Hi Everyone!
New Release! This one is another stand-alone story (that means you can read it without reading the others in the series and won’t be lost) in TradWife Town–an arrangement of stories in the Stepford-like town of Lovington where all the women are proud, beautiful, shining objects and their men are big-cocked brutes made to rut. This story takes reality and dials it up several notches; it’s patently absurd and shamelessly so. I think it’s a lot of fun! Buy it here.
Blurb:
Three ex-wives. A dozen HR complaints. One last chance to behave.
George is turning over a new leaf. No more wandering eyes, no more office indiscretions, no more divorce attorneys on speed dial. All he has to do is close one account in a sleepy little place called Lovington, keep his hands to himself, and train up the ambitious young woman riding shotgun.
Liv thinks of him like a houseplant. That is, until they arrive at their destination. There’s something in the water. Something in the air.
The office is staffed with gorgeous, stacked hotties who stare at George with lust and need. His potential client, Layla, is hotter than all of them—and immediately sits on George’s lap and tells him about the life he deserves.
A life where women are things. Where he is praised for his gaze and his masculine power. Where fertile, beautiful women like her—like Liv—belong on their knees.
George knows something is up. But with Layla whispering sin in his ear and holding Liv down for him, does he even care?
WARNING: This Stepford-style story contains explicit scenes of mental conditioning, lactation play, multiple partner situations, and women who really, really enjoy their men powerful, worshiped, and in control.
The First 1000ish Words:
“I thought it would be kind of a dump. But it’s really nice here, isn’t it?”
They had the windows down. George only distantly heard Liv, focusing far too much on not letting his gaze drift down her blouse as she drove.
He should have been the one to drive. Not only was he the man, but it was so much easier to not ogle someone when he had to watch the road.
“Yeah,” he said, looking out his own window. Very deliberately. At the trees.
The trees were fine. The trees were completely safe. The trees were not wearing a white button-down blouse with two buttons undone in a way that was probably accidental and was definitely killing him.
God, but her tits—sorry, her breasts; sorry, her chest?—were fantastic. Was? Fantastic. Young. Bright. Full. She was twenty-three. Maybe twenty-two.
Even her age made him hard.
God.
Liv was everything that he needed to avoid in life—a married, young, beautiful woman who worked for him. Dark hair. Tall. Looked like she did pilates five times a week.
Meanwhile, George had three divorces. A harassment complaint on his permanent record. A last chance with his employer after a firm come-to-Jesus meeting that he was genuinely, sincerely, with his whole chest, trying not to squander.
He was doing so well. He had been doing so well for six months. He had not commented on a single colleague’s appearance. He had not sent a single ambiguous text. He had been cordial and supportive without being cloying or coy. He had kept his eyes at eye level in every meeting, every hallway, every elevator, every office kitchen where someone leaned over the counter in a way that—
“George?”
“Yep.” Eyes on trees.
“You okay?”
“Great. Really good. Really focused.”
Liv glanced at him like he was a houseplant. He was used to it from her, from young women generally. He tried, and failed, not to take it too personally.
She had a very nice profile. Her jawline needed an explicit content warning. In his lower moments, he felt like fucking it exclusively, rubbing his cock on it and somehow making her cum as a result.
He was not looking at her profile. He was looking at the trees, which continued to be fine, and the fences, which were white, and the—
“The people seem really friendly,” Liv said.
George looked at the people. This was also a mistake, because the people were—
A woman on the sidewalk caught his eye. She was tall, dressed in what appeared to be a Chanel skirt suit in cream that stopped at mid-thigh, her legs in Gucci boots that added five inches to a height that didn’t need them. Her hair was dark and fell in a straight, heavy curtain past her shoulders.
She looked at George.
Not at the car. At George, specifically, through the windshield.
She smiled. Bright. Cheerful. Invitational. The kind of smile that made his cock lurch forward.
George looked back at the trees.
“Very friendly,” he said.
They pulled into the parking lot of the office building at 11:14 in the morning, and George sat in the passenger seat for a moment after Liv cut the engine and told himself a series of things he mostly believed.
He was a professional. He was reformed. He was fifty-one years old and he had made genuine amends and he had a letter from HR that said so supported by a series of workshops that said the same thing, and he was going to walk into this building and sell enterprise software optimization to whoever was inside it and he was going to keep his eyes at eye level the entire time and not hit on his married co-worker, even though she could use a good loosening up and a heavy dose of fucking and—
He got out of the car, carefully avoiding applying too much friction to the growing heat in his trousers.
The parking lot was full. Not of cars—well, yes, of cars, but also of women. Coming in, going out, standing in pairs near the entrance with coffees, sitting on a low stone bench with their phones, moving through the revolving glass door like a current. Every single one of them was dressed in a way that made his reformed lifestyle feel like a personal attack.
One of them, passing within four feet of him on her way to the entrance, was wearing a Saint Laurent blazer in ivory over what appeared to be nothing except a navy camisole and a pencil skirt that stopped at mid-thigh. Her heels were Alaia, 140mm, white, and her ankles were perfect. She looked back as she walked—strutted, really—holding his gaze and smiling, biting her lip just so.
George stood in the parking lot and breathed through his nose.
“Ready?” Liv said, from the other side of the car.
He looked at her. This was also a mistake, because Liv had done something to her hair in the last few minutes of the drive that he hadn’t noticed until now—it was down, falling loose and dark and heavy past her shoulders, when he was almost certain it had been in a ponytail when they left the highway. Her blouse had three buttons undone. He was fairly sure it had been two. Her cheeks had a color to them that hadn’t been there before.
She looked, in a word, incredible. She looked like she’d been styled.
“You look different.”
Liv blinked. Touched her hair.
“I let it down,” she said.
She sounded puzzled.
“Do I look okay?” Liv said.
A half-second of surprise crossed her face. Surprise at asking him, he realized. Her dark eyes flicked to him and then away, her hand still in her hair. The parking lot light caught her collarbone above the third open button of her shirt.
