Kindle thriller "Something Coming" now .99 cents

Reviewer D. Gulick says, “Something Coming synthesizes the world’s numerous spiritualities, with history, with the contest between the Light and the dark, with adventure, depth of character and suspense. It’s a “must read” for people who love to explore philosophies and ideologies in totally absorbing fiction.”

For the price of an extra large soft drink, Kindle readers can own an original and well-reviewed novel about a Second Coming unlike anything imagined. Extra care was taken to convert the novel and its thrilling sequel to Kindle format, so buyers get the same high-quality as the print edition of this original supernatural thriller.

In Something Coming, King Antiochus Epiphanes lives again, with the help of his reincarnated queen and his followers. He brings peace, signs and wonders, but is hated by fundamentalist for his persecution of Israel long ago that sparked the Maccabean Rebellion. Will his second coming fulfill the prophecies of a coming New Age of enlightenment, or is he the Antichrist out to finish what he started?

Click on the cover to go directly to Amazon and get this novel!

Reviewer D. Gulick says, “Something Coming synthesizes the world’s numerous spiritualities, with history, with the contest between the Light and the dark, with adventure, depth of character and suspense. It’s a “must read” for people who love to explore philosophies and ideologies in totally absorbing fiction.”

Another reviewer says: “Something Coming is a spell-binding journey across time, through inner space and back to a jarring reality. The characters are richly drawn and have your heart aching through their epic struggles and triumphs. Ancient mysteries are explained and new mysteries are created. J.M. DeBord spins a tale that seems to mirror our own unfolding world.”

Took 11 years to write and publish, with every chapter rewritten at least ten times, sometimes 20 or more, until as perfect as I could make it. Yes, I’m a perfectionist, and no doubt a mistake or two slipped in, but I guarantee you’ll get your money’s worth. For some readers, it’s the bargain of the year!

And just in case you’d like to save your couple bucks for a soft drink, here’s on older edition of Book One on Scribd:

Something Coming Book One: The Sacred Mountain

Read "Something Coming," a novel about a secular Second Coming

Most of us suspect that something is coming, big changes, enlightenment or apocalypse. Something Coming tells the story of a great ruler’s unexpected return from antiquity, who inspires devotion and hatred and has a plan to rule the world.

Something Coming cover art and link to Amazon e-store
Click to buy the novel at the author's Amazon e-store

Announcing the release of Something Coming, by J.M. DeBord. In this two-book novel we are shocked to discover that predictions of a second coming can come true in unexpected ways when an infamous ruler from antiquity engineers his rebirth. The story begins with a flash of light and spiritual awakening at historic Mt. Nemrut, Turkey, spreads around the world with signs and wonders, and climaxes in Jerusalem, where a final battle rages between the forces of enlightenment and the forces of repression. Some people see the miraculous events as the beginning of a new age for humanity, while others suspect the machinations of the Antichrist leading to Armageddon. In between are a few people who witness the events first-hand and know the truth. Or is it deception?

Along the way to finding out, we rediscover a grand mountain monument with a message of peace that unites East and West and with a past as the center of a great kingdom led by visionary rulers. One of those rulers is both beloved and despised: Antiochus Epiphanes. To most of the world, the peace he secretly brings to the Middle East and elsewhere is reason to go along and avoid asking deeper questions about the origins of the New Age movement. However, fundamentalist Christians and Jews remember Antiochus as a brutal dictator who almost destroyed Judaism, if not for the Maccabean rebellion, who committed the Abomination of Desolation written about by the prophet Daniel. Descendants of the dynastic family that led the rebellion suspect that Antiochus is returning in modern day to finish what he started. They uncover the truth, but their voices are marginalized in the fervor for world peace brokered by a charismatic priest, Demetrius.

The priest, one of three reincarnated masters of the old kingdom, makes peace in Turkey with the Kurds, then in Iraq between the Sunnis and Shiites. He wears a symbol that calls old souls to remember themselves and their ancient king, and he is a master of both media and magic. Working as an ambassador of the sacred mountain in Turkey, he gains trust around the world, leading a peace movement backed by an all-seeing mind.

Some fundamentalists suspect that Demetrius is the fulfillment of Christian prophecies predicting the Antichrist as a New Age peacemaker. They oppose him, some violently, fighting for what they believe in. But they are up against masterminds in Demetrius and Antiochus, and in standing against them, fundamentalists also stand against the majority of the world. They make their final stand in Jerusalem, a city claimed as home by three religions. None would exist today if not for the same family that stopped Antiochus last time more than two thousand years ago led by Judas Maccabee. Are they repeating history by denying their Messiah, or are they correct to interpret a family tragedy as a revenge attack by an ancient enemy?

The author welcomes you to read the first six chapters before buying the novel, available as a PDF file. Just click the link.

You can also read an interview with J.M. DeBord about the creation of his novel.

More fiction is available. Full Circle, a short story about the connection between life and the afterlife, and a graphic short story about a shrinking penis called 4 Inches and Counting. If you enjoy a certain twisted sense of humor, be prepared to laugh. Otherwise, click on the categories to the right for more writing.

Full Circle: Surprise! You're Dead. Now what?

I’d always been the coolest cat, untouchable by fear or feeling. Lesser men cracked but I’d earned my tough exterior. Nothing got to me until Kara. Love finally touched my heart – and broke it.

(Contains mature language and subject matter)
A short story by J.M. DeBord

Dying on a wet prison floor with a sharpened butter knife sticking out of my chest, the next step for a person like me was eternity in Hell, I figured. How wrong I was.

Soon after crossing over to the afterlife I began seeing possibilities for another life in body. A fresh start on a conveyor belt of mortal opportunities. Humans busily procreating on Earth eventually produce circumstances attractive to a soul in search of a life to balance the many others already lived. But I was still haunted by my last life and wasn’t ready to try again. I’d do my time in Purgatory getting poked in the ass by devils if that’s what I deserved. I’d been a bad man by most standards, a bad father by any standard. Died gasping for breath while serving life for dealing drugs—lots of drugs, with a side of murder, death, kill.

Someone thought the pain and tragedy I’d already experienced were enough punishment. Don’t get me wrong, no Angels sat on clouds playing harps in my honor. Nothing like that, but surprisingly, the only real difference was I no longer had the body I had before. At least I wasn’t as lost as some souls, though I accepted no one’s presence, a loner in an isolation cell of my own making, nursing the memories of my last life. I might have resisted the beckoning Light and become a ghost, if not for the Teacher who stood at the threshold as I died. He spoke in complete thoughts, and what I heard was: “The decisions you made were stupid, sometimes unnecessarily painful, but they were yours to make. Some good can come from it if you learn.”

My sort of Teacher. I drifted away from my corpse, regretful but ready. Every Pit Bull eventually lets go of the leg and returns to the doghouse, broken and exhausted. I wanted rest.

The Light washed away all pain and suffering, tried to cleanse all my earthly cares, but I couldn’t forget my daughter, Kara. I’d never really known her, having spent most of my life breaking the law, running from the law, or locked up by the law. Her mother had kept us as far apart as possible. Couldn’t blame her; I was bad news walking. Many nights, locked in a prison cell, the thought crossed my mind that if only I’d been more involved in Kara’s life, I might have taken better care for my own. I’d been forgiven for sins and all that when I followed the Teacher into the Light, but the hardest part was forgiving myself. I’d missed out on the best potential for my previous life. I’d missed out on love. And it was too late to do anything about it, making me a restless and troubled soul.

I’d been a hard person, colorful, intense. Looking back over many lifetimes I saw a pattern: lives of turmoil, untouched by feeling, distant from my fellow beings. I needed to learn an important lesson or else my fate was to live another life repeating the same mistakes. My last life opened the door, but inside the next room it was dark. Then a possibility for reincarnation presented itself and I saw all of its potential at once:

*Female, named Monique. Would die before her 2nd birthday, drowned in bath water by her crack-addled mother’s boyfriend. He was destined to go into a fit of rage because he hadn’t had a fix that day and poor Monique cried ceaselessly. No wonder she was crying and hungry, I observed from a distance, the moronic boyfriend spent the food money on crack! After Monique’s tragic death, he’d skip town in terror and soon be cut down in a bar fight started over whether Tupac was really alive. The mother would go to jail for child neglect and drug abuse and get clean. Whenever the crack devil beckoned thereafter, she’d remember her beautiful little girl Monique and resist, living the rest of her days with regret but determination to make good. If she was fortunate, she’d learn that indifference is worse than hate. The knowledge earned through hardship might eventually make her something of a saint. That was her potential, and I’d take the life of her child to help make it happen. The boyfriend would learn that rage stems from self-loathing and unfulfilled dreams that, when abandoned, abandon you. What’s left is a shell with a soul crying to get out. At least some good could come from Monique’s life.

I saw a chance to pay off Karma by inhabiting that body and putting my unique stamp on its life. Many lives had been ruined by the drugs I’d peddled; I just wasn’t ready to leave my isolation.

Before I got shanked with a butter knife and died, my daughter Kara visited me in prison. We hadn’t communicated in more than a decade, yet her letter arrived out of the blue saying she wanted to see me. During my first stint in prison I’d written to her once a week for a year. Hard letters, not only because they were slow and tedious in the making, or because of my eighth-grade education, or because I had to wait until late at night when everyone was asleep. I didn’t know what to say to a little girl. “Hi, this is the father you barely know, writing from the penitentiary. Last week I watched a man die with a smile cut into his throat. How’s school?”

Shame was tough for a man like me to admit. I could swing million-dollar drug deals, but when it came to the heart I was stone. My life had revolved around crime, violence, and prison—not exactly conversation for a schoolgirl. After a year her mother wrote back telling me to save the ink, Kara would never read the letters. So I stopped writing and tried to forget everything but the daily challenge of survival in the joint. Hard to do with so much time to think, but I did it—until Kara wrote and the door to my past blew wide open. At a bad time, too: the white, black, and Mexican factions were at war, and we all expected blood to spill.

Kara was more beautiful than I’d imagined she’d be as a grown woman. Slender cheeks, pointy chin, long curly brown hair and hazel eyes. I recognized her immediately in the prison visitors room. She had some of her mother’s Puerto Rican heritage in her, mixed with my curly hair and slim waist. A clean-cut black man sat next to her trying to appear comfortable. I strode up and told him in no uncertain terms that he must have the wrong table and should be moving along.

“Tyrone,” my daughter said, indicating the man-boy next to her, “is going to be my husband. He belongs here.”

Prisoners watched us on the sly. I was well-known in the joint, a person of authority, and my daughter with a black man wouldn’t play well. I wasn’t particularly racist until locked up. The Aryan Brotherhood initiated me in return for my undying loyalty. Everyone needed someone to watch their back when in a cage full of animals, and the Brotherhood didn’t just watch out for your body but your lily white soul, too.

The young man fidgeted under my menace, though he looked determined. The reason for him tagging along became apparent in the way he and Kara looked at each other: to help her get through seeing me. My respect for him grew a notch—took balls to walk into such a situation. I had radar for when a man could be backed down, chicken liver for a heart, and this wasn’t the time to prove who was Alpha Male. So I turned on her, saying, “Husband? You’re too young to get married. How old are you, 19? Oh, you’re 21. Same difference.”

She replied that they loved each other, nothing could keep them apart, and even her mother had accepted their union. Little did I know then that some souls are made for each other. Kara and Tyrone had reached across a vast divide of time and culture to be (re)united. Soul mates. All I saw at the time was my rosebud being deflowered by a black man. Wait until the Bulldogs in the Brotherhood tossed that around….

Kara deftly switched subjects. She remembered the sweet letters that her mom had read to her before bed, until one week they stopped coming. Kara wanted to write back, but my ex-wife told her I was in “the bad place.”

The words plunged into me like ice picks. All I could think was, that fucking bitch lied to me—and our daughter! I would’ve strangled my ex right there and must have turned color because Kara’s pretty brows furrowed over her concerned eyes. She asked if I was all right. I wasn’t; I choked on rage! She tentatively placed her hand on my tattooed forearm. A jolt shot through it. People were watching. The jackals sensed weakness, but it was no time to pay them much mind. Tenderness flowed from my precious daughter through my skin, up my nerves, and tried to penetrate my hardened heart.

No such luck. My daughter’s love had the opposite effect of triggering a blind fury.

I tore away from her and stalked over to the barred gate leading back into the prison. Back to my cell. My hell. I wanted out, not in, but this was Hotel California and I could never leave. I grabbed the bars and heaved with all my might—snarling, thrashing blindly, a torrent set loose. Let me in! Let me out! Let me die! I couldn’t take it. A jackhammer split the stone in my chest.

Prisoners hooted. The intercom screeched for more guards. They couldn’t pry loose my hands. A cloud of mace in my face and still I held on, snarling like a wolf caught in a steel trap. Riot sticks pounded my ribs and kidneys. Guards yelled, ordered me to stand down. Visitors were quickly cleared. I heard Kara above the clamor:

“Daddy? Daddy, please stop!”

Unable to cry or cry out, I collapsed and curled into a ball, beaten savagely into unconsciousness.


After crossing over, earthly life is supposed to wash away. The soul needs to conserve energy before taking another whirl on the Wheel of Life and Death—the Samsara, as it’s called by eastern cultures. My body had been cut down before finishing its task and I thought maybe I’d stepped too eagerly across the threshold. Even if my corpse rotted in a prison cemetery, I wanted to go back. ‘Hi honey, I’m home!’ The memories stirred life in buried bones.

I knew of souls making contact with the living. It could be done. I pictured Kara and reached out.

So many minds and their petty concerns to wade through: what’s for dinner; how are my stocks doing; that intern at work sure looks good; what to buy this weekend; Brenda at the salon said Sheila said and blah blah blah. Life is slow death when the importance is missed. Don’t you see, I railed at the lost people, that you’re missing the point? Love! Love one another! The time is up before you know it, and all that’s going with you is what you learn. Ever seen a U-Haul pulled behind a hearse?

I got distracted and lost any chance to find Kara. It was no use. And even if I did find her, what then—punch through the barrier between life and death like a poltergeist and scare her shitless?

“Doesn’t work that way,” I heard, “though you’re learning to recognize what you missed.” It was the Teacher.

Oh, you again, I thought. Thanks for nothing.

The Teacher radiated mild amusement but also sadness at my obstinate insistence on remaining isolated. I felt his admonishment and railed: “I could have held on if you wouldn’t have convinced me to give up! Now I have no chance of getting back to my Kara. To just sit in her presence. I’d gladly be a ghost for eternity to be near her again. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Silence. God it was aggravating.

“Then go away!”

The Teacher’s presence left, and I was left to marinate in regret over everything I’d lost.

Back in my earthly life, the scene in the visitor’s room earned me a week in solitary confinement: The Hole. A week to talk to shadows. I was empty once the rage subsided, just a shallow bowl of murky feelings. How could I show weakness in front of Kara during our only meeting? No pen and paper were allowed in solitary so I couldn’t write to her. I didn’t have her phone number even if I had a phone. I was impotent, and for a man like me at the time, that felt worse than defeat. At least in defeat I could go down fighting. At least I could move on. Impotence is a three-legged horse on a circular track, hobbled and going nowhere.

Three times a day a tray of crappy prison food got shoved through a little slot in the steel door of my solitary cell. On the second morning a pair of narrow eyes peered at me and a raspy voice got my attention. The Brotherhood sends its greetings and congratulations, it announced.

I recognized the voice of a junior Brother. It continued: Whole place is talking about you, man. Did that nigga boy really come with your daughter? You never told us ’bout no daughter.

Kara. Oh Kara, I’m so sorry.

My mind drifted aimlessly, my only desire silence, but the Brother had nothing better to do and kept ranting:

She’s corrupting her blood with that piece of shit. Man, I woulda whipped out my fat white cock and pissed on the mother fucker. The golden arch smacking that black face. Yeah, that’s it. Silent huh? Save your energy. When you get outa The Hole, it’s party time. Gonna show d’em monkeys who’s boss.


You don’t know what it’s like to live until passing the hours in a 6′ by 8′ steel box, where nothing marks the days and nights going by except the routine of waking, eating, shitting, and sleeping. When you know you’ll never be free again, one day is no different than all the rest. A dull fatigue settles in. The blood pumps slower, with less conviction. There’s no motivation to do better. A staggeringly numb feeling forces closed the eyes of the soul. The body continues but the soul prepares for rest, sooner the better. Some souls in prison fight it; others hibernate, sleeping through life. Mine tore in half wanting life, and wanting to leave it.


Another possibility for reincarnation presented itself after a long time of sweet nothingness. Circumstances built on Earth that appealed to some incomplete part of myself. My soul in that body had good potential.

*Female, Iranian, would live a long and fruitful life for 97 years and raise many children and grandchildren. Her husband from an arranged marriage would treat her pretty well. Life would compensate in small comforts for what it lacked in passion. The main lesson to be learned was that love can be found in little things, and so can God: a sunrise, a child’s laughter, a good meal, a cherished friend.

After what I’d been through in the last life, this possibility presented appealing easiness. No sudden violent deaths. Good health. Mostly pleasant days and nights surrounded by strong family, which brings out the best in just about everyone. Almost a century of good living, but something didn’t feel right about it. Some other soul should take that turn on the Wheel and work out its own potential. My soul had issues to resolve, still refusing any company in the afterlife, and barely able to tolerate my own.


On the fifth day in The Hole, I broke down. I could see Kara squarely in my mind’s eye, tantalizingly near but quickly vanishing as my fingers reached for her apparition. Her last words echoed: “Daddy? Please!” It was driving me nuts. I stopped eating, slept in fits, dreamed of being chased by shadowy monsters, paced the steel box and stared vacantly at the walls. Only the regular meal deliveries and cries of other inmates further ahead on the insanity spectrum reminded me where I was.

I’d always been the coolest cat, untouchable by fear or feeling. Lesser men cracked but I’d earned my tough exterior. Nothing got to me until Kara. Love finally touched my heart—and broke it.

In prison I devoted myself to the Brotherhood. Everything revolved around white power and the struggle for racial purity. It all suddenly smelled like pig shit, unimportant, and worse, the sort of deception that involves personal complicity. Nothing mattered: not my “rank” and status: not my “wares” (once a drug dealer…): not the respect I’d earned by taking the fall rather than ratting the last time I got busted. Not even the Brotherhood mattered.

So on the morning of the sixth day when my “Brother”—that scab on the ass of humanity—stuck his snout through the food slot, I totally lost it. I’d questioned a lot of assumptions while in The Hole, eyes opened at least partially, and cringed at the truth of what I’d become. Dead weight. Dead to myself, no longer fitting into the world I knew behind bars that had shaped me into a human caricature.

“You a true Brother!” hissed the serpent. “Got all the blacks talking; Mexicans too. They know who’s boss. Woulda been better if you woulda scrubbed your ass with that afro-turfed skull. Dude! Who does blackie think he is trying to marry the daughter of a real man?”

“I wish them a happy life together,” I said. “I hope they have a whole tribe of little afro-turfed kids that take over your neighborhood and blare gangsta rap all night, living on your tax dollars and drinkin’ 40s in the street. In fact, I hope your pathetic little soul comes back as a big fat-ass black woman called Queen Shaniqua, who eats fried chicken by the bucket and smacks her lips licking her fingers. You think I was mad because he’s black? I’m mad at myself for judging him—and her!—by his color. And for being locked up the rest of my days with a bunch of idiots who don’t know their asses from a hole in the wall, while she goes on to make a family without me. That’s why I went off,” my voice echoed down the corridor for all in solitary to hear. “And you are a fucking idiot. Get out of my sight.”

“And to think you were just voted Brother of the Year,” spat the serpentine voice. “A unanimous vote. The Brothers told me not to say nothing before you’re let back in population tomorrow. It was going to be a surprise. Some surprise! A new vote is needed, I think the Brothers will agree. We were going to show the blacks our unity, but instead you just bought yourself a ticket to Hell…Brother!”


My soul’s regrets must have been causing ripples in the afterlife, because the Teacher showed up again and sent a thought:

You wanted to see your daughter, here is your chance. Each soul has its own tone, the frequency at which it vibrates. Listen for Kara; you will find her, but you can only observe. She’s dreaming earthly life and can’t be disturbed. Now go!

I did as instructed and found Kara after some practice at attuning rather than seeing. It was Christmas Eve. I hovered nearby, so close to want to touch her, but remembered the instruction to remain in the background. I wasn’t the only one. Many souls hovered about for various reasons, mostly out of kindness and the desire to help. Her husband sang the sweetest tune. Such passion and restraint. Tyrone was a good man. I knew instinctively that his voice would be heard around the world and he’d make a name for himself. Good for him. Good for them.

She sat happily on the floor of their living room reclined between his legs. He placed a hand on her belly and smiled as he finished a song about the birth of a blessed child long ago. A new life grew in her womb, they’d just found out. Still early in the pregnancy, but there was definitely a living fetus within her, I sensed. Its destiny being written, its lessons to be learned.

“If the baby is a boy, maybe he’ll look like my dad,” Kara said.

Tyrone quipped, “Oh yeah, with spiky black hair to boot!”

They laughed together, clear and happy but with a touch of sadness. She still mourned the loss of the father she barely knew. They had a picture of me from before I’d done hard time, when some smile remained in my eyes. It was the closure I needed. I could move on.


The door crashed open near the end of the seventh day of solitary, letting me out of a small steel box to enter a big one. A guard escorted me back to the ward. Normally, I would’ve bantered with him to establish trust, but a strange sort of clarity had descended upon me. I might as well have been walking on the moon. I said nothing.

Everyone on my ward was at chow so I went to the dining hall, not really hungry in body but famished in soul. Hard looks shot my way as I entered, especially from the blacks. Their gleaming eyes said “marked man.” I grabbed a tray, worked through the food line—lines are the routine of prison life—and came to the point of no return. The Brothers were sitting together at their usual table watching me like hyenas. If I sat down with them I could explain what I’d said in The Hole as a momentary lapse, not uncommon under the circumstances. I could turn it all around and accuse the jackass junior Brother on the other side of the food slot of trying to take me down. I’d take him down first, easily, dead before the end of the hour. He sat right there. I smelled the fear behind his sneer. I could go back to the old routine and maybe even run the Brotherhood if I played it right. If I walked away instead and sat down at another table I would be known as the dead man. The Brotherhood is a lifetime commitment. Most of them weren’t going anywhere except under the dirt of the prison cemetery, eventually.

I approached the table with food tray in hand. My seat was open but I didn’t sit, instead looked at them, thinking. Had I really learned anything? Temptation is a bitch that never goes away. Even knowing the Siren’s deadly call, the water beckoned to me. Finally, the head of the Brotherhood, mountainous and covered in green tattoos and battle scars, rumbled, “You gonna explain yourself? I hear you’re losing faith.”

His words echoed in my mind: “faith,” “explain.” I retorted, “What do you know about faith? Explaining myself to you means I give a fuck about your opinion.”

I wanted to say more, tell them that their Brotherhood is a child’s game for adults and their ideology is a cover for fear. But I knew it would only give them a reason to hate me and justify away the symbolism of what I was about to do. I could have the most impact by just walking away, which I did.

I ate alone under the stares of the whites, blacks, and Mexicans, fiddling with my food until the dining hall closed. The loudspeaker announced roll-call in five minutes. Time to get back to my cell. I took my tray to the dish window and tossed the silverware into a bin of blue sudsy water. A guard lackadaisically watched me to make sure I’d returned everything that could be used as a weapon, and I exited the dining hall, last one out.

“Roll call in three minutes, move it, ladies!” the loudspeaker blared.

I didn’t care if I was late. What could they do to me? More time in The Hole would be a blessing. I passed a group of blacks on work detail in the corridor outside the dining hall. The floor was wet from their mopping and reflected the sunlight coming through high, barred windows. I normally would have strutted right through the middle while dragging my feet to disrespect them, but instead walked to the edge, respecting their work. I didn’t see the shank or who shoved it expertly into my belly up under the ribs and left it; didn’t even really feel the blade. A sharp bite and there I fell on the wet floor, alone, diaphragm frozen, heart racing, each attempt at breath causing a blazing rip in my sternum. I thought: “Relax, you can live through this. Someone will notice.” But suddenly I didn’t want to stop the inevitable. Death seemed better. Didn’t take long. My soul popped out of that body, saw the Light, felt the reach of the Teacher, took one last look, and escaped the place I could never leave.


The Teacher was silent and so was I. I didn’t mind his presence. The haunting restlessness was finally settled. We had reviewed my life, and I learned that even the harshest moments served a purpose. I was “bad,” I was immature, and I could be forgiven. But I still longed for my Kara. As little as I’d really known her, the potential for love was real. Our souls possessed a special connection, like two voices that harmonize.

Said the Teacher: There is an opportunity for you. A child will be born and live for 19 good years. The parents are loving. Their son will be cherished.

That grabbed my interest. Sounds promising, I replied. Tell me more about the parents.

You already know.

And I did, suddenly, know all about that new life and its potential. The parents were Kara and Tyrone. She was close to giving birth. I had assumed that opportunity was reserved for a better soul, but I realized there is no better or worse, just incomplete.

I asked, Who is to say I’m the right soul for them? Don’t they have some say?

The teacher answered. The soul chooses the parents. This life will bring balance so that you can evolve and join the One, painting your uniqueness onto the eternal canvas as we all do, eventually. The deep love between you and Kara opens the door to the expression of God. You will love Tyrone with all your heart, and he will teach you what it really means to be a man.

I hesitated but the decision was already made. The Wheel turned and time had come to jump back on for another ride. Time to come full circle.

Four Inches (and Counting) – a Short Story about Internet Seduction

Try to imagine what it’s like wading through garbage loads of smut and can’t touch yourself. I mean, what is masturbation? Is it climaxing or a friendly tug? Manual arousal or a dirty daydream? I can’t take any chances. I didn’t have the biggest manhood to begin with; now I have less!


By J.M. DeBord

Copyright 2009

My dick shrinks every time I masturbate. Don’t laugh, dammit, it’s not funny! I met a strange woman online and now, a little at time, my manhood dwindles, just as she promised it would. Her curse is coming true. God, I knew I shouldn’t do it — masturbate with her on my webcam — but she made me. The witch is wacko, I tell you.

We encountered each other through an Internet search for “free live sex,” but random the encounter was not. The Devil knows all our weaknesses. She knew mine, knew me, despite the seemingly random way we met. Only a fallen angel could possess such power. I strayed and a Succubus found me. Now I’m paying an unbelievable price.

The website is gone, no trace left on my computer or the search engine I used — or on any search engine. I know exactly where to look because I navigated straight to page 66 and clicked on the 6th result. You might say I was asking for trouble from the start, but really I was just messing around, bored — not gambling with my fate. Try to imagine what it’s like wading through garbage loads of smut and you can’t touch yourself. I mean, what is masturbation? Is it climaxing or a friendly tug? Manual arousal or a dirty daydream? I can’t take any chances. I didn’t have the biggest tool to begin with — now I have less!

Her webpage loaded and there the seductress appeared on TV-quality live video. First I saw the bed, queen-size with lavender satin sheets and brass headboard pushed against a wall painted gauzy rose. Then something on the bed stirred among the tall pile of plump pillows. Just a flash of face followed by toned thighs rising in the background. She rolled over and looked at me upside down with big green eyes, face pale white, button-nose above full lips (or from that perspective, below), and wavy auburn hair falling off the bed.



I guessed her accent as Eastern European when she said, “Only you get to see?”

Who, me? I’d viewed enough porn to fill a walk-in closet, but live interaction was completely new. Her voice came through my speakers timbered sultry, accompanied by instrumental music playing in the background that brought to mind Moroccan. Complete spank material.

“That’s all right, if you like it that way. I can do whatever you want,” she cooed.

I typed into the chat box that my webcam was on. I thought nothing of it at the time.

“Sweetie,” she said, “you have to click on the big blue button for two-way.”

I clicked the button and installed some gadget to make my webcam work with hers. A moment later she glanced sideways at her monitor, scanned my face, smiled approvingly, kissed her fingers and placed them on the monitor. I felt a little tingle.

“I see now. You are cute. Your name?”

I typed my usual screen name: Deadeye Dick, the title of a Kurt Vonnegut book I found long ago on the family bookshelves. I’m known for my aim — played varsity basketball in high school. The glory days.

She giggled, undoubtedly missing the joke. “Can I just call you ‘Dickie’?”

I began to type but she stopped me with five words:

“I can hear you, baby.”

“Dickie’s fine,” I spoke toward my mic. Hell, Dickie had a ring to it from her mouth, every syllable hinting of seduction.

“I’d ask you what you are here for, Dickie, but I already know.” She balanced a pointed chin lightly atop her hand, eyes level with the camera, sinewy form blended into the satiny sheets and luxurious pillows. Her perfect little ass waved in the air like a kitty in heat.

“Am I being charged for anything?” I asked, thinking of the possibility of a scam. I damn sure wouldn’t get suckered.

“You have to put in your information and click the other button.”

The quality of the feed impressed me but I saw no banners, links or logos on the webpage, just her boxy room and the two buttons. The domain name had to be at least 30 characters long in a foreign language, and the fill-in box for payment sat empty. “There’s no price,” I noticed.

“Pay whatever you think I’m worth.”

“What if I say it’s worth nothing?” I distinctly remember asking her.

“No one has ever received my adoration and been unsatisfied. I know what my men need.”

She rose to reveal the cleavage of two full milky white breasts barely covered by a lacy, flesh-colored nightie. A shawl made of see-through fabric covered her dainty shoulders. Her neckline looked delicious. Never did I expect to find such a gorgeous woman on a spank site, a combination of everything my eye seeks in the feminine form. Like I said, our encounter was no coincidence.

“Show me what you can do.” I played it cool. “No guarantees, you understand.” Don’t know if I actually said that word-for-word, but I think the terms of our agreement were clear.

“You’ll get what you came for.” She stretched out a long arm to arc her camera over top of the bed so that I looked down at her with a view of her perfect body. I saw a hint of her pink panties. The camera swung fluidly to give me a better view as she asked, “Is this your first time?”

“If you mean like this, yes. I wasn’t really looking for anything in particular when I visited your site. Kind of strange how I found you, actually.”

“A man should always know what he’s looking for, Dickie, that way he knows what to do with it when he gets it. Don’t you agree?” Her demure voice found the soft spots.

“People say I lack direction,” I think I replied.

“And we can agree why you’re here? I bet you’ve seen many pretty girls on the internet who arouse you. No one like me though.”

As I studied her closely I noticed bark-colored flecks spattered in her green eyes. I could almost smell fruit-scented hair conditioner. She seemed genuinely interested in me. I breathed a little harder. “Right again,” I had to admit. I felt like I was talking to a therapist or something, not that I trust those witch doctors.

She moved her camera closer and panned over her slim torso, over her navel and hip bone tattooed with a small, funny symbol, down to her silky pink panties printed with teddy bears, a close-shaved patch of dark pubic hair tantalizingly visible beneath the soft fabric. My weakness is for hot, girly women with teddy bears, and my preference in pubic hair is for a shapely batch over an unruly bush or clean shave. She lowered her voice promisingly. “I can be there with you, from any angle, any position you want me, and together we’ll tell a story. Do you want to do that?”

I didn’t answer.

“Get more comfortable. Take off those pants.”

A moment later I sported boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

“Good. Now sit back and relax. Tell me what excites you.” The camera panned up her luscious torso to her lovely round face. She blew a kiss that tingled inside my trunks.

I wasn’t so sure about what I thought was going to happen. I’d masturbated many times to Internet porn but never paid for it, and certainly not with another person (sort of) present. Crossing a line, it seemed.

I did it anyway, my left hand drifting unconsciously downward. I tried to angle my camera so she couldn’t see me playing with myself and answered, “I like girls. Long legs. Big tits. Blow jobs.”

“Do you like what I’m wearing? I can change for you.”

“I like it, I just–”

“Relax, we’re doing this together, remember? I’m there with you now. Really,” she said, squinting her eyes, “I have a special gift. There’s no such thing as time and space except to the mind fooled by it. Feel my hands on your chest. My soft kiss on your neck.” On screen she mimicked running her hands over my chest, mouth kissing wetly on my neck, my ear.

Just then I felt a whisper of air behind my ear and became leery. I’d heard of power of suggestion but thought myself immune. I wasn’t going to be duped. Little did I know at the time what confronted me.

“Sense how much I want you,” she breathed hotly.

That statement opened an existential can of worms about the nature of attraction best left for another time. Suffice to say I saw through her flattery, as convincing as it was, but participated willingly in the fantasy.

“I had a pedicure today, want to see?” She cocked a leg and lifted a perfectly shaped, ruby-red-painted big toe into view over her firm dancer’s belly, demonstrating flexibility that lifted my boxer shorts with excitement. I imagined the positions I could twist her into as I pounded her box.

My fingertips found the front flap of my shorts and reached inside. Her delicate feet — she knew my weakness. I said the first thing that came to mind:

“You spend a lot of time on your back, don’t you?” I know feet, and hers were soft as a maiden’s in a harem.

“Why Dickie, whatever do you mean by that?” she replied innocently, lean legs hovering in the air. Even though she looked and sounded Eastern European, for a moment I heard all-American south, a big turn-on. I doubt if she could tell that I blushed in the dim light of my room. “You try to be a good boy, don’t you? But you have pointless hangups about your sexuality and how you express it. Sometimes the beast needs fed.”

“What do you mean by that?” I shot back. She had some nerve.

“I think you know.” Her seductive stare into the camera left no doubt.

“Look, I just don’t feel right about it.” But the flag pole in my shorts said otherwise. My finger drifted up and down the soft underside of the shaft, sending pleasing tickles into my bowels.

A hard edge inflected her voice. “Does it sound stranger pleasuring yourself with a partner, or alone? If you’d rather jerk-off to cheerleader pics, you know where to find them.”

When I was a terribly shy and self-conscious 14-year old, my mom caught me “red-handed” playing with myself. And how did she react? Cracked up laughing. For the next few days she lost it every time she looked at me. She apologized but couldn’t keep a straight face, and the longer she laughed, the harder it became to stop. Forever afterward her little grins have looked suspiciously like she’s amusing herself at the memory of catching her only son in the bathroom hammerin’ it to her Victoria’s Secret catalog. Of course, that didn’t dissuade me from masturbating, just created more inner conflict.

“You’re right,” I conceded, “I just have this hangup about, you know, fapping. It has to do with my mom. Don’t ask because I won’t tell you.”

“I can help if you let me.” She leaned forward into the camera, snaky body curling around her. “I know all about your momma. First of all, Dickie, I want to see you — all of you. Will you reposition your camera for me, please? I know you are rock hard. Doesn’t the idea of me watching excite you?” She scratched at the camera lens with a shiny, red, rectangular-tipped fingernail, placed it next to her mouth and slowly licked the pad of her finger with the tip of her wet, pink tongue.

I did as requested.

“Have any lotion?”

“Baby oil.”

“Ooh, even better, I love baby oil. I’ll get mine and you get yours,” she proposed.

The bottle sat within arm’s reach of my desk, of course. She pulled hers from beneath the bed.

“Where are you?” I asked. She could be perched atop a mountain in China for all I knew, though more likely, I thought, in some seedy Prague sex shop. I’d read stories about Russian gangs kidnapping women and selling them as sex slaves.

“I’m right there with you, no matter where in this big world I happen to be. I’m everywhere.” She removed her shawl, leaned back on her elbows, pulled up her nightie and spread baby oil around her navel and over her diaphragm, exposing the bottom of her breasts. Her hand slowly reached down her stomach over the top of her thighs and between them, then back over her public mound, leaving a glistening swatch of oil. She moaned.

“I’m getting wet, Dicky. Turn your hand around. That’s how I’d position mine from in front of you. Like that. Yes.”

My Willy poked through the front flap and reached for the sky, hard enough to pound steel, all five-and-a-quarter glorious inches (the actual male average). Her suggestion for the hand position did the trick, made it feel like someone else was stroking my cock.

She stopped all of a sudden and looked at me like the thought had just spontaneously occurred to her. “Dickie? Where do you want me to put the oil on my body? Think of my hands as yours.”

“I like it when you rub across the top of your panties, then reach down between your legs. Put your fingers inside.”

Her middle and ring fingers pushed across the top edges of the soft pink fabric of her panties, exposing pubic hair. She concentrated, eyes closed, massaging the clitoris in circular motions. Then her fingers inserted all the way inside creating wet pussy sounds. She drew a glistening line from inner thigh to the top of her hip, and pulled aside the crotch of her panties, revealing her innie: no labia showing from the outside. My cock throbbed. I re-positioned my hand for priming and went to town, up and down. She glanced aside at the monitor, at me, pleased.

“Look, Dickie, that’s not oil.” She swung the camera down between her legs and focused on the wet spot in the crotch of her panties, reached inside and sunk her fingers deep into her canal. I saw her quiver, heard an exhale of breath, the little “oh.”

“Can you feel how warm and wet it is in here? Smell your fingers.”

I swore I whiffed clean pussy ever so lightly, and felt a rush. The first notion of a climax rumbled in my prostate, the impending moment of bliss. Release. Oh yes, she had my imagination going! Just a little longer.

She sounded close to orgasm, a hint of pleading in her breathy voice. “Dickie, do something for me when we climax. You trust me, right?” she asked as the tips of her fingers worked her clit round and round.

“Whatever you want,” I said. I didn’t have much concentration for talking.

She quickly positioned the camera for me to see up her body from her hips to her head propped on a pillow like I was about to climb on top for some missionary work. A perfect view of her spread legs for the final scene.

“Sometimes a man has to do something drastic or else he remains undecided, stuck at the boundary of boyhood. Still attached and immature but eager to move on,” she said. “Does that sound like you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I panted over the slapping.

“If you do something so symbolically profane that she might never talk to you again if she knew, you can break free to be your own man. It’ll work. We’ll do it together. Ready baby?”

Her fingers worked furiously beneath her panties, in and out, round and round, as I jacked off. A huge load built. Watch out, the volcano is about to blow! All I had to do was keep my eyes pealed on the pretty picture a moment longer.

“That’s it, Dickie. Oh, you’re good, you know how to please.” She talked faster, urgently. “Feel me massaging your cock, my other hand squeezing your balls. Feel your climax building up and up until you can’t hold it anymore. See my mouth open, waiting….”

I felt her hands fondling me, so real virtual reality doesn’t even come close to describing it. The only sounds in the room were her talking through my speaker and my slapping meat — and that strange instrumental music. I panted, “Almost…there!”

“Me too, Dickie. Now look at me. See her Dickie. See her,” she commanded.

“Who?” The valve beneath my scrotum opened and the inexorable stampede proceeded forth from the gate to spill my seed. I hadn’t thought to bring a towel, no time to take off a sock or grab a stray tissue. Too late.

Her! Cum on me. Cum on her! Come to momma!” She threw her head back, squeezed her eyes shut and howled. Just above her image on my screen, near the outer edge of my new Macbook, the lens of the webcam stared back at me from four feet away. I saw in my mind’s eye a clear image of the face of my mother superimposed over beautiful pink pussy.

I took aim, and fired.

The first spasm fell a little short, a result of crosscurrents of revolt and fascination as I finally understood what the Internet seductress had me do. The second spurt found its mark on the lens, followed by a third, fourth, and fifth glob of flying baby formula splashed across the LED screen, followed by smaller spasms. My balls emptied like never before. Totally spent, I collapsed back in my chair.

Her moans and breathing subsided, face and neck glowing from the rush of climax. Very satisfied. She swung the camera toward her so that I saw up as if lying on her stomach, and for a moment we breathed together.

“Isn’t that better, Dickie? Wasn’t that great?”

I didn’t know what to say, couldn’t believe what had just happened. Couldn’t believe what I opened my eyes to! The second glob of jizz had slid almost all of the way down the screen; another landed by the right hinge on my speaker hole; and two or three spattered across my keyboard like seagull bombs. A gooey, awful mess.

Oh my god, what have I just done?

“Now what was that worth to you?”

She had to be kidding. “You just had me cum on my mother. If I hadn’t been so close to blowing my wad it never would have happened,” I said. “That’s revolting!”

“Now Dickie, try to tell me that you’ve cum like that before?”

“Well, I have.” Once or twice.

“While masturbating?”

“That’s not the point. Look what you’ve made me do!”

“We all make our own choices.”

“But you just had me cum on my mother! You’re sick!”

She cocked her head, a look in her eye like she’d grown disappointed with me. Like all men would eventually disappoint her. “That’s the point. You’re free. Mom is just another woman who happened to birth you. Another hole doing its role. She has no more and no less power over you than that. You’ll never think about her the same way again. Believe me, Dickie, once you give a chick a facial, your relationship is forever changed.”

“That’s crazy talk,” I said. Mom wasn’t some trampy chick.

“She has her little secret, and now you have yours.”

“I’m not paying for this psycho shit.”

“It would take a year of therapy to get what you got today. Not to mention that you had the orgasm of a lifetime. The girl needs her rent money. What’s a good dinner worth to you?”

I couldn’t believe her gall. “The only thing I’m eating is my words,” I declared defiantly.

“You’re going to pay me one way or another.” A shadow of warning hinted on her pretty face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you don’t pay me what I’m worth, your dick will get smaller every time you masturbate. A little at a time, but it’ll add up. I’m a Gypsy, Dickie, and the women of my family are powerful spell casters. Don’t cross us.”

“I’m not afraid of you. This is blackmail!” Anger took over my revulsion. I had to wipe up the mess before it dried on my $2,000 computer.

“Remember how it felt like I was there with you, reaching out to find you still living in momma’s basement?”

How did she know– “How the hell did you–”

“Do you think my gifts are limited to stroking dicks? Last chance, Deadeye. It’ll get smaller and smaller until you’re grasping at a nub.” She pointed a finger at me and let it go limp.

“Goodbye.” I reached for my jizzed computer touchpad to close her off forever. Her face turned furious, lips pursed and eyes spitting poison, voice venomous. “This is two-way video. I have my copy, how ’bout you?”

I tried to stop but my finger slipped and closed the browser window. I hadn’t thought of her recording me. Shit. I should have just paid. What’s the going rate for long-distance masturbation, 20 or 30 bucks? Bitch probably would’ve taken $10.

The video of my impression of Hand Solo didn’t suddenly appear burning up the charts at a video-sharing site or internet bulletin board during the following few weeks. I prepared a story just in case about how some guy on the internet looks like me and I get confused for him all the time, but the lie went unused. I fapped regularly and went about my merry way.

Until one day I noticed my dwindling pecker while showering. I wasn’t even playing with it. The penis grows and shrinks with temperature and humidity, sometimes just on a whim. So I thought it was nothing to worry about. I hadn’t planned on masturbating, but with nowhere to be, I poured some conditioner in my palm and stuck my dick in the mashed potatoes. (It was that kind of party, if you know what I mean.)

Soon I had my hand wrapped around a decent shower woody. Usually the head and some shaft stick out between my thumb and forefinger, but only the head popped out this time. I brought to mind an ex-girlfriend whose memory never fails to produce a rise and felt the blood flowing healthily. Gripped harder. Tugged. Stroked a few times and squeezed. Still the same length. Never one to waste good wood, I went ahead and finished.

A week later I thought about it again and measured with a ruler: Four-and-a-half inches, best I could muster. I couldn’t believe it, figured I was subconsciously keeping myself from getting fully erect. At that point I knew some curse had been cast on me, but weeks would go by and I’d convince myself it was all a trick of the mind. Mrs. Hand cleaned the pipes and I’d think, ‘My penis isn’t really shrinking. No one has that sort of power. Messing with your head, that’s all it is.’ I stopped masturbating when my dick shrunk to a fraction over four inches.


Some men would pay millions for an extra inch-and-a-quarter. I would have gladly handed over the thousand dollars in my bank account for mine back, and would pay a hundred times more if she’d give me an installment plan, but she disappeared into the ether. All I had was a screenname: Adoress. Fuck!

For months I surfed the underside of cyberspace with my hands shackled to the keyboard, afraid to arouse anything below. I could never masturbate again. Can you imagine? Never. Masturbate. Again. I can’t even have a good wet dream because the sight of an attractive female makes me think of Adoress.

One day she responded to an email address I use for bulletin boards and chat room postings. The text of it is pasted here:

Dear Dickie,

I hear you’ve been looking for me. This is for your own good. It’s no longer about money. It’s the insult, and that can’t be repaid.

When will you ever grow up?

You’ve got one way to get your manhood back. Think about every time you pounded wood before realizing I don’t joke. What’s that, 25 times? 50? 100? That’s how many virgins you’re going to have to screw to recover your old glory. One for one. Hymen reconstruction surgeries don’t count, either; a virgin is a virgin. Sorry pal, but you ain’t that good looking, and I doubt if you have the balls to take so much untouched pussy. So get used to what you got (left). 😉

You’ll never hear from me again.

Have a nice life,


PS- Be a good boy and say hello to momma for me.

PSS- Me and a few dozen of my closest friends all just love watching your video. Who knows, someday we might share it with the world. That’s some aim you’ve got, Deadeye!!!

[If you like what you read and want to stay in touch, sign up for my email newsletter. Believe it or not, my main topic to write about is dreams!]

All rights reserved