Hi Everyone!
I played too much Hades II and now I can’t stop thinking about a lucky guy slowly acquiring a harem of actual goddesses. This one is told from the POV of a kind-of demented Aphrodite as she grapples with some newfound powers of lust–if you’re a fan of my Hot Genie stories, you might recognize the tone and style (it’s a bit of a spiritual sequel to that series). This one will have SIX stories in all, and Premium Access subscribers will get each story WAY early!
Blurb:
When goddesses fall, they fall hard.
I’m Aphrodite. Yes, *that* Aphrodite. And I’ve made a terrible mistake.
The Fates warned me. They told me exactly what would happen if I absorbed the powers of Lust along with my dominion over Love. They showed me visions of my future—on my knees, devoted and desperate, serving some mortal nobody named Wes with every fiber of my divine being.
Naturally, I laughed in their wrinkled faces.
I’m a goddess. I’ve toppled empires with a smile and started wars with a glance.
So I hatched the perfect plan: I’d reunite Wes with his ex-girlfriend Vanessa. I’d make her so devastatingly gorgeous, so eager to please, so completely devoted to satisfying his every desire that he’d never look anywhere else. Never even think about me. Problem solved, fate averted.
Easy. Simple. Foolproof.
Except there’s one small problem I didn’t anticipate.
Transforming his liberal feminist girlfriend to mold her into a single-minded trophy, a personal succubus who exists just for him, a pro-patriarchy TradWife red-pilled swooning ultra-hottie…well. It makes me really, really hot. And I can’t seem to stop myself from making her—and this whole situation—hotter. And hotter. And hotter…
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 1000-ish Words:
This guy?
I can hardly believe it. I mean, really?
…this guy?
I float through his ceiling, descending into his apartment like a ghost. Which I basically am, at least to him. He can’t see me, can’t sense me, can’t feel the way I’m watching him with a mixture of disbelief and contempt.
Wes sits on his couch—and I use the term “couch” generously, because it’s more like a futon that’s given up on life—playing some video game. Some idiot avatar wearing nothing but a bandana and a life preserver sprints across his screen toting an AK-47 as he moves his fingers across the controller with surprising dexterity. His body sprawls across the cushions, taking up space with the unconscious confidence of someone who has never once considered whether he deserves to take up space at all.
(He doesn’t.)
Let me paint you a picture of the man the Fates say will bring me to my knees.—
He’s in his mid-thirties. Blond hair that’s thinning at the crown, a beard that hasn’t been trimmed in what looks like weeks. He wears grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt that clings to a body that could be impressive if he gave even half a fuck. Because here’s the thing—he works out. I know he does.
Three times a week, he goes to that depressing gym down the street and lifts weights, runs on the treadmill, does all the things that should make him hot.
But then he comes home and eats pizza. And drinks beer. And orders Thai food at midnight. And the result is this dad bod situation he’s got going on—strong shoulders, thick arms, a chest with actual muscle under a layer of softness, and a stomach that’s not quite flat. Not quite anything.
He could be gorgeous. The bone structure is there. The height is there—six foot two. The strength is definitely there. But he’s wrapped it all in apathy and bad diet choices and a complete lack of style.
His apartment matches his body. It could be nice. The bones are good—high ceilings, hardwood floors, big windows. But it’s in the worst part of town, and he’s filled it with garbage. Empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Pizza boxes stacked by the kitchen. Clothes on the floor. Dishes in the sink that have been there so long I’m surprised that the mold growing on them—fuzzy and thick like dog hair—hasn’t developed sentience.
The prophecy plays in my mind on loop, has been since I inherited Eros’s power some twenty-four hours ago.
He will make you kneel. He will make you beg. He will take your divinity and your pride and your power, and you will thank him for it. You will call him Master. You will call him God. And you will mean it.
It’s nonsensical. I mean, look at him, and then look at me. If I’m ever going to lower myself to be with some mortal—and I never have, and never will—it certainly won’t be with some slouchy indolent like him. Even in my most gentle mortal disguise, the one I put on when I don’t want to melt the brains of mortals the second I show up, I’m incredible.
I’m six feet tall in bare feet—taller in the diamond-studded heels I’m wearing right now, their 150mm stiletto points sharp enough to pierce a minotaur’s skin.
My dress is sheer white silk that flows around my body like water, backless, with slits up both sides that reach my hips. The neckline plunges between my breasts, and my breasts—full, high, lovely, of course—press against the delicate fabric with every breath. My skin is flawless. Literally. Not a pore, not a blemish, not a single imperfection mars the smooth expanse of flesh glows with its own inner light (thanks, divine bloodline!).
My hair falls in thick golden waves past my shoulders. Blue eyes. Exquisite bone structure. High cheekbones. A jawline that’s both delicate and commanding. Collarbones prominent and shiny. My waist is tiny, my stomach flat and toned, my legs endless and lean with exquisitely and effortlessly maintained muscle.
And I’m supposed to submit to this slob?
I’d laughed when they told me. Actually laughed. Because look at him. He couldn’t even give up the shits to be the God of Apathy.
Wes doesn’t even look up from his game when his phone buzzes. He glances at it, sees whatever notification has popped up, and ignores it. Returns his attention to shooting digital zombies or whatever the fuck he’s doing.
No ambition. No drive. No direction.
When his ex-girlfriend Vanessa dumped him a year ago, she’d told him he needed to figure out what he wanted from life. Needed to have goals. Needed to care about something.
He’d said, “Yeah, okay, cool.”
And then he’d done absolutely nothing about it.
That’s Wes. Everything is “cool” or “fine” or “dope.” Nothing matters enough to get worked up about. Nothing matters enough to actually pursue.
The Fates said this man would conquer me.
Please.
I have every intention of being immortal and unconquerable forever. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? That’s why I possess the discarded power of Eros.
It’s a shame she retired. She was a rather good Eros. Much more fun to get along with than the one you may have heard of—that rogue with the bow and arrow? What a chore.
This Eros was a party girl. She was always down for something fun, and in fact I’m kind of sure she was constantly floating on some drug or another. Which, come to think of it, may have been the reason for her retirement. Really, it could be anything. Sometimes, our kind tire of immortality. It is not unheard of, but it does happen. It has happened to one Eros after another, however, multiple times—something about lust simply burns out, as I expect you may understand…
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