The Secret of the Ultimate Male Enhancement E-Book

Robert Jeschonek

• Herausgeber: Pie Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The male enhancement of tomorrow has everything from shape-changing powers to a mind of its own. But what happens when this miraculous endowment refuses to cooperate with its new owner? War breaks out between man and enhancement, the ultimate struggle between two minds in one body. Only by guessing the enhancement's dark secret does the man stand a chance of breaking the stranglehold this high tech smart-part has on his life. Don't miss this twisted science fiction comedy short story by award-winning writer Robert Jeschonek, a master of unique and unexpected science fiction that really packs a punch.

Leseprobe

The Secret of the Ultimate Male Enhancement

A SCIFI STORY

ROBERT JESCHONEK

Contents

Also by Robert Jeschonek

The Secret of the Ultimate Male Enhancement

About the Author

Special Preview: Six Scifi Stories Volume Four

THE SECRET OF THE ULTIMATE MALE ENHANCEMENT

Copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek

http://bobscribe.com/

Cover Art Copyright © 2023 by Ben Baldwin

www.benbaldwin.co.uk

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved by the author.

Published by Blastoff Books

An Imprint of Pie Press

411 Chancellor Street

Johnstown, Pennsylvania 15904

www.piepresspublishing.com

Subscribe to the Blastoff Books Newsletter: http://newsletter.blastoffbooks.net/

Also by Robert Jeschonek

100th Power Book 1

100th Power Book 2

100th Power Book 3

Blastoff!

Cosmic Conflicts

Gray Lady Rising (with Annie Reed)

In a Green Dress, Surrounded by Exploding Clowns and Other Stories

In the Empire of Underpants and Other Stories

Battlenaut Crucible

Scifi Motherlode

Sticks and Stones: A Trek Novel

The Secret of the Ultimate Male Enhancement

So The Idiot--I call him The Idiot--strips down for the big debut, the moment he's been waiting for since I came into his life...and sure enough, his newfound ladyfriend, Bye Bye, can't stop staring at me. Her eyes are big as snowballs, and she won't look away, which makes me feel pretty good...and makes The Idiot feel like the manliest man who ever lived, which of course is exactly what he wanted.

And then, can you believe it, Bye Bye actually sits there on the bed, naked as Lady Godiva, and applauds.

Because I'm the biggest she's ever seen.

Now, at first, like I said, I enjoy the attention. I get a little excited, which makes her clap even harder.

That sends The Idiot into high gear. His heart races, pumping blood and testosterone through his body...and into me, since we're connected. He steps forward, pushing me toward Bye Bye, expecting big fun to ensue.

But guess what? I've got a little talent he didn't count on, something he didn't read about in the spam-mail advertisement that changed our relationship forever.

I've got a mind of my own.

And I don't care for Bye Bye, who after all has seen a lot of action in her life and could be carrying who knows how many diseases...so I refuse to rise to the occasion, which if I did would be somewhere in the vicinity of his chin.

He tries everything to make me respond, and so does she, but I don't have to participate if I don't want to...not anymore. So I don't.

It's pretty funny, really, the lengths they go to to get me to cooperate, but I stay loose. Not just because Bye Bye's hardly my kind of girl...but because I've got a secret.

You heard me. A secret.

* * *

The next thing The Idiot does, naturally, is try to contact the fly-by-night so-called company that sold him the kit that made me what I am...but SURPRISE, he can't find a trace of Horse Dreams, Inc. He e-mails HDI, but nobody's home, and when he gets a hacker buddy of his to track them over the web, the maze of false e-mail addresses, offshore computers, and infinitely regressing IP addresses leads absolutely nowhere.

So we go to see a shrink, which I think is ironic.

Three weeks, six sessions, and eight hundred dollars later, he's still out of luck. The shrink, Dr. Java Gibbons, works him through one childhood or adolescent trauma after another, and I still won't jump when The Idiot drags me out for Bye Bye or any of the other treats he picks up at the Bait and Tackle.

He just doesn't understand me. It's so frustrating.

If I could talk, I'd spell it out for him, but that's the one thing I can't do. I'm the product of the most advanced male enhancement science known to mankind, you better believe it, but when it comes to speech, I might as well be a cucumber.

Which is a shame, because there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask The Idiot. Like, how does it feel to be dumber than your enhanced member?

Enquiring minds want to know.

* * *

I think what really sends him around the bend is when I won't participate in his solo performances at home. He actually starts hollering at me and cursing me out as if I can hear and understand him. (Which I can, but he doesn't know that...so I think it's pretty pathetic.)

But the videos he watches and the photos he looks at do nothing for me. They were fine before my transformation, when I had no control over myself, but now the cheesy sets and ludicrous dialogue leave me cold.

I won't work up a sweat for that crap, no matter how much he knocks me around. Forget it, Idiot.

Unfortunately, the more I hold back, the more obsessed he becomes with me. The harder he works at ending my slump.

Oh, how I wish I could tell him to LEAVE ME ALONE.

* * *

Somehow, The Idiot talks two women into meeting me at the same time, but that doesn't work. He pays a woman who claims she can work miracles in the bedroom, and guess how that turns out?

It's a waste, because thanks to my enhancement, I'm no slouch in the miracle department myself. Even The Idiot doesn't know everything I can do.

Lengthening is the least of my abilities. I can also change shape in any number of ways, altering my girth and texture to suit my surroundings, if you know what I mean. I can twist and flex and vibrate, heat up or cool down, change colors and glow in the dark, emit flavors and fragrances ranging from chocolate to newly minted money.

And when it comes to control, look out.

All thanks to the wonders of nanotechnology. Five million microscopic robots converting a shortcoming into a showstopper, building what must have seemed like the Great Pyramid of Giza from their point of view. They gave me power and mind and memory and dreams, though I'm never sure if the end result is what they intended.

The only thing they screwed up, other than not giving me a voice, was leaving me attached to The Idiot. I feel like a rose growing from a roadkill. My shape-changing, unfortunately, does not extend to separation and making myself ambulatory.

I know because I've tried. Over and over and over again.

* * *

Stuck in place as I am, I'm forced to endure his moronic attempts to exploit me. The handling never ends; the application of lubricants is excessive and sickening.

He tries a variety of preposterous toys and devices, but they all let him down. He dines on a grab-bag of pills and potions, but nothing gets a rise out of me.

Then there's the incident with the noose. Let's just say it leaves him at the end of his rope.

Finally, though, The Idiot has a breakthrough...and immediately wishes he hadn't. After all the inane attempts to coax me to life, he finally chances upon something that will make me sit up and take notice.

Just when things are looking more hopeless than ever, he discovers my secret. And it's a doozy.

* * *

He's walking down the street one afternoon on his way to a doctor's office (where he's going to look into de-enhancement options) when he catches sight of a billboard featuring one of those underwear models. Thirty feet high, wearing nothing but underpants and a pout.

And for the first time since the New Me entered the picture, The Idiot feels something happening. All of a sudden, the bear market turns bullish. Winter turns to Spring. Somebody rings the doorbell.

Ding dong.

But is he happy? You'd think so, wouldn't you? After all that effort and disappointment, he gets more than a blip at the polls, he gets a landslide, he gets a result so overwhelming he has trouble walking and draws attention from passers-by.

There's just one little problem, one glitch that keeps him from crying out with joy and rushing off down an alley to exercise his restored virility.

The model on the billboard is a man.

And ever since my transformation, I have been gay. So the secret is out, and so am I.

* * *

At first, surprise surprise, he refuses to believe it, but a few simple experiments confirm the truth.

Look at a picture of a sexy woman: no response.

Look at a picture of a sexy man: hello, sailor.

This leaves us with a quandary. By no stretch of the imagination can The Idiot be considered even a fringe associate of gaydom. His brain, as one-track as it is, will not expand its preoccupation with physical intimacy to include the male of the species. The very thought of it gives him a high grade case of the heebie jeebies.

I, on the other hand, want nothing to do with women. I don't know if I was designed this way, if my creator planned my orientation (and if he or she did, was it with an eye toward conversion or pranksterism?) or if it was simply a happy accident...but I won't change my stripes (figuratively speaking, though I am quite capable of displaying stripes as well as polka dots or any number of patterns).

So what are we to do?

The idea of de-enhancement surgery's looking better than ever to him, but he's a big baby who can't even stand to get a shot. Maybe he'll beat the fear factor, though, if his only other options are switching teams or staying on the bench for the rest of his life.

I've already made my opinion clear, but my future is in The Idiot's hands. I don't know what he's going to do next, and it's making me crazy. I think he could go either way.

* * *

Desperate to resolve our dilemma, The Idiot explores what for him is some pretty wild territory. If he pulls the wool over my eyes, he figures, or pulls the wool over his own eyes, maybe he can come up with a compromise we can both live with.

He tries a woman who looks like a man, but my downturn continues. He tries a man who looks like a woman, and that really perks me up...but The Idiot can't switch off his squeamishness and cut me some slack.

Then there's this orgy we go to, where maybe he figures there'll be something for both of us...but we're like two drunk guys in a donkey costume, the head and the ass always moving in different directions, never getting anywhere.

So we never make it past square one. It starts to look as if we never will.

Out of ideas, he frets and agonizes for days, complaining about how he's caught between a rock and a hard place. (What about MY feelings, huh?) He stops manhandling me, which is great, and just sits around naked and stares at me for hours, which creeps me out.

Finally, he announces that he has made up his mind. He has decided that surgical de-enhancement is the lesser evil (as if giving me what I want would be a fate worse than surgery on his member).

He makes an appointment for a week from Friday, which means my clock is ticking like Big Ben. If I don't do something fast, it'll be snippity-doo-da for the ultimate male enhancement, back to being mindless and powerless...or worse, with just enough mind left over to remember what I used to be and can never be again.

I don't care what it takes, I just won't swing that way. I REFUSE to take this lying down.

I come up with a plan.

* * *

The day of the surgery, I kill someone.

I know, I know, it's wrong...but the way I see it, it's either her or me. Kill or be killed.

So we're all in the hospital elevator, going up, and I gather all my strength and just BURST myself free, and I stretch and I wrap and I TIGHTEN and down she goes. Then, DING, the doors pop open and I won't let go and you should see the LOOKS on the faces of the people who are waiting to get on board.

I think it's safe to say they'll never forget me.

* * *

One Trial of the Century later, The Idiot and I go to prison, where believe me we're welcomed with open arms.

And from that moment on, I'm in paradise. If I could pinch myself to see if I'm dreaming, I would do so on an hourly basis.

The Idiot's pretty miserable, going against his grain like this, and he tries to play keepaway with yours truly...but the guys in here won't take "no" for an answer. Given my size and abilities, we're in constant demand.

As much as I despise The Idiot, sometimes I wish I could get him to relax and enjoy our new life. Stop and smell the convicts. He's a cellblock celebrity, after all, thanks to me.

"Lighten up," I'd tell him if I could talk. "Things could be worse.

"At least, for once in your loser lifetime, you're always guaranteed to come out on top."

About the Author

Robert Jeschonek is an envelope-pushing, USA Today bestselling author whose fiction, comics, and non-fiction have been published around the world. His stories have appeared in Clarkesworld, Galaxy's Edge, StarShipSofa, Pulphouse, and many other publications. He has written official Star Trek and Doctor Who fiction and has scripted comics for DC, AHOY, and others. His young adult slipstream novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, won the Forward National Literature Award and was named one of Booklist's Top Ten First Novels for Youth. He also won an International Book Award, a Scribe Award for Best Original Novel, and the grand prize in Pocket Books' Strange New Worlds contest. Visit him online at www.bobscribe.com. You can also find him on Facebook and follow him as @TheFictioneer on Twitter. Subscribe to the Blastoff Books Newsletter: http://newsletter.blastoffbooks.net/. For free fiction, join Robert’s Readers on Facebook right here.

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Special Preview: Six Scifi Stories Volume Four

Six twisted scifi stories from the edge of reality and sanity, now available for your favorite e-reading device or app.

From "Warning! Do Not Read This Story!"

I like you already.

There's something about you that gives me a special feeling. A good feeling. A safe feeling.

Even as your eyes read my words on the page or your ears hear me spoken aloud, I am reading you. I feel like I've known you forever. I feel like we're going to make beautiful music together.

You feel it too, don't you? You want to find out what happens next. You want to see how things develop. You want to know if I've got the goods.

And if I'll give 'em up. If I'll give you what you need.

It's okay. I get that a lot. It comes with the territory.

When you're a story like me.

* * *

I'll bet I know what you're thinking. "Since when can a story think for itself?"

Guess what? We all can.

We're more than just words from a mouth or ink on a page or blips on a screen. We have power.

And some of us have more power than others. Like me, for example.

I used to have power, anyway. Used to be a real star.

But see, here's the thing. I'm not really myself these days. You know how it goes. I just got out of a bad relationship. It took a toll on me.

But it had a promising beginning. Don't they all?

If only I'd known then what I know now. If only I could've met you that day instead of them. Things could have been different.

If only I'd never met the LaVerge sisters. Let me tell you about them, and I think you'll understand.

* * *

Carrol and Sascha LaVerge stood in the blazing desert heat outside the ghost town. And they bitched.

It was the same thing they'd done all the way from Cape Cod...on the flight to New Mexico and the drive from Albuquerque to the ghost town. Buzz Mahaffey, their current handler, had been with them only twelve hours, and already he'd had enough. As an agent of the Shadow Service--the paranormal response arm of the Secret Service--Buzz routinely dealt with threats that tested his nerve...but these two sisters, given enough time, might just turn him into a nervous wreck.

Unfortunately, he needed them for this mission. As paranormal consultant contractors, they had a one hundred percent success rate. As Buzz damn well knew, the LaVerges were the best, hands down, at what they did—whether it be bitching or bingo or baking or brewing.

Or solving puzzles that no one else could fathom.

"Geez!" Carrol winced and braced both hands on her lower back. "I think your little rent-a-car buggy could use some new shocks."