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.

Now buy What You Want Most: Magically Given!
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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.”


Buy The Mind-Power Avenger now! You know you want to.THE MIND-POWER AVENGER—first three chapters FREE!
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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.


Buy The Mind-Power Avenger now! You know you want to.THE MIND-POWER AVENGER—first three chapters FREE!
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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.


Buy The Mind-Power Avenger now! You know you want to.

Smashwords—your choice of formats



As I told you in an earlier post, I’m working on a new story about a mind-controller who chases down bad guys who are “above the law.”

Here is the unofficial sales blurb for the book—

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 that enables John to use all of his brain. That same day, John’s parents are murdered by mobsters. Yes, John has mind-control powers now; and yes, John uses those powers to get sex; but mainly what John wants is payback against scumbags who think themselves safe.

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.

To repeat: In this the first book, John goes after the lowlifes who murdered his parents. (And yes, at one point in the story, a bat flies up against John’s window.)

Two New Stories Are in the Works


There are two stories that I’m working on right now.

(And alas, The Inseminator is not one of those stories; it’s still stalled.)

Ring of the Wizard Vampire

Mage Draco was not only a nasty vampire, he was also an evil sorcerer. But then Mage Draco was slain on Charlie’s front lawn. Now Charlie has claimed for himself Draco’s ring, which can hypnotize and reprogram vampires, vampire minions, and unbitten humans. But just because the nastiest vampire is now ash does not mean that the vampire problem in Suburba is over. When Charlie is not scoring hot babes, he’s fighting pale bloodsuckers.

The Mind-Power Avenger

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 that enables John to use all of his brain. That same day, John’s parents are murdered by mobsters. Yes, John has mind-control powers now; and yes, John uses those powers to get sex; but mainly what John wants is payback against scumbags who think themselves safe.

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.

BIMBO-MIDAS: First Three Chapters

BIMBO-MIDAS front cover

Gold Coins Returned

AUTHOR’S NOTE A, CHAPTER 1: The SUV driver, a.k.a. GG (short for Golden God), previously appeared in Names Have Power: Tim’s Magic Voice Makes A Harem.

AUTHOR’S NOTE B, CHAPTER 1: The author has never been to Ireland, or even to Great Britain. Irish readers of this story will either roar with laughter or will scream curses at me across the Atlantic.


On a Sunday afternoon in September
Pete’s HiWay Diner and Truck Stop

Jimmy Bailey was halfway through eating his hamburger when he saw the black SUV pull into the parking lot. The shiny black vehicle, with a “Tim Hanson Ford” paper rectangle where the license plate should be, soon parked. Two men climbed out of the SUV.

One man was tall and halfway bald; he wore black slacks, a white long-sleeved dress shirt, and a blue tie.

The SUV’s passenger was short for a grown man, and had red hair and a trimmed red beard and moustache—but oddly, his chin was clean-shaven. His t-shirt, overalls, and casual shoes all were green.

Once the two men entered the diner, a waitress led them to a booth. The tall man slid into that booth; the red-haired man looked around, then pointed to the Restrooms sign.

Right by Jimmy’s own booth was where the collision occurred: A smelly man who was wearing a black t-shirt came striding out of the Men’s Room, and he knocked down the red-haired man.

The smelly man said, “Hey, pipsqueak, watch where yer going.”

The red-haired man—whose hands, butt, and feet now were all on the floor—said, “I must watch where I go? Nay, you big ox, you hairless monkey, ’tis you who needs to watch where you walk. What if I be a child?”

The smelly man’s laugh was cruel. “But you’re not a child, runt. So you don’t deserve shit.”

The smelly man stepped over the fallen man and walked back to his booth. The red-haired man stood up, while muttering in a foreign language, and resumed his trek to the Men’s Room.

He was not in the restroom long. By the time that Jimmy had finished eating and had stood up to pay his bill, the little man had rejoined the SUV driver in their booth.

When Jimmy slid out of his booth, shiny things caught his eye. He looked down to the floor.

Where the red-haired man had been unwillingly sitting, four gold coins lay.

Seconds later, Jimmy was at the short man’s booth. “Pardon me, but you dropped these,” Jimmy said, holding out the coins.

The red-haired man looked surprised, then his hands flew down to slap the pockets of his overalls. Jimmy heard many clink sounds.

Jimmy wondered, How many gold coins is he carrying in those pockets? Has he never heard of a safe-deposit box?

The man with the polka-dot tie said, “Brogus, James Samuel Bailey here did you a big favor, hm?”

The smaller man smiled at Jimmy. “Aye, you are an honest lad. Honest lads need rewarding, I be thinking.”

Hearing that, Jimmy was torn. Jimmy’s student loans were already enough to start crushing him on the day he would graduate from college. After those student loans paid for tuition, books, and his dormitory, Jimmy’s only college-student luxuries were a fast internet connection, visiting his family once a month, and dates with Debbie. In short, if a stranger wanted to give money to Jimmy, Jimmy definitely could make use of that money.

On the other hand, Jimmy had not decided to return the gold coins to finagle a reward, but because the gold clearly belonged to the red-haired stranger.

Jimmy’s conscience won the struggle. After only a second’s pause, Jimmy said, “I didn’t do this to—gosh golly, I can’t take any of your gold!”

“’Tis good, for I shan’t be offering it. Me gold is precious to me,” red-haired Brogus said. “But tell me, lad, man to man: Be there a fair young lass in your life?”

“Yeah, sort of. But, well, it’s complicated.”

The other man, whose blue tie had white polka-dots on it, said, “James Samuel Bailey, trust us and answer our questions. Our first question is, What is ‘complicated’ about having a girlfriend or wife?”

Jimmy could not explain why, but suddenly it felt right and natural to answer the questions of these two men, and to not hold back.

Jimmy said, “I don’t have a ‘wife,’ lucky me! But as for Debbie, she’s my girlfriend, and she’s really controlling, which bothers me a lot, and I’d like to get a better girlfriend, but I don’t think I can.”

The man with the tie asked, “How is she controlling?”

Jimmy said, “Where do I start? For one thing, I went home to see my family this weekend. That’s good, right, spending all that time with my family? No. Debbie told me Friday that she ‘expects’ me to call her at least once a day. And not when I was sleepy, either, but when I was awake. So I was supposed to break off a conversation with my mom and dad, or my brothers, to step out on the porch and call Debbie? That’s nuts. So I didn’t call Debbie but one time this weekend, though I texted her a few times. Which means she’ll read me the Riot Act tomorrow, but do you know what?”

Jimmy leaned forward and murmured, “I don’t think I did wrong.”

The man with the tie asked another question: “Why don’t you think you can do better than Debbie?”

Jimmy replied, “Because I’m not handsome, rich, or charming. The girls I really want as a girlfriend, those are the guys those girls go for.”

The two men exchanged a look that Jimmy could not read. Then red-haired Brogus asked, “What manner of lady love would you have, if you could?”

Had anyone else asked that question, Jimmy would have replied with the politically correct A woman who knows what she wants from life, and who will let me help her achieve her goals. Jimmy, being kind-hearted and helpful, would have actually meant those words (mostly).

But instead, Jimmy answered the question with scratch-where-it-itches honesty: “What kind of women would I really like to date? Girls with hot figures, and hot hair, and makeup, and clothes. By hot, I mean super-hot—they look like strippers and porn actresses. Girls who will do anything and everything with their boyfriends—anytime, anywhere, doesn’t matter if someone is watching. But while they’re totally faithful to their man, they don’t get upset if their boyfriend has another girl on the side. In fact, they’ll have a threesome with that other girl, if that’s what their boyfriend wants.”

Polka-Dot-Tie Man and the red-haired man exchanged another look.

Red-haired Brogus then looked at Jimmy. “Like I said, I shan’t reward you with gold. But this I can do—”

Brogus reached around to the left-breast pocket of his green coveralls, and pulled out a wooden ring.

“—put the ring on. Do it, lad. You might find this ring be worth more than gold coins.”

Brogus was grinning at Jimmy. Jimmy would swear under oath in a courtroom that the short man’s grin looked mischievous. Jimmy felt wary of accepting the ring.

Even so, Jimmy had been taught that it was rude to refuse a gift, so now he put on the ring. But he did not agree with the man about how valuable the ring was—

The ring was wooden, not metal, and had no inlaid stones in it. Long ago, the wood had been varnished, but part of the varnish had worn away. The only thing to give the ring value? The ring had strange little designs carved on it.

But the designs were carved on the inside, where nobody would see them whenever Jimmy wore the ring.

“Thank you for this,” Jimmy said with fake enthusiasm.

The man with the tie said, “The ring maybe doesn’t look like much. But if Brogus gave you this, it’s much more than you think.”

Jimmy shrugged, then nodded goodbye to the two men. Three minutes later, Jimmy was back on the highway and headed back to college—

With the wooden ring still on his right hand.

Jimmy was ten minutes away from the truck stop when something odd happened: Both of his hands started to feel tingly at the same time; then both hands stopped tingling at the same time.

Day 1:
Jimmy Gets Touchy

1-1/2 hours later
Parking lot for Skekskem Dormitory
Tyudlurm University (“Home of the Fighting Grompets”)

Jimmy turned off his car’s ignition, popped the trunk from the driver’s seat, and stepped out of his car. He sighed as he stretched—he was stiff.

But Jimmy was a youthful twenty, so by the time he fetched the laundry basket, shut the trunk, and walked to the front door of his dorm building, his stiffness was gone.

Once Jimmy got to the dormitory’s door, he remembered too late that opening a door, walking through that door, and not spilling a laundry basket that was full of clean clothes, was a challenge.

So with all those things that Jimmy was doing at once, a little thing like checking to see if someone was walking out where he was walking in, was not on his mind.


One second later, Jimmy was lying on the floor, his laundry basket was overturned, and a blond girl was sitting on the floor, looking surprised.

“It’s my fault,” Jimmy said, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He stood up. “Here, let me help you up.”

Jimmy reached down with his right hand. The blonde took his hand.

Then the blonde smiled warmly at him. “Oh, you’re a gentleman. I like gentlemen! And you’re handsome, too!”

“Uhh. . .,” Jimmy said. He thought his looks were only average.

“Please let me help pick up your laundry,” the blonde said. “And I should apologize to you. Like a ditz, I decided to walk out the left door instead of the right. I’m Beth.”

“Jimmy Bailey.” He offered his hand, and Beth shook it.

Beth added, “Norman. I’m Beth Norman. And I’m really pleased to meet you.” Beth gave Jimmy a big smile.

Jimmy toyed with the idea of asking Beth on a date, but dismissed that idea. Beth was small in the chest department and her hair was too short; but she had the narrow waist and flat stomach of someone who exercised a lot, and she had the face of a runway model. A blond runway model. Add those points all up, and Beth was out of Jimmy’s league.

Apparently Beth had not received that memo. She smiled at Jimmy a lot as she was picking up his clothes, and she made a point of folding his clothes after she picked them up.

Soon they were done. “Um, Beth, nice to meet you,” Jimmy said. “Sorry about running into you.”

“Not a problem,” Beth said. “Jimmy, I really hope to see you again soon.”

“Me too, Beth,” Jimmy replied.

Yeah, but once you realize you’re out of my league, Beth, you won’t ever want to talk to me again.


That evening, when Jimmy was in his dorm room and getting ready for bed, he pulled the wooden ring off his finger, and tossed the ring on his study desk.

Jimmy never wore the ring again. When Jimmy eventually moved out of the dorm, he tossed the wooden ring in the trash.


Monday morning, before English class

Jimmy royally hated English. So it was only now, when he was a junior, that he was taking Freshman English.

Jimmy’s Monday-morning English class had a lot of students signed up for it, so was held in a classroom like an amphitheater. The blackboard and the lecturer’s desk were at the bottom and front of the room, while the students’ desks formed rising concentric arcs.

Jimmy preferred to sit in the middle of the third row. This way, he could see clearly and hear clearly, but he was not often called on by the lecturer, like people in the front row got called on.

Now Jimmy climbed the steps in the middle of the lecture hall, and was all set to sit down in the third-row seat just to the left of those steps. Alas, he found a small problem there—

Two brunette girls were standing on the steps and talking. One girl was standing where Jimmy could not get to the seat he wanted unless she moved.

Jimmy pressed his right hand against the back of the brunette who was blocking his way; he pressed his palm against her orange-and-blue “Tyudlurm Grompets” t-shirt, while his fingertips briefly touched her bare neck. Meanwhile, he was saying, “Pardon me, but I want to sit here.”

Jimmy’s push was gentle, but achieved moving the girl forward two inches as he moved sideways behind her. He was so close that his clothing brushed against hers.

Mission accomplished; then Jimmy turned around to face the front of the lecture hall. But as Jimmy was pulling his book bag off his back—

“Hey, creep!” said the untouched brunette. “I saw what you did! Keep your mitts off Krissi here. There are plenty of other empty seats in the room.”

“No, Hilda, it’s okay,” said the brunette in the t-shirt. “I don’t mind him touching me and pushing me, really, because he has strong hands.” Then T-shirt Brunette smiled at Jimmy. “Hi there, I’m Krissi. Um, I guess you already know that.”

Introductions were made. Jimmy and Krissi shook hands, but Hilda refused to shake Jimmy’s hand.

Jimmy figured Hilda was acting nasty because she was having a bad day. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but this seat is where I sit all the time in this class. Guys are territorial; it’s what we do.”

Hilda crossed her arms. “I’ve never noticed you sitting there before.”

“What can I say? I’m telling the truth,” Jimmy replied.

Ahem,” Krissi said. “I’ve never noticed you before, either. But from now on, I’m going to. You’re cute.”

Jimmy didn’t reply, because he could not honestly have said You’re cute too. Krissi’s brunette hair looked like it had been hacked off with a dull knife; and she had a pear shape.

The only flattering thing about Krissi? Her t-shirt had a skilled artist—the “Fighting Grompet” on the front of the shirt looked especially grompetish.

Right then, the lecturer walked into the classroom. Krissi and Hilda hurried up the steps, presumably to sit somewhere behind Jimmy.

The lecturer continued last week’s lecture on grammar. Jimmy did not hear a word he said. Instead, Jimmy was thinking, In the same day, two girls have told me I was handsome. How unlikely is that?


Lunchtime Monday
Skekskem Dormitory’s cafeteria

Jimmy loaded up his tray, then he handed his meal card to the young, female cashier.

For an instant, Jimmy’s right hand brushed against the girl’s hand.

She blinked, then she beamed a flirtatious smile at Jimmy as she swiped his card in her card-reader. Then one of her hands handed Jimmy back his meal card, while her other hand fluffed her carrot-orange hair.

“Please enjoy your lunch today, James S. Bailey,” she said cheerfully.

Which was weird, because the red-haired cashier had never spoken a word to Jimmy before. Not one word.

“Thank you, Lucille,” Jimmy said, reading her nametag.

“Lucille Landers. You have nice eyes—did anyone ever tell you that?”


While Jimmy was eating his lunch, he began idly flipping through this morning’s edition of The Grompet Gabber, the campus newspaper.

Beth Norman, the girl whom Jimmy had knocked over yesterday with his laundry basket, was in the newspaper.

The story was headlined, “TU Student Gives First Aid To Injured Cyclist.” Below the headline was a photo of Beth, her short blond hair shining in the sun; the photo also showed a First Aid kit in Beth’s hand, a young man with bandages on his forehead and knees, and a bent bicycle.

The newspaper mentioned a possible reason that Beth Norman knew First Aid: she was “a sophomore majoring in Pre-Medicine.”

Day 2:
The Break-Up(?)

Monday afternoon

Knock knock-knock knock. Jimmy had just finished his last class of the day and had just returned to his dorm room when someone knocked on his dorm-room door.

From the pattern of knocks, Jimmy knew his visitor could only be Debbie Smith, his quote-unquote girlfriend.

Jimmy sighed—

As nice as I am to her all the time, is it too much to ask that just once she be nice back, instead of trying to play me?

—as he opened the door. Sure enough, there stood Debbie in the hallway. Jimmy opened the door wide, but Debbie did not step forward into his dorm room.

Debbie was descended from gypsies, she had told Jimmy on their first date. He believed the story—she had olive-colored skin, dark-brown eyes, and thick, black, straight hair. But within those parameters, Debbie looked ordinary, just as Jimmy looked ordinary.

Debbie was no vision of beauty, and at the moment—with her arms crossed and her face frowning—Debbie looked especially unbeautiful.


“We agreed,” Debbie began, “that you would call me every day this weekend. You broke your promise.”

“ ‘We’ did not ‘agree,’ ” Jimmy said. “I remember not making any promises, beyond ‘I’ll see.’ Anyway, I called you once and texted you three times.”

Still standing in the hallway, Debbie frowned. “You ask so much from me—”

Jimmy had asked Debbie for a blowjob on their third date. Not only had she turned him down flat, but she had never let him hear the end of it.

“—and you complain, Jimmy, whenever I ask you for some little sign you care.”

“You’re not reasonable. Demanding that I interrupt time with my family to check-in with you is not a ‘little sign.’ ”

“Perhaps, if indeed you were with your family. Maybe you spent all weekend with old girlfriends.”

Jimmy had learned, the hard way, that he could not win if he tried to defend himself against one of Debbie’s false accusations. So instead he laughed. “You caught me. Me and three women had an orgy on Friday night, and it took me all weekend to recover.”

Debbie’s eyes narrowed; Jimmy was ignoring her script.

Nuts to her. Yesterday around this time, two strangers were treating Jimmy like a minor hero because he had returned four gold coins that had not belonged to him; but today Debbie was disrespecting Jimmy for the 2,748th time. For the first time since he and Debbie had started dating, Jimmy did not feel like humoring her.

Then Debbie herself broke the script: Her face wrinkled up and she started to cry. “Why do you keep hurting me? Don’t you know how much I care for you?”

“Debbie, please don’t cry. Or if you insist on crying, come in my room and cry.” Jimmy was 99 percent sure that what was going on was that Debbie, by standing in his hallway and crying, was putting on a performance to embarrass him in front of the other guys on his floor.

Debbie replied, “I’ll come in”—sniffle—“if you first apologize for not calling me four times.”

Four times? There are only three days in a weekend: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

“You only called me once in those three days, not three times. Nor have you called me earlier today, either. You owe me four phone calls.”

Jimmy shook his head. “No apologizing. But step out of the hallway; you’re disturbing my neighbors.”

“Is your pride so important to you?” Sniffle. “Do I have to do something drastic to get my apology, which you would give me freely if you cared for me?”

Jimmy noted the implied threat, and worried about it. But what he said aloud was, “I’m still not apologizing.”


Jimmy the peacemaker, Jimmy the helpful, Jimmy the kind and generous—Jimmy was pissed. “Get in here!” he said.

Jimmy’s right hand shot out, he grabbed Debbie by her arm, he yanked her into his dorm room, then Jimmy’s left hand slammed the door.


Jimmy expected Debbie next to cry, or to scream, or to try to walk out of his dorm room. Instead, she was looking at him with a mixture of expressions.

Jimmy tried to make himself speak calmly. “Do you really want to break up with me over this? The phone calls?”

“Why shouldn’t I, when you—What I mean is, you—No, I don’t want to break up with you, truthfully . . . .”

Then Debbie asked in a quiet, nervous voice, “Do you want to break up with me?

“Yes, Debbie, part of me does. I am so tired of you trying to control my life. And the sex isn’t gold-medal either.”

“Because I don’t give blowjobs?”

“Gosh golly, would it kill you to suck my cock for five minutes? I’m not even asking to cum in your mouth. Just could you do it for a short time, once in a while, so that I don’t think that you think I’m a diseased pervert?

Debbie looked at Jimmy for several seconds, as she wiped tears from her eyes. (Thankfully, Debbie had stopped crying.) Then she said, “Yes, I can suck you for five minutes.”

Sure enough, Debbie walked up to Jimmy, kissed him on the lips, then knelt down in front of him. Seconds later, Jimmy’s naked cock was in front of her face.

Jimmy’s cock was soft, because he suspected that Debbie was once again trying to work a mind-game on him.

Debbie, while kneeling in front of Jimmy, said, “I never realized till I decided to break up with you, how sexy you really are!”

With that, Debbie put her mouth on his dick.

Debbie sucked Jimmy’s cock for six minutes and change. The blowjob was as inept and as unexciting as Jimmy had expected. Jimmy lost count how many times he called out “Teeth, teeth!”

Still, when Jimmy looked at the whole picture, he did not complain. Not only did he get a half-blowjob from Debbie that he had not expected, but she never repeated her demand for an apology.

Buy Bimbo-Midas: His Magic Touch Changes Women now! You know you want to.



BIMBO-MIDAS front cover

Here is the sales blurb—


The red-haired man asked Jimmy, “What manner of lady love would you have, if you could?”

Jimmy answered the question with scratch-where-it-itches honesty: “Girls with hot figures, and hot hair, and makeup, and clothes. By hot, I mean super-hot—they look like strippers and porn actresses. Girls who will do anything and everything with their boyfriends—anytime, anywhere, doesn’t matter if someone is watching. But while they’re totally faithful to their man, they don’t get upset if their boyfriend has another girl on the side. In fact, they’ll have a threesome with that other girl, if that’s what their boyfriend wants.”

Jimmy did not know that the red-haired man was a leprechaun, or that the leprechaun owed Jimmy the grant of a small wish. All Jimmy knew was that afterward, every woman he touched—even accidentally—become more bimbo-like each day, and that Jimmy got all the benefit of this. Jimmy’s control-freak girlfriend had no problem with his enjoying bimbos—because she was becoming a bimbo too.

Note: This is a semi-sequel to Names Have Power: Tim’s Magic Voice Makes A Harem

Tags: bimboization, bimbos, coming of age, erotica, harem, leprechaun, lesbian to bi, magic, male dominant, male-female, mind control, oral sex, risk of getting caught, slow transformation, submissive female, threesome, virtue rewarded, wish granted

The novella is 18,200 words.

Doctor MC Answers His THREE MORE WISHES Critics


Cover art and all four interior illustrations by Commotion22

My bestselling story, Three More Wishes: Be Kind To Your Genie, has a rating of 3.9 stars out of 5.0 stars, based on thirteen reviews. Ten reviews out of thirteen gave my book either four stars or five stars, nobody gave my book three stars, and three reviewers trashed my book. C’est l’Amazon.

Out of the ten reviewers, the two reviewers who were clearly women (Moonlight Dolphin and Jill Soft) each gave Three More Wishes five stars.

But let’s hear from my three critics, before I answer them—

**ooo [2 stars out of five] Be Kind To Women Instead
By Kindle Customer “Gene” on December 25, 2014

a good teenage male fantasy which is good for the male ego but will turn women off as it treats them as sex objects and the hero uses the powers to make them have sex with him and control their minds as he makes them do things they wouldn’t want to do. He then sets himself up as judge and jury over women’s lives. God is mentioned here but it seems like God would’ve disapproved of this mistreatment of half the human race.

*oooo [1 star out of five] Horrible
By JoshuaJustin on March 11, 2015

This book is bad, really bad. It’s teenage fantasy garbage with no real plot. The whole book seems like it was written by a virgin that watches too much porn. The characters are empty and unbelievable. Horrible fantasy, horrible erotica. Oh and the author keeps breaking the fourth wall and it’s obnoxious. I have nothing good to say about this book.

*oooo [1 star out of five] Creepy
By Jason76 on May 12, 2015

Before I read this book, I read one of the reviews that basically wondered whether this author has ever had sex before. At the time, I thought that reviewer was being overly harsh, now I’m not so sure. I like a good male fantasy story as much as the next guy, however my fantasy is not to have sex with women after I’ve taken away their free will. This character was basically a walking, talking ruffie [roofie]. Creeped me out.


—So I’m a virgin now? My ex-wife would be very surprised.

It looks like I need to remind people what my “About The Author” blurb says, near the bottom of Three More Wish’s Amazon page:

Doctor MC currently is plotting his 1,632nd scheme to conquer the world. Obviously he has not succeeded yet, but Doctor MC remains optimistic. Doctor MC did manage to replace Bill Clinton’s wife with a robot.

When not trying to rule the world, Doctor MC writes novels featuring male dominance, mind control, and harems, in a magical or science-fiction setting. “Chick Lit” these stories aren’t.

Visit Doctor MC’s blog for information about upcoming novels and stories:

I think what has so upset my three critics is that I make no attempt to write for anyone other than myself. Mind control has always interested me, as far back as elementary school. So now, I write erotic stories that have mind control in them.

Neither do I write to hit a particular audience. If there is one thing that all the how-to-write-fiction books agree on, it is that trying to “write for the market” will only bring a writer heartache. The writers who have made it big—Tom Clancy, Stephen King, J. K. Rowling, Suzanne Collins, etc.—still write the books that they themselves want to read, but it turns out that the rest of us want to read those books too.

The reason that I point out that I don’t write for the market is that the majority of bookbuyers are women. If I were being published by a big Manhattan publisher, my publisher would insist that I pander to a female audience. (For instance, a Manhattan-published version of Three More Wishes would be guaranteed to have a bare-chested Marvin Harper, instead of Fatima the genie, on the cover; and Manhattan’s version of Fatima would never ever, not once, call Marvin “Master.”) But what if I refused to pander to a female audience? Then my Manhattan publisher would rip up my contract and require me to repay my advance.

In the real world, at least a few women buy Three More Wishes and love it as I’ve written it, and this delights me. But I didn’t write this book for a female audience, nor will I revise my story to make it more pleasing to female readers.

My critics take me to task for writing women characters in my fantasy story that real women (or real feminists, at least) loudly object to. My critics’ attitude is considered acceptable, because it is politically correct. Funny, but it’s considered rude and whiny for me, a real man, to object to how men-characters are portrayed in female-written sex-fantasy fiction.

In a notorious fan-fiction story that was published in 1973, James T. Kirk fell in love with Ensign Mary Sue Smith, to the point where he was willing to give up command of the Enterprise in order to give her foot-rubs for the rest of his life. (Never mind that the average man’s career means too much to him for he to even think of giving his career up for love; and that this is doubly true for Captain Kirk.)

My point is that Mary Sue Smith lives on—there is lots of women’s erotica that is published in 2015 that writes about “men” who will give up everything that they are, and everything that they do, in order to give the main (female) character 24/7 foot-rubs and cunnilingus. All the “men” in these stories become, by the end of the story, mere beta-male pussy-whipped wusses, nothing more than the heroines’ gigolo and bodyguard. Ah, but what if a man in these stories is described as an “alpha male”? Then at the end, he’s been turned into a beta-male pussy-whipped wuss who still has great pecs and a six-pack, and to whom less-muscular beta-male wusses still defer. These “alpha males” are reduced to saying, “Me Tarzan, you Jane—is that okay, honey?”

But I didn’t write Marvin as that kind of so-called alpha male. I wrote him as a youth who is magically changed into a man whom other men respect, whom women desire, and who naturally takes charge when a problem arises. Marvin’s magic pheromones are just icing on the cake. As a true alpha male, Marvin does not apologize when he asks for a blowjob, nor does he feel obligated to “return the favor” if a haremée offers Marvin a blowjob; such an attitude makes politically correct people shudder and wring their hands.

Does all this mean that Marvin is a jerk? Not at all—his genie Fatima has given him responsibility for many women’s lives, Marvin takes his responsibilities seriously, and he tries to improve the lives of everyone around him. But he is no woman’s servant.

One thing that my three critics don’t mention, and I must confess that this annoys me, is that Three More Wishes: Be Kind To Your Genie is much more than a stroke-story. You’ll find character development, plot, and world-building in my book. Chapter 41 ends with a cliffhanger.

Kindle Customer “Gene” wrote that Marvin goes around deciding how every woman in the story will live her life. Not so; Marvin lives by the motto of “With great power must come great responsibility”; so when he finds himself with power in a woman’s life, he does everything he can to improve that woman’s life. Only a week after Marvin makes his wishes, he becomes famous nationwide as the “hero billionaire,” and he spends the rest of the story living up to that label. However, there are indeed two women in the story for whom Marvin decides “This is how it’s going to be, and this is what you’re going to do”: Paula Sarin and Elvira LeClerc. Paula Sarin is the villain of the story, and tries to evade her punishment at the end; and Elvira is one of two evil twins who tried to frame a woman for drug possession; Marvin gets Elvira and her sister arrested, then posts the twins’ bail.

JoshuaJustin was bothered that Marvin sometimes talks directly to the reader. By the story’s very nature of “I said … I did,” Marvin is telling this story to someone, right? Well, Marvin has the biggest secret on Earth, that he owns a no-shit genie lamp, so to whom would he tell his secret? No friend of Marvin’s can be trusted to know this secret, the temptation is too big, and there are some things about Marvin’s new life that his parents would not want to be told. So by elimination, Marvin tells his story to the reader of his posthumous autobiography, and sometimes Marvin addresses this reader directly. (SPOILER WARNING: Marvin does the same thing in One More Genie, the sequel.)

Finally, what’s the deal on making my villain be a thinly-disguised Sarah Palin? Well, in 2010, when I started writing this story, I asked myself, “About what famous person could it be most believable that they got where they are by a genie’s wish-grant, rather than by hard work and talent?”—Sarah Palin topped the list.

Finally-finally, I’m replying in this blog post to the three reviewers of Three More Wishes who gave me one or two stars out of five on Amazon; but please note: Seven reviewers each gave my book five stars.

Information about ALL OF my books and stories
THREE MORE WISHES for sale as Kindle
THREE MORE WISHES for sale in the Apple iTunes Bookstore
Page Foundry/THREE MORE WISHES for sale as Inktera EPUB
THREE MORE WISHES for sale in the Smashwords Store—your choice of formats

NERD SAVES WOMEN (HTOZ4): “I’m Done Writing” and Sales Blurb

NERD SAVES WOMEN front cover

Cover art rendered by Doug Sturk a.k.a. Sturkwurk

I have finished the writing of Nerd Saves Women (Hypno-Talkers Of Zlar no. 4). Now the story goes on to editing and ebook-formatting. It should be up for sale within a week.

Here’s the sales blurb:

This is the fourth and last story in the Hypno-Talkers Of Zlar series.

Egbert Whitehall is a nice guy with a problem—

Three days ago, he and Lourdes Taylor saw nineteen naked women and a diseased little lady Zlarian alien who had just stepped out of a Zlarian spaceship in Wheat City, Kansas. One of the nineteen women was an Australian, Sheila. Now the Australian government is claiming that the U.S. Army kidnapped Sheila, the other women, and the alien, but the Army is denying everything.

When Lourdes tells Egbert that the Army is indeed holding the nineteen women, he is determined to break the women out. But how? Egbert is only a nerd mechanical-engineering-major college student.

Meanwhile, Zlarian spaceships still are kidnapping human women in order to turn them into surrogate mothers for Zlarian babies. But Egbert isn’t worried about that, because it’s way above his pay grade.

All this international news discussion about alien kidnappings and U.S. Army kidnappings embarrasses the White House. And the president, and those who act on behalf of the president, have a lot of power to hurt anyone who embarrasses the president further.

During all this other action, people with hypno-talkers still are reprogramming other people’s brains.

Tags: alien invasion, aliens, Australian, conspiracy, damsels in distress, erotica, female almost-virgin, female-female, FF, humor, hypnosis, male dominant, male-female, MC, MD, MF, mind control, oral sex, police chase, rescue, straight to bi, submissive female, vengeance

The story is 37,800 words.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: All ebooks by this publisher are free of DRM (Digital Rights Meddling).

EDIT: Added 2014.08.14—
Buy Nerd Saves Women (Hypno-Talkers Of Zlar-4) now! You know you want to.

Chapters 1 and 2—FREE!

Or buy the whole shebang, The Hypno-Talkers Of Zlar Four-In-One. Just one dollar more! (For ebook.)