Hi Everyone!
New story for you today in the “Hypno Tutor” series! This full-length story (with plenty of climaxes to go around…) one picks up RIGHT where the last one ended, continuing the claustrophobic feel of being locked in a room with extreme hotties when suddenly you’re a mind controller. Maybe it’s a philia and not a phobia? Hmm…either way, it’s a lot of fun!
Buy it here for $3.99!
Blurb:
She thought that no man could conquer her. But, so did her daughter…
Dylan’s just a broke history tutor trying to make rent. His newest client? Whitney Ashworth—nineteen, devastatingly gorgeous, and so cold she treats him like a talking appliance.
Then a mysterious antique shop offers him a gift: a simple necklace that promises to “mirror devotion.” One impulsive decision later, and the ice queen melts into something far more dangerous—a love-drunk goddess who’ll do anything to make him happy.
Including introducing him to her mother.
Kimberly Ashworth didn’t become the world’s most powerful woman by asking permission. She built an empire on ruthless ambition and perfect looks. But when her daughter slips that necklace around her throat, the queen of capitalism discovers a new purpose: serving the man who conquered her precious girl.
Now Dylan’s got two stunning billionaires competing to prove their devotion. They’ll bankroll his dreams, rearrange their fortunes, and seduce him in ways that rewrite his understanding of pleasure and power.
The only question: can he handle what he’s unleashed?
A dark, sexy tale of instant obsession, family dynamics turned deliciously wrong, and the intoxicating corruption of absolute devotion.
WARNING: This story features extreme content including mind control and explicit, hot, erotic sexual scenarios between adult characters, including one snobby rich MILF learning how to please a man in EVERY way.
The First 1000ish Words:
Shit.
This was the main thought of two on Dylan’s mind. The second one:
Shit, shit, shit.
Kimberly stood in the doorway in a cream blazer over a white silk blouse, skintight black trousers that hugged every inch of her impossibly long legs, and leather heels with one-fifty millimeter stilettos that made her nearly six-five. Her hair was the same pale gold as Whitney’s, pulled back in a low ponytail, and her face—god, her face—was smooth and flawless and looked maybe thirty at the absolute oldest even though Dylan knew she had to be at least thirty-six.
She looked like Whitney’s older sister.
Barely older.
Her expression was ice. Even so, looking at her gorgeous imperious visage, Dylan was filled with an incredible new lust.
In the same way that Whitney was so much of what he wanted because of her cold, arrogant attitude—the way she treated everyone like things, the calm and confident superiority she had when addressing every part of the world around her—Kimberly’s face in that moment hit another core part of his most basic animal need to own and breed and fuck. A beautiful, invincible woman ready to pass down judgment and easily capable of creating hell for whomever she wanted.
Looking at Kimberly Ashworth in the flesh—which he had never done before—was like looking at a walking avatar of the Mount Everest, or like if every sunrise was a person. She was larger than life.
Kimberly Ashworth was, depending on who you asked, either the most important woman alive or the single greatest threat to human civilization since the bubonic plague. Both camps had compelling evidence. Both made Dylan want to fuck her all the more, on top of how painfully hot she was.
Her company, Luminae, had a market cap that made Apple look like a lemonade stand. She’d founded it at fourteen with seed money from her family’s existing fortune—which was already the kind of fortune that had its own fortune—and in the intervening years had turned it into something that defied normal economic categorization.
Luminae wasn’t a beauty company, though it sold beauty products. It wasn’t a wellness company, though it sold wellness. It wasn’t a media company, a fashion house, a pharmaceutical conglomerate, or a political consulting firm. It was all of those things simultaneously, and the combined GDP of its global operations exceeded that of most of Western Europe. A sitting French president had once compared her influence to Napoleon’s. She’d had him removed from office two months later, and removed from being alive a week after that.
Nobody could prove it. Nobody could ever prove anything with Kimberly. But everyone knew it—which was the point.
Her face was on a billboard in every major city in the world. Not advertising anything in particular. Just there. Just her face, the pale gold hair and the enormous blue eyes and the jawline that looked like God had spent an extra week on it. The billboards said: LUMINAE.
That was it. No product. No slogan. Just her face and the name of the thing she’d built. That was enough to move markets.
She had seven hundred and forty-eight million Instagram followers and posted twice a year. Both posts received more engagement than any other event in recorded social media history. The first one had been a photograph of her hand holding a white ceramic cup of tea, and it had crashed three servers. The second one had been a single sentence: Some things simply are. Fourteen governments had issued formal statements in response. Two of them had been interpreted as declarations of foreign policy.
Her Luminae supply chains ran through seventeen countries where the word “labor law” translated roughly to “suggestion.” A Senate subcommittee had spent four years building a case against her rare earth operations in Southeast Asia—operations that a leaked internal memo described as “extraction-maximized human deployment,” which was corporate for slavery—and the case had dissolved overnight when three of the five committee chairs resigned simultaneously for unrelated personal reasons. The fourth had officially had a “heart attack” that looked strangely like a public assassination on a street when he was shot multiple times in the head. The fifth had recanted everything on a podcast and was now a Luminae brand ambassador.
She had personally lobbied—successfully—for the decriminalization of youth labor in four South American nations, using language about “youth vocational empowerment” that was so carefully constructed it had received a UNESCO citation before anyone read it properly.
There was a famine in 2019 in a landlocked country whose name most Americans couldn’t find on a map, and if you cross-referenced the Luminae agricultural futures holdings from that quarter with the crop diversion records that a Dutch journalist had died obtaining, a very clear picture emerged. The picture was that Kimberly Ashworth had made four hundred million dollars from that famine in six months. The Dutch journalist’s findings were published posthumously and his reputation was buried in a six week mud-slinging circus that took media precedence over three political scandals. Luminae’s stock went up.
She funded, through seventeen layers of shell companies, a network of para-governmental security contractors operating in sub-Saharan Africa whose primary function was described in their own internal documents as “population management.” She had once, at a Davos dinner, described the populations in question as “inefficiencies.”
Forbes called her the seventh largest economy on earth. Forbes was being conservative, and Forbes knew it, and Forbes printed it anyway because Kimberly’s legal team had a department specifically dedicated to publications that overstated her influence, and the message had been received.
She had testified before the EU Parliament four times. Each time, she’d worn something so devastating that the footage trended globally for reasons that had nothing to do with the testimony. She answered every question in the same calm, faintly amused register—like a woman explaining colors to a child—and left without consequence every single time.
