Hi Everyone!
New Release for you today! This, while being story #4 in the TradWife Town series, is a stand-alone (so you can read it without having read the others, if you’d like). For this series, each story is self-contained but connected, so you get some extra flavor and world-building as you go. THIS one is kind of an origin story (or at least, as origin as I’m going to get with it) in that it’s the first “big push” of the Lovington Girls to recruit the women of Lovington. Here we see the beginnings of every woman in Lovington being a hot, shining trophy for their Man, and the men themselves being hulking, rutting, hyper-virile brutes. Wild absurd hyper-sexual Stepford stuff. Buy it here!
Blurb:
Some girls are born to be looked at. June knows she’s one of them.
June knows she’s perfect. Gorgeous, talented, unstoppable—she came to this audition to win, and nothing will stand in her way. Especially not April, her infuriatingly beautiful rival.
But when the casting directors reveal they’re looking for a pair, the two stunning competitors form an uneasy alliance. Together, they’re irresistible. Unbeatable.
But they’re in Lovington. They drink the water. They breathe the air. And everything starts to change.
The other women start looking at June differently. Admiringly. Hungrily. Even April’s icy disdain begins to melt into something softer, warmer, more worshipful.
June should be concerned. She should question why everyone suddenly treats her like royalty, why April has started kneeling before her, why her body feels more sensitive and responsive with each passing moment, and why she can’t stop thinking about serving the Man waiting for her on the stage.
But June has always known she was better than other girls. Being better than other girls for her Man is a small leap in logic. And when she finally takes the stage with April at her side—devoted, eager, transformed—June discovers that some roles require complete surrender to claim them.
Good girls don’t compete. Good girls show off.
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:
The casting started at noon, so naturally June didn’t get there until a quarter till one.
What was she supposed to do, arrive with the masses when the doors opened like a peasant?
Nevertheless, as she exited her car, the parking lot buzzed with activity, full of women walking purposefully toward the double doors of the Lovington Community Center, clutching portfolios and water bottles. June took her time, smoothing her sky blue cashmere top along the ultra-thin lines of her sides and the full, swelling curves of her heavy, gorgeous 36D breasts.
The lot around her contained mostly beaters and hand-me-downs—the kind of cars people drove when they couldn’t afford better. Her BMW gleamed among them like a diamond in coal.
Boyfriend Number Five—or was it Six? Had bought it for her. Maybe she would give him a peck on the cheek in payment in a few weeks.
Probably not. She found men kind of icky, besides their money.
Only money, and what it meant, really mattered to her.
She checked her reflection in the side mirror. Perfect, as always. Her hair fell in loose golden waves past her shoulders, catching the spring sunlight. The cashmere hugged her tiny waist and showcased her perky breasts. She’d left the top button undone—not slutty, just suggestive. Her gray pencil skirt, clingy and form-shaping, stopped precisely at mid-thigh, and her legs stretched endlessly below, ending in dark platform sandals.
The double doors stood fifty feet away. June strutted, her heels clicking on the asphalt. Several women turned to look at her as she passed. She felt their eyes like physical touches—envious, hateful, worshipful. As they should be.
June loved to have eyes on her; she was born to be looked at. She knew it, so why deny it? So many women had so many feelings about being objects—June couldn’t understand it.
She loved being an object.
Why pretend otherwise? She loved the way men’s eyes lingered on her tits, her ass, her lips. She loved the power it gave her—how men would trip over themselves, offering credit cards and cars and apartments just for the chance to stand near her.
Just before the doors, she spotted April hurrying ahead of her.
The bitch.
Her dark hair bounced as she walked, her own pencil skirt—a cheap knockoff, June was sure—hugging hips and thighs that were, admittedly, impressively hot.
Not as hot as June’s, obviously, but decent enough.
April was slender, tall, and in any other town, she might have been the prettiest girl around.
But of course, June doomed everyone she met a firm ceiling of distant (very, very distant) second-place aspirations.
“Hi, April.” June called, just to see her jump. “Running late?”
What a bitch. Couldn’t be bothered to show up on time for anything.
April turned, her caramel eyes narrowing.
“June. You’re here too. How… nice.”
“Isn’t it?” June smiled, all teeth and no eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll still let you audition. You know, for background work.”
April’s jaw tightened. “I’m going to be the lead.”
“Oh, honey.” June patted April’s arm. “It’s cute that you think that.”
The truth was, June had hated April since third grade when April won the spelling bee. June didn’t even care about spelling, but she cared about winning.
Then in seventh grade, April had dated Tyler Chambers for two weeks—two weeks!—after June had clearly marked him as her own territory. Nevermind that June had already dumped him and broken his heart into pieces, making sure that he understood she had only dated him to access his older brother, who had a job at the movie theater that June was dead-set on never paying for tickets at ever again.
By high school, the war had escalated. June made sure no girl in school would talk to April, spreading rumors about herpes and kleptomania.
April retaliated by showing up to prom in a dress that—June had to admit—looked fucking amazing.
The worst part was that April was actually hot. Not June-hot, obviously, but hot enough that boys noticed her. Boys who should have been noticing only June.
June’s presence in Lovington had created a fucking arms race of hotness. Girls starved themselves, spent fortunes on makeup, and maxed out credit cards on clothes trying to keep up with her. None succeeded, but it meant the average hotness in town had skyrocketed since June hit the dating scene. April led the charge of second-placers, the perpetual silver medalist to June’s gold.
June pushed through the double doors first, letting them swing back toward April’s face. She could not help but notice that she was wrong about April’s skirt—it was the real deal, Gucci. Spring Collection from this year.
What a bitch. Making June look foolish for wearing something that could have been a knock-off.
The lobby bustled with activity—at least sixty women, all clutching portfolios and water bottles, all dressed in their best attempt at sexy-but-professional. Most failed miserably. June spotted at least three Forever 21 blouses and a parade of DSW pumps. Pathetic.
The Community Center had been transformed. Gone were the dusty bulletin boards and linoleum floors. In their place stood gleaming marble, elegant furniture in cream and gold, and tasteful lighting that made everyone look—well, not good, but better than they deserved to look.
A row of women sat behind a long table, checking in the hopefuls. June blinked. These women weren’t from Lovington. She’d have remembered them.
They were impossibly beautiful—tall, slender, with perfect hair and flawless skin. Busty. Glassy, vibrant eyes. Their tits—heavy and gorgeous and shiny—displayed proudly in tight white dresses of different kinds, all of them urgently displaying cleavage that would have been pornographic if it didn’t belong to such obvious pieces of art. They wore designer outfits—actual Valentino, actual Chanel—and diamonds sparkled at their throats, wrists, and ears.
“What the fuck,” April whispered beside her.
“Language,” June said automatically, then realized she agreed.
What the fuck indeed. These women weren’t just beautiful—they were her kind of beautiful. Like they’d stepped out of her own personal fantasy of what women should look like. Like they’d been designed specifically to please her aesthetic sense…
