Hi everyone!
Another brand new series for you today! This is a sort of Stepford-style story where all the town of Lovington changes everyone who visits–women become obedient domestic (sex) goddesses, and men become hulking, virile, breeding-obsessed hunks. There will be six of these in total; grab the first one here!
Blurb:
Just a few days in Lovington changes everything.
Shannon has opinions about everything—gender roles, patriarchy, the institution of marriage—and she’s built a career telling other people they’re wrong. Her husband Stephen is quiet, agreeable, and thoroughly beneath her. Their vacation rental in the charming little town of Lovington is just a quiet retreat so Shannon can finish her paper.
By Tuesday, Shannon can’t remember what the paper was about.
Something in Lovington gets under your skin. The air, maybe. The food. The neighbors, all those radiant, devoted, breathtakingly beautiful women who seem so happy. And busty. And…fertile…
Within days, the sharpest feminist voice in her department is wearing heels to breakfast, calling her husband Sir, and aching—genuinely, desperately aching—to please him in every way imaginable.
And when Stephen becomes someone new too—broader, harder, impossible to ignore—Shannon has only one thought: their daughter Victoria should see this place. She’s so much prettier than her Mommy, and Stephen deserves the best…
Good Girls Make Good Girls is a deliciously taboo, slow-burn transformation story featuring a strong-willed woman’s total surrender, a husband’s stunning reinvention, and a family vacation that leaves every girl full of more family down the line.
WARNING: This Stepford-style story contains explicit scenes of mental conditioning, family fun, lactation play, multiple partner situations, and women who really, really enjoy their men powerful, worshiped, and in control.
The First 1000-ish Words:
The kitchen smelled wrong.
Shannon Fowler stood in the doorway of the summer rental and took it in: the yellow linoleum countertops, the white cabinets with their brass knobs, the window over the sink that looked out onto a yard of overgrown grass and, beyond that, a white picket fence.
Not bad. Nothing in this house smelled, looked, or even sounded bad.
But wrong, somehow.
Everything was clean. Everything was bright. And something about it made her stomach turn in a way she couldn’t articulate.
“Stephen, the bags.”
He was behind her on the porch, already hauling the last two suitcases up the steps. Thin arms. Veins visible from wrist to elbow, not from muscle but from the total absence of fat. He had the frame of a man who’d been gently starved by circumstance and disposition both—narrow shoulders, a chest that caved slightly inward, legs that looked uncertain about the whole enterprise of holding him up. His hair was too long. His stubble was patchy. He wore a t-shirt from a literary magazine that had folded six years ago.
“Got them,” he said.
“Don’t drag them. You’ll scuff the floor.”
“It’s linoleum, I think it—” He stopped suddenly. A forced smile appeared on his face. “Yes, dear. You’re right.”
His acquiescence pleased her, as it always did.
That little display of will pleased her as well—she would remember it later, and punish him for it in some particular way. The toilets in the summer home probably needed cleaning. Shannon walked through the kitchen and into the living room. Small. A couch with floral upholstery that looked like it had been purchased in 1987 and never sat on since. A television—flat screen, surprisingly new, mounted on the wall. A coffee table with a glass top and a vase of white flowers that were real and fresh. She inhaled them, then inhaled them again.
She felt like cleaning, suddenly. Or making some food.
Strange.
She ran her finger along the mantle. No dust.
“This place was listed as ‘rustic,'” she said. “Rustic means dirty. This is clean.”
“That’s a good thing,” Stephen said from the hallway, where he was lining up their suitcases against the wall with the careful precision of a man who had learned exactly how his wife liked things arranged.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t a good thing. I said it was inconsistent with the listing. There’s a difference between an observation and a complaint, Stephen. You’d know that if you ever finished your book.”
He said nothing. She heard him unzipping the garment bag.
“Don’t unpack yet. I’m hungry.”
The kitchen came stocked, which Shannon found equally odd and convenient. She opened the refrigerator. Milk in glass bottles. Eggs. Butter. Cheese. Cold cuts arranged on a wooden board with plastic wrap. Bread in the breadbox. The smell was powerful. It hit her olfactory system and she felt…activated, somehow.
She found herself staring at the milk bottles for a moment longer than necessary. The labels were hand-written in elegant script: “Lovington Dairy.”
“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll make sandwiches.”
Stephen appeared in the doorway. He’d changed into different pants—the same pants, she realized, just a different pair of the same grey slacks he always wore. “I can—”
“Sit.”
He sat at the small kitchen table, folding his hands in front of him like a child waiting for dinner. She made two sandwiches with more force than the task required, slapping down the bread, tearing the lettuce, dropping the cold cuts onto the slices with an audible smack.
Despite volunteering, she resented making him food. What was she, some housewife? This cad. He should have known better than to let her do it; he should have fought.
Why had she decided to make it anyway? She had sniffed those flowers, and then it just suddenly seemed like such a nice idea. To do something nice. Nice and soft. Something floral, something feminine, something…
She blinked, shaking her head.
I’m just tired. From the drive.
She poured two glasses of milk—the bottles opened with a pleasant pop—and set his meal in front of him without ceremony.
“Thank you,” he said.
She sat across from him and bit into her sandwich. The food was good. Too good. The bread was fresh, soft, with just enough density to hold the sandwich together. The lettuce was crisp. The cheese was sharp and creamy at once. And the milk—
She took a drink. It was cold, rich, faintly sweet. She could taste cream in it, real cream, the kind that didn’t come from a grocery store carton.
“This is excellent,” Stephen said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
He swallowed. “Sorry.”
They ate in silence. Shannon finished first—she always finished first, eating with efficient determination, viewing meals as necessary fuel rather than pleasure. Stephen took smaller bites, chewing thoroughly, making his sandwich last. She watched him with thinly veiled contempt. Even the way he ate annoyed her. The carefulness of it. How he seemed to savor each bite as though it were some kind of gift.
“We’re here for six weeks,” she said. “I’ll need the mornings to work on my book. You’ll need to handle the shopping and the cooking and the cleaning.”
“Of course.”
“I’m up for tenure review in the fall. This manuscript needs to be pristine”
“Right,” he said. “I know.”
Stephen sometimes worked as her editor. Of course, she never paid him for the privilege.
“Do you? Because last time you ‘knew,’ I ended up spending three days reformatting citations because you couldn’t follow a simple style guide.”
“That was—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She stood, taking her plate to the sink. “Just don’t fuck it up this time.”
Stephen nodded, still chewing. She turned on the faucet and began rinsing her plate. The water was cold, then warm, then hot. She added dish soap and started scrubbing. The motions were automatic—circular strokes, rinse, place in the drying rack. She reached for Stephen’s plate, but he was still eating. She waited, hands on her hips…
Like what you see? Pick up the rest here!
