Hi Everyone!
Brand new story in a BRAND NEW series comes out today! This one is a sort of pressure cooker situation; the whole series will take place over a few hours as a lucky young fellow finds himself unexpectedly able to mind control the gorgeous heiress of his dreams. But then her hot MILF finds out…and then her sister…and her sister’s girlfriend…
Only the heiress herself is featured in this one, but it’s a scorcher! Buy it here!
Blurb:
She called him a nobody. Now she calls him Master.
Whitney Ashworth has it all: a trust fund, a perfect body, and a talent for making the help feel small. Her history tutor, Dylan, is just another peasant in her orbit—invisible, disposable, beneath her.
Then Dylan brings something unusual to their session. A little amulet. A trinket, really. He doesn’t expect anything to happen.
Everything happens.
One shimmer of light, and the richest, cruelest, most breathtaking brat he’s ever met is on her knees—wide-eyed, warm-hearted, and hopelessly devoted. She now wants to study one subject only: him. She begs to serve. She begs to please. She begs to love him, even if he never loves her back.
Over the course of one dizzying hour, Dylan discovers what it means to own a woman who was born believing she owned the world—and Whitney discovers that beneath her designer wardrobe beats the heart of the perfect obedient, fertile, sex-trophy housewife she was always meant to be.
WARNING: This story features extreme content including mind control and explicit, hot, erotic sexual scenarios between adult characters, including one snobby rich brat learning how to please a man in EVERY way.
The First 1000-ish Words:
“Oh, drat.”
Whitney’s water bottle landed with a soft bang on his bag and then rolled down along the floor of her bedroom.
Dylan watched it roll. He didn’t move.
Neither did Whitney.
She just looked at it, then looked at him, with those pale blue eyes that could have been carved out of ice and set into a face that belonged on a billboard in Milan. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
Whitney Ashworth—in any setting—only ever was waited upon.
Right. Okay. Sure.
He leaned down and picked it up.
“Thank you,” she said, and it came out the same way everything she said to him came out—like a woman dictating to a very slow piece of software.
Not cruel or unkind, not really. Just utterly, completely indifferent to the fact that he was sentient and made of flesh and blood.
Dylan set the bottle on her desk. The desk alone probably cost more than three months of his entire education (at a much lesser establishment than her own ivy league school, no less).
Everything in Whitney’s bedroom was like that—you kept doing the math and the math kept humiliating you. The room was enormous, high-ceilinged, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a private garden that somehow existed in the middle of the city. The furniture was all pale ash wood and cream upholstery, spare and sculptural, with none of the usual chaos of a college-aged girl’s room—no clothes on the floor, no empty mugs, no half-finished art projects.
There was a vanity that looked like it belonged in a Parisian apartment from 1925, with a triptych mirror and a small army of glass perfume bottles arranged in perfect order, first by height and then by color. The bed was a California king with a low canopy frame in the same pale ash, with linen bedding so white and smooth it looked ironed. It probably was ironed.
On the nightstand: a single hardcover book, a glass of still water with a lemon slice, and a small orchid in a ceramic pot. That was it. No phone charger snaking across the floor. No crumpled receipts. No evidence that a human being actually lived here and did human things.
Dylan lived in an apartment where the bathroom light flickered and he’d been meaning to fix it for four months, but too often the choice was between buying new a new bulb versus consuming calories and just keeping the light off while he showered.
He sat back down.
Whitney was at her desk in a cream blouse, two buttons undone at the collar so that the clean line of her collarbones showed, tucked into a pale beige laser-cut skirt that stopped maybe four inches above the knee. Her legs were crossed, one heel of her luxury stiletto sandal—one-fifty millimeters, brown, effortless—tapping once against the leg of her chair before going still. Her hair was down, that glossy pale gold, and she had absolutely no business looking the way she looked at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday while discussing the causes of the French Revolution.
She had a 4.7 GPA.
Dylan had checked. He hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d looked it up and then sat with that information for a while. She was nineteen. She was the most beautiful person he had ever been within ten feet of in his entire life. She had a 6.7 GPA, and she genuinely did not care about it the way a normal person would care about it. She didn’t care about it like an achievement. She cared about it the way she cared about the orchid on her nightstand—it was simply part of the correct order of things. Of course it was a 6.7. The number didn’t even go that high for anyone else, but it did for her.
What else would it be?
He opened his notes.
“So, the fiscal crisis of 1788—“
“Mm.”
That was her version of engaged listening. He’d learned to take it.
He was halfway through a sentence about Necker’s dismissal when the water bottle—she’d set it on the edge of the desk again, apparently, because she set everything everywhere and expected the world to accommodate her—rolled off once more and this time knocked directly into his bag.
The bag tipped. His folder slid out, then his copy of Schama, then his phone, and then, because the universe apparently wanted to be dramatic about it, the amulet.
It skidded across the pale hardwood floor and came to rest near the leg of her chair.
Whitney looked down at it.
For the first time in six weeks of tutoring sessions, something other than mild administrative interest crossed her face.
She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.
“What is that?”
Dylan looked at it on the floor. He’d genuinely forgotten it was in there. He’d shoved it into the front pocket of his bag that night, the night after the shop—the night that he’d learned that he not only wanted Whitney physically (who wouldn’t?) but genuinely was enraged by the fact that he desperately wanted every single last thing about her and would never, ever have her.
For the first six weeks of tutoring her, he’d gone through stages of his burgeoning crush and pursuant love and obsession with Whitney like someone might have stages of grief. At first, of course, he was blown away by her stunning appearance and effortless style—always chic, trendy, regal, and composed. He stopped cumming to the images or even thoughts of other girls. It wasn’t on purpose, really. It was just that after looking at Whitney, close up—breathing, concentrating, existing—other women seemed like kind of distant subspecies…
