Hi Everyone!
Another brand-new tale for you today straight from the exceedingly sultry streets of Lovington! This one is all about a reckless babe who ventures into Lovington to win back her ex–mostly out of pride, as she’s such a knockout that no one in their right mind could leave her–and then finds out what happens to beautiful women in Lovington (hint: it’s super hot). Pick it up here!
Blurb:
She came to win him back. She’ll leave begging to be kept.
Kelly Marsh has a five-page argument prepared, a closet full of power suits, and absolutely no intention of letting some small-town nobody steal her ex-boyfriend. Brad left her for Lovington—and for Chloe, a doe-eyed homemaker who bakes, beams, and somehow makes a sundress look like a felony. Kelly’s going to fix this. She’s going to remind Brad exactly who he downgraded from.
There’s just one problem. Lovington gets into a girl. The water’s a little too sweet. The air’s a little too warm. And every hour Kelly spends arguing her case, the more her sharp edges go soft, her busy mind goes quiet, and her famous ambition rearranges itself into a single, burning, desperate need.
She’s just a girl, after all. And girls belong on their knees for their man.
Chloe, a good Lovington Girl, helps Kelly understand the truth of the world—and holds her down while Brad makes her understand that good girls don’t think, they just use their fertile bodies to serve.
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 1000-ish Words:
The town appeared gradually, how a dream does—not all at once but in pieces that assembled themselves before Kelly could question any of them.
First, the road changed. The highway cracked and narrowed into two smooth lanes lined with white fences and old oaks that arched overhead, their branches interlocking into a cathedral ceiling of green and gold. Then the houses began—white clapboard, wraparound porches, flower boxes in every window. Then the people.
Kelly slowed without meaning to.
A couple walked along the sidewalk. The man was enormous—not fat, but thick, his shoulders wide enough to block out the sun behind him, his jaw a blunt instrument, his hands the size of dinner plates. He wore a plain white t-shirt and his forearms were corded with muscle that moved visibly beneath the skin when he reached down to adjust the strap of the bag he was carrying for the woman beside him.
The woman beside him.
Kelly’s foot touched the brake.
She was tall. Leg-first tall, the kind of height that started at the ankle and kept going and going until it arrived, almost as an afterthought, at a face that belonged on a magazine cover. Her hair was dark, almost black, and it fell straight and heavy past her shoulder blades. She wore a dress—white, silk, so simple it had to be expensive—that stopped at mid-thigh and left her clavicles completely bare, the hollow at the base of her throat catching shadow. Her legs were the kind of long that made Kelly feel obscurely cheated by her own body. Her heels added five inches she didn’t need.
She was laughing at something the man had said, her head tilted back, one hand resting on his forearm. Not clinging. Just resting there, easy and proprietary, the way you touch something that belongs to you.
No, Kelly thought. The way you touch something you belong to.
She drove on.
There were more of them. Not everyone was a couple—there were some women walking alone, some older people on porches, a group of teenagers on bikes—but enough that Kelly noticed the pattern. The men were all built the same way, thick and heavy and purposeful. The women were all built the same way too, though in the opposite direction: tall, thin, smooth-skinned. They were all smiling.
Most of the men had two women.
Kelly noticed this slowly. A man outside the hardware store, one woman on each arm, both of them in heels that had no business existing on a sidewalk. A man at the picnic table outside the diner, two women across from him, both leaning toward him at identical angles as he ate. A man washing a truck in a driveway, two women sitting on the porch steps watching him, their chins resting on their hands like an image from a painting.
Kelly’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
She was a future lawyer. She noticed things. She filed them. She constructed arguments from them.
The argument she was currently constructing from the data available to her was: something is extremely wrong with this town.
The argument she was constructing simultaneously, unbidden, in a quieter part of her brain, was: these women are so fucking beautiful.
She needed gas.
The gas station sat at the edge of the main street, a white building with green trim and two pumps and a hand-painted sign that said LOVINGTON FUEL & SERVICE. Attached to the right side was a garage bay with the door rolled up, and from inside came the sound of something metal being tightened.
Kelly pulled in and cut the engine.
She checked herself in the rearview mirror out of habit. Kelly herself was no slouch in “the looks department” (gag) as Brad would have put it. Her hair was dark brown, nearly black, thick and straight, pulled back into a low ponytail that had held up reasonably well for four hours of driving. Her face was—fine. Better than fine, if she was being honest, which she generally was. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, her jaw clean, her lips full in a way that made people look twice. Her eyes were dark, almost black, heavily lashed, set under brows that arched without any assistance. Her skin was tan and smooth, completely without texture.
She was wearing a white linen shirt, partially unbuttoned, and high-waisted jeans. She had a narrow waist and hips that actually curved. Her legs were long—not Lovington-woman long, fucking apparently, but long enough.
She got out of the car.
The afternoon heat hit her immediately—dry, golden, the kind of warmth that settled into the skin rather than sitting on top of it. She unscrewed the gas cap and reached for the pump handle and that was when the woman appeared in the garage bay doorway.
She was wiping her hands on a shop rag. She was also wearing a cropped white tank top that was not designed to withstand the rigors of automotive work, and it showed. The fabric had ridden up on one side, exposing a strip of smooth midriff above the waistband of her coveralls, which were unzipped to the navel and tied around her hips. Her hair was blonde—almost white—and it fell loose around her shoulders despite the obvious impracticality of this. Her face was smudged with a single streak of grease along her left cheekbone, directly below an eye that was the pale grey-blue of early morning sky.
The grease looked, somehow, deliberate. Like a brushstroke.
The woman’s feet were in four-inch heels. Tan suede. On a garage floor.
Kelly stared at them for a moment, then looked away.
“Fill it up?” the woman said. Her voice was soft, unhurried.
“I’ve got it,” Kelly said. “Self-serve is fine.”
The woman nodded and leaned against the doorframe, not going back inside, not intruding either. Just present. Her coveralls were pale blue denim, the fabric pooling around the heels, and where they were unzipped. The shop rag moved slowly between her hands, folding itself into smaller and smaller rectangles.
Her face was flushed. Not from heat—the flush was concentrated high on her cheeks, at the tips of her ears, in the soft skin above her collarbones. Her lips were slightly swollen. Her breathing, Kelly noticed, was still finding its way back to something regular…
