The Gamma virus brought an apocalypse—a sexy apocalypse

The Gamma artificial virus was created in a laboratory in Jeshyauss Laboratories, Inc.; the Gamma virus was never intended to leave its laboratory.

The Gamma virus was intended as practice for building the artificial Delta virus. The Delta virus, when injected, would give 99 percent of women who were between age nineteen and menopause, the body they’d had at nineteen. The Delta virus would make billions for Jeshyauss Laboratories, Inc.; this was the plan.

But everything changed on the night that the Jeshyauss Laboratories janitor stole a test tube—the wrong test tube. Then the test tube broke, and nine people were exposed to the Gamma virus.

This was a big problem.

Mainly because the Delta virus was not contagious, but the Gamma virus was highly contagious.

Another reason that nine people being exposed to the Gamma virus was a problem? The Gamma virus youthened 99 percent of women who were between age nineteen and menopause, just like the Delta virus did—but the Gamma virus did much more than youthening. Gamma-infected women saw their boobs grow and their butt grow, even as the women grew slimmer overall. An affected woman’s sex drive went supernova during ovulation; then later, at the end of her youthening process, the woman craved sex every minute. In short, the Gamma virus eventually turned 99 percent of virus-exposed women of childbearing years into bimbos.

To make things even more challenging, almost any man, teenager, child, or oldster, even while he or she did not even sneeze, became infectious with the Gamma virus just one day after being exposed to the virus. Anyone whom a woman of childbearing years talked to, could pass the Gamma virus to her without either person knowing.

By the time television news made people aware of the Gamma virus, the virus had spread from Austin, Texas all over the world.

The result? The world was hit with something like a zombie apocalypse, but sexier. For one thing, it was not brains that infected women wanted to gobble.

The novel is 42,000 words.

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Chapter 1
Day 1: Accident

A boring Monday, 4:45 p.m.
Employee entrance, Jeshyauss Laboratories, Inc.
Austin, Texas

Nineteen-year-old Joe Magner, the after-shift security guard, held his chip-embedded employee badge against the outside badge-reader. When the light turned green, he pulled the door open and took two steps inside.

Waiting in the hallway, just on the other side of the door, was Charlie, the day-shift employee-area security guard.

Charlie was grinning; he was seconds away from being able to leave. Before Joe could say a word, Charlie said, “Day shift was quiet, I expect for after-shift to be quiet, the flip phone”—Charlie gestured through the open door of the security station—“and the keys are laying on the desk.”

“And you, Charlie, are eager to go home,” Joe said, grinning.

Charlie grinned back. “Yeah, Joe, it is really nice to get a fifteen-minute jump on five o’clock rush-hour traffic.”

Charlie then put his hands on his head and slowly turned around in a 360-degree circle. “No stolen cash from Payroll in my pockets, no microscope hidden in the front of my shirt, no Petri dish shoved down the back on my shirt. I’m clean.”

Charlie rolled a sectioned table out of the security station and into the hallway. “Shall I empty my pockets for your inspection?”

Joe laughed. “Go home.”

Charlie reached a hand into the security station and smacked something.

Joe was smiling as he said, “Hey, that’s my job to hit the Okay button now, because this is my shift.”

Charlie grinned at him. “Right now I’m faster than you, because two green lights mean I get to go home.”

By the inside of the door was a badge-reader device, which still showed its usual red light. But by the badge-reader was a big green light; that light had been red till Charlie had smacked the Okay button. So long as the big light stayed red, the badge-reader would not recognize any badge, and every employee who wished to leave was trapped inside the building.

Which in turn meant that from this minute till Joe himself left Jeshyauss Laboratories at 1:15 a.m., every employee needed Joe’s permission to leave the building.

Meanwhile, Charlie had unclipped his employee badge from the breast pocket of his security-guard shirt. Charlie now was holding his employee badge against the badge-reader.

The badge-reader’s light turned green, which now matched the green color of the big light. Charlie opened the door. “And now I’m off the clock. See you tomorrow, Joe.”

Seconds later, as Joe waved goodbye to Charlie through the glass, the door pulled itself shut. Both the badge-reader’s light, and the big light next to it, turned red.

Joe ducked into the security station, dropped the security-guard flip phone into a pocket, clipped the keys to the belt-loop of his uniform pants, and returned to the hallway.

For eight minutes, Joe stood in the hallway, bored. At 4:53, Joe got his second “customer” of the night: a young woman from Personnel. Joe made a brief search through her purse, then patted down the pockets of the coat that she was carrying. Frisking her was, of course, forbidden.

Joe reached into the security station and smacked the Okay button; the Personnel woman already was holding her badge against the badge-reader. The big light turned green; a half-second later, the little badge-reader light also turned green; then the Personnel woman was gone.


5:06 p.m.

Joe hit the Okay button so that Stan, who was the day-shift front-desk security guard, could go home. While the day-shift employee-area security guard (Charlie) had an after-shift relief (Joe), the front-desk guard (Stan) had no such relief. At five o’clock, the front doors locked; no one could get into the building after five o’clock, unless he came in through the employee door and he used his employee badge to get through that door.

Now Stan walked out the employee door, clocking himself out in the process. Joe looked back behind. About fifty employees were standing in line, each waiting for Joe to hit the Okay button for him or her.

Most of the waiting employees were smiling at Joe: The smilers were hourly, and every minute they stood in line earned them money.


5:25 p.m.

Joe watched as April, the last of Jeshyauss Laboratories’ leave-at-five crowd of mostly hourly employees, walked out the employee-entrance door. She smiled at Joe and waved.

Joe knew why April was smiling: Until Joe let her walk out the door, she was still on the clock and was still earning hourly wages. The hourly employees liked it when Joe was thorough as a security guard.

Also leaving at five o’clock tonight, and impatient at being kept waiting, had been two lawyers from Legal and some flashy guys from Sales—all salaried. Two salaried medical researchers also had been in the go-home-at-five line; they had borne the wait patiently. Neither of the go-home-at-five medical researchers had been Aunt Brooke; Joe had not been surprised one bit.

Now Joe stood by the door, in the now-empty hallway, for five more minutes, in case more of the salaried employees decided to leave now.

Joe got zilch action for five minutes.

At 5:30, Joe rolled the sectioned table into the security station, locked the security-station door, and began his rounds.


Jeshyauss Laboratories did gene-sequencing and other work in genetics, to invent new medical treatments. Jeshyauss Laboratories, so Aunt Brooke had told Joe, was famous in the medical industry for its artificial viruses.

“Aunt Brooke” was 31-year-old Brooke Sinise, Ph.D. She worked at Jeshyauss Laboratories as a geneticist, and Joe thought she was wicked smart—certainly about genetics.

There were always salaried people working well past five o’clock at Jeshyauss—for the past six months or so, Aunt Brooke had always been among them. And sure enough, when Joe’s 5:30 rounds took him past Research Laboratory 17 on the second floor, Joe saw Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker inside.

But oddly, Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker were not doing whatever mysterious research-things they usually did. Now Dr. Baker was grinning as he handed Aunt Brooke a Coca-Cola—in a shaped glass bottle! Aunt Brooke was grinning as she accepted the glass bottle; then Dr. Baker toasted her with his own bottle of Coke.

Curious, Joe held his badge up to the badge-reader by RL17’s door and walked in.

Joe was not the only curious person. Teppo the janitor, a man with a foreign accent, at the moment was collecting trash in Research Laboratory 15; Joe noticed the janitor watching, through several glass walls, as Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker guzzled Coke.


Seconds later
In Research Laboratory 17, Jeshyauss Laboratories

Joe said, “Hey, Aunt Brooke, Dr. Baker, what’s going on?”

Aunt Brooke grinned. “Nephew, you are looking at two future Nobel Prize winners, I’m sure. Not bad for a former yoga instructor and”—she looked at Dr. Baker—“a former Marine corporal.”

Dr. Baker said, “We also celebrate today because any employee who owns shares of JL stock”—his Coke bottle pointed at Aunt Brooke, then at himself—“is about to get filthy rich when certain news gets out.”

Joe asked, “Whoa. What did you guys do?

Aunt Brooke said, “About a year ago, I discovered a gene sequence on Chromosome 11 that actually reverses the aging process in women of childbearing years. Every human cell—whether belonging to a man or a woman, a baby or a geriatric—has two Chromosomes 11 in the cell. Well, over 99 percent of women have this youthening gene sequence in at least one Chromosome 11. And only one copy of this gene sequence is all the Delta virus needs.”

Joe said, “So you are celebrating because . . .?”

“Five minutes ago, we perfected an artificial virus, the Delta virus, that is 99-percent guaranteed to turn on those youthening genes in any woman we inject with the Delta virus. Joe, can you imagine how many women would want one of those shots to roll back the calendar?”

Dr. Baker grinned. “Can you imagine how much those women would pay for those shots? I can think of several fortyish Hollywood actresses who would consider a million dollars to be a bargain if they could look nineteen again.”

Joe stared. “Nineteen? Your shot will make women truly look nineteen again?”

Dr. Baker said, “Yes. A woman’s skeleton, her muscles, her skin, her internal organs—the Delta virus makes them all become young again. Only dental damage and a woman’s remaining egg-count can’t be rejuvenated. What Ponce de Leon looked for, Dr. Sinise and I have found! Well, for half the population, anyway.”

Joe said, “Hold on. If 99 out of 100 women have this in their chromosome, why do all women age? Why aren’t these genes kicking in?”

Dr. Baker sighed. “Because the rejuvenation gene-sequence in women is part of a bigger gene-sequence that activates under very emergency conditions.”

Aunt Brooke said, “The bigger gene sequence, which we named ‘EBS,’ is of no medical value. We studied it much, using VIRFE—that’s the Virtual Female program. We even went so far as to create a practice virus, the Gamma virus, that would activate the EBS in real women patients.”

Dr. Baker said, “Don’t worry, we’ve never exposed any real woman patient to the Gamma-series virus. Nor shall we, ever. But VIRFE shows us that if we did inject the perfected Gamma virus, or the woman breathed it, the full EBS would activate in that woman, even without any species-threatening ‘emergency.’ ”

Aunt Brooke said, “Anyway, developing the Gamma-series artificial virus was only practice for developing the Delta-series virus that would give women their youth back. The Delta virus is a stripped-down Gamma virus; but the trick has been how how to strip down the Gamma virus. Which after trial and error, we figured out—the Delta virus, we have just perfected it.”

Aunt Brooke hoisted her half-empty glass bottle of Coca-Cola. She was grinning, and her eyes were glowing, like a little child on Christmas morning.


Less than a minute later, Joe said his goodbyes to Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker, and walked out of Research Laboratory 17. Teppo the janitor watched Joe resume his rounds.

Joe thought it was odd that Teppo still was working in the Research Laboratories area. Well, Teppo has always acted a little odd.


Ten minutes later

Joe made a quick walk through the third floor, which contained upper-management’s offices, the Accounting Department and the Legal Department, the conference room—and the HazCon bunkroom.

The HazCon bunkroom, which was on the third floor and next to the fire stairs, looked at first like a cheap motel room. The bunkroom had a twin bed; a nightstand by the bed with an in-house telephone on the nightstand; a card table, a folding chair by the card table, and a deck of cards atop the card table; a microwave and refrigerator; and a television. A door led to a tiny bathroom with a toilet and sink.

But also in the bunkroom, hanging from a special hook, was a Hazard Containment suit; and mounted on a wall of the bunkroom was a stainless-steel cabinet that held specialized cleaning supplies.

Four people at Jeshyauss Laboratories were trained in HazCon, and one of them always stayed in the bunkhouse after five o’clock, as long as there was at least one other research-laboratory employee or production-laboratory employee in the building.

Now Joe opened the door and stuck his head in the bunkroom. “Hey, Larry, doing okay?”

Larry Ross, who was normally some sort of supervisor in the Production Laboratories, held up a book. “Looks like a slow night on TV; only good thing will be ‘Vampire Lawyer.’ ”

“So you expect to be bored tonight, you’re saying.”

Larry nodded. “Bored silly. Unless the book is good.”


Five minutes later

Joe finished his rounds for that hour, which consisted of—
• noting which salaried people were working late in the building;
• looking out for spies, saboteurs, and terrorists; and
• checking for signs of forced entry into the laboratories.

While the last two parts of Joe’s job were by far the most important, they were also the most unlikely. So in practice, “making rounds” meant nodding and waving at the scientists and technicians as Joe walked past their laboratories.

Fifteen minutes after Joe finished talking to Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker on the second floor, and five minutes after Joe touched base with Larry on the third floor, Joe was on the first floor. He walked up to the security station that was by the employee-entrance door.


5:45 p.m.

Waiting for Joe were seven salaried employees who needed his permission to leave the building. For whatever reason, six of the seven were women. One of the women was Aunt Brooke; the only man in line was Dr. Baker.

“Jeez, took you long enough,” said a pinched-faced woman who had been working in the Legal Department five minutes earlier.

As Joe unlocked the security-station door, he said, “Do you rush through your job? I don’t rush mine.”

Aunt Brooke applauded, while Dr. Baker said, “Good one!’

The woman lawyer glared at the two research scientists.

Joe was just about to give the six female employees and Dr. Baker a quick security screening when Teppo the janitor rushed up to the door.


One second later

“I in my car sumsink leaved,” Teppo said to Joe in his unusual accent. “I to go need it to take.”

Joe was already reaching into the security station, to slap the Okay button, when he noticed—

Teppo has a bulge in his pants pocket. A bulge that is just like what a small test tube would make.

Joe’s left hand, which had been reaching for the Okay button, now moved forward and down; Joe grabbed Teppo’s wrist. Joe shoved his right hand into Teppo’s pants pocket and plucked out—

—a rubber-stoppered test tube, around which was black marker-pen handwriting on a blue label.

Fuck,” said Dr. Baker.

“[Foreign words]!” Teppo exclaimed.

Teppo broke free of Joe’s grip, as his other hand grabbed the test tube out of Joe’s hand. Teppo’s empty hand flailed around inside the security station, trying to hit the Okay button.

Joe tried to grab the test tube back from Teppo, but Teppo moved his hand away.

Dr. Baker rushed forward and grabbed Teppo’s forearm with both his hands; one of Dr. Baker’s hands was pressing down on the janitor’s tendons. “Let go of it, dickwad,” Dr. Baker growled.

Teppo did some kind of twisting and pulling thing with his arm, so that he broke free of Dr. Baker’s grip. But with the restraint on Teppo’s forearm suddenly gone, the forearm acted like a catapult.

Joe saw the test tube zoom up, bounce off the ceiling, and hit the floor between the lawyer-lady and Aunt Brooke.

Glass shattered.


One second later

While Joe and Dr. Baker again grabbed Teppo the janitor, a woman in Marketing yelled, “We’re all going to die!”

Nobody else said this, but Joe was thinking it, and—judging by people’s expressions—most of the other people also were thinking it. Only Aunt Brooke, Dr. Baker, and Teppo looked unworried.

Aunt Brooke said, “No, dear, a blue label means it’s harmless.”

The lawyer-lady said pompously, “This is not true. Blue label means that there is a risk of illness from accidental exposure, but the odds of illness are less than 1 percent.”

Aunt Brooke rolled her eyes. “Which means, for anyone not a lawyer, the test tube is harmless.”

While Aunt Brooke and the lawyer-lady were arguing, Joe and Dr. Baker had taken Teppo down, so that now he was lying on his stomach on the floor. Joe and Dr. Baker were not gentle as they jerked Teppo’s hands close together, then Joe used his never-before-used handcuffs on Teppo.

Joe remembered the flip phone he was carrying, and pulled it out of his pocket.

Aunt Brooke asked, “Who are you going to call? Our HazCon guy?”

Joe replied, “No, I’m going to call the police, have them arrest this toad.”

“Nuh-uh,” Dr. Baker said. “Don’t call the police until we get this hazardous spill cleaned up.”

The Marketing woman said, her voice panicky, “But you just told us it was harmless! Were you lying?”

Aunt Brooke said, “It’s procedure. We can’t open the door, even for the police, until this is decontaminated. Joe, call the HazCon guy now, before you do anything else.” Aunt Brooke looked around. “Make yourselves comfortable, folks; we’re here for a while longer.”

“We can’t get rid of that!” said the lawyer-lady. “A crime has been committed, and this broken test tube is evidence.”

“The broken test tube is a health hazard,” Aunt Brooke explained slowly, as to a dunce, “whether its label is blue or magenta,” meaning 99-percent fatal. “Joe, I’m serious, hurry up and call the HazCon guy.”


Minutes later

Larry, wearing his HazCon suit, walked into the hallway. He was carrying a stainless-steel box, from which he unpacked a handheld vacuum cleaner, an LED flashlight, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. The handheld, battery-operated vacuum cleaner did not look like something sold in a big-box store; rather, the vacuum cleaner looked like it had been designed by cyborgs aboard a cube-shaped starship.

Now Larry used the small LED flashlight, which he laid flat on the floor, to find every piece of broken glass and every chunk of gelatin. Then HazCon-suited Larry, rather than vacuum up that piece of glass or gelatin, splashed rubbing alcohol on the piece of glass or chunk of gelatin. Soon the hallway smelled like a hospital.

But before Larry alcohol-splashed the broken glass that was attached to the test tube’s blue label, Aunt Brooke knelt and carefully pulled that blue label apart, so that it lay flat on the floor.

“Looks like my handwriting,” Dr. Baker remarked.

Aunt Brooke bent down so she could read the label better. Then Joe saw her whole mood change.

“17-DQ-Gamma-54F,” she read aloud, looking stunned.

Before anyone could ask what this meant, and before Dr. Baker could explain, Aunt Brooke rushed over to Teppo and yanked his head up by his hair. “You spy bastard!” she yelled. “You grabbed the final version of the Gamma virus, and it’s now airborne! Do you know what you’ve done to us women?”

Teppo sneered, “Yess, I to be you the young make. Oh, the life to be so sad is, of you.”

Aunt Brooke used Teppo’s hair to slam his chin against the floor three times. “Idiot! You are an idiot! It’s the Delta-series virus that makes women young! The Gamma-series—”

“Brooke,” Dr. Baker said in a warning tone.

“—the Gamma-series virus does much more than make women young,” Aunt Brooke said.

Are we going to die?” asked the woman from Marketing.

Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker shared a look.

“No,” said Dr. Baker. “Dying you don’t need to worry about.”


A few minutes later

Larry shut off his hand-held vacuum cleaner, and pointed toward the waiting salaried employees. “Joe, the area is decontaminated. You may release them now.”

“I will,” Joe said, “after the police come.”

The lawyer-lady said primly, “When the police come, I will inform them that you destroyed evidence, contrary to the recommendation of a company attorney.”

Larry, Dr. Baker, and Aunt Brooke all gave the lawyer-lady a long, silent stare. Joe said, “Whatever, ma’am.”

As Larry was packing up his gear, the Marketing woman asked, “Is the crisis over?”

Neither Dr. Baker nor Aunt Brooke replied. But Aunt Brooke’s expression said, Lady, your crisis is just starting.


Chapter 2
Still Day 1: Mandatory Meeting

Right after HazCon-suited Larry left the hallway, Joe called the Austin, Texas police. Twelve minutes later, two policemen stood outside of the employee-entrance door.

The policemen looked annoyed when Joe opened the door only to hand the two policemen two flu masks, then slammed the door shut. The policemen were not allowed to walk into the Jeshyauss Laboratories hallway until they both were wearing the flu masks.

The two policemen looked even more annoyed when they were informed by the lawyer-lady that before the police even had been phoned, the evidence of the crime (the broken, scattered test tube) had been tampered-with and removed, presumably to be destroyed.

The policemen stayed in the hallway for an hour, questioning everyone. Larry was summoned downstairs and, without his HazCon suit, he was questioned too. Then Joe took his handcuffs off Teppo the janitor, the younger policeman slapped his own cuffs on Teppo, and Teppo was hauled away.

Then Joe went back to doing his regular job: checking the bags and briefcases of departing employees. Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker were unusually quiet during their bag-checks. Joe did not cut corners at bag-checking, but neither did he dawdle at the task. By seven o’clock, the grumpy and/or frightened salaried employees were bag-checked and out the door. Joe began his rounds then—his six o’clock rounds, an hour late.

Part of Joe’s rounds was to check the Personnel Office. Joe normally spent only ten seconds in an hour there; but this time, Joe walked into the Personnel Director’s office and wrote a note on her desk—

“Teppo the janitor was arrested tonight, for stealing a test tube from Research Laboratory 17. You need to hire another janitor.”


The rest of Joe’s work-night was normal: He checked the bags of late-working salaried employees, and he looked for saboteurs, other spies, and other thieves (but caught none). Joe took a half-hour lunch break around 9 p.m. He finished his workday and walked out the door at 1:15 in the morning; no guard took over and relieved him.

The drive home was normal—meaning that Joe’s car always passed at least one cop car that had pulled over a drunk driver.

Once Joe was back in his apartment, he got ready for bed.

On the carpet by Joe’s bed was a desktop land-line telephone. Joe took the handset off the hook.


Eight hours later
In Joe’s apartment

Joe woke up, rested well enough. After a shower, he hung up his bedside telephone, then wandered into the kitchen to drink coffee and to make breakfast.

Ten minutes later, Joe’s kitchen telephone rang. Joe rolled his eyes, expecting the call to be a telemarketer or scammer. No, the caller was a young woman who identified herself as “administrative assistant” to “Mr. Lancer,” one of the poohbahs on Jeshyauss Laboratories’ third floor. Joe was told that there would be a meeting of all Gamma-virus-exposed employees at 4:30 that afternoon, in the third-floor conference room, and that Joe was required to attend.

The administrative assistant, who spoke with more snootiness than Queen Elizabeth would ever use, then tried to give Joe idiot-proof directions how to get to the conference room. Joe stopped her—“Lady, remember I’m the after-shift security guard. I could give you directions to the conference room. You know—the big room with the big table that is next to the executive breakroom, which has the stainless-steel refrigerator and the sky-blue-painted walls?”


Meanwhile, elsewhere in Austin, Texas

Teppo had been taken from his cell in the city jail, and brought into a room with many city policemen and two men who each wore a suit and sunglasses. One of the two suited men handcuffed Teppo, then Teppo was dragged outside and was shoved into the back seat of a dark-blue sedan.

After the car was rolling, the driver said to Teppo, “You picked the wrong country to do your industrial espionage in, Russki. The FBI does not like Russians.”

Teppo hotly replied, “I the Russian am no, I the Estonian am.” Teppo would sooner be accused of eating babies.

The FBI agent in the passenger seat said, “Russian? Estonian? Same difference. You’re an ex-commie, or your parents are.”

In the interrogation room, two FBI men—one of whom was huge—tried to question Teppo in his “native” language, using a translator. Stupid FBI, the translator spoke only English and Russian. Teppo did not speak much Russian, but he managed to tell the young translator-man that a) Teppo’s native language was Estonian, not Russian; and b) the translator sexually preferred boys and his penis was tiny.

Teppo was then questioned in English, but Teppo made sure this was a waste of the FBI’s time.

The FBI, it turned out, had its own jail elsewhere in the building. Teppo was tossed into a cell and was ignored for the rest of the day (except for meals).


A little after 3 p.m.
Joe’s apartment

Joe got another work-related call—this time from Charlie, the day-shift employee-area security guard.

Charlie said, “Hey Joe, they’ve told you about the 4:30 meeting, right? Please don’t be late. I’ve been told I can’t go home till after you get out of your meeting.”


Tuesday, 4:29 p.m.
Third-floor conference room
Jeshyauss Laboratories

As soon as Joe walked into the conference room, the lawyer-lady said, “Took you long enough.”

Joe pointed to the clock above the whiteboard. “You’re funny. Look, I’m early.”

Joe looked around the conference room. All eight virus-exposed employees were in the conference room, including himself, Aunt Brooke, and Dr. Baker. The lawyer-lady was now talking quietly with a man in an expensive suit—Joe did not know his name, but Joe knew he was head of the Legal Department. The scaredy-cat woman from Marketing was taking deep, slow breaths—but her face still looked frightened.

Besides the eight virus-exposed employees and the head of the Legal Department, in the room were two men each wearing a lab coat, and a man and two women in expensive business clothing.

The man in a suit, and the younger man in a lab coat, both walked to the front. The man in the suit said, “Everyone, thank you for coming. I am Lyon Lancer, the Chief Executive Officer of Jeshyauss Laboratories. The purpose of this meeting”—now he smiled like a car salesman—“is to assure you that your accidental exposure to the viral agent, while unfortunate, is no cause for alarm.”

From the eight virus-exposed employees: silence. Joe saw that Aunt Brooke was biting her lip.

Lancer continued, “We truly expect nobody to take sick days because of this accidental release. But to soothe your worries, Dr. Underwood here will treat for free, any virus-caused illness you get in the next six months. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a sniffle—come see Dr. Underwood and he’ll fix you. We don’t mind—in fact, we would prefer—that you visit him on the clock.”

Joe saw Aunt Brooke whisper something to Dr. Baker.

Dr. Underwood murmured to Lancer, “Um, don’t forget about the blood samples.”

Lancer looked at the eight virus-exposed employees, and now his car-salesman smile got even bigger. “I say again: the virus is harmless. But as a precautionary measure, Dr. Underwood will take 2-cc blood samples from each of you when he feels the need. I’m sorry, but we must insist on this—failure to cooperate will be grounds for termination.”

Next to Aunt Brooke, Dr. Baker said, “I recommend quarantine. Immediately.”

Joe’s heart nearly stopped, and five of the other virus-exposed employees looked as frightened as Joe felt.

Seeing the other virus-exposeds’ reaction, Dr. Baker held up a hand and spoke soothingly. “We’re not going to die. None of us will probably even sneeze. But while none of us are infectious now—I just tested Dr. Sinise and myself—sometime between now and midnight, all of us will become infectious. Infectious means that anyone near you who breathes in what you breathe out will catch the virus, whether or not you show symptoms yet, and even if you never show symptoms. Before we all become infectious, all of us should be put apart from the rest of the world till Jeshyauss cures our infections.”

All eyes were on Lancer for his reply.

Lancer smiled. “Dr. Baker, your concern does you credit. But we will quarantine nobody. What escaped was a blue-label virus, and the contamination scene was cleaned up soon after the accident.”


“On the other hand, quarantining anyone would be a public-relations nightmare: ‘Jeshyauss Laboratories must have let a killer virus loose, because why else would they be quarantining people?’ ”

“Besides,” Joe said, “no place in the building is set up for quarantine. Not on the first floor, or the second, or the third.”

Dr. Baker glared at Lancer. “You didn’t design a quarantine area? You made no plans for containing this kind of outbreak?”

Lancer said, “Dr. Baker, whatever plans that corporate management has made, or not made, are not your concern.”

Dr. Baker said, “Ladies, if we won’t be quarantined, then I urge all of you to stop off at the drugstore tonight, buy a flu mask, and start wearing that mask 24/7. Protect your family, friends, neighbors, and coworkers from the Gamma virus.”

This remark prompted Lancer and the head of Legal to whisper in a corner of the conference room.

When Lancer returned to the head of the table, he said, “We will allow flu masks, but won’t encourage them. Our employees seen in public wearing flu masks, undercuts our corporate message that ‘This virus is harmless.’ ”

Aunt Brooke reached into a pocket of her lab coat, pulled out a flu mask, and shoved the flu mask across the table toward Joe. “Joe, you’re going to need this. Dr. Baker and I figure you will turn infectious before you end your shift tonight and can drive to an all-night pharmacy.”

Lancer looked at Aunt Brooke, frowning. “Dr. Sinise, is handing out a flu mask really necessary?

Aunt Brooke looked at Lancer as if he were an idiot. “It’s just like your mandatory blood test: a quote-unquote precautionary measure.”

One of the virus-exposed employees was a woman who had been silent and watchful in the hallway last night, and who had been silent in the meeting up till now. Now she said to Lancer, “A minute ago, you told us the virus is harmless. I don’t believe you.”

She turned to look at Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker. “I’m Marjorie Hobbs, Investor Relations. Since you guys seem to know, tell me: What will this virus do to us?”

The Legal head honcho said to Dr. Baker and Aunt Brooke, “The Non-Disclosure Agreement that you signed, prevents you answering this question.”

Marjorie said to the Legal bigwig, “I’m sure you can make an exception in my case. Or you’d better, or you will be hearing from my attorney. This bug that you don’t want those two to talk about? We’re infected with it!

Lancer said, “Whatever those two said to you now would be self-serving. The company currently is investigating how much the negligence of Dr. Baker and Dr. Sinise contributed to this problem.”

What?” Aunt Brooke said.

Dr. Baker growled, “What do you mean, negligence?

Lancer said, “We are investigating whether you two failed to follow any procedure that, had it been followed, would have prevented the janitor from stealing the virus.”

Aunt Brooke looked at the second lab-coat-wearing man. “Are you part of this, Dr. Nelson? Will you throw Carl and me under the bus if the big boys tell you to?”

Dr. Nelson now was looking down, not returning the glares that Dr. Baker and Aunt Brooke were giving him. He gave no answer.

Joe had heard enough. “This is ridiculous!” he said to Lancer. “Dr. Baker and Dr. Sinise are blameless, and you know it!”

Lancer sneered, “Guard, we are talking about laboratory procedures, about which you know nothing.”

Joe said, “No, we’re talking about security, about which I know quite a bit. Look, the only lock to lock—or not lock—in Research Lab 17 is one drawer in each of two desks that every research lab has. And I could probably bust a drawer-lock with one well-aimed swing of a fireaxe. But the fancy refrigerators where bad bugs are stored? They have locks only in Research Labs 1 through 16,” which researched magenta-, red-, orange-, yellow-, and green-label artificial viruses. “Wherever in Research Lab 17 the test tube was taken from, I guarantee you the fridge had no lock. But that lab doesn’t need any. Because one, they do only green- and blue-label research there”—Dr. Baker and Aunt Brooke both nodded—“and two, the badge-reader by the door doesn’t let anyone into Research Laboratory 17 except for Dr. Baker and Dr. Sinise, their boss?”—Dr. Nelson nodded—“the security guard—that’s me or Charlie—and the janitor.”

The scaredy-cat woman from Marketing stared at Lancer. “Why do you let the janitor go into the research labs?”

Lancer gave her another car-salesman smile. “Our researchers have more important things to do than to set out wastebaskets in the hallway every night.”

Marjorie Hobbs looked disgusted. “This is just peachy. I came to this meeting expecting answers. Instead, I get told that I have to allow blood samples or I’ll get fired, and I find out that nothing stopped janitor-guy from strolling in and stealing that test tube. But an actual answer to ‘What will that virus do to me?’ Pfft.”

Lancer said, “Don’t let yourself be upset by the words of one security guard. Remember, he’s the least-educated person in the room.”

Joe grinned. “I’m also the guy who has the easiest time at getting another job with the same pay if I’m fired here. That’s the disadvantage of paying me minimum wage plus pennies, Mr. Lancer: I’m the one guy here who can speak honestly and it not cost me.”

Aunt Brooke smiled at Joe, then turned to look at Marjorie. “Actually, Ms. Hobbs, if you work in Investor Relations, you have another problem: The news media know something has happened. Soon investors will be asking you, ‘What’s the real story?’ ”

Lancer asked Aunt Brooke, “How do you know the story has broken? Has someone in Public Relations talked to you?”

“How do I know? Someone from the Austin American-Statesman called me this morning. They didn’t know much, but what they knew was true. Well, except the woman mentioned me punching the janitor in the face. I told her, ‘I didn’t punch the janitor in the face. Other than that, I have no comment.’ ”

Lancer looked angry now. “Dr. Sinise, you are not cleared for press inquiries! In the future, I insist you direct all press inquiries to our Public Relations department, since that’s what they’re there for.”

Marjorie asked, “And what will the Public Relations department tell the newsies? Because over in Investor Relations, we haven’t been told diddly-squat about what to tell anyone.”

Lancer and the head of Legal went off in a corner and whispered.

Then Lancer returned to the head of the table and smiled at Marjorie. “We will tell the public that the broken test tube had a blue label, which means that the risk of illness is almost zero, and the risk of death is zero. We will also say that the contamination was cleaned up and destroyed within a half-hour. Both these statements are true.” Lancer gave Marjorie an even bigger smile.

The Marketing woman said, “What is also true is that we watched her”—she gestured toward Aunt Brooke—“read what was written on that blue label, then she ran over to the janitor and yelled at him as she slammed his head against the floor. We saw this! Whatever this germ is, it is not a weak little cold virus! So would you please come clean with us?”

Lancer replied, “I have told you what our public statements will be. If pressed, we will reluctantly add that Doctors Baker and Sinise are suspended with pay, pending an internal investigation.”

Aunt Brooke said sarcastically, “Suspended with pay? Thank you for your generosity.”

Marjorie said, “In the meantime, I still don’t have a straight answer about what this germ is doing to me.”

Joe saw Aunt Brooke turn and give Lancer a fuck-you smile. Then Aunt Brooke looked at Marjorie, the woman from Marketing, the lawyer-lady, and the two other virus-exposed women. “You have a 1-in-200 chance that your body will kill the virus within hours; you won’t develop symptoms, and you won’t be infectious. There is another 1-in-200 chance that the virus won’t find the gene sequence it’s looking for; this means you’ll be infectious, but you’ll never develop symptoms. Males will never develop symptoms; girls who have not completed bone growth—”

“Meaning, they are under nineteen,” Dr. Baker explained.

“—will not develop symptoms. Women past menopause will not develop symptoms. However, while men and boys, girls under nineteen, and old women will all be symptomless, 99.5 percent of them, if exposed but symptomless, will become infectious. ‘But what about me?’ you’re wondering—”

Lancer yelled, “Dr. Sinise, say no more!

Aunt Brooke ignored him. She said to the virus-exposed women, “For the six of us, women who are between nineteen and menopause—”

The head of Legal warned, “Dr. Sinise, you are about to violate your Non-Disclosure Agreement.”

Aunt Brooke smiled at Lancer. “Correction: I’ve been suspended, unfairly; now I’m about to earn my suspension.”

Then Aunt Brooke turned back to the other virus-exposed women: “For the six of us, we each run a 99-percent chance of becoming a nineteen-year-old girl with a big butt and big boobs, with a killer sex drive that never stops. Roughly forty-eight hours after exposure, our bodies will begin to change.”

Aunt Brooke looked at Lancer again. “Go ahead, fire me. Blackball me professionally if you want. In four weeks, I’ll be working as a pole dancer and I’ll love that life.”

Joe saw that the other five virus-exposed women were looking at Aunt Brooke in horror.


Lancer ended the meeting right afterward. He was wearing another car-salesman smile; but other than that, Lancer looked pissed.

Once Joe was out of the conference room, he went downstairs to the first floor, to the employee-entrance hallway, and went back to acting like a regular security guard.

Charlie was intensely curious, both about last night’s events and about what had been said in the meeting. But Joe brushed him off, saying, “I’m not sure what I’m allowed to say.”

Aunt Brooke and Dr. Baker had moved to the head of the bag-search line by 5:15. Neither Aunt Brooke nor Dr. Baker said much to Joe, and both researchers looked angry.

As Joe was making his rounds at 5:30, a thought occurred to him:

Lancer can threaten us eight Jeshyauss employees, in hopes that we keep quiet and the truth doesn’t get out. But somewhere out there is Teppo the janitor-spy, and Lancer can’t do jack shit to stop Teppo from talking.

In the meantime, us Jeshyauss Laboratories employees being threatened with “Don’t tell the world about the bimbo virus or you’ll lose your job”—this just isn’t right. People out there need to hear about this.

In the following hours, as Joe made his rounds, he thought hard about the problem and how he could solve it.


Chapter 3
Day 2: Infectious

Tuesday, 7 p.m.
(two hours after the end of the mandatory meeting)

Joe was working at Jeshyauss Laboratories as the after-shift security guard.

Teppo was sitting in his FBI-building jail cell, cursing his own impatience yesterday.

Dr. Baker and Aunt Brooke were sitting in her kitchen, drinking beers and talking about hidden YouTube gems.

Marjorie and the scaredy-cat from Marketing (Wendy) were each on the phone, ranting to a girlfriend about her future being stolen from her.

The lawyer-lady (Bertha) was on her computer, updating her résumé—even though she suspected her effort would be a waste of time. She wept as she typed.

Thirty-two-year-old Louise, who ran Jeshyauss’s technical library, and the other Gamma-virus-exposed woman (Michelle, in Sales) were each sitting in front of a jabbering TV set, but their minds were elsewhere.

None of the three men exposed to the virus would ever show symptoms; such was the nature of the virus. For the six women, it was too soon after exposure; they too were without symptoms (for the moment).

None of the nine exposed people knew it yet, but eight of the nine people were now infectious with the Gamma virus. The ninth person was not infectious now, and never would be.


One hour later (8 p.m.)

The Austin Police Department’s Officer Danbury and Officer O’Rourke had been the two policemen who had arrested the Estonian janitor. Those two policemen had been just a tiny bit slow to put on the flu masks that the security guard had insisted that they wear. Unbeknownst to either policeman, now these two men also were infectious with the bimbo virus.


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On Writing Fiction and Writing Fantasy

In this blog post, I’m going to write about fiction and fantasy, and my thoughts about writing the two.


I can think of three different meanings for fantasy, so let me clarify what I mean.

Fantasy is a genre of fiction; meaning, a classification for marketing purposes. Other genres of fiction are Romance, Western, Historical, Science Fiction, etc. Fantasy-genre fiction is about magic and magical creatures; a Fantasy story might have fire-breathing dragons in it, or a housecat might turn into a puma.

However, please note that nowhere in this blog post will I write about Fantasy-genre fiction, even Fantasy-genre fiction that I myself have written. You’ll need to go to other people’s blog posts if you want to read about shapeshifting housecats.

Fantasy also means an elaborate want or wish. As in “Paul Ryan has a fantasy about becoming president.”

Lastly, fantasy means a simplified story. To explain what I mean by this, I have to tell you what a “story” is.


A story (without the simplified modifier) is a writing that is fiction. Well, any work of fiction, whether it’s a children’s story or a New York Times bestseller. contains three elements—

1) The hero has set a goal to accomplish something; he intends to accomplish something positive, or to stop something bad that is happening now, or to prevent something bad that will happen in the future. In pursuit of his goal, the hero makes plans and takes actions.

Note that the hero doesn’t just want or wish for something to happen (or not to happen); he has set a goal of “I will make this happen” (or not happen).

When the hero’s goal is thwarted (as it must be, or there is no story), the hero makes new plans and takes new actions.

2) The hero has opposition. Some person, group of people, or natural force opposes the hero achieving his goal.

3) The opponent is much, much stronger than the hero. Oh, he/it/they has a weakness, but it is a seemingly irrelevant weakness. Conversely, the hero has a strength, but it is a seemingly irrelevant strength. (For example, the evil Army general might be allergic to cat fur, while the hero might be an expert on plants of the Amazon rain forest.) The bottom line: It seems impossible that the hero can defeat the villain, however much you want him to.

Both those words (seems impossible) are important. If the hero sets out to achieve something difficult, but with enough hard work and dedication he can (barely) achieve it, this is not a story. Conversely, if the hero is deluded into setting a goal that is flat-out impossible (for example, a man who is five-foot-two wants to become Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the World), readers will cast this story aside, uninterested.

Besides all fiction stories having the same three elements, all fiction stories have the same structure: Normalcy-The goal-Rising action-The crisis-Resolution. At the crisis, it not only seems certain that the hero will never achieve his goal, but he now also faces death or ruin besides.


Let me remark that writing fiction is hard. This is because it goes contrary to how real life works. In real life, if you try three times, three different ways, to achieve something—by then, you’ve either achieved your goal or you’ve quit. People do not normally keep trying to achieve something when they keep losing yardage on every play. Also contrary to real life, when the powerful villain has the hero in his clutches and is about to kill him—well, someone usually can’t save himself from this.

It takes lots of thinking and planning on the author’s part, to come up with a story that meets the requirements of fiction. As I said before, writing fiction is hard. Trust me on this.

But I (in my Doctor MC persona) am a soft-core pornographer; so I have an alternative to writing difficult-to-write fiction. I have the same option as what many fan-fiction writers take: I can write fantasy (a simplified story).


There are as many kinds of fantasy (simplified) stories) as there are kinds of fantasy (an elaborate want or wish): romance fantasy, vengeance fantasy, money fantasy, hero fantasy, sex fantasy (a.k.a. porn), etc. In fan fiction, any kind of fantasy is called fluff.

A fantasy throws out the universal structure of a fiction story; in particular, a fantasy has no crisis. A fantasy also disregards at least one of the three elements of fiction.

1) If a fantasy throws out “goal-directed action,” you get a story in which events happen to the hero and the hero doesn’t make anything happen. This kind of fantasy isn’t interesting, because the stories don’t move toward anything; such stories come across as “a day in the life of Joe” stories.

2) If a fantasy throws out the opponent, you get stories in which the hero enjoys easy success, again and again. In a vengeance story, the bad guys whom the hero is trying to kill, put up no more resistance than targets in a shooting gallery. In porn, the hero propositions a babe, she says yes, he beds her, the hero propositions a second babe, she says yes, he beds the second babe…

3) If the fantasy throws out the fiction-element that the villain is much more powerful than the hero, you get porn stories in which yes, the hot babe has a boyfriend who doesn’t want his girlfriend boinking the hero; but the babe’s boyfriend is a 97-pound weakling. In vengeance porn, a bad guy might have a bodyguard, but the bodyguard is a fat, slow geezer who spends most of his work-hours sleeping in the guardhouse.

A fantasy (simplified story), because it does not have all the elements of fiction, is interesting to the reader if and only if the reader shares the fantasy that the simplified story is built on. So for instance, a porn story in which the hero works his way through a sorority house, boinking every woman there, would be fascinating to straight men, whereas gay men would react with “Meh.”

(This principle also explains why wives and girlfriends are generally uninterested in porn movies. The porn movie does not have the three elements and universal structure that would make the porn movie be fiction; and the wives and girlfriends don’t share the elaborate want or wish that the porn film is built around.)


I write the stories that I would rush over to to buy, if someone else had written those stories. Well, sometimes I buy from Amazon, stories with drama and can’t-put-the-book-down suspense that lead up to the-hero-is-doomed crises. At other times, I go to Amazon to buy porn stories where life for the hero is one nonstop cakewalk. Since I write what I would want to read, sometimes I write fiction stories (which are more difficult to write, but they also give me more satisfaction), and sometimes I write fantasies.

Here’s a listing of my stories, broken down by fiction stories and fantasy stories—

Fiction (containing the three elements of fiction, plus a crisis)
Three More Wishes: Be Kind To Your Genie (M&F1)
The Bimborg: Part Nanobot, All Woman
The Hypno-Talker of Zlar (HTOZ1)
Nerd Saves Women (HTOZ4)
The Hypno-Talkers of Zlar FOUR-IN-ONE (Books 1 and 4)
One More Genie (M&F2)
More Genie Problems: Can the Hero Billionaire Hold off Judgment Day? (M&F3)
Wishes, Genies, Sex, and Death: Marvin and Fatima THREE-IN-ONE
Ring of the Wizard Vampire
The Mind-Power Avenger
The Inseminator: A Parody

Fantasy (some of these have a final crisis, just to give the story more kick)
Captive of the Barbarian King
Names Have Power: Tim’s Magic Voice Makes a Harem
Hypno-Talker’s First Download (HTOZ2)
Revenge at College (HTOZ3)
The Hypno-Talkers of Zlar FOUR-IN-ONE (Books 2 and 3)
Ye Olde Book of Magic
Bimbo-Midas: His Magic Touch Changes Women
What You Want Most: Magically Given

A New Book Just Started: THE BIMBO PLAGUE

Any fool can write a story about a zombie apocalypse (this is a dig at my publisher), but what about a bimbo apocalypse? I’m just starting a story in which an escaped virus makes 99 percent of women in the world who are of childbearing age, become horny, busty, younger, and mentally immature.

The two main characters: A woman geneticist who is among the 1 percent of childbearing-age women who is immune to the virus; and her young male relative (brother, son, or nephew, I haven’t decided yet).

The front cover will have a teaser line: “Ohmigod this, like, is the end of the world.”

More details later as they become available.

How and Why I Wrote WHAT YOU WANT MOST

Bear with me for a moment, while I seemingly go off-topic.

On the internet is a website, MCStories, where people post stories that have both mind-control and sex. Needless to say, all the author names are pseudonyms. Also needless to say, I visit the site once a week.

My all-time favorite story on that site is “Talked Themselves into It” by Downing Street.

Here is my synopsis—

A crooked politician holding local office (city councillor) dies; and Martin Miller, his chief of staff, runs for his vacated seat. During the campaign, which Martin fully expects to lose, Martin takes a stand on protecting a local park from encroachment by developers. After Martin says this, he is approached by a very odd couple. The woman in the couple is young, blond, and hot, and can get any man she wants. But she is with, and she is utterly devoted to, an old man in failing health. The old man gives Martin a worry stone—a flat stone with a curved groove in it, suitable for rubbing your thumb along. As Martin often is anxious during the campaign (remember, he fully expects to lose), he rubs the worry stone a lot. Then the election happens—and Martin is elected city councillor. This shocks everyone, including Martin. As city councillor, Martin inherits the previous councillor’s staff: four women of different ages, who all are babes. Beautiful women make Martin anxious, so he goes back to often rubbing his thumb over the worry stone in his pocket. And suddenly the women in his office start fetching him coffee, dressing to please him, and giving him blowjobs under his desk. But sexual shenanigans with his staff is the only way that Martin abuses his position: as office-holder, he is honest and upright. It takes Martin a long while to realize that the worry stone, and he often rubbing the worry stone, is what is making everyone around him act oddly.

When I read this story, I liked it for three reasons:

• Virtue is rewarded—Martin is given the magic worry-stone because he proposes to do something civic-minded, rather than what will bring him bribes;

• Martin gets lots of great sex with hot babes (I haven’t even mentioned the nasty developer’s trophy wife, the newspaper reporter, or the lady cop); and

• Martin doesn’t realize that he is mind-controlling all these women, so that he can both be a nice guy and get lots of mind-controlled sex.

Anyway, I liked “Talked Themselves into It” so much that the first mind-control story that I wrote myself, Names Have Power: Tim’s Magic Voice Makes a Harem, had those three same elements in it: a virtuous man rewarded by being given mind-control powers, which he doesn’t realize he’s using, and which brings him lots of sex.

The second mind-control story I wrote, Three More Wishes: Be Kind to Your Genie, also had a good man being rewarded: by his genie making wish-grants that actually went beyond the wording of his wishes. Marvin Harper becomes a 24/7 mind-controller, through his magic touch and his magic pheromones; no surprise, Marvin gets lots of sex.

Note that there is no way that Marvin wonders, even for a second, why women are becoming his sex-slaves. He rubbed a lamp; a genie came out; he spoke wishes; the genie made strange gestures; then the next morning, his life is different. The sex-slave offers are unexpected when he first gets them, but they aren’t shocking or puzzling.

But three months ago, I wondered, Could I combine Names Have Power and Three More Wishes? Could a virtuous man get his wishes granted, and get lots of sex from mind-controlled babes as a result, without him knowing that someone was doing major magic on his behalf and that his wishes were causing all the weirdness?

I played around with that idea, and What You Want Most: Magically Given was the result.

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What if a djinni were granting your strongest wishes, but you didn’t know this? What would life be like?

NOTE: This story is set in the same universe as Three More Wishes: Be Kind to Your Genie and Wishes, Genies, Sex, and Death: Marvin and Fatima THREE-IN-ONE.

Bashira is a djinni of the Green Tribe of Djinn, the same Tribe to which genie Fatima belongs. But Bashira is a free djinni, not bound like Fatima—Bashira does not live in a lamp, and Bashira has never granted a wish in her millennia-long life.

A young man, Brian Maslow, rescues a mother and two daughters from a flooded car, during a scary thunderstorm (with blasting rain, high winds, thunder, lightning, and a tornado warning). Brian is frightened of being outside in the nasty weather, but he saves the helpless mother and daughters. Bashira finds out about Brian’s brave deed and decides to reward him.

Bashira doesn’t grant Brian wishes as such; he doesn’t need to rub a lamp or say “I wish…” But ten times, whenever Brian blurts out “I really want such-and-so,” he gets it, seemingly by dumb luck. Then the dumb luck becomes incredible luck, which becomes “Am I dreaming this?”

Along the way, Brian gains two girlfriends: Steffi, a former TV weather girl with enormous breasts; and Diane, a former top European model.

Chapter 1 has djinni Bashira on the RMS Titanic when it sinks.

Fiction > Fantasy > Contemporary
Fiction > Romance > Fantasy

Tags: alpha male, college life, damsel in distress, djinni, female virgin, female-female, magic, male-female, male dominant, mind control, oral sex, polygamy, romance, straight female to bi, submissive female, threesome, virtue rewarded, wants/wishes, YA, young adult

The novella is 29,600 words.

Now buy it!
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WHAT YOU WANT MOST—First Two Chapters


Chapter 1
Djinni on the Titanic

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story is set in the world of the “Marvin and Fatima” series. If you haven’t read those stories, check out Three More Wishes and its sequels, which are compiled in Wishes, Genies, Sex, and Death: Marvin and Fatima THREE-IN-ONE.


October 10, 1911
Port of Southampton, England

Bashira of the Green Tribe of Djinn was dressed like a rich young human woman, wearing a green-velvet dress to match her green eyes. In her hand, Bashira carried a bulging green-velvet bag.

Bashira stepped out of a horse-drawn cab directly in front of the Southampton offices of White Star Line. A minute later, Bashira was facing a young clerk as she dumped out the contents of her bag: many, many gold sovereigns.

With all those little gold coins, Bashira bought a First Class one-way ticket for the RMS Titanic, which would sail on its maiden voyage in six months. White Star was given many, many gold coins because Bashira not only wanted to travel First Class on the Titanic, Bashira wanted to ride on the Titanic in style.

White Star was paid in gold sovereigns because Bashira easily could magick-up gold coins—as many as she needed, with the coins looking however she wanted. Bashira was a djinni, after all.

But while Bashira was unbothered by magicking up British gold coins, she refused to magically create twenty-pound banknotes. Mainly because each Bank of England-printed banknote had a unique serial number on it, and Bashira had not figured out the serial numbers’ pattern. As unlikely as it was that human police would question Bashira as a suspected counterfeiter, she preferred to avoid the risk.

Humans might detect magically-duplicated banknotes, but they could not spot magically-created coins.

When Bashira, ticket in hand, walked out of the offices of White Star Line, she was smiling in anticipation.

Four months earlier, Bashira had sailed on Titanic’s elder sister, RMS Olympic, on its maiden voyage in 1911. Bashira had enjoyed that trip. So Bashira expected that six months from now, again she would eat great food and would talk to interesting humans. Titanic would be a pleasant diversion for ageless Bashira.


2 a.m. ship’s time
On RMS Titanic, in the North Atlantic

Bashira was deathly afraid.

After the aborted Djinn War in 632 B.C., Bashira had never again felt fear of death. After 632 B.C., Bashira had never again expected to feel fear of death.

Bashira of the Green Tribe of Djinn was a free djinni—meaning, she was not bound to a brass Vessel and was not required to grant wishes to any master. For a free djinni, life was usually great—

All the djinn except for those in Brown Tribe could work powerful magic; all djinn were ageless; and a djinni, being a smoke-bodied shapeshifter, could laugh off injuries that would kill a human.

However, djinn were not immortal. A djinni could freeze to death (as Lodmand of Pink Tribe had learned the hard way). All Tribes believed that if a djinni were immersed in water, even for an instant, that djinni’s smoky body would die. In the days leading up to the angel-prevented Djinn War, Bashira had been terrified that an enemy djinni would water-swap her to the bottom of the Indian Ocean.

But that had been in 632 B.C. In April of 1912, death by freezing or immersion was merely theoretical for all the other djinn in the world—something to joke about. But as Bashira stood at the railing on the tilted Titanic and looked down at black water, as freezing-cold wind blew on her, she felt terror.


Some of the lifeboats that were already launched, were only partly filled. Bashira saw young men climb over the Titanic’s railing and jump off, fall and fall, and disappear beneath the water—If I did that, I’d be dead now. When the young men surfaced, they swam toward the lifeboats. The problem was that the lifeboats had rowed away from the ship, so the swimmers had a long swim.

But most of the humans in the water had no such plan. They hugged themselves and they yelled for help.

A girl in the water, about ten years old, was clearly panicked. She was yelling, but she was also flailing around—which achieved nothing, and would soon get her tired.

Near to Bashira on the tilted Promenade Deck, two young lifebelted Englishmen also had spotted the girl. One of the men said, “Bastards! Why didn’t they put her in a lifeboat?”

The other man said, “If the popinjays won’t put her in a lifeboat, I will.” So saying, he climbed over the railing.

“Roger!” exclaimed his friend. “What are you doing?

Roger replied, “Marcus, I’m dead regardless. But this way, I die like a man.” Then Roger dropped. Splash.

The Titanic’s lights were still on. Soon Bashira saw Roger swim out to the girl (with guidance from Marcus). Roger swam out to the girl, put one arm across her chest, and pulled her toward a lifeboat. Often Bashira saw Roger turn his head sideways and speak to the frightened child.

Once the two of them got near the lifeboat, however, Roger went limp and stopped swimming. But by then, the girl had figured things out. She swam to the lifeboat and was pulled in. Bashira, watching, thought, I’m sure Roger was as frightened as I am. But not once have I thought of trying to save anyone else.


Soon after

Bashira’s hope collapsed. The Titanic’s sinking would not be stopped, much less reversed; the passengers on deck would not be rescued by another human ship; there were more passengers on deck than there were places in the remaining lifeboats. Not to mention, even if Bashira took a seat in a lifeboat, the freezing night air would kill any djinni. Bashira was doomed if she stayed with the Titanic.

Bashira thought, I can’t stay on this ship of corpses one second longer. The fact that by then, Bashira’s feet were literally frozen solid, was a good excuse.

Bashira took off her lifebelt and her magicked fur coat, and wrapped them around a shocked-looking Second Class woman. Then Bashira moved back into the ship, as fast as her frozen feet would allow.

Bashira eventually reached the passageway that would take her to her First Class stateroom—a passageway that was supposed to be level. But now the passageway was tilted, and walking that passageway reminded Bashira of climbing up a sand dune.

Once Bashira reached her stateroom, she went inside and shut the door. Just then, all the electric lights in the stateroom went out, as the ship groaned.

Bashira’s fear spiked then, making her decision even easier. FOOM—Bashira teleported to Cairo.

Once Bashira was in Cairo, she spent the next sixteen minutes standing outside in Cairo’s early-morning sun, thawing her frozen feet. Bashira then stood in the same spot for another twenty-one minutes, because she craved the sun’s warmth. Bashira was still shaking then, but not from cold.


One month later

The sinking of the Titanic had become international news, and many little acts of heroism by ordinary humans had been reported in newspapers.

Bashira, even restricted by Chief Ashnadim’s rule of “Help humans in only subtle ways,” had realized by mid-May of 1912 that she could have given the endangered humans a lot of help on the night of the sinking. But during that night, all Bashira had thought about had been her own danger and her own rescue.

How shameful.

One month after the sinking, Bashira felt ashamed as a coward, and she was humbled that some humans had shown better character in the face of death than she had. Roger the brave Englishman was often in Bashira’s thoughts.


Chapter 2
Brian the Hero

10:30 p.m.
A stormy Friday night in September, 2017
Barrow, Texas (between Dallas and Fort Worth)

Off-duty Pizza King delivery-driver Brian Maslow saw lightning flash, somewhere ahead of his pickup truck.

Eighteen-year-old Brian could not tell exactly where the lightning flashed, because so much rain was hitting his windshield. Even with wipers moving at maximum speed, the view through his windshield was as distorted as if he were looking through shower-door glass.

BOOM! Brian heard thunder to match the just-flashed lightning. C’mon, I’m off work, give me a break, he thought. He had been surrounded by lightning and thunder (and blasting rain), tonight since 8:30. Needless to say, this had made delivering pizza fun. (Not.)

But at least, now he was off work, and the only driving he had to do now was to go home to his apartment. Brian could not wait to change out of his soaking-wet clothes!

Meanwhile, as a result of the blasting rain, Brian’s truck was moving only 10 mph. Fortunately, the storm had scared everyone else off the roads, so Brian did not (much) have to worry about rear-ending the vehicle ahead of him that he could not see.

The wind was shifting constantly. At the moment, it was blowing toward the back and slightly toward the left. Brian’s right-side truck window was getting blasted with rain, while he could actually see out his left-side window—

What was that? Flashing red?

At the moment, Brian was driving west on Richards Street. Richards Street passed over Bentsen Street, which ran north-south, because Bentsen dipped under Richards to make an underpass.

The only problem was, the Bentsen underpass liked to flood during times of heavy rain—like now. And the rain had been blasting for the past two hours.

Did I see a car flooded in the underpass? Brian thought. They might need help.

Brian pulled his truck over to the edge of the Richards overpass, put on his flashers, and shut off the engine. He tossed his keys on the front dash, grabbed his waterproof flashlight, and opened the driver’s-side door.

Brian had to push, to get that door open, because the wind was blowing so hard.

Flash! Pause. BOOM! This was not the time to be outside. Yet Brian would not think of driving another inch until he knew whether someone needed help.

As soon as Brian stepped out of his truck, wind-blown rain blasted his face, hands, and clothing. While Brian was being firehosed by Mother Nature, he walked over to the left-side railing of Richards Street, his waterproof flashlight in his hand. He looked down.

He gasped.

A car set in water that was deep enough to cover the flashing red taillights and part of the rolled-up side windows. Now that Brian was out of his truck, he heard screams from inside the car, and pounding on the car roof.


Bright lightning flashed somewhere close; the answering thunder was instant and it was loud. Brian was frightened—

Fort Worth is to the west, Dallas is to the east, and Death is maybe directly above me.

—but he did not hesitate to run to the end of the Richards Street Bridge and try to rush down the grassy slope to where the floodwater was.

As Brian was working his way down the slope—slanted wet grass made it tricky for him to keep his footing—he heard shrieks. He looked over at the car.

Now the car’s lights were out, and the water around the windows was higher.

Right after Brian stepped into floodwater, another lightning/thunder combo happened to the north.

Brian waded out to the car. The windows were fogged up, so he could not see clearly inside; but someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.

Brian pounded on the roof of the car. “HELLO?”

A hand wiped enough of the fog away from the driver’s-side window that he could see a woman’s face. “We can’t open the doors!” she yelled back.

Brian tried pulling on her door. He couldn’t move it. Water pressure is pushing it closed.

The problem had an unpleasant solution: In order to open the doors, he had to equalize the pressure—which meant letting water inside the car.

Lightning flashed; thunder BOOMed.

“WHO’S IN THE CAR WITH YOU?” Brian yelled.

The driver answered, “I and my daughters are here. Yasmeen is eight years old—please help us!” Now Brian noticed that the woman spoke with a foreign accent.


Brian dunked his waterproof flashlight just under the surface of the water, the flashlight’s narrow side facing the window. He tried slamming the flashlight against the window, but the water would not let the flashlight move that fast.

Brian had to settle for holding the flashlight a few inches away from the window and using both arms’ strength to hurry the flashlight. Even so, it was not till the third hit, when he hit the door glass at an angle, that the glass broke.

The driver-lady shrieked when water poured into her lap. But then she said, “Please help Yasmeen!”

Lightning flashed nearby; thunder boomed loudly. Brian thought, If lightning hits this car or the water it’s sitting in, I’m fried.

Meanwhile, Brian had moved to the back door and tried to open it. At first, this door would not budge, either; but when the water level inside the car was almost as high as the water outside the car, Brian opened the door.

In the back seat were a teen girl and a girl of eight; both girls were black-haired. The little girl was standing crouched on the back seat, to keep her head above water.

Brian put his flashlight on the roof of the car, grabbed the little girl, then—as quickly as chest-high water would allow—Brian carried her toward the grassy slope.

“I’ve got you, Yasmeen. Don’t worry, you’re safe,” he told the child whom he was carrying.

Once Brian set Yasmeen down on the grassy slope, he then rushed—quote, unquote—through the floodwater back to the car. The car’s back door had shut itself , he discovered. By now the water level inside and outside the car were the same; still, it took effort for Brian to pull the driver’s door and the back-seat door open. The driver-woman and the teen girl hurried out of the car. The driver-woman, Brian noted in passing, was wearing a hijab; the teen girl was not.

Brian grabbed his flashlight off the roof of the car, then he waded back to the grassy slope where Yasmeen was. Yasmeen’s mother and Yasmeen’s teen sister each had a painfully strong grip on one of Brian’s arms.

Flash! BOOM! Brian wanted out of this water.

Once the mother and both daughters all were out of the floodwater, Brian offered to drive them to their house in his truck. It was only when the four people walked near Brian’s truck that he discovered that a TV-news crew from station WFAA had filmed most of his rescue.

The TV reporter informed Brian that not only was this area getting wind, rain, thunder, and lightning like crazy, but it was currently also under a tornado warning.

“Wonderful,” Brian replied.


A week later (Friday)

Bashira saw the whole rescue play out on YouTube.

She thought, This human, Brian Maslow, had many reasons to fear for his life. Yet he did the right thing. He is braver than I.

Bashira was also pleased that this Brian Maslow had rescued three immigrants from the United Arab Emirates. Bashira understood very well that many Americans hated anyone Moslem and/or Arab.

Bashira thought, Brian Maslow deserves a reward. But what reward is worthy of his unselfish bravery?

After more thought, Bashira the djinni clapped her hands. “I have the perfect reward for Brian Maslow. Or rather, ten perfect rewards.”


BUY THE BOOK! You know you want to.

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WHAT YOU WANT MOST: MAGICALLY GIVEN: Tweaked Title and Cover, New Sales Blurb

What if a djinni were granting your strongest wishes, but you didn’t know this? What would life be like?

NOTE: This story is set in the same universe as Three More Wishes: Be Kind to Your Genie and Wishes, Genies, Sex, and Death: Marvin and Fatima THREE-IN-ONE.

Bashira is a djinni of the Green Tribe of Djinn, the same Tribe to which genie Fatima belongs. But Bashira is a free djinni, not bound like Fatima—Bashira does not live in a lamp, and Bashira has never granted a wish in her millennia-long life.

A young man, Brian Maslow, rescues a mother and two daughters from a flooded car, during a scary thunderstorm (with blasting rain, high winds, thunder, lightning, and a tornado warning). Brian is frightened of being outside in the nasty weather, but he saves the helpless mother and daughters. Bashira finds out about Brian’s brave deed and decides to reward him.

Bashira doesn’t grant Brian wishes as such; he doesn’t need to rub a lamp or say “I wish…” But ten times, whenever Brian blurts out “I really want such-and-so,” he gets it, seemingly by dumb luck. Then the dumb luck becomes incredible luck, which becomes “Am I dreaming this?”

Along the way, Brian gains two girlfriends: Steffi, a former TV weather girl with enormous breasts; and Diane, a former top European model.

Chapter 1 has djinni Bashira on the RMS Titanic when it sinks.

Fiction > Fantasy > Contemporary
Fiction > Romance > Fantasy

Tags: alpha male, college life, damsel in distress, djinni, female virgin, female-female, magic, male-female, male dominant, mind control, oral sex, polygamy, romance, straight female to bi, submissive female, threesome, virtue rewarded, wants/wishes, YA, young adult

The novella is 29,600 words.

I Visited the Texas A&M Campus

I am a lazy sports fan. When I was in high school, I did not travel to away-games to root for the teams.

After high school, I became a college student at a Texas university that was not Texas A&M. I did not travel to A&M for any academic reason, before I earned my degree. Nor did I ever travel to A&M for any sports reason (but you’ve already figured this out, right?)

After I earned my bachelor’s degree, I never traveled to Texas A&M for any reason—academic, athletic, or business-related.

You guys note a trend?

My latest book, What You Want Most: Magically Given, is a variation on the three-wishes genie story. In What You Want Most, my hero Brian lives in Texas, then he becomes a college student, then he majors in meteorology (the science of weather). A little Google-fu told me that the best meteorology undergraduate-degree program in Texas is at A&M—so voila, Brian drives off to Aggieland to pursue his B.S. in Meteorology.

This plot turn meant that I, as Brian’s author, had to learn a lot about A&M. Fortunately, Google made this part of the story-writing be much easier.

Now, I prefer to have my imaginary people live in imaginary places; this way I can “build” their hometown the way I want. If I want to write about Marvin Harper’s hometown of New Paris, “There was a gold mine just outside of town, so all the streets in the town were paved with gold,” I can do that. Whereas if I write such a thing about Lincoln, Nebraska (because I did not do enough research), a reader who lives in Lincoln will chew me out via email. And deservedly so. To prevent errors that Google-searching doesn’t catch, I need to see a real place for myself if I write about that place.

But there are obvious limits to the rule of “When writing about a real place, see it for yourself.” In “Kristin Tells (Almost) All,” the main character became a student at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. Well, I live in Texas, and traveling all the way to Northampton, MA just so I could eyeball places that I had written about, was not a worthwhile expense.

But now that same logic has bitten me in the rear; because Texas A&M is less than two hundred miles from my house. Yesterday I went to Aggieland itself, with a prepared list of questions. Because I had done so much research off-site, I was able to get all my questions answered in only three-and-a-half hours. I also visited places on the A&M campus that I had written about; the “Century Tree” (which is actually 126 years old, not 100 years old) freaked me out.

Still, nobody imagines the author of male-dominant, mind-control soft-core porn novels making a research trip, but that’s what I did. I think I’ve caught most of my mistakes, BUT

If you’re a fan of male-dominant, mind-control soft-core porn, and

You’re a current or former student of Texas A&M University, and

You catch an error about what I wrote about A&M, after my book comes out, then

Please let me know. Thanks.

P.S. Don’t ask me my impressions of Texas A&M. I can’t answer this honestly without somebody’s feelings being hurt.

Now in the Works: WHAT YOU WANT MOST


The first two mind-control stories that I ever wrote, and my two favorites, are Names Have Power and Three More Wishes.

Names Have Power is about a man who is given mind-control powers—except that at first he does not even know he has mind-control powers. At first he thinks that women around him are acting oddly. To me, the fun of writing the story was the question, “When he’s causing changes, but he doesn’t know he’s causing changes, what does he think is going on?”

Three More Wishes is about a young man who gets a wishing lamp and a genie. Except that I did not only tell the genie-master’s tale (in the original story, two sequel stories, and a bonus story)—I also explained how the genies got stuck in those lamps. If you have read Three More Wishes and its sequels, you know that in that world, there are four Tribes’ worth of djinn, most of whom are not genies. Meaning that most of the djinn of the four Tribes are not stuck in a Vessel (a brass lamp, a brass bottle, or a ruby ring) and these free djinn are not compelled to grant wishes.

One such free djinni is Bashira of the Green Tribe of Djinn, who is a friend of Fatima’s. Bashira was briefly mentioned in One More Genie and in More Genie Problems. In What You Want Most, Bashira got a nasty scare in 1912 aboard the RMS Titanic, and since then Bashira appreciates humans who are brave.

Brian is a young man who does a very brave thing: wading into water during a lightning storm to rescue three stranded motorists. Bashira, who has never met Brian, decides to reward him for his bravery.

But Bashira does not reward Brian by granting his wishes—because a person speaks wishes only when he expects that they will be immediately granted. No, Bashira grants his wants—feelings he blurts out not because he expects them to be granted, but because he is feeling the wants so fiercely at the time. And since granting a want is not as powerful a life-changer as granting a wish, Bashira grants ten of Brian’s wants, not just three.

So just like before, I am writing a hero who is changing the women around him—except he does not realize that he is the person changing them.

THE COVER IMAGE: The woman on the cover has dyed-auburn hair, while Bashira of the story has black hair. But other than this one mistake, the woman on the cover is meant to be Bashira. Note the all-green clothing, nail polish, and jewelry; and the bright-green eyes.



The Inseminator, an evil cyborg from the year 2060—he’s tall, muscular, and has an Austrian accent—is looking for Shara Boehner, a young L.A. waitress in 2017.

The Inseminator’s plan is that when he finds Shara Boehner, he will impregnate her, and will pass special genes on to her just-conceived child.

Calbert Reesescup, a nerdy lawyer from 2060, is trying to save Shara from the relentless Inseminator. The Inseminator uses mind-controlling pheromones to make women have sex with him; Calbert’s task seems impossible.

The Inseminator has been sent from the future by an evil AI program, AquaNet. Everything that AquaNet does—

• building muscular cyborg Inseminators that use mind-controlling pheromones to get sex with women, and that ensure these women’s pregnancies via cyborg sperm; and

• sending one such Inseminator into the past, to track down Shara Boehner, the future mother of Jawstrong Boehner—

AquaNet does all as part of a master scheme to sell more hairspray.

Now in 2017, the Inseminator’s pursuit of Shara is relentless, and he seems to be unstoppable. In desperation, Shara and Calbert visit the Austrian genius inventor who is the template for the Inseminator.

Fiction > Action & Adventure
Fiction > Erotica
Fiction > Humorous
Fiction > Media Tie-in
Fiction > Romance > Science Fiction
Fiction > Science Fiction > Action & Adventure
Fiction > Science Fiction > Time Travel
Fiction > Satire
Humor > Forms > Parodies
Humor > Topic > Adult

Tags: action, alpha male, Aqua Net Hairspray, Austrian accent, cuckolded boyfriend, cyborg, damsel in distress, erotica, female protagonist, humor, hypnosis, lesbian to bi, mad scientist (character), male-female, male dominant, mind control, muscular cyborg, oral sex, parody, pheromones, pregnancy, robots, romance, submissive female, Terminator, time travel, virtue rewarded, workplace sex

The novella is 30,800 words. For the lawyers: This story is a parody of the 1984 movie The Terminator. (To which everyone else replies “Duh!”)

Buy The Inseminator now! You know you want to!

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THE INSEMINATOR—First Three Chapters


Making the Mutant

Monday, June 1, 1998
Hotel de Oro, Acapulco de Juárez, Mexico

Only a few hours of local daytime were left by the time that Jim and Cameron Boehner walked into the Acapulco hotel’s lobby. The newlyweds were each twenty-two years old.

The brand-new Mrs. Boehner stood in the hotel lobby and spoke in a phone-sex voice: “Jim, it’s so sad that it’s too late to go to the beach. I packed a bikini you will love.”

“No beach? Oh, well,” Jim said to Cameron with a grin. “How on Earth will we fill the hours till sundown?”

Cameron Ripley-Boehner smiled sexily, like the highest-tipped cocktail waitress in Los Angeles who she had been until yesterday. “We’ll think of something, I’m sure. Maybe watch the cliff-divers? Visit the old Spanish fort?”

Jim looked Cameron up and down as he replied, “Right now, I’m interested in a different kind of diving.”

“Ooh,” Cameron purred, “I like your thinking.”


Minutes later

Jim Boehner, his bride Cameron, and José the bellman were walking across the lobby toward the elevator. The trio passed an American man and his wife, both in their forties. The older man looked at Jim’s face in surprise, then the man’s eyes dropped down to below Jim’s belt.

Jim had been imagining what he would do to Cameron in the hotel room, so Jim’s cock was fully erect inside his pants.

The older man stared at the bulge in Jim’s pants. He stared because Jim’s enormous cock was a movie star. Jim had graduated from UCLA two weeks ago without owing a penny in student loans, all thanks to Jim Boehner being a porn superstar.

As Jim entered the elevator, the fortyish man broke his stare away from Jim’s pants to look into Jim’s eyes. You’re really Dawson Jackhammer? the man’s expression said.

Jim gave the man a tight smile that said, Sorry, Dawson Jackhammer doesn’t have time for autographs today.

The man’s wife, meanwhile, had been eyeing Cameron. “Harvey, isn’t it a shame that some women feel they have to be all fake?

Jim looked the woman in the eyes and said, “Nothing about my wife is fake.”

Then the elevator doors closed.


Riding the elevator

Three people rode up the elevator: Jim Boehner, his bride Cameron, and the bellman, José. José kept sneaking glances at Cameron.

Rather than feel jealous, Jim nodded. Of course poor José thought Cameron was the hottest thing he’d ever seen!

Los Angeles was bursting with bottle-blondes; but Cameron’s sunshine-yellow hair was all natural. Many young women in La-La-Land wore contacts, but Cameron’s sky-blue eyes were hers from birth. Cameron had cheekbones that could cut glass and—judging by her high-school yearbook photos—she had never suffered any skin problems.

It was no surprise that Cameron had become a magazine cover-girl at age fifteen. But at age eighteen, Cameron had switched over to modeling lingerie.

The reason had been utterly simple: Cameron had been sporting cantaloupe-size tits by tenth grade.

But then the woman who had walked away from magazine-cover modeling at age eighteen, in order to become a lingerie model, then had walked away from lingerie modeling at age twenty-one. Cameron had discovered that she was perpetually horny, and photographers were not enough to put out her fires.

Cameron had almost chosen to became a call girl or a stripper. But in the end, Cameron had decided to become a cocktail waitress.

Looking like she did, Cameron had made scads of money as a Los Angeles cocktail waitress, and she had never ended the night in her own bed.

In the elevator, in Acapulco, Cameron now leaned over and murmured in Jim’s ear, “I’m wet for you, and we’re not even naked yet.”

Jim was smiling as the elevator doors opened on their floor. The horniest and the hottest-looking woman on the planet was now Jim’s wife, and he was about to fuck her nonstop. At one time, Jim had been an ordinary truck driver, but now? Life was great.


Jim’s good mood continued as he, his bride, and the bellman stepped into Room 612.

The room was ritzy: hand-chiseled wooden furniture, and highly waxed, inlaid-wood flooring; walls painted a sun-yellow enamel; a king-sized bed that was covered with a bright-orange coverlet; and a sliding-glass door that led to the wrought-iron balcony. Jim knew that on this side of the hotel, if he stood at the balcony, he could see the Pacific Ocean.

But Jim was sure that neither he nor Cameron would step through that sliding-glass door till Day Three. Right now, the wetness that Jim was interested in was not the oceanic kind.


Three minutes later
In the Boehners’ hotel room

Jim ogled his bride, whose traveling clothes were a white-linen skirt-suit and a light-blue satin blouse. Both the blouse and the skirt-suit were tailored to show off Cameron’s extraordinary rack.

“You are so beautiful,” Jim said, just before he kissed his new wife.

While Jim was kissing, he was unbuttoning—first Cameron’s suit-jacket, then her blue blouse. (The kissing was going on for a long time.)

When Jim removed the linen jacket, he discovered that Cameron’s nipples were causing hard bulges in the satin blouse. Jim explored with his fingers, and discovered that Cameron was wearing a brassiere so low-cut, it did not cover her nipples.

As soon as Jim unbuttoned the blouse, he reached under the satin with both hands and palmed Cameron’s nipples.

Cameron moaned in response. “My bare nipples being rubbed nonstop by the satin—I’ve been horny since we left the wedding reception. Please fuck me now.”

Jim did as requested—he fucked Cameron. Then he fucked her twice more. After Cameron sucked him hard, Jim fucked Cameron a fourth time that night.


The honeymoon sex between two such beautiful people was everything that Jim and Cameron had each imagined it would be.

To heighten their wedding-night sex, Jim did not use a condom during any of the four times he fucked Cameron. Horny Cameron showed her thanks with a slurpy-wet pussy.

Each of the newlyweds was too caught up in their glorious fucking to ask him- or herself the question, “Is Cameron feeling especially horny tonight? More than usual?”

The answer, it turned out, was Yes, and not only because this was Jim’s and Cameron’s wedding night. Cameron was ovulating, two days before she expected to.


The next morning

Neither Jim nor Cameron had any inkling that Cameron was now a mother as well as a wife.


Jim was awakened to the delicious feel of Cameron licking his dick.

While Jim felt lucky to have a cock as long and thick as he had, there was one disadvantage to his cock: no deepthroat. Jim had yet to meet the woman who could deepthroat him—though some porn actresses came close.

By now, Cameron knew better than to try. Instead, she licked the underside of Jim’s cock, from the head of his cock to the base, and back again. When Jim was hard enough, Cameron switched techniques and took Jim’s cock in her mouth (as much as she could take).

Her lips swirled around the head of Jim’s dick, while her hand stroked his length.

What a wonderful thing to wake up to! Jim thought.

Soon everything felt so good that Jim was clutching the top sheet in a death grip.

Cameron took her mouth off Jim’s dick. “I love your cock,” she said, while still stroking him. “Your cock is a wonder of nature, like Niagara Falls.” Then Cameron went back to tonguing and stroking Jim.

Cameron had good technique, but it was her comparing Jim’s cock to humongous Niagara Falls that sent Jim over the top. It’s impressive, yes, but she thinks it’s that impressive? With that thought, Jim blasted in Cameron’s mouth.

As he came down from his climax, sleepiness warred with his love for Cameron; he owed her payback.

But Cameron put her hand on his chest when he tried to sit up. “I gave you a gift, Husband. Relax now and sleep while I take a bath.”

Jim let himself fall asleep.


An hour later

Jim woke to the sound of Cameron singing on the other side of the bathroom door.

He slid out of bed and walked to the bathroom door. He said through the door, “I’m awake now, and I want to thank you for that great blowjob.”

Cameron’s voice purred through the door: “You’ll want to ‘thank’ me even more when you see me in a minute.”

Jim waited, more or less patiently, as Cameron sang songs and did things on the other side of the door. When he had waited two minutes (by the bedside clock), the bathroom door was unlocked.

Seconds later, Jim was seeing red—tons of red, actually.

Cameron’s long, blond hair was pulled up atop her head, and a red ribbon was tied around her hair. Her feet were covered with open-toed, red shoes of fuck-me heel-height. In between Cameron’s head and feet, she was wearing red peekaboo bikini-shaped lace underwear, a red-opaque garter belt that held up red-opaque thigh-high stockings, and a knee-length, transparent-red peignoir.

Jim leaped off the bed and advanced on Cameron like a hungry beast.

“I’m going to fuck you right now,” Jim growled.

He shoved Cameron against the wall, too impatient for Cameron to sashay to the bed. Jim mashed his mouth onto Cameron’s mouth in a forceful kiss.

“I want to be fucked right now,” Cameron said against Jim’s lips. To prove her point, her hands reached into Jim’s boxer shorts and stroked his cock.

“I love your big dick,” she added.

While Cameron was stroking Jim’s cock, Jim’s hands were busy running over Cameron’s enormous tits that were covered by red lace. He felt her nipples grow hard.

It took only seconds, between all of Cameron’s sexy red clothing and her practiced stroking, for Jim’s dick to become rock-hard. Cameron wrapped her legs around Jim’s waist and ordered, “Fuck me.”

Jim’s hands went to the undersides of Cameron’s ass cheeks, to lift her as needed. Jim’s hands, and the head of Jim’s dick, were targeting Cameron’s slit. But before Jim managed to enter Cameron’s abyss, shit happened.


One second later

The waxed wooden floor was slippery, and the enamel-painted wall was slippery. Jim felt his feet slide backward as Cameron slid down the wall. Cameron’s legs around his waist pulled him down too. Jim’s knees hit the floor hard. Wham.

For Cameron, it was worse: Her ass basically dropped to the floor from waist-height. WHAM.

“Oh shit, Jim,” Cameron said—now there was nothing sexy about her voice—“I hurt my back.”


An hour later
X-Ray Room 2
Hospital de la Ciudad de Acapulco de Juárez

Simón Escobar was an X-ray technician in a Mexican city that catered to American and Canadian tourists. Simón was only twenty-six years old, but he thought he had seen it all. He was continually surprised at the new ways that tourists found to break bones.

The order from Dr. Hernandez was commonplace: X-ray a lateral view (patient lying on her side) and a posterior view (patient lying on her stomach) of the L2, L3, and L4 vertebrae.

But if the X-ray order was ordinary, the American-woman patient was the stuff of dreams. She came in barefoot, wearing her husband’s untied terry-cloth bathrobe backward, to cover her front. But what a front—the terry-cloth robe could not hide the fact that the blond American woman had the chest of a porn star! Besides, underneath that backward robe, the patient was wearing red lingerie.

Simón could easily imagine how she had hurt her back.

Simón had never become erect around a patient before. He hoped the American couple did not notice and complain to the hospital administrators, or Simón could lose his job over this. But Madre de Dios, the American woman was so hot!

As Simón did his job, while trying not to obviously stare, he had the feeling that he was forgetting something. Or maybe several somethings?

It was only after Simón had taken his two pictures, and the young American couple had left, that Simón remembered what he had forgotten to do—

Whenever the stream of X-rays was to pass close to the patient’s reproductive area, the technician was supposed to cover the patient’s reproductive tissues with a lead-lined plastic apron. This precaution was mainly to prevent sterility and/or testicular (ovarian) cancer.

The nightmare outcome would be if the patient were pregnant, and the X-rays mutated the fetus—the younger the fetus when it was X-rayed, the greater would be the harm. To ensure that the lead-lined apron was used when it was most needed, the X-ray technician was supposed to ask any female patient of childbearing age whether she was pregnant. Alas, asking this question had slipped distracted Simón’s mind.

Just as distracted Simón had forgotten all about draping the lead-lined apron over the American patient.

Still, Simón was not worried about the danger of a mutated fetus. What were the odds of one American woman becoming pregnant on her honeymoon?


Cameron’s back injury turned out to be nothing long-lasting, thanks to her youth, her toned muscles—and to Mexican muscle-relaxants. By the time that Jim and Cameron returned to L.A., her back “problem” was only an occasional twinge of pain. Three days after that, Cameron’s back pain was gone.

Nine months after the Boehners’ honeymoon in Acapulco, Cameron gave birth to a daughter. Jim and Cameron named their newborn Shara Jamie.


Chapter 1
Cubes of Lightning

Nineteen years, one month, and four days after the wedding—
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
A little after 7 p.m.
Somewhere in Los Angeles

The stockroom of Bert’s Value Grocery was empty, as usual during shopping hours, when something unusual happened there.

A cube of lightning, four feet long on each side, appeared in the empty room. Anything caught inside that cube of lightning (such as two-thirds of an empty shopping cart) glowed sun-bright, then disappeared.

From the sides of the cube, bolts of lightning shot out. The many bolts of lightning made Vivvitt! Vvitt! noises as they snaked out to every nearby surface.

Had anyone been in the room (nobody was), or had anyone been watching on closed-circuit TV (the camera was not aimed in that direction), this observer would have noticed an odd thing—

Lightning was shooting out from the sides of the cube, but no lightning was flashing inside the cube.

Suddenly a squatting man appeared inside the cube. Lightning-light revealed that the squatting man was nearly naked. One second after the man appeared, the cube and the lightning both disappeared.

While the lightning had been in the room, it had played havoc with the grocery store’s electrical system. All of the store’s circuit breakers were tripped, so all electrical power in the grocery store was off. But though both the stockroom and the main grocery store were without electricity, battery-operated emergency lights prevented total darkness.

The man stood up. His face was expressionless. An emergency light showed him a door to exit the back of the stockroom; but instead, he walked through the two swinging doors that took him into the main grocery store.

Out in the main store, employees were swearing, while confused shoppers were saying, “Did an earthquake hit? I didn’t feel an earthquake.”

The muscular man walked along the shopping floor of the grocery store, as shoppers and employees stared at him—

He was tall, with the large, well-defined muscles of a many-times world-champion bodybuilder. Those muscles were easily seen because he was barefoot and naked, except for white boxer shorts with red hearts printed on them.

The man did not speak as he walked through the grocery store, but he smiled sexily at every adult female he passed.

The muscular man walked out of the grocery store; nobody tried to stop him.

Across the street from the grocery store was a billboard: “Aqua Net Hairspray—it keeps its hold!”

(At the bottom of the billboard, in tiny text, was this legalese: “All Weather Aqua Net Professional Hairspray™ is manufactured and sold by Slobbertime Products, Inc.”)

The muscular man stared at the billboard for a long moment, before he turned to the right and walked next door to Bert’s Value Laundromat.


In downtown Los Angeles

In an alleyway, a second four-feet-long lightning-cube appeared.

When the second lightning-cube and its lightning soon disappeared, they left behind a nearly-naked squatting man.

This man stood up. Rather than being muscular and tall, he was puny and of only average height. He wore navy-blue briefs—briefs, because they were a sensible kind of underwear; and navy blue, because it was a sensible color.

This man looked like a nearly-naked lawyer.

In his hand, the puny man held a photograph.

The photo showed a young blonde with a beautiful face, who was holding a beach ball on the beach, and who was wearing a bikini that showed off her amazing figure. (Amazing even in L.A., where breast implants were almost as common as Botox injections.) In the photo, the young woman’s stomach was rounded out a little; she was a few months pregnant.

The puny man looked at the photo and said, “Shara Boehner. I must find Shara Boehner.”

The puny man began walking, which was no fun because he was barefoot. Soon he also saw an Aqua Net billboard.

The puny man glared at the big hairspray ad.


Still elsewhere in Los Angeles
309 Calder Canyon Drive, North Hollywood

Mary Ann Winters was getting ready for a date. Her roommate, Shara Boehner, also was getting ready for a date—until she used the toilet.

Yes, even blond, blue-eyed, huge-breasted goddesses are subject to calls of nature. After Shara left the bathroom, Mary Ann remarked, “Your phone rang. It went to voicemail.”

When Shara checked the message, she heard—

“Hey, Shara, this is Bill. My past-lives coach told me I should be honest in all my relationships to increase good karma, so I’m gonna just lay it out here: My past-lives coach showed me that I’m attracted to brunettes with small tits, huge hips, hair on their upper lip, and a monobrow. You’ve got none of that, so our cosmic forces are not aligned. Anyway, I’m canceling our date tonight before our souls get more deeply intertwined. Creation’s blessings upon you.”

Shara yelled some Mexican words that her parents had overheard on their honeymoon. She added, “Wow, the first time I accept a date in two years, and the idiot vegetarian cancels on me!”


Five minutes later

Bored Shara was rereading a year-old issue of Cosmopolitan as the television droned on.

DING-DONG! The rental house’s doorbell rang.

Mary Ann yelled from her bedroom, “Would you get that? Tell Mark, ‘Two minutes!’ ”

Shara sighed as she stood up. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

Seconds later, Shara was opening the house’s front door.

“Hi, Shara,” Mark said to Shara’s boobs. “You’re going on a first date dressed like that?”

Shara rolled her eyes (not that Mark noticed). “My date canceled. By the way, my eyes are up here.”

“Sorry,” Mark said, belatedly looking Shara in the eyes. “Is Mary Ann ready?”

“Two minutes,” Shara said. “If you want to join me on the couch, you can kill time watching”—Shara peered at the TV—“a robot spraying her hair?”


On the television, a young woman had her skin painted silver, and her long hair dyed blue; Shara figured that the TV model was meant to be a robot.

The model’s blue hair was piled high in a beehive hairdo. With robotic jerkiness, the TV model picked up a spray can of Aqua Net Hairspray and sprayed her hair.

Meanwhile, a woman-announcer’s voice was saying in voiceover, “Aqua Net—soon to be made in our all-robotic factory, so that a great hairspray will be even better!

A male-announcer voice said, “Aqua Net Hairspray—choose Fresh Scent or Unscented, Super Hold or Extra Super Hold. Available in fine supermarkets and drugstores.”


Shara laughed. “Who uses hairspray anymore? Only women older than my grandmother.”

By now, Mark had sat down on the couch. “Ahem,” he said, “can I ask you a question?”

Shara shrugged.

Mark said, clearly nervous, “Mary Ann says you don’t date. Well, except for tonight’s date—”

“Who canceled, the wuss.” Shara snarled, “I will never again date a man who has a Hillary bumper sticker on his electric car.”

“Still, Mary Ann says you usually don’t date at all, and—”

“I used to date,” Shara said. “In high school. I was out every Friday and Saturday of every weekend, till November of my junior year.”

Mark said, “Yeah, that I can understand. Beautiful face, blond hair, you’re always at the gym, and—and…”

Mary Ann’s voice came from just outside her bedroom. “Mark, you’re staring at my roomie’s boobs again.”

As Mary Ann shut her bedroom door and walked over to the couch, Mark said, “I was making the point that Shara is traffic-stopping hot, so why isn’t she dating now?”

Shara said, “For one thing, since I just started at my waitress job, I get the shitty swing shift. Who would want to date me when I tell him, ‘I have evenings free only on Tuesdays and Wednesdays’?”

Mark said, “Actually—”

Mary Ann slapped his arm.

Mary Ann told her boyfriend, “I’m sure Shara has a very good reason these days for hardly ever dating. Even though she’s never told me what the reason is.”

Shara sighed. “Jeez, Mary Ann, I’m holding out for the right man. But all the guys I date now, they’re interested in only one thing.”

Two things,” muttered Mark.

Mary Ann asked Shara, “And how is this ‘right man’ right? What does he look like, and what’s his job?”

Shara shrugged. “No clue. No clue at all. But when I get to know him, he’ll feel right.”

Mark and Mary Ann looked at each other, but made no comment.


Chapter 2
Two Nearly-Naked Men Get Clothed

Meanwhile in downtown L.A.

Twenty-nine-year-old Calbert Reesescup had problems. His two big problems were that he was in Los Angeles fourteen years before he was born, and that he was naked except for his navy-blue underwear.

Jawstrong Boehner had ordered Calbert to strip and to enter the time machine, and Calbert of course had obeyed Jawstrong the amazing hero. Calbert, stepping into the time machine nearly naked, had traveled back to 2017 without pants, shirt, and shoes—and without a phone, tinycomp, spending cards, cash, or coins.

Of course, Calbert’s credit and debit cards, even if Jawstrong had let Calbert bring them back in time, would be worthless in 2017; and it was doubtful that Calbert had carried any bills or coins minted forty-three years ago.

Calbert was an attorney, not an expert on time travel, but he was sure that nothing good would happen if someone in 2017 noticed she had been handed a coin stamped 2060.

So. Not only was Calbert now without clothes and lacking money that he could spend, he was also lacking a phone or tinycomp. How was Calbert supposed to find Shara Boehner before the Inseminator found her?


Meanwhile, in the rental house of Shara and Mary Ann

In the half-empty house, the wall-phone rang in the kitchen. Shara debated not answering it, but soon she was walking into the kitchen. It might be Mom calling, or Uncle Victor, about some emergency.

Shara answered the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

A man’s voice asked, “Is this Shara Boner?”

Shara rolled her eyes. “That isn’t how you pronounce my name. But listen, I’m a poor waitress, so I can’t afford whatever you’re sell—”

The man’s voice now roughened: “What are you wearing, Shara Boner? Would you like to share a boner with me?”

CREEP!” Shara yelled, before slamming the phone handset back onto its cradle.

As Shara stomped back to the living-room couch, she muttered, “ ‘If an earthquake hits, your smartphone might not work,’ Uncle Victor said. ‘So I want you to also have a regular phone,’ Uncle Victor said. ‘I’ll pay for it,’ Uncle Victor said. Well, Uncle Victor, if you were going to pay for the phone, why couldn’t you also pay for an unlisted number? Jeez, do you have any idea how many telemarketers and perverts call me in a week?”


Meanwhile, in Bert’s Value Laundromat

In the laundromat, seven women and one man were doing laundry. The women’s ages ranged from eighteen to fifty-three. Their marital statuses ranged from never married, to married, to three times divorced. While none of the women were ugly, only one was “L.A. beautiful”—an eighteen-year-old blonde who had just “had work done” three days earlier.

The Inseminator entered the laundromat. The one man in the place, a pudgy guy in his fifties, looked at the Inseminator scornfully. (Probably because the muscular Inseminator was barefoot and naked, except for white boxer shorts with red hearts printed on them.)

The Inseminator, back when he had been outside walking on the sidewalk, had been expressionless. But as soon as he saw the seven women in the laundromat, his face changed: now he wore a broad, toothy, Casanova smile.

The Inseminator also, unbeknownst to any of the women in the room, began to secrete F-Pheromones as soon as he walked through the door.

“I have no clothes. Give me clothes ssat fit me,” the Inseminator commanded in an Austrian accent.

(The Inseminator had to yell his command, because something in one of the dryers was loudly making a BOOM-BOOM noise.)

“Get a job, pal, and buy your own clothes,” the older man sneered. “You’re not getting any clothes of ours.”

The Inseminator did not show anger; instead he smiled at the big-breasted blonde. Watch this.

In addition to the F-Pheromones that the Inseminator was secreting, now he secreted M-Pheromones as he walked over to the older man.

The Inseminator walked right up to the older man. The Inseminator did not put on an angry face or make a fist, but only a few inches of floor separated the two men. The Inseminator no longer was smiling.

“Your shirt will fit me,” the Inseminator said. He commanded the other man, “Take it off.”

The effect of the M-Pheromones on the fiftyish man was immediate. His shoulders slumped, he looked down, and he began to unbutton his shirt. He mumbled, “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

When the Inseminator was wearing the other man’s shirt, the Inseminator commanded (again in an Austrian accent), “Leave here! Now!”

The slump-shouldered man slapped a washing machine, while still looking down. “Sir, I have clothes—”

“Don’t argue. Go!

The now-bare-chested older man hurried out of the laundromat, got into his truck, and drove away.


Meanwhile, across L.A.

Before Calbert Reesescup could do anything else, he had to get dressed.

After several minutes of skulking and hiding, walking barefoot from alley to alley (ouch!), Calbert came to the edge of the parking lot for a McDonald’s Restaurant.

Calbert stared at the sign. It was a simple yellow M, though unusually shaped. Calbert wondered why he saw no “beckoning cat” picture in the middle of the M. Then Calbert realized that in 2017, Shen Wa Holdings had not yet bought out McDonald’s and changed all the signs.

Calbert wondered whether McDonald’s in 2017 offered a choice of beef or dog-meat hamburger patties, or if this was a Shen Wa Holdings innovation later on.

When Calbert finally tore his eyes away from the old McDonald’s sign, he gasped—

Parked at the edge of the parking lot was a delivery truck for “Queen of Angels Uniform Rental—Health Care, Security, Food Service, and Industrial.”

Calbert felt torn—conflicted to the depths of his soul. He was a lawyer, sworn to uphold the law; and he was sure that even in 2017, stealing uniforms out of a truck was against the law. Not to mention, stealing was wrong. Yet he had no money to pay for clothes, and he needed clothes.

Calbert reluctantly decided to break into the uniform-rental delivery truck.

He walked out of the alley, and across McDonald’s parking lot, to the rear of the delivery truck. Please don’t let the overhead door be locked! Please don’t let anyone see me!

But the truck wasn’t locked, and nobody came over to find out who was raising the truck’s noisy overhead door. Seconds later, Calbert was inside the truck. Because L.A. still had daylight, Calbert could see inside the truck.

I can’t believe my luck! Calbert thought. Then he worried that his luck was due to turn bad.


Meanwhile, in Bert’s Value Laundromat

The Inseminator walked over to the big-breasted eighteen-year-old blonde. As he dosed the girl with F-Pheromones, he sniffed deeply to take her scent. He asked her, “Do you have the clothes that fit me?”

“No, I’m so sorry. I, like, just broke up with my boyfriend.”

“Are you Shara Boehner?”

What? No, my name is Tiffany Miller.” The blonde bit her lip. “Um, my professional name is Haley Humpsalot.”

“Why do you have two names that are very different?”

“I do adult films.” Tiffany wrapped her hair around a finger. “Have you thought of doing porn?” She added casually, “I could introduce you around.”

“I am not familiar with this kind of conversation. Do you want to fuck me?”

“Are you kidding? With those muscles you’ve got, I’d drag you off to my apartment right now if I didn’t have clothes in the dryer.”

“This will not happen. I will not have sex with you.”

“Oh shit, you’re gay, aren’t you?”

“ ‘Gay’? This is an old word meaning ‘homosexual,’ yes? I will not have sex with you because you are not Shara Boehner, and because sex with you will not fulfill my mission.”

“Ohmigod, you’re really telling me no? But I’m the hottest woman here!”

“Goodbye,” the Inseminator said. He walked away.

Behind him, Tiffany’s voice called out, “Are my boobs not big enough?”


The Inseminator next walked up to a brunette in her thirties who was wearing a wedding ring. Her nostrils flared as the Inseminator dosed her with F-Pheromones. His own nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, sniffing her.

He asked her, “Do you have the clothes that will fit me?”

Not suitable, the scent-analyzer in his nose told him.

The brunette licked her lips. “Yes, my husband’s sneakers are in the dryer, and I think they would fit you. He has big … feet also.”

“Bring ssem to me,” the Inseminator commanded.

She hurried away. At the dryer, she hissed in pain. Seconds later, she returned, handing the Inseminator two painfully hot high-top sneakers. The Inseminator was unbothered by the pain as he took the sneakers.

The Inseminator pulled on the hot sneakers. They fit. “You have done well,” he told the brunette.

She started to breathe faster.

The Inseminator said “Goodbye” and walked away, as the married brunette looked disappointed.

The Inseminator did not ask the brunette her name, because she was not blond, not big-breasted, and not young, so she could not be Shara Boehner. Also, the brunette’s scent was not suitable; and so the Inseminator could not fulfill his programming with her. Thus it was a waste of time to talk to her further.


The third woman whom the Inseminator walked up to, was in her twenties. She had no clothes that would fit the Inseminator, and her scent made her not suitable. Also, she was small-breasted; she could not be Shara Boehner.

The Inseminator talked with her for only twelve seconds before he said goodbye and walked away.


The fourth, fifth, and sixth women whom the Inseminator talked to, were the same as the third woman. Meaning, none of those three had any clothing in the washer or dryer that the Inseminator could wear; and each woman had a scent deemed not suitable.

Not to mention, none of the three women even slightly matched Shara Boehner’s description of “age eighteen, natural blond hair, blue eyes, and enormous breasts.”

The Inseminator talked to each of these three women for as short a time as possible.


The seventh woman was in her late thirties, a bottle-redhead, and overweight. She wore an engagement ring and wedding ring on the third finger of her right hand.

“I have some jeans that I think will fit you,” the woman told the Inseminator. “But the washer is in Rinse cycle now. If I pull the jeans out now, they’ll be dripping wet.”

“Do it,” the Inseminator commanded.

The redhead opened the lid on the washing machine, waited for the washing machine to stop, and pulled out a pair of wet jeans. Meanwhile, the Inseminator’s scent-analyzer had been at work; now the scent-analyzer reported Suitable.

“What is your name?” the Inseminator asked the redhead, as he began to release O-Pheromones. Meanwhile, he was pulling on the soaking-wet jeans.

“Jenette Bukater,” she said. After she panted with arousal for several seconds, she said sadly, “Now you’re all dressed. Shoes, socks, boxers, pants, and shirt.”

The Inseminator gifted Jenette with a sexy smile—which made her hard nipples poke out her blouse even farther. “Jenette”—the Inseminator’s Austrian accent pronounced it che-NET—“would you rather that I get undressed? Do you want to fuck me?”

God, yes! I need to be fucked right now!

One minute later, Jenette Bukater and the Inseminator, both naked, were fucking on the floor of the laundromat.

As six other women watched.

Tiffany Miller, a.k.a. Harriet Humpsalot, muttered, “With a dick that big and those muscles, it’s sad that he won’t do porn. He’d make a killing.”


Slap-slap-slap-slap. Jenette’s pussy felt full.

Jenette gasped, as her slurpy pussy was deliciously pistoned.

Slap-slap. Jenette’s muscular lover smiled at her. “Chust you wait, baby. I’m going to make you see stars.”


Jenette’s first climax hit only seconds later.


After the Inseminator and Jenette finished fucking, he kissed her on the mouth, then he murmured in her ear.

Right afterward, the Inseminator stood up, pulled on his clothes, and walked over to the laundromat’s door.

Jenette still lay on the floor. The Inseminator looked in Jenette’s eyes and said jauntily, “I’ll be back, baby.” (This despite he not having asked Jenette for her street address, her email address, or her phone number.)

With those words spoken, he walked out of the laundromat. Seven women’s eyes watched him leave, but nobody spoke.


Meanwhile, in the McDonald’s parking lot

Calbert stepped out of the uniform-rental truck and shut the truck’s overhead door (as quietly as he could).

As he did these things, he snorted at his own folly. A few minutes ago, had he really thought I can’t believe my luck? Calbert had worried that his luck was about to turn bad—and boy, did it.

Oh, he had not been caught in the truck stealing clothes—he at least had been spared this disaster. No, his bad luck was that he could not find more than one piece of clothing of any one type that would fit him.

Calbert looked at his reflection in a side window of a nearby car. He was wearing—

• a khaki work shirt with “Dun-Rite Auto Repairs” embroidered over one breast pocket, and “Bob K.” embroidered over the other breast pocket;

• navy-blue security-guard slacks with black-satin stripes covering the ward seams;

• white-leather male-nurse shoes with gum-rubber soles; and

• to keep his head warm, Calbert was wearing a white starched chef’s hat.

Calbert was disgusted. Even if he did find Shara Boehner before the Inseminator did, how could Calbert expect Shara to take him seriously when he looked like a clown?

Another thing bothering him: He, Calbert Reesescup, had stolen. He had broken the law. He felt ashamed.


An hour later, when Jenette Bukater drove away from the laundromat in her car, she drove straight to the drugstore.

Her mysterious lover had given her an order, and it was unthinkable that she disobey him.

At the drugstore, Jenette bought a home pregnancy test—and a can of Aqua Net Hairspray.

When Jenette used the HPT, she discovered she was pregnant—just as her muscular lover had predicted.

Jenette was nervous about becoming a mother again at her age. But she discovered that styling her hair into a bouffant hairdo, then setting her hair in place with several long sprays of Aqua Net, relaxed her.

Buy The Inseminator today! You know you want to.

Smashwords—your choice of formats

Whom was the Terminator Modeled After?

Arnold Schwarzenegger has been in four Terminator movies (T1, T2, T3, and Terminator: Genisys). In 1984, Arnold was tall and Arnold was muscular, and James Cameron wanted his scary killer cyborg from the future to be tall and muscular, so it was a no-brainer to cast Arnold, right?

Not necessarily. Arnold also came with his Austrian accent. James Cameron could have easily cast a made-in-America bodybuilder to play the Terminator, but for whatever reason, Cameron didn’t; nor did Cameron dub Arnold’s spoken lines (as was done in Hercules in New York). Okay, fine, so here’s this killer machine who speaks with an Austrian accent, and nobody notices. Arnold’s accent wouldn’t be so bad a problem for the Terminator movies except that they have never explained why a machine whose purpose was to infiltrate and to kill humans in Los Angeles of the future would have an Austrian accent.

I must presume that in the world of the story, Skynet did not simply invent the 800-series Terminator, but instead modeled the Series 800 after some tall, muscular Austrian. But who? It’s a complete mystery who this man was, and why Skynet chose him as the model instead of, say, Steve Reeves or Charles Atlas.

Well, it might be an mystery whom the Terminator was modeled after, but it won’t be a mystery to readers of The Inseminator whom my evil cyborg from the future is modeled after. My characters [Sarah] and [Kyle] seek out a certain Austrian man who looks and sounds exactly like the Inseminator, because this tall, strong Austrian man might know how to defeat the Inseminator.


I’m currently working on the next-to-last chapter of The Inseminator. The book will be out soon.

Hasta la vista, babies.

EDITED TO ADD (2017.08.14): Like I said, there is no canonical explanation (meaning, in any of the movies) of who was the model for the 800-Series Terminator. But in T2: Infiltrator, an uncanonical novel by S. M. Stirling, the story holds that the Terminator is based on “former counterterrorism operative Dieter von Rossbach.”

Look What I’ve Done to THE TERMINATOR’s Most Famous Line!

From The Inseminator: A Parody chapter 7—

Gloria spoke like a queen [to the Inseminator]: “This is private property. You are not allowed in here. Now leave.”

[snip—Gloria figured that the man would leave.] Gloria went back to working on her crossword puzzle.

“[Sarah Connor] ist hier,” the man said. “I demand to see her.”

Gloria did not reply, or look at the man, but she casually pulled out her can of pepper spray and laid it on the desk.

The man said, “I will return, and you will be punished when I return. I will punish you creatively, and you will weep whenever you remember—”

Gloria did not look up from her crossword puzzle. “Yeah, fine, I get the message: You’ll be back.”