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

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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.

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 voil�—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.

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