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!

Smashwords—your choice of formats


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.

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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.”

Australia Is Buying My Book with an Aussie Character!


Right now, the ebook The Hypno-Talkers of Zlar FOUR-IN-ONE is number 9,736 in the Australia Kindle Store. Yay!

I’ve written four stories in the “Hypno-Talker of Zlar” series, in which aliens from Zlar kidnap Earth women onto small spaceships, take the women to the Zlarian mothership, and turn the women into surrogate mothers for Zlarian alien babies. How the Zlarians get Earth women to board the small spaceships: by hand-held devices, hypno-talkers, that each look like a computer tablet but with two push-buttons and a speaker grille. The Zlarians hypnotize the women to board the little spaceships; when the women awaken from their trance; it is *ominous music* too late.

I am a writer of softcore-porn mind-control stories, so I was mainly interested in what happened when the alien hypno-talkers fell into the wrong hands. (Meaning, ordinary American men looking for sex.) But I was also exploring the idea of “Why would aliens kidnap Earth women? And what would it take to get the aliens to stop?” So from time to time in the four stories, I returned to what was going on with the Zlarians and the Earth-women kidnappees.

In Book 3 (Revenge at College), one of the little spaceships lands in Wheat City, Kansas—but instead of this spaceship kidnapping more Earth women, nineteen previously-kidnapped women walk down the ramp. These women come from every part of Earth—France, Africa, and Argentina, to name just three. Fortunately for the kidnappees, one of their group is a native English speaker who can talk to the American characters.

But she is not American herself. No, she is Sheila Blackburn of Brisbane, Queensland, in Australia. She soon becomes a major headache for the U.S. Army, after the Army re-kidnaps the just-released women.


I wanted a returned-kidnappee character to be a native English speaker but not be American. My first impulse was to make her English. But then I thought about how the Zlarians would wind up with their English-speaking kidnappee. The Zlarians care nothing about Earth’s national boundaries, politics, or history. I’m sorry, UK readers, but the British Isles are tiny, compared to the rest of the world; so to the Zlarians, hitting the UK would be near the bottom of their list. Much higher on their list would be hitting Earth’s major continents. Which means that my not-American, English-speaking woman would have to be either Canadian or Australian.

Now, having pissed off the United Kingdom, let me piss off Canada. Even though the USA and Canada are geographic neighbors and I’m American, I have never been to Canada.

I have, however, visited Australia.

I went on a month’s vacation/holiday to Australia when I was twenty-four. (When was I twenty-four? Sometime between last year and 1770, which was when Captain James Cook claimed Australia for the British Crown.)

I visited Perth and Sydney, with a side trip to Canberra (Australia’s national capital). I traveled from Perth to Sydney by airplane; I regret not having made that trip by train. I found the Australians to be friendly, and I enjoyed their company (despite their puzzling fondness for Vegemite spread). I bought a book on Australia history—which for an American, is fascinating reading at times. (For instance, in 1865 a bunch of disgruntled Confederates emigrated from North America to Australia.)

In Sydney, I lived on meat pies. (For Americans, a meat pie is like a pot pie but with a thicker bottom crust, so that it can stand on its own when it’s out of its pie pan.)

Anyway, all this personal history of mine is how I came up with the character of Sheila Blackburn from Brisbane, Australia, who was kidnapped and in vitro fertilized by aliens, but who now finds herself in Kansas, USA.

(And yes, Australia, I’m very aware that sheila is Australian slang for a desirable woman.)


Here is the sales blurb and sales links.

Aliens from Zlar need Earth women to make Zlarian babies. How do the aliens lure the women onto the spaceship? With hypnotic alien technology.

What happens when this hypnotic technology falls into the wrong hands?

What will the U.S. government do when its conspiracy to hush up the alien raids is threatened?

Who will become unlikely heroes? Who winds up getting the girl(s)?

This book holds four stories—

The Hypno-Talker of Zlar—Kevin, an old man, can’t stop his women neighbors from walking onto a spaceship. Then the U.S. Army shows up, and things get worse instead of better.

Hypno-Talker’s First Download—Kevin has put complete plans for building a hypno-talker on the internet, but Netizens think the thing’s a scam. One desperate man downloads those plans, builds a hypno-talker, and tries it out. This is his story.

Revenge at College—A sorority girl publicly humiliates a nerd. But Jerry finds a way to get even.

Nerd Saves Women—Nerd Egbert decides to rescue nineteen women and a sick alien who are being held prisoner by the U.S. Army, merely for walking off of a spaceship. Egbert’s goal seems impossible—for one thing, his only weapon is a wooden sword.

This is the compilation of all four “Hypno-Talkers of Zlar” stories. This book is 88,600 words.

Fiction > Erotica
Fiction > Humorous
Fiction > Science Fiction > Space Opera
Fiction > Short Stories (single author)
Fiction > War & Military
Fiction > Thrillers > Technological
Humor > Form > Parodies

Fair-Dinkum Aussie Sales Links for The Hypno-Talkers of Zlar FOUR-IN-ONE
Kindle AU
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A Teaser for THE INSEMINATOR: Aqua Net Hairspray

Here’s a riddle for you: I just spent fifteen minutes researching Aqua Net (the hairspray), which is manufactured by Lornamead Brands, Inc. (Lornamead Brands, I have just learned, bought Aqua Net from Unilever in 2006.) How do you think Aqua Net will figure into my Terminator parody?

HINT: I have a weird sense of humor.


Eighteen-year-old Marvin Harper is a good guy: He tutors Anna Kay in trig for free. Admittedly, part of the reason Marvin does this is that Anna Kay Henderson is a big-breasted cheerleader, and Marvin has a crush on her. Marvin is five-foot-two, a bullied nonentity at his high school, and tutoring Anna Kay is the closest that Marvin figures he will ever come to rescuing a damsel in distress.

Then Marvin’s dislikable but oh-so-rich great-uncle dies, and Marvin inherits a brass oil lamp. Marvin is sure that the lamp is an old, cheap fake. He polishes the lamp with brass polish, planning to sell the lamp on eBay.

Surprise, surprise—out smokes green-dressed genie Fatima.

Thus begins the 58-year friendship between Marvin and Fatima. They are always genie-master and genie, yes; but they also become friends and lovers. Marvin treats Fatima with kindness however he can. Likewise, Fatima almost always agrees to Marvin’s magical requests.

Fatima trusts, respects, and admires Marvin—this leads Fatima to give Marvin more than he asks for when he makes his wishes. From Fatima’s wish-grants, Marvin becomes six-foot-eight, the strongest man in the world, one of the richest men in the world, and an alpha male whom men defer to and women desire.

Marvin has not changed inside; he still wants to help people in trouble. Well, now he can. Less than a week after Marvin makes his wishes, he becomes famous as “the hero billionaire” when he rescues two children from a burning house.

Of course, helping people in trouble sometimes means thwarting the schemes of bad guys. In a world where seven genies are real, djinn are real, and demons are real, Marvin discovers that there are all sorts of bad guys—and not all of them can be stopped by a sock to the jaw. Even with all Marvin’s muscles and all his wealth, and even with Fatima by his side, sometimes Marvin must be brave and clever if he hopes to win the day.

Included in this compilation are three previously published novellas/novels, and a bonus short story—

Three More Wishes: Be Kind to Your Genie: an evil genie-master decides she wants more than just her own brass bottle and her own genie. She plans to steal Marvin’s brass lamp, and Fatima with it.

• “Kristin Tells (Mostly) All”: A kidnapper is holding Marvin’s ex-lover Kristin Curry, threatening to kill her if Marvin does not pay a five-million-dollar ransom. Marvin believes that the kidnapper will kill Kristin whether Marvin pays up or not. Kristin believes Fatima is only Marvin’s housekeeper; this limits Marvin’s options.

One More Genie: A Mafia hitman finds a genie lamp. The hitman is evil, and his genie (Kharmesh of the Blue Tribe of Djinn) is Fatima’s sworn enemy. Meanwhile Hakeezib, Chief of the Blue Tribe of Djinn, is working his own evil plan, which will surely kill Marvin.

More Genie Problems: Can the Hero Billionaire Hold off Judgment Day?: The good news is that Marvin becomes Master of two more genies. The bad news is that even three genies working together are not powerful enough to block a demoness’s plot to cause the Apocalypse.

Here’s what you get in this book—
• 4 complete stories
• 8 interior illustrations
• 121 chapters
• 264 thousand words

Fiction > Action & Adventure
Fiction > Fantasy > Contemporary
Fiction > Fantasy > Action & Adventure
Fiction > Romance > Fantasy
Fiction > Thrillers > Crime
Fiction > Coming Of Age
Fiction > Crime
Religion > General

Tags: magic, genie, wishes, romance, action, apocalypse, Judgment Day, male dominant, male-female, sexy, demon pact, mind control, alpha male, billionaire, damsel in distress, female submissive, harem, threesome, oral sex, male virgin, lesbian to bi, lesbian submissive, Mafia, crime, kidnapping, demons and Hell, forced feminization, virtue rewarded

Buy Wishes, Genies, Sex, and Death NOW! You know you want to!

First nine chapters of ONE MORE GENIE—FREE!
MORE GENIE PROBLEMS—first six chapters are FREE!

My Marvin & Fatima Ebook Is Almost Here, and It’s Huge!

I’m just one or two days away from uploading Wishes, Genies, Sex, and Death, my compilation of my three “Marvin and Fatima” stories.[*]

I’ve completed the bonus story for the compilation, “Kristin Tells (Mostly) All.” The new story clocks in at fourteen thousand words and nine chapters. The story: Kristin, a young woman formerly in billionaire Marvin’s harem, is interviewed on television; two weeks later, she is kidnapped and held for a five-million-dollar ransom. What does she think about what she sees and hears, when she has no clue that Marvin is a genie-master?

Anyway, back to the compilation. Even I was surprised at how big it’s going to be—

• 4 complete stories
• 8 interior illustrations
• 121 chapters total
• 264 thousand words total

The price for all this will be only one dollar more than Three More Wishes alone.


* To remind you, the three already-published “Marvin and Fatima” stories are—

Three More Wishes: Be Kind to Your Genie
One More Genie
More Genie Problems: Can the Hero Billionaire Hold off Judgment Day?



To remind you, soon I will be coming out with a compilation ebook that will have three genie-related, previously-published novel(la)s in it—

Three More Wishes: Be Kind to Your Genie
One More Genie
More Genie Problems: Can the Hero Billionaire Hold off Judgment Day?

The compilation will also contain a brand-new short story that is set in the MOREverse, “Kristin Tells (Mostly) All.” This blog post is to give you more news about this new story.

Kristin Curry is a former member of Marvin Harper’s harem who now is attending Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. One day in the Campus Center (a.k.a. student union), Kristin is accidentally outed as a former haremée of “the hero billionaire.” Within a few days, Kristin is interviewed by the college newspaper and she sits down to a national television interview; she also has landed a book deal.

Two weeks after her television interview, Kristin is kidnapped. The kidnapper demands five million dollars from Marvin Harper; else he will kill Kristin. Kristin has good reason to believe that the kidnapper’s threat is real.

If you’ve read the three main stories in the series, you have a good idea how things will play out. (SPOILER ALERT: Good triumphs over Evil.) The fun for me is figuring out how Kristin would interpret what she sees and hears, when she has no clue that her former high-school classmate is a genie-master or that Marvin’s housekeeper Fatima is a genie.

Thank god that Al Gore invented the internet! Fictional Kristin lives at Smith College and attends Smith College, so in the winning-the-lottery unlikely chance that any real-life Smithies read my story, I have to get my facts right. Fortunately, between Google and YouTube, such research is not an impossible task, though I’ve never set foot in the state of Massachusetts.

But folks, appreciate the irony. If you’ve read my books, you know what my opinions about feminism are; and yet I’m trying to accurately portray an elite women’s college, from which Gloria Steinem graduated in 1956.



Sometime when I was a preteen, I watched an old movie (1950s) on TV. The villain, a mad scientist, had a young woman who was a hot babe (by 1950s standards) standing nearby. She was blank-faced and obviously hypnotized. “Kill [the hero],” the mad scientist ordered his hypnotized slave. She walked away; the next scene showed her attacking the hero, trying to kill him. Of course she failed spectacularly.

Even though I was not interested in girls (yet) when I watched that movie, I knew that eventually I would be interested; and I knew that normally, adult men (of which the mad scientist was one) were very interested in beautiful women. After I watched the scene I’ve just described, I wondered why the mad scientist used the hypnotized beauty as a soldier (a job which she was clearly unsuited for), rather than use the entranced beauty for … whatever men did with beautiful women. (At age ten, I was clueless about sex.)

Roughly ten years later, when I recalled that scene, I realized that the mad scientist had been indeed using the hypnotized beauty for sex—but the prim 1950s movie had not shown those times.

This scene with the mad scientist and his sex slave, in some forgotten 1950s low-budget movie, was my introduction to erotic mind control. I have been interested in the topic ever since.

Sometime between 2000 and 2009, I discovered, a website where people posted mind-control (MC) porn stories. After reading enough stories, I discovered that in some of them, the mind-controller was out-and-out evil; he would destroy someone’s life on a flimsy pretext or for no reason at all. (For instance, turning a momentarily impatient Starbucks barista into a one-dollar streetwalker.) Anyway, I decided that I did not like mind-control stories where the mind-controller was sociopathic. In the other direction, I read stories where the mind-controller was a truly nice guy—when he wasn’t boinking a babe, he was trying to make life good for her. “Nice-guy mind controllers” realized that because they could control a woman’s mind, they now had responsibility for her life; and nice-guy mind-controllers took their responsibilities seriously.

So needless to say, when I wrote my first two stories for MCStories, “Names Have Power” and “Three More Wishes,” those stories featured nice-guy mind controllers.

Once I started writing stories for publication, I mostly continued to write nice-guy mind controllers. Only James Upton (The Bimborg) and John Fairchild (Ye Olde Book of Magic) have an attitude of I’m going to use my mind-control powers to get sex with a hottie, and I don’t care about the woman at all. Some of the heroes of my stories are motivated by a need for vengeance against a woman who “done him wrong.” Kevin MacDonald (The Hypno-Talker of Zlar), Odysseus Popeil (Hypno-Talker’s First Download) and Jerry Green (Revenge at College) are this way—they don’t always act like choirboys, but the reader understands why, and the reader understands that this is not how these characters normally behave.

But these characters are truly nice toward the women they’ve mind-controlled—

• Tim Hanson (Names Have Power)
• Marvin Harper (Three More Wishes/One More Genie/More Genie Problems/Marvin and Fatima THREE-IN-ONE)
• Charlie-Bob Owens (The Bimborg)
• Egbert Whitehall (Nerd Saves Women)
• Jimmy Bailey (Bimbo-Midas)
• Charlie Moore (Ring of the Wizard Vampire)
• John Bradford (The Mind-Power Avenger)

Some years back, I had an idea
The idea was this: When a nice-guy mind-controller is not schtupping hot babes, how else is he using his mind-control powers? He is righting wrongs that only he can make right again.

We all know that there are bad guys who do evil things but don’t need to worry about consequences. If they’re crooked cops, other cops will lie for them. Crooked lawyers can pretty much use the court system as their personal playground. (Google “Prenda Law”; what Steele and Hansmeier did was outrageous—yet nothing has happened to them.) Rich guys can hire lobbyists to bamboozle legislators into passing weaker laws; rich guys can bribe legislators directly; and if government investigators do come, rich guys can hire lawyers to create legal smokescreens.

So what I’ve done was to invent a hero who can bring belated justice to those kinds of bad guys. Unlike Batman, John Bradford doesn’t punch out the bad guys; unlike the Punisher, Bradford doesn’t shoot the bad guys. If the bad guys subject John to a metal detector or a patdown, they discover he’s carrying no weapons. So the bad guys think John Bradford is harmless and they underestimate them. BIG mistake—because John Bradford is a mind-controller, and a powerful one.

In this and future books, John Bradford will be able to find out who the bad guys are (no matter how much they try to hide their true identities), John will be able to get to the bad guys (no matter what kind of gatekeepers and bodyguards they have), then John will deal out justice.

I’m looking forward to writing those stories, for the same reason I enjoyed watching episodes of “Tales from the Crypt.” That reason is: John will bring justice to bad guys. Justice, at its most basic, means “Nobody can shit on someone else and get away with it.”


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Ploryunv, an alien, is stranded on Earth, and eighteen-year-old John Bradford helps Ploryunv fix his spaceship. In the process, Ploryunv uses an alien device on John—the result is that John now uses all of his brain. John, besides becoming smarter, now can read minds, take control of another person’s body, and plant suggestions in someone’s mind that she thinks are her own idea.

With his new mental abilities, it would be easy for John to score sex with hot babes. BUT—

The same day that John gets his new mental powers, John’s parents are murdered by mobsters. John decides to use his new powers to hunt down the scumbags and to take deadly revenge on them.

Sex with hot babes will have to wait for later.

This is the first story in the THE MIND-POWER AVENGER series. Think what The Shadow would be like if he weren’t so prissy about using his “power to cloud men’s minds”; or imagine The Punisher with mind-control powers. John will rid the world of evildoers who, because of money or lawyers or a gold badge or hired muscle, think themselves safe from justice.

Fiction > Action & Adventure
Fiction > Mystery & Detective > Amateur Sleuth
Fiction > Science Fiction > Alien Contact
Fiction > Thrillers > Crime
Fiction > Coming Of Age
Fiction > Crime

Tags: action, alien, alien contact, coming of age, crime, female virgin, male dominant, male-female, mind control, murder, oral sex, revenge, virtue rewarded

The novella is 25,900 words.


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THE MIND-POWER AVENGER: First Three Chapters


Chapter 1
On the Run

Early Saturday morning
Sometime between bedtime and dawn
A house in suburban West Burlington, Iowa

My shoulder was being shaken. “John, wake up,” Dad said.

It was an ordinary night, leading into an ordinary day. In my dark bedroom, the clock said the time was—

“Lemme sleep,” I mumbled, as I tried to turn over.

Dad slipped into his “controlled” voice—

“John. You’re eighteen. I need you to act eighteen. I need you awake and helping us.”

By us, Dad meant Mom and me. I was the only child of Josh and Jen Bradford.

Usually Dad slipped into his “controlled” voice when he was angry but would not let himself show it—when he was talking to a difficult customer at Bradford’s Furniture Paradise. But Dad had also spoken in “controlled voice” whenever weather in Iowa had acted especially crazy.

Dad is scared of something, I thought. I completely woke up in an instant.

Seconds later, I was on my feet and pulling on my clothes. Dad said, “As soon as you can, back your car up to the garage and pop the trunk.” Dad rushed from the room.


Minutes later

I walked down to the dark curb and started my car. Motion caught my eye: Two dark shapes moved across my rear-view mirror.

The garage door was open, and all the lights were on. Mom’s and Dad’s Ford Expedition SUV was turned around, facing the street, and was parked on the driveway almost to the grass. The back of the SUV was open, granting access from the garage.

I backed up my old Impala next to the SUV and popped the Impala’s trunk. Dad immediately yanked the trunk-lid as high as it would go.

Meanwhile, I had set my car’s parking brake. I was just about to turn off my headlights and shut off my engine, when I saw—

Mom standing on the front porch of the Olsens’ house, with Fatso on a leash.

(Fatso was our Greyhound dog. The name was Dad’s idea of a joke—no matter how much dog food any greyhound eats, the dog always looks like a starveling.)

I saw old Mr. Olsen take Fatso’s leash. He and Mom said a few more words, then Mom hurried off the Olsens’ porch, straight for our house.

As soon as I killed the Impala’s engine and climbed out of my car, Dad said, “John, there’s a bag of dog food in the laundry room, and another bag here in the garage.—”

WHUMP. What made that noise?

“—Carry both bags of dog food over to the Olsens’ porch.”

My brain was still trying to figure out the WHUMP. I looked in my trunk—now there was a big olive-drab canvas duffel bag in there. “Dad, what is that?”

Dad answered in “controlled voice”: “Something that never leaves your trunk, till I say it’s safe. Got me?

“Um, sure, Dad.”

He nodded. “I need you to haul dog food over to the Olsens’ now. Go.”

As I was carrying two big bags of dog food across the street, I thought, Now we won’t be unique anymore. Nobody else I knew—none of my relatives, none of my friends, none of my neighbors, none of my former classmates at West Burlington High School—owned a greyhound dog.

It was only later, as I was carrying armfuls of clothes and throwing the clothes onto the back seat of the Impala, that I realized, Not having a greyhound with us makes it harder for someone to trace us.


A half-hour later
In the garage

The SUV and my Impala were all loaded up, mostly with ugly piles of clothes. We had chosen speed of loading over grace—if we had not had a cardboard box in the house to put things inside of, we had not bothered with driving to an all-night Wal-Mart to beg boxes.

I did not ask Dad why we did not drive over to Bradford’s Furniture Paradise and pull cardboard boxes out of the Dumpster. I already knew that the cardboard boxes that came to the Receiving dock of a furniture store were usually way too big to fit in an SUV, much less my car.

Anyway, now we were ready to leave—for where, I still had no idea—when Dad held out a hand to me and a hand to Mom. “Give me your phones.”

Mom and Dad exchanged looks, then Mom opened her purse. But I hesitated. “What do you need my phone for? I have pictures on it. And apps.”

“John, I don’t have time to explain.”

Please, John,” Mom said, “give your father your phone.”

It was obvious: Mom was scared of whatever Dad was scared of. So I handed over my smartphone. Dad disappeared into the house. When he returned to the garage, his hands were empty.

I thought, If we used our phones, we’d be easy to track. Without our phones, we can be tracked only by credit cards.

Dad said to me, “Stay behind us on the road, but close enough that you can see what we’re doing. If we get separated, we’ll pull onto the shoulder so that you can catch up to us. If you need to talk to us, honk your horn three times and I’ll pull onto the shoulder. You got all that?”

I nodded.

“One other thing: Don’t speed, don’t run any lights. Do nothing so any cop notices you.”

Again I nodded.

“Great. Let’s go.”

Mom and Dad got into the SUV, I got into the Impala, then I followed the SUV down the driveway.

Under a black, nighttime sky.

Thus I left the house where I had lived since I had been three years old.

I was sure I would never see that house again.


Map of IA, NE, and SD

A little after nine that morning

In Fort Dodge, Iowa, my parents’ SUV and my Impala were parked at the edge of a grocery-store parking lot. Dad told me to pop the Impala’s trunk. Dad was holding packing tape in his hand; Mom was holding an empty cardboard box and a paper grocery sack.

Once the Impala’s trunk lid was up, Dad told Mom and me to stand close to the trunk, “so other people can’t see what I’m up to.”

I asked, “What are you up to?”

Dad did not answer with words. He unlocked the padlock on the olive-green duffel bag—which now I noticed, had his name and initials and his Social Security number stenciled on it. Dad reached into the bag and pulled out light-blue shirts with Bradford stenciled on the shirts, bell-bottom blue jeans, and a weirdly shaped brimless white cap—

Then Dad pulled out cash. Lots of cash. Handful after handful of cash.

I choked. “Dad, where did you get all this?”

It was Mom who answered: “John, it’s best you not know.”

It took forty-five minutes, but Dad pulled out at least 106 thousand dollars in bills; I know the amount because Mom and Dad counted it. Dad put $106,483 in the paper grocery sack, and taped the sack shut. Mom wrote on one side of the sack, “To pay off Bradford’s Furniture Paradise loan.”

After that, things were almost normal. The paper sack full of cash was placed in the cardboard box (message-side up), the box was taped shut, and the box was addressed to the loan officer at the Community Bank back home. Then we drove around till we found a post office, and Dad mailed the box.

In the parking lot of a post office in Fort Dodge, Iowa, Dad explained, “The West Burlington Community Bank loaned me money for the furniture store. I had to default. This has always bothered me, but now we’re square.”

Naturally, I had questions then. Neither Mom nor Dad answered my questions.

Before we parted to get back into our respective cars, Dad looked at me and repeated, “My seabag never leaves your trunk. And you don’t open your trunk for anybody but your mother or me. You understand?”


The next day, we arrived in Crawford, Nebraska. Crawford was where my cousin Danny owned a junkyard. Dad and I swapped out our Iowa license plates for Nebraska license plates (of which Cousin Danny had plenty).

By then, I did not feel an urge to comment on the swapping-out of license plates. I had figured out that we were fleeing from someone. The police? The FBI? Interpol? John Gotti? The Russian Mafia? It would have been nice to know what resources our mysterious opponent commanded, but Dad and Mom still were being closed-mouthed.

After we swapped out the license plates, I asked Mom and Dad, “Now where to?”

Mom said, “South Dakota.”

I asked, “What’s in South Dakota?”

“Good question,” Dad said. Mom and Dad had another looks-conversation, then Dad opened the SUV’s door and pulled out the road atlas.

Dad opened the road atlas to the page that showed South Dakota. “What’s in South Dakota?” he repeated.

Dad looked up at the sky, as his finger stabbed down. Then Dad looked down and lifted his finger. He announced, “The town of Fishy Lake is where we’re going.”

On the South Dakota map, Fishy Lake was a dot a little west of Sioux Falls.

We arrived at the real Fishy Lake, the town, the next day in late afternoon.

Chapter 2
Normal Life—for a Few Days

We arrived in Fishy Lake, South Dakota, 2-1/2 days after we fled West Burlington, Iowa. The first thing we did in Fishy Lake was to stop at Martin’s Family Restaurant.

Once we had been seated at a booth, Mom said, “I need to call Joan Olsen. About Fatso.”

Dad said, “No, Jen, you don’t. Otherwise we might as well buy an ad in the New York Times: ‘We’re in Fishy Lake.’ ”

I asked, “Why do you need to call Mrs. Olsen about Fatso?”

Mom said, “Because I didn’t tell Harold that Fatso is allergic to shellfish, so read the ingredients before you buy dog food. Fatso almost died when he was a puppy, and I don’t want his death on my conscience.”

Dad said, “If it keeps my family safe, I can let all sorts of things bother my conscience.” Dad shot Mom a look.

By now, Mom had pulled a five-dollar bill from her purse. As she stood up, she said, “It will be one phone call, Josh, and it won’t even be my phone.”

Mom walked away, asking other customers whether she could “rent” somebody’s phone. Meanwhile, Dad was muttering, “Jen, I left your phone on the kitchen counter just so I wouldn’t have to worry about this exact shit.” Dad huffed in annoyance.

When Mom returned to our booth, she was biting her lip. After she sat down, she leaned forward and said quietly, “Last night, our house was broken into.”


It turned out that Fishy Lake was nineteen miles from Sioux Falls, South Dakota; and Sioux Falls was within rock-throwing distance of Iowa’s northwest corner. Sioux Falls was nowhere close to West Burlington, Iowa—but couldn’t Dad have picked a place in west South Dakota? If the geography also bothered Mom or Dad, neither one mentioned it.

It took less than a day to rent a house in Fishy Lake. Perhaps the rental process was quick because Dad paid for the first month’s rent, the last month’s rent, and the security deposit all with seabag cash.

As soon as we could, the three of us went to the local DMV office. We got South Dakota plates on our cars, and applied for South Dakota driver’s licenses. Admittedly, we did this not because we were law-abiding citizens but because these actions made our cars unnoticeable again.

A day after this, Dad landed a job as a salesman at Furniture USA in Sioux Falls. This annoyed Dad for two reasons. The bigger reason was that going from furniture-store owner to furniture salesman was a big comedown. The second reason that Dad was unhappy was that Furniture USA in West Burlington had been the main reason that Bradford’s Furniture Paradise had struggled to stay in business these last few years.

Meanwhile, Mom papered Sioux Falls with résumés for bookkeeper, but these things take time. For the moment, Mom was back to being a housewife.

I took a job at Chick-fil-A. The job turned out to be what I expected, except that their “You get Sundays off” rule did not have any wiggle-room or fine print in it.

In theory, guaranteed Sundays off meant that I could plan on spending Sundays with my mother, and either Sunday mornings or Sunday evenings with Dad.

In practice, I was not spending any more time with my parents than I had to, since we had arrived in Fishy Lake. By Sunday, it had been eight days since I had been roused from bed and we three had fled the only home I had ever known; and yet my parents had never offered any explanation for their panicky behavior.

So Sunday, I slept late, ate breakfast with Mom (Dad was already at work), then I climbed into the Impala. I spent the entire day (and some of the night) driving aimlessly around rural southeastern South Dakota.

The last time I saw Dad alive was Saturday night. The last time I saw Mom alive was Sunday morning.

Chapter 3
I Meet Ploryunv the Alien

I found the abandoned farm on Sunday afternoon, while aimlessly driving on some farm road. A big “FOR SALE” sign was visible from the road. The farmhouse was surrounded by a white picket fence; the half-acre of grass enclosed by that fence was knee high. I found nothing in the barn except some moldy hay and a rusty tractor-seat. The farmland that surrounded the farmhouse and barn was not tilled, and only weeds grew there.

I cannot say why I parked my car at that abandoned farm and walked around, instead of driving on. Maybe because of the novelty of the place—I was a city boy, and I had never seen a real farm before. But part of the reason I stayed at that farm was because how alone I was there—I knew only two people in all of South Dakota, I did not want to talk to either of them, I did not want to talk to anyone else, and here I was where not even a chicken could be seen.

So I sat on the hood of my car, which was parked by the empty barn, and I listened to birds and breezes as I watched the sun go low in the western sky.

I watched the sun set.

Ten minutes after sunset, I watched a spaceship come down from the sky and land in the weedy field.


I saw no falling fire like what a meteor makes, or an Earth-made spacecraft performing atmospheric re-entry. Instead, I heard a rumble and I felt a downward wind that made my ears pop. Also, a moving part of the sky shimmered.

I ran around the corner of the barn to watch the shimmer-thing hit the ground. But it did not—at least not forcibly. Twenty feet off the ground, I heard a loud hisss—like air brakes venting—and the shimmer-thing gently dropped onto the dirt of the neglected farm-field.

The shimmer-effect stopped; I was looking at a spaceship.

On the spaceship, a rectangular piece of the hull lifted up, revealing a door underneath. This door opened from top to bottom, becoming a ramp.

An alien walked from inside the spaceship to the top of the ramp.

The alien was about four feet tall. He had thick, wrinkled skin, like an elephant; but his skin was the light yellow-green of an avocado. His arms and legs had no joints; they curved as needed, like tentacles. Each leg-tentacle and arm-tentacle ended in a three-fingered (three-toed) appendage with suction-cups at the very tips.

The alien had a face like a human, with nose and mouth, and ears on the side of his head. But the alien’s eyes traveled on horizontal tracks on his face that started on just outward of the nose and went out and back to just above the alien’s ears.

When the alien first appeared at the top of the ramp, both of his eyes were on the side of his head, like a bird’s eyes. For a minute, maybe two minutes, the alien stood there, not moving except to turn his head back and forth. One “hand” was holding what looked like a computer tablet in a green case; the other “hand” was touching something inside the ship and beside the door.

By now I was forty feet in front of the ramp. I did not move closer, wanting to not frighten the alien. Eventually the alien’s eyes tracked forward to either side of his nose, and the alien tilted his head down to look straight at me. The alien walked down the ramp.

The alien spoke; his tablet spoke to me in Russian. I walked close to the ramp and replied, “This is not Russia. Do you speak English?”

The alien heard my words (translated), then spoke. The tablet said, “Duly noted. Is this Canada or Oosa?”

I replied, “You are in the United States of America. And the abbreviation is pronounced ‘Yu-Ess-Ay,’ not ‘Oosa.’ ”

“Duly noted. My name is Ploryunv.”

“My name is John.”

Ploryunv taught me how to greet someone by bumping our arm-tentacles together, and I taught him about greeting someone by shaking hands.

Then Ploryunv paused, and his eyes slid to the side of his skull. “Will you help me, John of Earth?”

“I’ll help you if I can,” I said. “What help do you need?”

“The uranium-235 oxide in my ship-engine is chemically contaminated. Can you bring me more engine-grade uranium-235 oxide?”

No way,” I said. “Only the USA government can give you this. The problem is, if my government learns about a space alien in South Dakota, I don’t know what exactly will happen next—but you repairing your ship and flying away won’t be what happens next.”

“This is unhappy-making. What about you bringing me pure Uranium-235, and I react it with oxygen myself?”

“Same answer. I cannot, and if you asked my government, my government would grab both you and your ship and never let you go.”

“Again this is unhappy-making. What about you bringing me natural uranium of mixed isotopes?”

“Same answer. I’m sorry.”

Ploryunv worked his tablet then, holding it horizontal as the “fingers” of his other “hand” tapped the tablet’s surface. I was surprised to see that three-dimensional images and diagrams appeared (and soon disappeared) a few inches above the tablet.

About ten minutes later, Ploryunv said to me, “Crystalline carbon, I can use it as a catalyst to remove the contamination. Or is crystalline carbon also blocked by your government?”

I did not know what he meant by crystalline carbon; the alien had to show me a three-dimensional diagram. It turned out that he meant diamond.

“Yes,” I replied, “I can manage that.” I was sure there was enough cash still in the seabag for me to go to a pawnshop and buy a ring set. But I did not have the key to the seabag; I would have to ask Dad for the key.

I told Ploryunv, “If worse comes to worse, I won’t be able to bring you the diamond till tomorrow, and I’ll need to bring another Earth man out here to meet you.” I added bitterly, “Don’t worry, he’s great at keeping secrets.”

It was almost full dark by then, but I was worried that at sunrise, anyone flying overhead (a U.S. Army helicopter, for instance) could see the spaceship. I said as much to Ploryunv. It turned out that while he could not fly his spaceship out into space, he could move it along the ground just fine. He blew air out the bottom of his spaceship, and I gave him guidance with the headlights on my Impala, and between us, we got his spaceship hidden away in the empty barn.

I drove home carefully in the darkness, writing down landmarks, road signs, and trip-odometer readings, so that I could find the abandoned farm again. By the time I was driving on the streets of Fishy Lake, I was in a good mood. I’ve met an actual, no-shit space alien! And better than that, I’m going to help him out!

Jeez, I was so naïve about my future.

My good mood vanished when I turned onto my street.

Three Fishy Lake police cars, two unmarked police cars, two ambulances, a Sioux Falls PD crime-scene van, and a TV-news van, all were parked in front of my house.


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