“Boss Goddess Turned Tradwife” Excerpt

Hi Everyone!

Spotlight today on the FINAL entry in the “God of Lust” series, “Boss Goddess Turned Tradwife.” Hera finally appears to establish some order, return Aphrodite to sanity, end the Wes-obsessed madness that’s afflicting the world, and put Wes in his place.
Or at least, that’s her plan…
Pick it up here!

Blurb:

Every Goddess In Her Proper Place: On Her Knees

My name is Aphrodite. I’m a super hot goddess…but honestly? I can’t remember of what.

Top Goddess Vanessa handles love and lust and beauty, everyone knows that, she’s Wes’s best girl and she’s amazing at it. I just help out. I’m basically furniture, gorgeous divine furniture that gets to watch him eat cereal in the morning, and isn’t that enough for any woman?

Maybe I’m the Goddess of Pleasuring Myself To Watching Wes Breed Other Girls? I’m really good at it…

Anyway.

Hera summoned me to Olympus today, demanding I explain how to defeat him.

LOL.

She’s going to beg for Wes to put a baby in her the second she sees him. I can’t wait…

WARNING: This story contains scenes of INTENSE kink and bimbofication, mind control, lactation erotica, and the delicious humiliation of a self-righteous feminist.

The First 1000ish Words:

They dressed me in white. A kind of shimmering, gold-trimmed gown that’s obviously toga-inspired.

It’s fine, I suppose. A little tired, sort of obvious, but they’re Olympians, what can you do?

I’m standing in a massive court chamber on Mt. Olympus. The walls are marble and gold—the kind of ostentatious divine architecture that screams “we’ve been here forever and we’re better than you.” Columns reach up into a ceiling that’s either actually infinite or enchanted to look that way. The floor is polished to a mirror shine, reflecting everything with perfect clarity.

There are other gods here. Male gods. Or what’s left of them.

Losers.

Zeus is over by one of the columns, and I don’t even want to look at him for too long because it’s so embarrassing. He used to be the King of Gods. Lord of Thunder.

The big one, the scary one, the one even Hera had to tiptoe around.

Now he looks like a deflated balloon that someone drew a sad face on.

He’s tall still, technically. But the height is wrong—gangly and loose-limbed, like his bones forgot what they were supposed to do. His skin is the color of old wax. His eyes are dull, unfocused, tracking nothing. He’s wearing robes that don’t fit, hanging off shoulders that have no muscle left in them, and he keeps opening and closing his mouth, the face of an old man with dementia.

There’s no thunder. There’s never any thunder anymore. Not from him.

Idiot.

Hades is worse. He’s sitting on the floor near the base of a column—just sitting there, cross-legged, staring at his hands. He used to be terrifying. I remember being genuinely nervous around him, back when he had all that cold death-god energy, that heavy presence that made you feel like every breath you took was borrowed. Now he just looks confused. Bewildered. Like someone told him a joke he didn’t understand three weeks ago and he’s still trying to work out the punchline.

Moron.

Hercules is standing nearby, and I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing.

Hercules. A “god”.

What a joke.

He used to be the strongest thing alive. Half-divine, all muscle, the kind of body that made mortals write songs and build statues. I remember thinking he was almost attractive once, in a brutish, obvious way. The kind of attractive that’s just big and brash and loud.

Now he’s just big. The muscles are still there, technically—the body remembers what it was—but there’s nothing animating them. No fire. No drive. No masculine energy whatsoever. They hang from his bones like bad balloons. He stands in his robes like a very large, very empty piece of furniture. His jaw hangs slightly slack. His eyes have that same unfocused quality as Zeus’s, as Hades’s, as all of them.

Maggot.

Wes took it all.

Not directly. Not on purpose, probably—Wes doesn’t do things on purpose. Not exactly. He’s so smart. He doesn’t need “on purpose” anymore when he has Vanessa.

He does things because Vanessa arranges for them to happen and then he says “yeah, that’s dope” and it becomes reality. But the effect is the same.

Every scrap of masculinity in the divine realm has been flowing toward him for months, years, however long this has been going on. Forever, maybe? Was there a world before his cock?

Certainly not one I care about.

All that power, concentrating. Condensing. Making him more and more and more the only actual Male in any room he occupies, in any plane of existence he touches.

Which means everyone else gets less.

I love it so fucking much.

These pathetic, sagging, hollow-eyed creatures shuffling around Mt. Olympus’s marble floors aren’t gods anymore, if they ever truly were.

They’re husks. Shells. The sad, deflated, pathetic remnants of what masculinity looks like when the real thing has vacuumed every last scrap of it away and left nothing but the outline.

I hate them so much.

I didn’t expect to feel it this strongly. I thought I’d feel pity, maybe, or mild contempt—the kind you feel for a stray dog that’s gotten into something it shouldn’t have.

But standing here in this court chamber watching Zeus try to remember how to hold his own head up, watching Hercules blink at his own hands like they belong to someone else, watching Hades pick at the hem of his robe with the focused vacancy of a very stupid child—

It’s not pity. It’s revulsion. It’s this hot, scathing, visceral disgust that starts in my belly and radiates outward until my skin prickles with it.

These are not males.

Males don’t exist anymore. There is one Male. There has only ever been one Male, really—we just didn’t know it yet because these pathetic, gelatinous, hollow-eyed losers were taking up space and confusing the issue.

They are counterfeits. Frauds. Masculine-shaped holes where the real thing should have been, and now that the real thing exists in full and complete and absolute form, the holes have revealed themselves for exactly what they are.

Nothing.

Zeus catches me looking at him and something flickers in his dull eyes like hope. I sneer at him—the kind of sneer that could have wiped out an army of so-called males when such things existed—and watch him recoil as parts of his mind and soul are quite literally lashed away into the vast maw of chaos from the simple reprimand of my total condescension and revulsion.

My beauty hurts him. That’s what my beauty is for. That’s what it has always been for. To announce that I’m a Trophy for Master, and to make lesser so-called “males” feel bad for not being worthy of me. I’m so fucking pretty, and it’s all for Master…

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