by Doctor MC
Which meant, the blonde either intended to get together with me for “fun,” or else she was a hooker about to solicit me.
Over two years after Fatima had granted my wishes, my policies remained the same: I didn’t pay for sex, I didn’t have sex with women who were married or committed to someone else, and I didn’t do one-night stands unless I was the person who was starting the party.
That was in my home city. When I traveled more than a hundred miles away from the mansion, I often went celibate (unless I’d brought harem girls or Fatima along to cool my blood, or Fatima foomed over to my hotel room till I fell asleep).
I, celibate even briefly? Does that surprise you? At the mansion, I now had my computer schedule my daily sex: a wake-up blowjob, a late-night blowjob, and four fucks a day; plus Fatima and I had a standing fuck-date for Saturday afternoon. Not to mention, Anna Kay made sure that I got plenty of gift blowjobs! So I wasn’t going to die of blue balls if I spent up to three days away from the mansion, getting no sexual relief.
On the other hand, when an out-of-town girl fucked me or sucked me, she instantly got made into my harem slave, and I then had to decide the rest of her life. I didn’t want to screw up the life of someone whom I barely knew, and the only way to avoid that responsibility was to avoid the sex.
And so it was decided: If the blue-velvet blonde offered to fuck me for free, I’d politely turn her down. If she solicited me, I’d politely turn her down—unless I sensed that she was being abused by her pimp.
In which case, I’d rescue her. By this time, I’d rescued four prostitutes already (not counting Gregory’s Girls).
As the blue-velvet blonde walked toward me, I began to wonder whether she were a showgirl instead of a call girl.
The woman was wearing five- or six-inch heels, which I knew from first-hand observation, women couldn’t walk in easily without lots of practice. And yet moving across the floor was no more of a problem for the blue-velvet blonde than if she’d been wearing bunny slippers. If she’d had a book on her head, that book wouldn’t have wobbled even slightly.
Then too, the blonde was walking with one foot directly in front of the other, which really shook her ass. Only tightrope walkers and runway models walk like that.
But the blonde was no runway model. Have you ever seen a runway model wear any expression other than bored scorn? Well, the blonde had pasted on a beauty-queen smile as she sashayed toward me. That smile was well-practiced, so I figured that the blonde had spent her teen years entering pageants (when she wasn’t cheering the quarterback).
The only thing out of place, to make me be less than convinced that this woman was in fact a casino showgirl, was her height. By now I had plenty of first-hand observations of women wearing very high heels, and this woman was too short to be a showgirl. I guessed that in bare feet, she was somewhere between 5′5″ and 5′7″.
A man intercepted the blue-velvet blonde’s walk toward me. He wanted something from her. His manner was aggressive.
The man and the blonde were too far away for me to hear most words, but I’d spent enough time around Natasha to recognize the words that I did get. The man was speaking to the blonde in Russian-accented English.
The blonde’s body was still facing me, and she glanced my way when the man wasn’t requiring her immediate attention. Yet though she had to find it unpleasant to talk to this man, her beauty-queen smile never flickered.
Then he put his hand on her arm, not actually holding her in place but making a clear threat. The blonde stepped away from his hand—while continuing to smile pretty at him.
Natasha barreled up to the man, putting herself between him and the blonde. Natasha began speaking loud Russian. When Natasha yelled the name “Yuri Vasilivich Ludmenkov,” the man got nervous.
But only for a second. Then the Russian’s manner got cocky; clearly he was thinking, “Your father is scary, but he’s not here to help you two.”
Meanwhile, I was wondering: How does Natasha know the short showgirl, and why is Natasha sticking up for her?
Then the blue-velvet blonde said something to Natasha. Natasha looked around the restaurant till she saw me. Natasha pointed me out to the Russian man.
****
As before, the man got nervous for a second, then he got cocky. Just from his body language, I could tell what he was saying—
“You’re bluffing, Natasha. You don’t know that big man at all!”
Natasha said something, and the blue-velvet blond showgirl resumed her trek toward me. Now she was covering distance quickly, and yet that imaginary book on her head didn’t wobble.
She stopped at my table and said, “Hello, Marvin. Natasha asks if you’ll help her out. That guy doesn’t think you know us.”
It was the us that stopped me dead. I looked at the beautiful blond person in front of me and said, “Harold? You’re Harold?”
Only then did I notice that the blonde’s elbows were “wrong” for a woman’s body.
She (I couldn’t think of the blonde as “he”) replied, “Yes, except I go by ‘Helen’ now. Um, not to rush you, but Natasha really needs your help.”
Reader, remember what Arnold Schwarzenegger looked like in his young days, when he was winning bodybuilding awards? Well, that’s what I looked like on the second to last day of my transformation. For the almost-three years since that day, I’d been clearly the strongest man in the group, any group. I’d been stronger than every bouncer I’d met, every bodyguard I’d met, and every professional athlete I’d met.
In the almost-three years after my transformation, I hadn’t met a man as strong as me, and I hadn’t seen a photo of a man as strong as me. (Although some of those weightlifters in the 2012 Olympics came close.)
Men as strong as I was now, existed only in artwork. And those men were either superheroes, supervillains, or gay-male fantasy.
Besides being strong, the transformation made me tall. In the almost-three years since my transformation, I’d met only three men taller than me.
So now in 2013 in Redmond, Washington, it was no surprise that when I stood up and walked away from my table, the entire restaurant went silent.
When I got close to Natasha and the Russian man, he said to me, “Anya is sayink, you do know she and Helenka. Is child story, yes?”
I answered, “Sorry, it’s all true. Natasha and I and—and Helen all graduated from Plato Smith High School in May 2010. Now, I have to tell you...?”
“Nicolai,” Natasha said.
I said, “I have to tell you, Nicolai: Leave my friends alone.”
Two guys walked up to Nicolai, and there was a quick conversation in Russian. Then the two guys moved to stand at either side of Nicolai, and facing me. Their “smile” at me reminded me of wolves.
Nicolai gave Natasha and me a wolf-smile of his own. “You do let we have Helenka for playink, no things do get hurtink.” He ran his fingertips along a bulge in his front pants pocket, which I’m guessing meant he had a knife.
“Shit!” Helen/Harold said.
I didn’t give the three Russian men a wolf-smile back. I just flicked my fingers, and my sports jacket was unbuttoned. I pulled my sports jacket off, handed it to Natasha, and unknotted my tie. Seconds later, my shirt collar was open, and Natasha was holding my jacket and tie. Now only a tailored cotton shirt covered my bulked-up upper body.
To my right, I heard a man exclaim, “Look at the lats on that guy!”
Another man’s voice agreed: “He’s got a chest like a steel safe!”
Meanwhile, the three Russian men were staring at me. They looked worried.
Since fighting Gregory the pimp, I’ve been in three more fights to the death. (Why do pimps always want to fight me?) Thanks to Fatima’s wish-grant, I’ve won every fight that I’ve been in. Still, I try to avoid fights. And I’ve found that the best way to avoid a fight is to convince the other man that you want to fight more than he does.
And so, while eyeing the three Russian men, I said, �
��Translate this. ‘We go outside. Now.’ ”
I was surprised that it was Helen/Harold, not Natasha, who translated. He spoke the words in the womanly voice that Fatima had given him, in the same soothing tone as flight attendants use.
Soothing tone or not, Helen’s words clearly frightened the Russians.
Nicolai said, “I want to mop ground with you, but I do remember I have appointink. Giorgi, Ivan? [Russian words],” and then the three men hurried away.
“Spasibo, Marvin,” Helen/Harold said. “Oh, by the way, ‘Natasha is in the bathroom.’ That’s what I originally went over there to tell you.”
****
Dinner with Natasha and Helen was interesting (though not as interesting as what had happened before dinner). I found out that up north in Cheney City, Natasha was studying Russian Literature. And Helen?
Helen/Harold had dropped out of college to work full-time as a cocktail waitress at a strip club that an uncle of Natasha owned. Helen/Harold worked as a cocktail waitress because apparently Natasha has no intention of Helen ever getting “the Surgery,” and it’s a lot harder to hide male genitals when you’re a stripper. But Helen, even as a “mere” cocktail waitress, made scads of money. Enough to afford two augmentation surgeries.
It was how Helen made all this money that floored me.
As Natasha explained it, “Men is the big boe-soams liking, yes? So pretty blonde with the big boe-soams is drink brinkink, then man is tip givink. Big boe-soams, big tip. And Helen do rememberink, who did how much tip givink. Then one night in week—is nobody is knowink if is the day, before I is comink—I is in club, one hour before is closink. And I do Helen asking, ‘Who is goodest tipper?’ And Helen is pointink, ‘Is him.’ When club does closink, Helen is to the goodest to tippink a blowjob givink.”
Helen/Harold added nonchalantly, “And the five runners-up get to watch me blow the winner, if they want. But they have to stand behind Natasha.”
“Wait, hold on,” I said, remembering the night of Rhonda’s party. Harold hadn’t liked dressing as a slut, and really hadn’t liked giving his first blowjob. Now I said to Harold, “Natasha tells you to work as a cocktail waitress—bada-bing, you do it. Then Natasha tells you to suck off some guy after the club closes, and you do it, just that simple? In front of an audience? How do you feel about that?”
Helen/Harold gave me the beauty-queen smile. “The men I suck off, they love it, I know for a fact—I’ve been swallowing and deepthroating for at least two years. And Natasha says such nice things to me afterward, every time a guy cums his brains out in my mouth. I can’t tell you how good Natasha makes me feel just by saying, ‘You doed good, lyubimyi.’ Plus, Natasha only takes half my tip money as rent, so I make tons of money!”
“You’re avoiding the question. I asked you, Harold, ‘How do you feel about giving a blowjob to the high tipper of the night?’ Not Natasha, not the guys getting deepthroated, you.”
Helen/Harold still had the beauty-queen smile. “Life is wonderful when Natasha likes me. Sure, sometimes I don't enjoy giving the blowjob, if the guy's dick stinks or he's a jerk, but Natasha’s smiles make life wonderful.” Choosing his words, Harold added, “That night at the costume party, I was thinking like a starting quarterback. Do I look like a starting quarterback?”
“Is good, what I is hearink, Helenka,” Natasha said with a smile. Helen/Harold’s pasted-on smile became genuine.
Then Natasha turned to smile at me. “Is I lucky? I is boyfriend-girlfriend havink, who is the entire of what my heart is did wantink since I was child. And Helenka is do so much agreeink! Marvin, I is glad you as friend havink, you brave American with the big muscles and bold heart of Cossack havink. Is it true, you is called ‘Batman,’ back in—?”
“Well, kind of,” I said. “I’ve rescued a lot of prostitutes, and their pimps never let the girls just walk away. So I always seem to find myself in armed-versus-unarmed combat on a city street, in front of onlookers.”
“With you being the ‘unarmed,’ ” Helen said. “Yet you’ve won every fight.”
“Up till now,” I said, smiling. I didn’t mention that I had a big edge over normal men, even normal men with weapons.
“And liquor store?” Natasha asked me. She was referring to another of my escapades that had been YouTubed. “What doed you at liquor store?”
I shrugged. “Two morons decided to rob a liquor store that had a surveillance camera. Their bad luck, they tried to rob the liquor store near my mansion, the Friday after I turned twenty-one.”
“Each guy, you broke his wrist,” Helen said.
I shrugged again. “They were pointing guns at the liquor-store clerk, and one of them pointed his gun at me. My housekeeper says I should have almost killed them.”
“I agree, I would’ve beat the living shit out of them, or even killed them,” Helen said. “Um, that is, if I were a big, strong man.”
I looked straight into the eyes of the shapely blond transgender who had once been my bully. “To quote Uncle Ben,” I said, “ ‘With great power must come great responsibility.’ ”
Natasha, of, course, was missing the subtext between Helen and me. Now Natasha smiled at both of us, and laid a hand on one of our arms. “Ah, livink is good. Only one zink is me happier makink, as to now.”
I said, “Oh, what thing would make you happier than now?”
Natasha said, “We do is to your hotel room goink, and I do seeink, Helenka to you Olympics-golden-medal blowjob is givink.”
I politely declined Natasha’s offer. The beauty-queen smile of Helen/Harold made it impossible for me to guess whether he was pleased or disappointed that I’d said no.
****
Then I said, “Can we change the subject, please? Do either of you have any interesting news to share?”
Helen said, “Paula Sarin supposedly was seen in Cheney City last month.”
I said, “Really? I thought that last month, Paula Sarin was in Graceland’s attic, hanging out with Elvis.”
We had fun, sharing Paula stories—
• Ted had caught Paula having sex with Sheila, and had murdered both women. (Disposing of the bodies with a wood chipper.)
• Paula Sarin was an amnesiac, and was wandering alone through the Arctic tundra. (No mention of what became of Sheila.)
• Paula and Sheila were kidnapped by a UFO from a supermarket parking lot in Lawissa. Five people had witnessed this.
• Paula (and innocent bystander Sheila) were kidnapped by an unholy partnership of liberals and terrorists, to prevent her from being elected president and keeping America strong.
When we’d each shared the “greatest hits” of Paula stories, I said, “Want to know the weirdest Paula story I’ve ever heard? Paula Sarin is being held prisoner and tortured, in some house in Cocoa Beach, Florida that once belonged to a dead astronaut.”
Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed. “I have that not hearink. Where is you hear?”
“Oh, I think my housekeeper mentioned it. She heard it from a friend of a friend.”
****
The next afternoon, I arrived at my home airport. Meeting me at the gate were my fiancée, Anna Kay, plus Fatima and SJ-1. I kissed Anna Kay and Fatima in greeting, as SJ-1 looked at me without expression. (As SJ-1 always did.)
“What’s going on?” I asked. Fatima didn’t usually bring SJ-1 out in public. Because SJ-1 confused people. She had the height and shape of a lingerie model; but she wore a cowled and high-heeled silver bodysuit, plus silver makeup; and she acted robotic.
Anna Kay laughed. “Fatima’s decided that SJ-1 needs blowjob practice. And I’ve missed you. So Fatima and I cooked up an evil plot that involves SJ-1, me, and your cock.”
“Sounds good. What’s the ‘evil plot’?”
“As Fatima is driving us home in the Humvee, the rest of us will sit in the back seat, and SJ-1 and I will take turns giving you a hummer in a Hummer.”
“And how do you feel about that, SJ-1?” I asked.
She replied robotically, “If this is what Mistress Fatima commands, then this unit will comply.” Whether SJ-1 liked the idea, hated the idea, or truly didn’t care, it was impossible to guess from her expression.
I looked at Anna Kay and Fatima, and smiled. “That sounds like a wonderful ‘plot.’ But first I have to pick up a suitcase at the baggage carousel. Let’s hike it, ladies.”
As we walked away from the arrival gate, I noted that all four of us were drawing stares from onlookers.
Part of the reason was me. As I’ve said before, I’m very muscular. (Virgilia calls me “the incredible pink hulk.”) So I’m watched wherever I go, even by people who don’t know I’m a billionaire.
But let’s face it, the main reason we were drawing stares was because of my greeters. All were beautiful of face, and bountiful of breast. Plus one had startling green eyes, and one looked (and acted) robotic.
On the way to the baggage carousel, we walked past an airport gift shop. Right in front, impossible to miss, was a rack of Weekly World News tabloids. A big headline read, “PAULA AND SHEILA WERE TAKEN TO ATLANTIS.”
SJ-1 turned her head as we passed the gift shop, and she had to be looking at that headline. But when SJ-1 faced forward again, she showed no expression. As always.
“Master, don’t forget that your parents and Aunt Claire are coming over for dinner,” Fatima reminded me.
“Don’t worry,” Anna Kay said to me with a mischievous smile, “SJ-1 and I will make sure you’re a very mellow host.”
“Else SJ-1 will be punished,” Fatima said, glancing back at her robotic slave.
Chapter 44
Epilog: 2068
San Diego, California
April 16, 2068
The House Voice said in Spanish, “Juanita, you have visitors at the front door.”
Juanita Gutierrez went to the nearest speaker panel, which was in the hallway outside of Hernando’s bedroom. Juanita asked, “How many visitors, and who are recognized?”
House Voice replied, “Three visitors. Face-recognition software returns zero matches for three searches.”