Word Master
I am not a word smith. I am a word master. Ever since I was young, I could barely talk right, and had trouble talking to anyone. When I learned to write, it was as if I could speak words no one had ever thought to say. If you’re wondering, this little essay has been dumbed down, and you’ll understand why. I don’t want to draw you into something where you would become me. I am the word master, not you.
In middle school I won award after award for my writing. In my freshman year of high school I won a writing contest that would give me a full right to any university I wanted. It was also in my freshman year I got my first book deal. Three books about anything I wanted.
I was into superheroes at the time, so I made a sea-based superhero named Captain Coral. It was supposed to be a young adult book, but it was a bit more mature than I expected. I cranked out the first book in about three weeks. When I sent it in, my publisher must have still been holding the book for how fast he must have read it and called me. He demanded my second and third books be a continuation of the character. Since the first book was man versus nature, I made the second book be man versus man, and the third be man versus gods. I got the second book done over Thanksgiving break, and the third done just before Christmas.
I got a call from my publisher after the third book saying he couldn’t publish the third book. The guy was crying. I killed off Captain Coral at the end. It was a noble death, saving one lone scared girl. I had the girl beg Captain Coral not to sacrifice himself to save her. I had her saying she wasn’t worth it. The part that made my publisher turn on the waterworks was Captain Coral’s line, “of course you are.” Of course, I had written a death that mobilized the world to make it a better place in the last few pages.
The first book came out just before Christmas. The plan was for a six-month turn out of the three books. By the New Year there were mobs of people demanding to know what happens next to Captain Coral. The six months turned into three. By the time the second book came out I was being interviewed and g contracts for the likenesses of Captain Coral on all types of junk. Graphic novels, a cartoon series, an online video game, and a console game, and tons of cheap plastic toys.
I had one woman interviewing me say she couldn’t put the book down. It was like she was sucked into my world, and couldn’t get out until she finished the book. It was the same with my second book. I put out two more super hero books in that time, and moved on to trying my hand at mysteries.
Then the third Captain Coral book came out. It was like a National Day of Mourning. I could not believe people were so consumed by something I wrote after studying for my biology class. People lost Captain Coral who was, “a father, brother, friend I never knew I needed in my life,” as the Vice President said to the media about my book. They took the making a world a better place whole heartedly.
My father and mother were amazing. They invested my money wisely and made sure as long as I didn’t go crazy, I’d have money for life. My father kept an eye on the contracts. My mother made sure I was online for the interviews and phone calls when they were planned. I probably wouldn’t have made it to my high school graduation without them.
For some reason some publishers required you to have a college degree before they’d publish any work of fiction. Some publishers didn’t care, and those were who I was writing for before I made it to college. The only reason why I went to college was to keep my options open, and I was getting a free ride. I was still writing about a book a month while in high school. I told my publishers that I’d probably have to cut back while I went into college. That turned out to be a joke.
One of my freshman classes had us reading a book and writing a report about it every month. I was shocked to see the first Captain Coral book on the list, and one of my first sci-fi books Raging the Sun, on the list. That sci-fi book was written under a pen name. Many of my books were written under pen names. I didn’t want people to read my stuff just because it had my name on it. They all turned into best sellers regardless. People were sucked into my books and almost living them out, as was said multiple times. Somehow, little old me, had turned the world on its head, and reading books was now more entertaining than going to the movies. I suppose that’s why a class where we were reading only five books, and two of them were mine, made sense.
My first writing class was where I first got into trouble. We were to write about our journey to college. In three pages I made an epic tail of packing, driving, getting food poisoning, and finding out my roommate was a heavy pot smoker. My professor said it was too good, and demanded to know who wrote it. I stammered my way through a verbal apology, but standing fast I wrote the story. She demanded I write an apology. I did. I felt something in that one-page apology that I only felt in my stories, making fiction so believable the reader had no choice but claim it to be one hundred percent real. The next day, the professor apologized to me, and begged me to forgive her rudeness.
In another class we were to write poetry. I hate poetry. It’s nothing more than flowery words in a pattern. Regardless we were to write five poems; love, hate, sadness, joy, and beauty. I was really not into it. I was working on a spy thriller book, with lots of twists and turns, and I was getting into the spy genera. Poetry was not going to help with that. The day before the assignment was due, I cranked them out, half high on my roommate’s second-hand pot smoke, and trying to put words with fantastic meanings into a proper order. I didn’t even proof read them before sending them in.
The poetry professor was waiting for me the next day. She claimed she either wanted to beat me within an inch of my life, or take me in back and ravish my naked body. If she wasn’t in her early sixties, I might have been interested in the later. My poetry had that much of an effect on her. We were going to read our poems before the class, but I was scared of public speaking, and I couldn’t really what I wrote. Phone and video interviews are one thing, but talking in front of a class is another. One girl next to me looked over my shoulder to see my poems. The next thing I knew she was eagerly begging me to let her read my poems to the class. I let her.
I didn’t think they were that good. However, there was this babe with dark black curly hair and chocolate milk colored skin, standing before the class, reading what I wrote. The first was the love poem, which made her gaze at me like someone lost in ion. The second was hate, that produced a seething rage that looked like she was about to toss the podium to the side and rip my throat out. Then came the sadness poem where she had to stop three times because she was crying at my words. The next was joy that looked like this woman had just seen God above her. The last was beauty. I swear this babe was about to have an orgasm right in front of everyone just by reading my words. The people who heard my poems thought they were good, really good, but the babe who read them was enraptured.
I couldn’t believe it. The babe’s name was Barbara and despite everything, she said she had mixed feelings about me, but wanted nothing more than to learn more about me. Barbara became my first test subject. I took a hit of my roommate’s pot that night, and wrote a short story to send to Barbara. In it I made sure the subject had a phycological fixation on me, to the point that in the story whenever I snapped my fingers in her face, she would instantly be overpowered by an uncontrollable desire to give me a blow-job, anywhere, anytime, and suck until I came, and she would swallow it all.
The next day I met up with Barbara at the library in the quiet stacks. She wondered if I had some kinky fetish of having sex in public. I snapped my fingers in her face. The look of shock on her face was amazing as she dropped to her knees. She did do a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, but then she quickly fished out my cock. I’d never had a blow-job before. I understood then, why everyone likes them. It felt really good, and even better when I let flow my load down Barbara’s throat.
Barbara didn’t understand why she did that, but she loved it, and she loved knowing I loved it. She claimed that my story wasn’t as good as the real thing, but it was close. Barbara said my story and sucking me off both got her very arouse and ready for anything I wanted. That being said, and believing it was just a good piece of erotic fiction, the night before Barbara had let her roommate read my story. I had to test this out.
Barbara’s roommate Reanna was as much of a babe as Barbara. Reanna had more of a Brazilian look to her with naturally tanned skin, dark hair and eyes, and a sloping sexy figure. As soon as Barbara closed the door to the dorm room, I snapped my fingers. I made sure Barbara was in range since I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, and I didn’t want a ton of jealousy. I didn’t need to worry. Reanna and Barbara both dropped to their knees, and together fished out my dick and with their faces, lips, and tongues pleasured me. They didn’t fight off each other, or seem to engage in any touching of each other either. They were pleasuring my cock, and that’s all they did, together.
After draining my balls Reanna popped up, surprised by her own actions. Barbara, less so. Reanna told Barbara she might have to share me with her. I laughed and said every woman should read my story. Reanna got cagey at this. It turns out she posted the story on the internet in a fetish fiction website. When we looked at the site over half a million people had already read the story, and the number was climbing as we watched. Reanna then surprised me by asking me to write another story. I asked what she wanted. Her response was something extremely erotic where a woman had lost control.
This was an interesting thought. I was thinking about it all the way back to my dorm room. I had an idea by the time I got to my computer. I took a hit off my roommate’s weed, and started writing. My one writing class asked for a story written in the second person, so with that in mind, I wrote something also relating to my latest spy thriller idea. I was lost in my own story, putting words together that made the person feel as if they were the one it was happening to.
It started with a struggle with strong hands from behind. Then there was a pinch to the butt, and an undeniable drowsiness. Darkness over their eyes. Then there was a hard flat floor of a moving vehicle. Soon, there was a chair, a pinch in the arm this time, and then light. There were soft strong restraints, soft words that didn’t make sense. A drowsiness that didn’t involve sleep. In moments something blocking sight and hearing. In the next moment, soothing lights, and sounds, and a warmth spreading from the arm to the rest of the body. Lights and sounds dragging one’s mind down into a darkness where free-will would not work. A long string of soothing words that made a person stop thinking, stop feeling, stop believing, and leaving them blank. Slowly, with agonizing description in simple words a person is rebuild, submissive, obedient, devoted, and blank. This person is a slave, and could be brought out with a simple phrase, but otherwise sits dormant and hidden from the real person, unless triggered to leave some commands in the dominate personality. This hidden slave has no direct control over the person, but can influence the person to lose weight, exercise to build muscle, encourage beauty in body and mind, a strong desire to get breast implants, and an uncomfortableness in anything but extremely revealing outfits. To round things out the person re nothing, but feels that sharing the story in written form is the best way to spread the word about what happened.
I was quite stoned when I sent off the story to Barbara and Reanna. I was so stoned that I fell asleep on my bed, leaving my laptop on. My roommate came back while I was unconscious, saw I stole most of his weed, was pissed, and then read the story I just wrote. He apparently read it more than once because when he woke me up it was hours later, and he was still pissed about the weed. I was still a touch stoned and said I needed to use it to get my story out, and I would pay him for it. That apparently wasn’t good enough for him. I don’t know why, but I tried the trigger on him, and he froze. Then he said he was my obedient slave. Otherwise, he seemed perfectly normal, and much calmer.
Not one to up an opportunity I tested out my new slave, and made him give me as much weed as I wanted, whenever I wanted, and wouldn’t get mad at me for taking without asking first. I then brought out his dominate personality and suppressed his slave one. He said he was unhappy with me just taking his weed instead of asking. In the future, ask, and he’d give me as much as I wanted. In my head I was jumping for joy.
After a quick brushing of my teeth, I checked my email. Barbara and Reanna, both had forwarded me my story saying I really should read it. It wasn’t just me, but dozens of other people on their email list had sent me my story too. I had to laugh. I was betting most people would think it was spam. A few minutes later I was getting more emails of my story, telling me I should really read it. Then there were more, and more. People I had no idea who they were, were emailing me my story saying I should read it. It was about this time I wondered how much shit I was in.
That night I met up with Barbara and Reanna at their place. I’d never seen them wear such small clothing before. Barbara had on a top that showed off her shoulders, cleavage, and midriff, and her bottoms was a pair of short shorts that were smaller than most panties I’ve seen in stores. Reanna had gone for a skimpy bralette that showed off her more impressive cleavage, and firmer middle, and had opted for a skirt so short that it had its own panties just to hide things. Both women also stated they were sore from pumping iron at the gym for two hours straight. I triggered them both. Instantly they became my obedient slaves.
I tested them, checking to make sure they really would obey me completely. They itted neither had kissed another girl before, and thanks to me that changed, and they liked it because I told them they did. I also implanted in their minds that they both loved me with all their hearts, and neither was jealous of the other. I left that to be in their minds for later. For now, I enjoyed my slaves as they danced and stripped each other for my pleasure. It didn’t take long for them to be naked, and rubbing their bodies together to turn me on. It absolutely did.
Reanna had some condoms. It was the first time I had sex. In the books I’d read, and the talk on the internet, sex was a whirlwind rollercoaster of thrilling excitement and resulting in an Earthshattering explosion. Reality was not that. It was a slow build up, like a train that you didn’t realize had gone from a stop to nearly one-hundred-sixty miles per hour. The climax was more like a sharp bump in the tracks that makes everything jolt. It was good, really good, the feeling of our bodies together, the warmth of being inside of someone, and the knowledge of giving and receiving sexual pleasure was what I felt sex was all about.
What’s more my obedient slaves would do anything I commanded, including orgasm in any way I wanted. I was new at this, so they had to give me pointers. There was the g-spot orgasm that when you find just the right spot under a person’s mound, and stimulate it, then you get your sharp electric orgasm. Then there’s a spot just past the g-spot that can feel really good when the rest of a woman’s body is relaxed, and you work at her for a while, like I did. Reanna talked about a really deep orgasm when you’re inside of her and rubbing up against her anal canal, but still inside her vagina, and apparently, she likes those orgasms. Then there’s the sharp knife-like orgasm from anal, but that wasn’t something I was ready for yet. Barbara talked about the strong and dominating orgasm from having her clitoris stimulated by cock or tongue, and that was her favorite. A little bi-sexuality there, but I was all for it.
It was a great night of tongues, lips, fingers, their breasts, my cock, and legs intertwined. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought these were just two girls exploring their sexuality with another guy. Then I told them both to have deep orgasms, and instantly they did. This made me realize that my email inbox was filled with brainwashed people who read my story and ed it on. If everyone is six people from anyone else in the world, how far did my story go?
I left Barbara and Reanna with no memory of our fun together. I quickly got back to my place to see thousands of emails from people telling me to read the story. Oddly enough, the chatter on the internet was from people wondering if the ‘story virus’ was really something to be concerned about. Everyone who read it said it was nothing but a good erotic adult short story and that people should give it a read, although no one ed the details of the story except children should absolutely not read it.
The next day I saw the campus gym was packed full of women exercising. There were women watching videos of how to exercise while they mirrored the actions. There were dozens of women jogging while heaving heavy things. A quick observation made me think most of the women were there because of my story. They were wearing awfully skimpy clothes, and making no bones about showing off their bodies, even fat women who should have known better. That night there was a report about a sudden wave of people wanting to get breast implants, and they showed a packed waiting room to see a local plastic surgeon. The next news story was about how all of the gyms had become immensely popular, nearly overnight, and that local stores had been wiped out of every piece of exercise equipment.
I felt guilty. I had made everyone do this. Sex was great, but I was manipulating everyone. My stories were so powerful that I could draw a person into my work of fiction so deeply, they believed it was real. People really believed they’d been brainwashed, but didn’t it. They really were wearing bikinis out in public. They really were exercising. It was all because of me. The guilt was overwhelming. I did what I’d always done in high school, put my head down and tried to be invisible. That worked for over a month.
Barbara and Reanna all but attacked me. In five weeks the two had changed dramatically. They both had gotten triple-D breast implants. They’d been hitting the gym and now had fantastic muscle tone. Both had taken to wearing thong bikinis everywhere. They’d also been having wild sexual submissive dreams about me. Maybe their slave minds had been seeding their conscious mind with dreams of our sexcapades, but regardless they dreamt of my cock, and they were going to have it.
I triggered them both.
As slaves they wanted to please me, and part of pleasing me was to make sure I could have their bodies anytime I wanted. After a handful of weeks, they believed I’d forgotten about them, and they wanted to remind me that they were, and would always be, mine. What else could I do, but I made sure they would cum when I wanted them to, and everything we did was wonderful, so I fucked them. Out of their slave mode they were very enthusiastic, and this time when they climaxed it was a full body shaking affair. When I was close to cumming, and said as much, both women got down on their knees and started taking turns sucking me off. It wasn’t long before I shot my load out, and into Reanna’s mouth. Reanna then sensually shared my cum with Barbara, with mouth and tongue involved. It was after this, my mind cleared, and I could see what I couldn’t see before.
I quickly modified my brainwashing story. I added a few things, and clarified others. Most of this short five-page story remained the same, and I changed the title so people wouldn’t think this was the same old story. This was new, and improved, by me, the Word Master.
My latest books don’t have anything about brainwashing in them. I see books as entertainment, and with my stories I can pull people into them, and they can live out the stories. Knowing this, I’ve been careful not to leave lasting detrimental psychological programming in my readers. I leave them with good, and positive traits. I leave them with ideas of reducing the population, stopping wars, ending aggression, freeing unjustly imprisoned people, having free and fair elections for the people’s representatives, and ing environmentally sound energy policies.
These days I’m living the dream of a college student. I go to class, do my homework, study, and then fuck anyone I want. The whole place is filled with women that could have been muscular Barbie dolls with tight and revealing clothing. If I want a little action, and I often do, all I need to do is go up to a sexy woman, say my phrase, and she’s mine until I decide otherwise. I’ll grab one or two other women, and we’ll fuck well into the night. When morning comes, I release my sex slaves with no memory of our encounter. I trust the birth control everyone is on to compensate for the scare I had a few weeks before with a broken condom. Still, when I want to take the edge off, all I need to do is snap my fingers in some sexy woman’s face, and she instantly drops to give me an eager blow-job. I am beginning to think I like the power of being the Word Master, more than I like being a woman’s sexual Master.