MC and general M/M stories)

   o http://www.mcstories.com/Authors/Wrestlr.html (MC stories)

   * * *

   *The Love Song of Doctor Diabolical* by Wrestlr

   Hello, my dear Jason.

   Congratulations!--Since you're viewing this message on the jumbo
holographic screens, you've made what must seem a truly shocking discovery
regarding the true nature of my scientific work.

   Did my appearance onscreen startle you?  If so, I apologize.  The
holographic projector is my own creation, and the image is quite lifelike,
apart of course from the increase in scale.  I chose the extra-large
screens because I believe they lend a certain dramatic effect, don't you
agree?  I understand if the sudden appearance of this recording led to
confusion or panic or laser blasts.  Naturally--and I'm required by the
rules of Super Villains Union Local 169 to say this--everything in this
room, including the screens and the control panel, is both impact-resistant
and reinforced against energy blasts.

   Please forgive any dizziness you may be experiencing.  As you
understand, I had to take precautions, and one of those was retrofitting
the Minion Master's mind control technology into a series of projectors
located around the room.  No, no--don't try to fight it.  I've made some
improvements on Minion Master's Hypnotron designs, you see, and now the
effect is quite irresistible.  But you have my word--you're quite safe for
now, so just relax and watch the screen and listen to my voice.  That's a
good boy.  In fact, you're feeling very relaxed now.  So relaxed and
peaceful.  So willing to watch and listen.  No need to go smashing things.
I'm told the effects of the Hypnotron feel quite pleasant--so, just relax.
Yes.  Every worry, every concern is just slipping away for now.  So easy to
just listen and let everything else slip again, isn't it.

   Now, where was I?  Ah, yes.  I am recording this message because I've
just given you your own key to my place.  Even though we've had the
"boundaries talk," sometimes these things do still happen.  Best to be
prepared for the inevitable, don't you agree?  And since you're here, the
inevitable indeed has come to pass.

   In order for you to see this message, obviously the computer scans
confirmed you're the one who entered my secret lab.  If anyone else had
entered my space, such as one of those buffoons from the Justice Brigade,
the computer would have initiated the self-destruct mechanism with a
five-second timer, and by now my lair and most of the city block would be a
very deep crater.  I confess, I've never understood why some evil geniuses
go through the trouble of rigging up an explosive device and then give it a
five-minute countdown--which just gives the hero time to wriggle himself
free, stroll over to the control panel, flex his biceps a few times, maybe
call one of his super-genius buddies for advice, and still manage to disarm
the explosives in the nick of time.  Flawed planning, if you ask me.

   Indulge a bit of conjecture on my part.  After I gave you the key, you
must have come snooping in my apartment, perhaps innocently--if snooping
can ever be considered *innocent*--to learn more about me.  To get this
far, you must have discovered the false wall in the back of the bedroom
closet.  You must have pushed aside the winter coats and rain boots, found
the catch, and pulled it open to see the access shaft and the rungs leading
downward to a mysterious space deep beneath the apartment complex.  Did you
hesitate before descending?  Perhaps you may have assumed this was some
sort of hidden maintenance tunnel--a strange explanation, but surely more
plausible than what you found.  When you reached the landing and discovered
the elevator, you must have intuited a way to start it manually; I've
always admired your resourcefulness under pressure at times like this. 
Then you would have had to guess the combination to the vault door; tricky,
but of course you know your own birthday.  Maybe then you realized where
you were, as the vault door opened and the rush of escaping air ruffled
your hair, and you crept inside, lips parted the way they do when you're
anticipating something, your flashlight providing just enough light to see
by, all your muscles tense and ready to respond at the first sign of an
attack.  Then you heard the electrical arcs sizzling and smelled the ozone
and saw the strange inventions that cast a purple glow onto your face, and
you must have had just enough time to realize you found yourself inside the
secret laboratory of Doctor Diabolical, a.k.a.  me.  How long did you stand
there, I wonder, before the purple light from the Hypnotron projectors
entranced you?  My test subjects lasted just a couple of seconds, but with
special individuals the response times are sometimes a bit unpredictable.

   Maybe this is for the best, you know?  I think you should sit down--not
on the glowing crystal!--sit on the floor.  The Hypnotron glow makes you so
willing to obey, doesn't it.  Sit, and we can talk.  Or rather, I'll talk
and you'll listen.  This may take a while but fortunately the Hypnotron
projectors can run for almost half an hour before they need to be shut down
to cool.  Plenty of time.

   You understand, this isn't the first time I've faced discovery.  As I'm
sure you can understand, secret identities are fragile things; they're an
attempt at setting up a dividing wall in your life, but the balance is hard
to maintain, it can collapse in an instant, and it can never be restored.
You yourself have already come close to my secret so many times, so close
to stumbling into the clandestine global conflict that is my nightly
career. The hero Captain Awesome came close to unmasking me in Michigan,
before I lost him in the depths of Lake Superior.  In Budapest I matched
wits with super-detective Sherlock Einstein and barely escaped with my
secret intact.  But I've always known that you, Jason, would be the
greatest threat to my world domination.  In any case, as I am constantly
having to remind people, this knowledge will do you no good.

   Are you sitting comfortably, Jason?  I hope you are.  Perhaps you would
be even more comfortable if you took off your shirt, or you tunic, or
whatever you call it.  Go ahead.  Take it off ...  Yes, that's a good boy.
I wish I could be there to see your bare chest; it truly is impressive. 
But alas, I have other obligations.

   I confess, I'm not good at this.  Most of my explanations begin with
facetious quips like, "Oh, do forgive my rudeness," as I initiate some
unspeakably evil act or a villainous attack on whatever superhero *de
jour*. I'll try to be more sincere this time, partly on the advice of our
couples counselor Doctor Killjoy but also because, if I owe anyone on this
terrestrial globe--which I shall shortly crush with the burning talons of
pure science--an explanation, that person is you, Jason.

   You see, as I look back, I see that I have much to apologize for.  All
the small inevitable, innumerable offenses--wet towels dropped on your
bathroom floor, dinners missed, gestures of affection that went unmade when
they were needed most.  And, yes, I suppose I also must apologize for the
mighty and terrible engines that must, even now, be warping through space
toward our pitiful planet.

   So many things, and only a finite amount of time.  While you enjoy that
nice Hypnotron-induced trance, let's get started, shall we?  I, Doctor
Diabolical, do hereby apologize to you, Jason, for the following.
*First: The unavoidable deception.*
(Do you like the extra reverb?  I think it adds a dramatic touch, don't

you?)

   I'm certain you must be astonished to learn that the person you think of
as your hardworking, decent, though perhaps a bit dull, fiancé is in
reality the terrifying, fascinating, inexplicably attractive figure of
Doctor Diabolical.  My name is synonymous with brilliance and evil the
world over.  I made a point of mentioning this enough times during our many
discussions of the physics of superheroes and villains.

   I think--and I suspect our Doctor Killjoy would agree--this might be
good for our relationship.  You often spoke of a remoteness about me, a
part that you simply couldn't reach.  Maybe that was the reason you were
attracted to me in the first place; maybe you sensed a mysterious,
unknowable reserve that you couldn't find a way into.  We shared our lives,
our bodies, and our thoughts with one another, all the surface things, but
on some level you surely guessed that I had hidden away the deeper parts of
myself--my glittering machines, seething vats of chemicals, the mutation
ray--all in a place you could never reach.  People have levels. 
Engineering levels.  Genetics research levels.  Hydroponics ...

   Except of course that you did reach them, didn't you?

   Naturally, things didn't start out this way.  In the beginning,
everything was much as it appeared to be.  I was a thirty-year-old physics
professor with a hopeless crush on a brilliant graduate student, a
beautiful, well-built one at that.  A romance between us should have been
ridiculous, even if I weren't four inches shorter than your six-foot-two,
even if I weren't perhaps the most socially awkward man on the planet.  I
would never have dared speak to someone as physically perfect as you
outside of a classroom or laboratory.  That first kiss outside the student
center is still as miraculous to me as the sunrise must have been to our
primitive ancestors, long before science simultaneously cleared everything
up and made the explanations all the more confusing.

   And what's strange is the very day of that kiss was also when I had the
first bit of insight into the next phase of my career, and yours, that
would ultimately lead us to this conversation.  I knew two things: one,
that I had made the Earth's greatest scientific discovery in a hundred
years; and two, that I could never, ever tell you about it.
*Second: Our date on the evening of January 25.*
Yes, I was irritable and distracted at dinner, and I didn't listen
properly to your story about the editor who had promised to publish your
first scientific paper, whatever his name was, even though he could not
understand a word of it.  Your story was, I think in retrospect, more
entertaining than I gave it credit for.  That's not an excuse, but an
explanation, because that was the day I completed my first prototype of a
new device.  I had discovered, you see, something unique about, in layman's
terms, a gap in the world, found in the spaces between atoms, a gap I
immodestly called *DiaboliSpace*.  I had discovered how to control that
DiaboliSpace, a scientific principle with virtually endless applications
for the manipulation of matter and energy, and I designed my prototype to
do exactly that.  Of course, with endless applications come a nearly
endless potential for destructive uses.  My end-goal has always been, after
all, conquest of the world, and only a fool would assume a goal like that

can be accomplished by purely peaceful methods.

   You were the most important person in my life, the one who knew me most
intimately.  Why couldn't I tell you?  I was afraid you would call me
insane and contact the Justice Brigade.  Or steal my ideas.  Or both.

   I've always been a little jealous of your brilliance, which in a few
years might even rival my own.  I was always afraid of you stealing my
ideas and my inventions.  But now I'm the one who has you right where he
wants him.  I'm the one in control.  The Hypnotron projectors make sure of
that, don't they.  Are you sitting comfortably, my beautiful Jason?  Go
ahead and remove your boots.  Go on.  Take them off.  That's it.  You
always follow the same pattern: the right one first ....  then the left one
...  That's a good boy.  Wiggle your toes.  Doesn't that feel good?  Now
lie back.  That's it.  Look up at the ceiling.  There's a Hypnotron
projector there too, shining its purple ray down on you.  I've left nothing
to chance, you see.  Lie back.  Stretch yourself out.  Relax.  I do so wish
I could be there to see.

   Maybe I knew you wouldn't choose me if you knew everything about me. 
And maybe being in love means you never get to be a whole person again. 
The moment we met, I became two people: the one I decided I could be with
you; and the one made from the parts that were left over, the person I am
when I am by myself, the greatest criminal genius the world has ever seen.
At the time I marveled because I thought that you didn't have a hidden
side, that you were the same all the way through.  I was wrong, of course.
Even someone as beautiful as you must have a hidden side.  I know that now.
How can any person not have a secret and glorious part of themselves that
the world absolutely must not see?  You surely understand that too.

   In another week I had a working DiaboliSpace-powered blaster capable of
burning through a concrete wall, and we met to see that movie at the
Regent. I fell asleep on your shoulder, dreaming the genetic code for a
race of dinosaur-human hybrids.
*Third: The Pirates of Penzance.*
I don't know how we each ended up thinking the other was a fan of
Gilbert and Sullivan.  The idea that all gay men like musical theatre is a
gay cliché from before my time and certainly from well before yours.  And
in my defense, the review in the campus paper was quite positive--I think

the word *rollicking* appeared several times.

   That date was in the late winter; when we met outside the theater, your
cheeks stood out crimson against your dark-gray coat.  We left our coats on
inside, and mostly what I choose to remember of the play was the feel of
the stiff wool of my coat brushing up against your shoulder.  Believe me, I
cringed a trillion times as we sat together and watched undergraduate
theater majors milk the comic material for cheap laughs.  At least the
shirtless pirates were nice scenery.  Much like you right now, Jason--I
expect the sight of you lying there bare-chested and bare-footed on my
laboratory floor under those entrancing purple rays must be such exquisite
scenery indeed.

   Afterward, I walked you back to your dorm room, both of us knowing we
were about to fuck for the first time.  We lamely joked about how bad the
production had been; and as we reached your dorm, I held back so you
couldn't see the erection in my pants, or how flushed with excitement and
arousal my face was.

   Pausing on steps of your dorm, I looked up at the stars, clear and
bright in the midnight sky, and I began to formulate the glittering digital
architecture that would become Cyber Brain VIII.  But I foresaw neither its
first words, nor its tragic final act.

   *Fourth: The fate of your much-vaunted Sergeant Atom and that
twelve-inch dildo.*
*Bwa-ha-ha-ha!* No, on second thought, I won't apologize for that.  The
sanctimonious ass and his asshole deserved every realistically molded latex

inch.
*Fifth: My methods.*
Crude, perhaps?  Not as wholesome as you might prefer?  You don't even
understand the world I live in or the history and conflicts that formed it.
I suppose you believe that putting on a spandex outfit and fighting crime
gives the superhero a unique perspective.  But trust me: the opposite is
even more true.  The moment a person commits a crime in a costume, he sees
entirely new truths about the world.  You probably think Cyber-Czar

Khrushchev and his Iron Cabinet never reached the moon.

   Consider this: Do you remember that weekend when we drove for four hours
in a snowstorm to visit your brother and his wife?  We went the last two
hours without talking--not angry, just in a shared reverie as the world
darkened and we felt like we were in the one warm, dry place in an infinite
expanse of stark-white snow and black trees and wet, gritty highway.  As we
drove, I thought about how large a DiaboliSpace generator I'd need to power
an orbital laser cannon satellite.  I thought about what kind of treads a
cyber-tank would require to cross this snowy terrain, and whether your
brother was going to be a dick to me the entire weekend, and how many human
skulls would be needed to make a really nice throne, and whether there was
enough power in all DiaboliSpace to get me through this weekend, and
whether even Cyber Brain XII could untangle all that messed-up drama in
your family.
*Sixth: Any inconvenience I may be causing you.*
Yes, well, you see, I haven't mentioned this but you may be staying here
quite a while, even after the Hypnotron trance wears off.  Don't try to
escape.  But feel free to explore, though, as long as you don't smash any

of my equipment or push any red buttons.

   I don't like to boast, but I'm really proud of this place.  I broke
ground on the first chamber and an initial ventilation system while you
visiting your mother in Chicago, but since then it's expanded quite
extensively.  Once the construction robots really got going, the layout
just spiraled: the plasma containment lab, the panopticon, the xenoquarium,
the emergency launch tubes.  Oh, and one more thing: The catacombs below
the lower level seem to be naturally occurring, but I've never quite gotten
to the bottom of some odd seismic readings; so you'd best not get too
curious down there.

   Go ahead and slip off your pants--or leggings, or whatever you call
them. Lift your hips and slide them down your legs.  You have such nice
legs.  Slide them all the way to your ankles.  That's the way.  Pull your
feet out of them and toss them aside.  Good boy.  Now lie back again and
just relax.

   Did you manage to get a good look at my lab before the Hypnotrons took
control of your mind?  If not, you can look around later.  My lab, my
inventions, my experiments--what you'll be seeing is who I really was
during the better part of our life together.  We'd see a movie or go to a
nice restaurant for dinner or just stay in and fuck like bunnies; then,
around two a.m.  I'd come back here to my apartment, get into costume, and
duck into the secret passageway down to the lab.  Sometimes I'd still be
spacey and distracted for a while, but eventually I'd shake it off and
spend three or four hours adjusting the nutrient fluid for the
dinosaur-human hybrid clone embryos.  (If you decide to go exploring on
Level Three, check them out.  They're quite impressive, and you might be
interested to know I used your D.N.A.  for the human side of the
hybridization.  You remember the first night we fucked, when you noticed
the condom you'd used wasn't where you left it, and I said I'd already
taken care of it?  Well ...) Or I'd be blearily trying to tune in the exact
broadcast frequency of an exploding star, or laying the plans for another
sub-basement.  I'd get the robots started on the next phase, then emerge
through one of the secret exits to watch the sun coming up.  I'd get a cup
of coffee, then hurry through the quad to introduce freshmen to the basic
equations of matter and why the universe behaves the way it does.  Then,
home to sleep, and wake up in the afternoon to see you again.

   Our affair was perfect in many ways.  I'm saddened that it's over.

   Keeping my secret from you wasn't easy.  I went through more last-minute
costume changes than I can count.  We'd meet for coffee, and I'd be shaking
off the effect of a stun-ray, or waiting for the news reports of my latest
heist.  The heroes knew for a fact that I lived in this area.  Sergeant
Atom even came snooping around our department at the university, asking
whether anyone kept strange hours, had strange ideas, or perhaps little
interest in social activities.  We're an academic physics department, for
crying out loud--*all* of us kept strange hours, had strange ideas, and
little interest in social activities that would distract us from our
research.  Still, accusing eyes might have obviously fallen on me if only
the heroes had been looking for a real person--but they were looking for a
stereotype.  My precautions were effective, but I think you were the real
reason they never picked up on who I was.  Everyone knew we were dating,
even if I was a professor and you a grad student, and dating is by
definition a social activity.

   I liked being your boyfriend.  The most absolutely blissful moments a
person could have were when I left my lab and knew I'd be having dinner
with you.  When we held hands in the street, walking back to your place to
fuck, I'd check whether people were watching.  I wanted to make sure
everyone knew how lucky I was.

   And then, of course, other times our relationship felt like being
trapped inside a collapsing star--which, trust me, is no fun at all--and I
felt like I'd made the most awful mistake in the world.  I know there must
be some way to have a relationship that truly works, and I have faith that,
with your understanding--and the aid of my Venusian allies--we can find it.

   More on them presently.

   *Seventh: What our couples therapist considers inadequate effort at
communication, the breakup, and my reaction to same*
I understand why you broke up with me that time.  The sex was terrific;
our problems were always *outside* the bedroom.  You knew something was
lacking, and I knew it too.  I just couldn't tell you.  A hundred times I
was on the brink of telling you.  I tried to say the words out loud.  I
knew you are as fascinated by physics as I am, but I didn't think you'd be
into the rest of it--power and evildoing.  Those parts were too strange. 
And I admit: I also worried that, if I told you about it, the secret part

of me would disappear.

   And it's too complicated now.  If I'd just told you at the very start,
maybe you could have understood, but now?  After the digging and
arch-nemeses and attempts at conquering the world ...  If I started now,
I'd have to explain how I came to speak Russian with a Danish accent and
what happened to my original eyes.  It's gone a little far.  Neither of us
has that kind of time.

   I tried to channel my hurt into my work.  Without you, I no longer
needed to sleep or take breaks except for my missions and to fulfill my
teaching schedule, which I'm proud of having kept up.  It's harder than you
think for a man of pure scientific evil to hold regular office hours.

   You remember the day I asked you to take me back?  You can thank
super-detective Sherlock Einstein for that humbling moment.  The night
before, I had picked the ridiculously simple cyber-lock on his office door
and was busy dusting his things with nanotech powder--nothing major, just
little microscopic machines that would get inside his body and make him
hallucinate.  Einstein caught me.  He'd been unable to sleep, so he came
back to the office.  He stood in the doorway, looking especially seedy, a
gray wool coat pulled on over his pajamas, a bottle of decent Scotch in one
hand, the stun-gun steady in his other.  That's when I realized something:
Einstein is such an obvious asshole that even his do-gooder allies feel
sorry for him.  He honestly thinks living alone and playing drunk chess on
the Internet all night makes him a tragic hero.

   Seeing him there with his sad little grin, I realized something worse:
He thought he understood me.  He actually thought we were melancholy
companions and rivals locked in a long dance of good versus evil, law and
order versus chaos.  And seeing him, I felt I was indeed looking into a
kind of mirror, only I was looking into a mirror that showed my future, how
I was turning into a pathetic cliché.  I realized that the person I am with
you is also part of the person I am.

   The next day I showed up at your study carrel in the library and told
you I'd changed, and for once I was telling the truth.  I even agreed that
we should see a couples counselor.  I know you don't want our renewed
relationship to get too serious again too soon, but I have a few things I
think you should consider.
*Eighth: That dinner with Chris*
Do you remember the time when we were forty minutes late to dinner with
your ex-roommate Chris and his new boyfriend--what was it?--Bryan?--and you
didn't speak to me the whole ride over to the restaurant except to remind
me that Highway 60 was a toll road and you didn't have any change?  I hated
you so much right then; and I'm sure you hated me, though I bet not as

creatively.

   Of course the moment we got to the restaurant, you were all smiles, and
I joined in as much as I could, thinking, *damnation, relationships are a
grotesque charade*.  No one had a bad time even though the conversation was
warped by Bryan's inability to leave even marginally ambiguous statements
unclarified, and we were there maybe three hours.  By the time we left, we
weren't fighting anymore--not for any reason in particular, we just
weren't. I remember hoping things will work the same way once I subjugate
this planet's military forces.

   Speaking of subjugation, go ahead and slip off that jockstrap you wear
under your pants, tights, or whatever you call them.  Slip it all the way
off and toss it aside.  There.  Isn't that more comfortable?  Now you're
naked except for your ...  Ah, but don't worry--we'll get to that soon
enough.
*Ninth: The subtle, yet nefarious means by which I lured you here.*
Surely you don't truly think I gave myself away by accident, did you? 
Would an evil genius of my caliber be that sloppy?  You saw the laser burn
on my jacket lapel a few days ago.  You caught the millimeter of costume
poking out from beneath a shirt-cuff at the department alumni dinner--I
know you did.  All carefully calculated to catch your interest, I assure
you.  Then I gave you your own key to my apartment, and I left the secret

door open just a tiny crack, just enough for light to leak out.

   I knew you'd find me eventually, darling Jason.

   Titanium steel bolts have slid into place to secure the vault door
behind you.  Don't be alarmed, and please don't break anything.  I've been
decent so far, and I've taken your abilities into account.  You won't be
able to escape, not even after the Hypnotron effects wear off.

   I suppose now it's time to talk about what happened three weeks ago.

   You were away delivering a paper at one of those tedious academic
conferences, and I took the occasion to do a little more digging.  Cyber
Brain XVI and I were supervising the digger-bots on a new excavation on the
south side; nothing serious, just laying in more server space and another
heat sink, you know.  These days, drafting plans for world domination
requires a lot of processor power--so many superheroes and so many
variables.  Then we uncovered a power line that wasn't shown on the city
maps.  We dug around, followed it a few hundred feet until we struck a wall
of reinforced concrete.  We looked at each other, then I cut into it,
making a cylindrical opening, and stepped through into an air-conditioned,
well-lit corridor.

   We'd found an underground complex.

   I explored further, ready for anything except what I found.  That's
right, Jason, or should I say ...  Captain Awesome?  I should have known it
was you under that cheap spandex disguise.  The way you smell when I lean
close to you, like no unenhanced human could.  I suppose I should have
guessed a connection between the brilliant graduate student doing research
into the properties of hard light constructs and the superhero who claimed
he used hard light to give himself super-strength, laser blasts, and other
powers.

   Hindsight makes everything seem so obvious, no?  Love isn't just
blind--it's also blinding.

   Go ahead and remove your mask now.  I know that seems like a big
step--the grand unmasking of the hero--but we both know you can't fight the
Hypnotron effect.  Besides, I already know who you are underneath it, don't
I?  Makes the unmasking a bit anti-climactic, perhaps?  The Super Villains
Union has a thick policy manual governing when and how to reveal a hero's
identity, which is a really big step in the hero-villain relationship as
you know, but I can make the case that the policy doesn't apply here since
your secret identity is already known to me.  So, we'll ignore the reams of
paperwork I'm supposed to fill out in advance, shall we?  Go ahead and take
off your mask and toss it aside.  One of the maintenance-bots--cute li'l
things aren't they?--will collect your things shortly and take them away,
but don't worry about that.  Just lie back again, like you were before,
completely naked now and completely under the Hypnotron spell.

   Don't fret--we're coming to the good part, in three ...  two ...  one
...
*Tenth: Any momentary discomfort you may have suffered just now.*
The rearrangement of one's molecules is never a pleasant experience. 
The discomfort will fade presently.  This is all part of my preparations
for when the Hypnotron effect wears off.  As much as I might like, I cannot
keep you entranced here forever.  Sooner or later the Hypnotron projectors
will need to be shut down lest they overheat, or you'll shake off the
effects somehow.  Yes, my equipment is reinforced against your powers, but
reinforcement only goes so far.  Can't have you running amuck and smashing
my delicate machinery with your super-strength or blasting my inventions
with those laser bursts of yours, at least not until my plans are well
underway and it's too late to stop me.  Besides, you might inadvertently
injure yourself if you cause some random explosion, and I don't want that.
So I've taken away your powers and your ability to do anything with your
body except as I order you.  Please, be patient for a few more hours until
your powers return.  Then, if you choose, you can absolutely start smashing

things, if that makes you happy.

   I could have zapped you with the depowering ray the moment you entered
my lab, but I'm told its effects are somewhat agonizing.  I didn't want you
to experience any pain, Jason, so I used the Hypnotrons to entrance you
first.  I hope the pleasurable feeling from them kept the brief exposure to
the depowering ray from being too uncomfortable?  Some of my test subjects
found the Hypnotron effect quite ...  ah, I think *arousing* was how they
described it.  Are you feeling aroused, Jason?  Perhaps the mighty Captain
Awesome is getting an erection as he lies naked on my lab floor?  I admit,
your cock is quite awesome, Jason.  Especially when it's hard and throbbing
and needing to cum, as it surely must be now.  Are you hard, Jason?  Do you
need to cum?  Let your cock get hard, Jason.  Let it throb.  You have my
permission to stroke it, slowly, gently.  Just tease it a little.  But
don't cum yet.  Stop stroking any time you feel yourself getting close to
the edge.  Be patient.  We'll get there soon enough.

   In the meantime, I need to feel that I am being heard, as Doctor Killjoy
would say, on a few final points.  I want to give you time to consider what
I have to say.
*Eleventh: That fight we had the other day.*
I'm sorry we both got angry.  I shouldn't have even been robbing that
stupid museum.  I was having a bad day, and I needed a little activity, a
little rush of adrenaline, to clear my head--to put things in perspective,
you know?  I'm glad we got that opportunity to talk, even if it was just a
*Curse you, Captain Awesome* and *You'll never get away with this, Doctor

Diabolical* thing.
*Twelvth: The Venusians.*
Okay, time to address the elephant in the room.  No, not the
dinosaur-elephant hybrid on Level Two--that was one of my early
proof-of-concept tests, and not an entirely successful one.  What I mean

is, let's return to the topic I raised earlier.

   I for one choose to welcome our new Venusian friends and overlords, and
this is a personal choice I hope you'll be able to respect.  Believe me, I
know how unpopular this particular stance is going to make me, but I don't
think we should bring politics into our life together.  Just because two
people are in a relationship doesn't mean they have to agree on every
political matter.  Besides, *overlords* is such a loaded word these days,
and I know that's hard to get past.  But you know what else is hard to get
past?  A glowing, invulnerable Venusian force field.  Also, political views
are, from my perspective, of secondary importance once you've seen an ant
grown to a thousand times its normal size.

   Speaking of things that grow, I hope you're still stroking that big,
hard cock of yours.  Doesn't it feel good, teasing it with your hand like
that?--Taking yourself to the edge of cumming, backing off, heading to the
edge again.  We'll get to the inevitable soon enough.  Why don't you play
with your balls too, for a bit of variety.  And perhaps those perky nipples
of yours; I've always liked the way they harden into two little diamond
points.

   I have new friends now, you'll be happy to know.  Lots of them.  My
experiments with DiaboliSpace were what led them to contact me originally,
and they've been quite upfront with their plans, sensing in me a kindred
spirit devoted to pure science.  They're an old civilization.  While we
humans were evolving from the mud and learning to make fire and seek
shelter in caves, they watched us from filigreed palaces on their
homeworld, sitting under musical crystalline trees and writing sonnets
about supernovae.  We have long conversations about real stuff: love,
philosophy, anti-matter weapons, how to laser-proof a secret lair.  I would
have let you in on this before, but I've been rather busy.

   Maybe this will be hard for you to accept right now, and I can deal with
that.  I'm not sure I have room in my life at the moment for someone who is
just another friend.  In time, yes, I think you will regret whatever
insolence you might feel when the Hypnotron trance wears off.  Possibly on
the asteroid I have picked out, where you'll be mining sodium, if you need
a time-out.  No rush--you and I can clear up this this affair between us
later, once my Venusian friends and I have set up the benevolent world
government we're planning, imposed world peace, ended hunger, and--oh, I
don't know--cured cancer?  Oh, yes, you and your Justice Brigade
super-buddies will be in the minority soon enough.

   I've worked hard on making this Venusian thing happen; and now that I've
gone on record, I know the question will be: Do I, Doctor Diabolical,
expect special treatment?  I think the Venusians will naturally want to
call upon the people who have understood them from the beginning as they
consider candidates for positions like--I don't know--reagent of North
America, or perhaps even managing director of planet Earth.  Honestly,
that's not for me to say.  But if you think they're not listening right
now, Jason, you're kidding yourself.

   Here's what I'm saying: Maybe this matter isn't about me at all, but it
should be.  The brave one who knew the stories humans tell themselves about
alien invaders were all based on fear and supposition, the one who was the
first to stand up and say, *Hey, call me crazy but I think we can make this
work*.  And maybe this is a lost cause, but right now that doesn't seem to
be the case to me, so we'll just see who wins this one--fair fight and no
regrets.  Don't judge; you don't know what's going on in those saucers.  It
could be pretty great.
*Thirteenth: What is about to happen.*
Well, I suppose this part is the most predictable, isn't it?  It's a
*political transition*; I think that's the most civilized term.  Not nearly
as scary as *world domination* or *overthrow of every human government*,
don't you agree?  And there's a place for you.  I got quite specific with
them on this.  Their ideas on gender roles aren't what one might call
progressive, but then, they have four sexes and dozens of genders, so their
system is difficult to apply to humans.  That's exactly what a policy of

engagement drives.  A two-way communication, right?  Cultural exchange.

   You know, their reproductive systems work in a completely different way
from humans'.  The Venusians, they don't have the concept of masturbation.
So that big, hard cock that feels so good in your hand right now?  The hot,
tingly pleasure your cock makes you feel as you get close to the edge of
cumming again, Jason--that's a completely Earth thing.  Don't worry; they
won't begrudge us a little self-pleasure once in a while.  They might even
encourage it.  Would you like that, Jason?  Would you like to be able to
stop whatever you're doing and pop off a load, any time of day, no matter
where you are?  Would you like to cum now?

   Go ahead.  Tighten your grip on your erection.  Stroke it faster.  Would
you like to play with your ass too?  Or perhaps your nipples?  Go ahead. 
Do whatever feels good.  I was always spent after one or two good orgasms,
but I remember how you liked to cum three or four times before our
lovemaking sated you.  And I've always liked watching you masturbate.  A
pity that I can't be there to watch you now, but more pressing concerns,
you know?  I wish I could watch you tug on your ball sack, press your head
back, arch your body upward, and bit your lower lip.  I wish I could see
you tremble as the intense pleasure runs through your nervous system. 
Stroke it, but don't cum yet.  Hold back until I tell you.

   The universe is a mysterious place, and some of the mysteries are right
here within our bodies.  Knowing how the sexual response works, knowing how
all the biological parts work, how the act of friction against skin and
nerve endings creates sensation--none of that lessens the sheer mystery of
watching you masturbate.  I can't explain it.  I could talk about your
beauty--and you are quite beautiful, especially out of those slightly
unfashionable clothes you wear in your workaday world disguise and that
silly, garishly colored spandex gear you wear as Captain Awesome.  Or I
could talk about your intensity--the way you screw your eyes shut in
passion but still whisper my name to let me know I'm the one you're
thinking of in whatever images are running through your head.  But none of
that reduces the wonder of watching you in action: the way your big cock
arches upward, the way your hand slides up and down along its length like
two parts of a machine working in perfect harmony to bring you bliss.

   You've been stroking for a while; by now you've settled into a good
jacking rhythm.  You're probably quite close to release, needing it.  Are
your ass cheeks clamping?--That's one your best tells for when you're about
to climax.  Your thighs are so tense they're practically vibrating, aren't
they?  Your chest is constricting; your face is getting flushed.  Your
heart is racing.  Your nuts are pulling up.  Your cum is churning,
practically boiling.  Your breath is ragged.  So close!  Getting closer! 
Your dick is drooling.  Your toes are curling.  Your balls and cock are
getting ready to fire.  Are you there?  Yes, you're right there, ready to
cum, ready to shoot your cum the moment I say.  Keep stroking.  Faster
now--your hand must be practically a blur.  Harder.  Longer strokes.  Tug
on your ball sack.  So close!  Right at the edge.  Play with your nipple.
Right there!  So ready!

   Cum!

   Cum, Jason!  Cum!  Cum hard!  Shoot your sperm high in the air.  Feel it
shooting out of you.  Feel it splatter, wet and hot, across your chest and
abs.  Cum!  Shoot it all out, and feel your orgasm racing through your
body, through every nerve and muscle.  Cum hard!

   Good boy.  Now just lie back and relax and enjoy that pleasant
afterglow. Feel how loose and limp your body is now.  You're probably still
panting, and that's okay--your breathing will return to normal soon.  I
hope you had a good orgasm.  You probably feel calmer and more relaxed now.
That took some of the edge off, didn't it?  Excellent.  Good boy.  Now
perhaps you can listen to the last part with a clearer head.

   Oh, and the uniform.  I've laid out some stuff for you to wear after the
Hypnotron wears off.  Your Captain Awesome costume won't do at all.  You'll
need a whole new wardrobe.  Probably you'll think the new uniform is going
too far; but, if you're into it, it's traditional where they come from.  I
know it's a little, uhm, skimpy but we'll be altering the weather on this
planet soon.  I have two-sided tape someplace, if you have trouble keeping
the codpiece attached to your bare groin.  And the helmet is one hundred
percent optional.  Don't worry--unlike the headgear we will be distributing
to the masses, yours does not contain any of the behavioral modification
technology that we will be using to, ah, quiet a few of the more rebellious
parts of the human psyche.  The choices you make, Jason, will always be
your own.
*Fourteenth: Everything, the fate of the entire world, and whatever.*
I won't feel bad about the conquest of Earth.  I won't feel bad about
the destruction of the Capitol Building, nor the White House; nor tripods
stalking through the wheat fields; nor the sodium mines or the humiliation
of your superhero friends and Earth's primitive military forces; nor riding
my robot steed triumphantly up Broadway to Times Square where I will
personally accept the surrender of every member of the U.N.  Security
Council.  I'm just sorry you and I have wasted so much time that we could

have spent together.

   I know we don't discuss the future much, but I have a proposal to make.
You and I have talked to Doctor Killjoy about models for an adult
relationship; but, Jason--my sweet, naked, cum-covered Jason--I think those
discussions were a bit ...  unimaginative.  So I have a proposal of my own.
Actually, I have *two* proposals, if you feel you need a choice.

   Here's the first: What a terrible turn of events if someone were to find
the equipment in my secret laboratory.  Maybe he would be brilliant enough
to comprehend my plans in time to stop me.  The perfectly understandable
course of action would be for that person to appropriate my own inventions
and use them against me.  Such a person would earn my undying enmity! 
Moreover, I would be forced to consider him my arch-nemesis, and we'd
engage in hero-villain battles on a regular basis.

   We could be everlasting arch-enemies on a post-invasion Earth--or, and
here's my second proposal: we could be co-regents of the North American
province of the Greater Venusian Solar Empire.

   The choice, Captain Awesome, Jason, is entirely yours.  The Hypnotron
projectors are shutting down now, and the trance effect will be wearing off
shortly.  I won't use the Hypnotons to influence your decision, and I don't
want you to feel obligated; but, yeah, I'm putting myself out there.

   I could really commit to this, you know?  Long-term.  Neither choice is
the relationship you imagined for us, I suppose, but be honest: Wouldn't
you have been disappointed with anything else?  The sex was great, but
shouldn't there be something more to a person than what he does in the
bedroom to make you cum or what you see walking around every day?--an
alternate self, a secret identity, or two, or twenty.  We've all had the
dream where you find another room in your house that you never knew about
before; if you found it, what would be in there?  I've thought hard about
what that might be, and I've done my best to give it to you--every single
day--something really cool, something scary and brilliant and mysterious
all at the same time.
   * * *