Names Have Power: Tim's Magic Voice Makes A Harem (4 page)

Chapter 6
Slave Deborah

I walked to the door of Deborah’s apartment; I
knocked.

Deborah answered the door.

She was wearing green high-cut panties, a green
transparent baby-doll teddy, and green platform heels. Her red-brunette hair
was pinned up, and she sported dangling green-stone earrings. She looked
hot
.

She stood there, looking at me for several seconds;
she said nothing. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped back. Still
looking at me, Deborah said, “I invite you to come in, sir.”

I was looking right back at her, and so I was
looking at her face when I walked through the door. As I passed the threshold,
she acted startled by something, then her whole body language changed.

She dropped to her knees, and wrapped her arms
around my legs. “This slave loves you, Master!” Her face glowed like the sun.

If I hadn’t met the SUV Driver, I’d think that
Deborah was pulling a prank on me. But the last few days had taught me caution.
“
Why
do you love me, Deborah?”

“Because Deborah promised to be your
devoted
sex slave and servant girl, Master. This slave’s life now is to pleasure your
eyes, pleasure your cock, and to obey you till you release me.”

“Hoo boy.”

What would
you
do if you suddenly got a hot
stripper sex slave? Uh-huh, I thought so. What
I
did was to tell her to
bring me her photo albums and yearbooks.

Even knowing that somehow I was magically changing
people, I had totally not expected to
own
Deborah. But within a minute
of Deborah dropping to her knees, I resolved that I would not hurt her
physically, emotionally, or financially. But to absolutely make sure of that, I
had to know what kind of person Deborah had been, before her enslavement.

An hour later, she was pointing to a swimsuit
picture from 2005. “…And as soon as it did not hurt for Deborah to touch her
new breasts, she walked into Club Physique. Deborah has worked for Club
Physique ever since.” Deborah got a thought: “Does Master wish for this slave
to quit work there?”

“Huh. I’ll need to decide that, won’t I?”

Deborah turned a photo-album page. I saw a picture
of Deborah and Mike in late 2005; the couple looked happy and sexy. I tapped
the photo and asked, “How is it that you and Mike stayed together for so long?”

“He said such nice things to Deborah, and he
brought Deborah flowers. He made Deborah feel like the most beautiful woman in
the world.”

“Okay, and what’s the other half of that? The
Mike
half?”

Deborah smiled proudly. “This slave practices
tricks with her pussy muscles, and this slave knows how to give two-hour teaser
blowjobs. Or perhaps what Mike liked is that Deborah figured out how to give
handjobs in a movie theater and never get caught.”

I decided at that moment that I could look at the
rest of Deborah’s photo albums later.

Two minutes later, I was thinking,
Jeez, she’s
wet!

And oh, since you’re wondering: She wasn’t lying
about that blowjob stuff, and that pussy-muscles brag wasn’t bullshit either.

Chapter 7
I Make A Big Mistake

It was the morning after I had fired Mike; also,
the morning after Deborah had become my sex slave. Perhaps reading my face
well, nobody at the Morning Meeting asked why Mike was no longer with us. I
informed the group that I would soon promote one of them to Mike’s job; in the
meantime, I was acting general sales manager. (Which meant, no more sitting in
my office for the next day or two.)

After the Morning Meeting, I remained in my inner
office, intending to stay only a few minutes more. But Susie had other plans.
Short of smacking Susie across the room (which I was
not
going to do), I
couldn’t stop her from dropping her mouth onto my cock. Sometime later, Susie
swallowed my cum, stood up, kissed me on the cheek, and sashayed to the door
and her desk beyond.

I stayed in my chair, realizing that I needed to
face my responsibility.

To summarize: In the last four days, the Ice
Princess had become my eager porn-fantasy secretary, two strippers had given me
blowjobs and phone numbers, and a third stripper had become my devoted sex
slave. I know I’m likable, but I couldn’t believe that I’d made this happen
just with my wit, good looks, and natural charm.

The golden god had given me a gift, and had said to
“use it wisely”—which meant that I could control it. But clearly it worked even
when I
didn’t
control it. I had changed Susie, Sarah/Platinuma,
Ashley/Gothika, and Deborah without trying to.

I tried to recall everything I’d done since talking
to the god, to try to see a pattern. But searching my memory was a waste of
time, for my memory had too many holes in it.
Damn
, I was frustrated!

“Timothy Richard Hanson,” I said, “you somehow
better
know
exactly what your Power has done, and you better
know
what to say to women in the future to make your Power work some certain way, or
else you might really
hurt
somebody.”

I felt something
click
in my brain. I
thought,
Good God, somehow I’ve just worked my Power on myself!

I walked out of my office. I strolled through the
showroom, the inventory lot, the service bays, and the parts counter, all the
time imperfectly recalling the last few days in my head.

I wondered again why Susie kept insisting on
sucking me off, not stopping when I told her to stop. What was up with that?
But then somehow I
knew
that it was because my Power wasn’t being
invoked then.

Recalling my night at the Nimfo Club, somehow I
knew—without knowing how I knew—that when I started talking to Gothika, my
Power had not kicked in, so that she thought I was bullshitting her;
but
shortly after, my Power kicked in, and Gothika got convinced I wanted to be her
friend and nothing more.

In fact, the same Power-on, Power-off thing had
happened with Sarah/“Platinuma”—

Fuck. Damnation. Shit, shit, shit.

I was Sarah’s boyfriend now. Not a pretend-boyfriend,
and not a one-night boyfriend, I’m the guy whom she now loved and she now
fucked. She’d sucked me off in the Nimfo Club not because that’s what sluts do,
but because that’s what girlfriends do.

I had run back to my office and, once I shut the
door, I pulled out my cel phone and called Sarah. I forgot that she went to bed
late and it was still early. She answered the phone in a sleepy voice. I said, “Oh,
I’m sorry that I woke—”

“That’s okay, lover,” she said. “I’d rather lose
sleep to talk to you, than be awake for anyone else.”

I heard the faint sound of a crying baby. I said, “You
have to get up anyway, to take care of your child.”

She yawned. “I don’t have kids. That’s Shelley’s
little boy you hear. I’m sleeping on her couch.”

“Um, don’t you have an apartment?”

“Isn’t safe anymore. After you called me two days
ago to set up our date, I finally called up Duke and told him: He and I were
done, I was seeing someone else. The night before last, when I got off work, I
got a feeling. I asked George—bouncer, ex-military, he’s huge—to walk me to my
car. Outside, there was Duke. So now I have big bruises, but I’m not in the
hospital, thank the Lord.”

“I’m sorry about your bruises.”

“You are so sweet. If you were here, I’d let you
kiss them and make them better.”

“Um, right. Listen, I’d better let you go back to
sleep.”

Sarah yawned again. “Wish you were here, honey. I’d
cuddle you, and then I know I’d sleep like a log.” Sarah’s voice got sexy: “Or
else I’d start a party, and then we’d
both
wake up.”

As I put my cel phone back in my pocket, I thought,
What have I done?

The door opened, and Susie walked in. “You okay? I
heard you were on your cel.” Susie’s face got that sex-kitten look. “Mr.
Hanson, you look stressed.”

The words slipped out: “Susan,” I said, “not now.
Try later.”

“I got you, you have to work. But remember, if your
work gets stressful—I’m here to
help
you.” She smiled at me, and started
to leave.

“Susan, tell me: Have you stolen anything from the
dealership, or cheated the dealership, since you started here?”

“Yes, Mr. Hanson. I’ve always written `8:00’ on my
timesheet, even when I’ve come in late. I’ve taken home two nifty pens, a black
Ford t-shirt, and a pad of sticky notes. Please, Mr. Hanson, don’t fire me.”

I said, “I forgive you, Susan.” She beamed as
brightly as a beauty-contest winner, and then went back to her desk, happy
enough to sing (quietly).

I followed her out of my inner office—it was time
to walk my property and to work the General Sales Manager’s job.

I got a thought, and stopped by Susie’s desk as she
was taking her seat. The golden god had told me that changes to people’s minds
were irreversible, but surely there were ways around that. As a test, I said, “Susie,
your hair ribbon?”

“Yes, what about it?”

“From now on, Susan, don’t wear a hair ribbon
anymore.”

The weird thing was, I had a hard time saying that
sentence to Susie. Part of my own brain was fighting me, sending me a feeling
of
I shouldn’t be saying this!
Truly, forbidding Susie from wearing her
hair ribbon was as hard to say as reciting porn-movie dialogue to my Great-Aunt
Hannah would have been.

But less than a second had passed since I told
Susie not to wear a hair ribbon. Now she said, “Mr. Hanson, I—”

My cel phone gave its text-message beep. I pulled
out my phone, glanced at the display, and told Susie, “Have any questions, we’ll
talk later.” I rushed off.

The text message was about a lawyer in the Service
Department. He believed that his scheduled court appearance entitled him to
head-of-the-line privileges for repair. I said to him, “Mr. Hollings, Edward, I’m
sorry but…,” and then I reminded him that
If I did it for you, then I’d
have to do it for everybody, and then where would I be?
was a time-honored
legal principle that he should be familiar with. Mr. Hollings calmed down
immediately, without me needing to cut the price. Amazing, huh?

As I strolled around the dealership after that
crisis, I asked every employee the same dishonesty-question that I’d asked
Susie. I uncovered a salesman who regularly finagled his commissions higher,
and a Parts man who evaporated F-150 parts to put on his truck. These two
people I fired.

Lesser thefts I forgave, which made many of my
employees truly happy (thanks to my Power).

I came to believe that only Mike had embezzled
serious money, though there was still tens of thousands of dollars unaccounted for.
I guess my father
really was
that sloppy in his bookkeeping. (Or else my
father had caught a lot of crooks working for him, and had fired them so
quietly that not even his own son got told why.)

Walking through the showroom, seeing the salesmen
in their tiny offices trying to close customers, it occurred to me: my Power
could make me the biggest car dealer in the city! All I’d have to do was say
the magic words to each and every customer, and Tim Hanson Ford would have a
100 percent closing rate!

But if I did that, I would be a thief. Correction:
I’d be something much worse than a thief, something evil.

My cel phone rang. It was Kathy. “Hey, Kath, what
do you need?” I asked.

“Mr. Hanson? I’m at Susan’s desk. Come here quick,
she’s babbling about her hair ribbon. She’s freaking me out!”

I burst in the door of my outer office to find
Susie sobbing while hugging Kathy. Susie’s left hand was pressed against Kathy’s
back, and Susie’s right hand clutched her hair ribbon in a fist. Between sobs,
Susie was saying, “…have to wear the ribbon, but he told me not to wear the
ribbon. But I have to wear the ribbon, but he told me not to—”

Seeing me, Susie wailed, “I don’t know what to
do
,
Mr. Hanson, I’m so torn up! I have to wear the ribbon…”

As Susie continued to speak and sob, I said to
Kathy, “Go back to your office. I’ll handle this.” Then I got a thought, and I
added, “Kathy, if you see an ambulance come on the lot, don’t tell anybody what
it’s for.” Kathy nodded, and left.

Susie’s brain is stuck in an endless loop, and I’m
responsible!

I reached my hand out to Susie, to give emotional
support to her. Her free hand seized my hand, a long fingernail poking me in
the process.

This started me wondering. The same Command of mine
that made Susie start wearing hair ribbons also made her get inch-long
fingernails. When I told her to shorten her nails, she did, without her brain
locking up. What had I said that time that was different from when I talked
today about the ribbon?

But then I realized, I don’t have to understand how
the Power worked. Since I had worked the Power on myself, I knew what to say to
get what I wanted. The one time I’d gone against my somehow-knowing, I’d made
this mess. The way to fix the mess was to let my Power-rewired brain and its
somehow-knowing do what they wanted to do.

Well, it was good that I had a solution, because
Susie was continuing in misery.

I looked at Susie, and let my mouth run. “Susan,
what I
meant
to say was, `From now on, don’t wear an
ugly
ribbon.’
Like a brown-plaid ribbon, or orange-and-green camouflage, that’s what I meant.
I said it wrong.”

Susie blinked, and stopped crying. She took a
shuddering breath, and looked at the ribbon in her hand. “Mr. Hanson, I—that
is, I want so much for you to—I mean, I can’t—is
this
ribbon okay to
wear?”

“Yes, that ribbon goes well with your skirt. Now,
please go to the restroom and fix your makeup, and please put the ribbon back
in your hair. Then take the rest of the day off with pay.”

Susie rushed up to me, threw her arms around me,
and said, “You’re a wonderful boss!” Smiling, she then grabbed her purse and
dashed off to the ladies’ room.

I felt like shit.

A minute later, I was standing in Kathy’s office. I
used my Power to convince Kathy that nothing weird had happened—I explained
that Susie had caught a fever, which I sent her home because of. “And by the
way, Kathy, please don’t talk about this to anyone else at the dealership.
Susan would appreciate that.”

After dealing with Susie and Kathy, I needed to
decompress. I was thirsty anyway, so when I headed to the breakroom to buy a
soda, I stayed there to drink it.

Employees, for some reason, don’t linger in the
breakroom when the boss sits there. After five minutes, I was alone—except for
the TV in the corner. On TV was Jack Wilson. At Dad’s funeral, Jack’s “condolences”
I’d ranked in the Top Three for
in
sincerity.

Right now, Jack was doing a commercial for his own
dealership; and even with the TV sound turned low, I could hear every word.
Jack was talking as loudly and excitedly as if he’d just won the lottery—but
instead, he was talking about this week’s quote-unquote “sale”—

“And this weekend, our
already
low, low
prices will be even
lower
! You
gotta
come down and check us out!”

Sheesh, give me a break
, I thought.

I’d been a car dealer for less than a week, and
already I loved it. The money was good, but that was only part of the thrill.

To walk through an inventory lot of hundreds of
cars, and they all look great and smell new, and every car has my name on
it—that’s a delight. To be there and watch when a young man comes on the lot
looking for a used car, because he thinks that a
used
car is all he can
afford, and we put him into the first new car he’s ever owned, so his kids get
as excited as Christmas morning and the guy’s wife thinks he’s a hero—then
I
feel like a hero too.

But I really dreaded making years and years of
stupid car commercials, which was my duty to my dealership. C’mon, everybody
old enough to sign a legal contract is old enough to know that Tim Hanson Ford’s
salespeople work on commission—if we shaft the customer, we make more money; if
we sell cheap, the salesman starves. So why insult the customer by talking
about “low prices” that can never be low? For that matter, why call something a
“sale” that happens once a week, or once a month? Jeez, no wonder the public
distrusts car salesmen!

I crushed the soda can between my hands, threw it
in the Recycle box, and stood up. As I headed for the door, I turned my mind to
the more immediate problem of naming a general sales manager to replace Mike.