Hi Everyone!
The harem continues to grow! We’re not quite at the “add literal goddesses to slobber over his cock” portion of the story yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not full of super hot babes and sexy action!
This series continues to be told from the POV of the kind-of demented, red-pilled Aphrodite–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:
I never thought transforming the ex-girlfriend of a total loser into his gorgeous smokeshow tradwife would result in so many complications! Like, yes, she’s so hot that she can stop the sun, and yes, I transformed the cafe down the street into their personal love palace, and yes, she’s an actual traffic hazard that is basically attempting murder every time she wears a miniskirt past a crowded intersection. But why would that make this whole situation harder to control?
I’ve got to control it. See, if Wes—that’s the total loser—isn’t completely distracted by Vanessa (the smokeshow), he might end up in control of me, Aphrodite. Fates are weird like that. They said I would get so obsessed with my new powers of lust that I would give Wes a life of unending sex and harem paradise! What a joke.
Anyway, now, Vanessa’s idiot sister (actually, she’s quite smart) and her body-building BFF are acting all suspicious as to why Vanessa would suddenly abandon her law career to become a housewife for a guy who spends most of his day playing videogames. They think Vanessa’s been brainwashed or something. (They’re not wrong, but that’s beside the point.)
I mean, do I even have a choice? Now I’m going to have to brainwash THESE gorgeous hotties into being his tradwife lovedolls too. There’s simply no other way to solve this situation.
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:
The café is called Ambrosia.
The building stands on the corner of an otherwise unremarkable street in Wes’s neighborhood—which is to say, a shitty street in a shitty part of town. But the café itself? Gorgeous. Clean white marble exterior with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in perfect natural light. The roof is flat, modern, with solar panels that actually work. The foundation could survive a nuclear blast. The electrical wiring is flawless. Every pipe, every joint, every fucking nail is exactly where it should be.
I don’t take chances. Not when it comes to Wes.
Not that he’s noticed, of course.
Sigh.
The line stretches down the block. Two blocks. Three.
All men. Sweaty, desperate men clutching their wallets like lifelines. They shuffle forward with the patience of the devoted, eyes glazed, mouths slack. Some of them have been waiting for days.
They don’t know why they’re waiting. They just know they have to. Something about the café calls to them. Something about the women inside.
The women who won’t give them the time of day.
It was named that—Ambrosia—before I started making changes, mind you.
This is the place I picked for Wes and Vanessa’s excursions out into the world—Vanessa is simply too hot for it to be “normal” for her to be stuck at home all the time, so they had to have a date night and brunch restaurant to go to—the place I picked purely because it was the closest in proximity to Wes’s hovel of an apartment.
I think it used to be a front for some Eastern European gang to sell drugs, or something? Vanessa, who now owns the establishment, found a bunch of cash in the utility closet—like actual bricks of money, enough to build a shed—and donated it all to Wes’s bank account like a good girl.
Probably I should be able to remember who used to own it. I did transform them all into pigs and had Vanessa donate them to the nearest slaughterhouse, after all. But like, am I really expected to remember everything? I’m so busy cumming constantly from how sexy I’ve made Wes’s life that it’s hardly fair to expect me to remember things like other, non-Wes and Vanessa mortals.
I do like the name Ambrosia, though.
None of these mortals have any idea what actual ambrosia tastes like. But it works for what I’ve made this place into—a temple of indulgence where Wes’s every whim is catered to without question.
The interior is all warm wood and soft lighting, with plush velvet seating and tables that gleam like they’ve never known the touch of a crumb. Classical music plays softly in the background—or it would if I hadn’t changed it to whatever generic video game soundtracks Wes likes. The staff—all women, all gorgeous in that specific way where they’re beautiful but not so beautiful they’d compete with Vanessa—move through the space with practiced elegance. Each one is fresh out of college—meaning, they were in college, and then I zapped them, and now they’re out of college because education doesn’t matter to beautiful women with a real purpose.
That real purpose?
They’re all completely obsessed with Wes, of course.
I had to do it.
In the same way that people would ask questions if Vanessa never went out, anyone working where she does go out would ask questions too. Like, duh. So how do you solve that? Well, you control the minds and wills and love-lives of everyone where she does go, and then it’s all solved, no problem.
But of course, that created other problems.
First of all—what happens when Wes sees some other woman who isn’t super hot like Vanessa? That’s no good. It might turn him off. He might remember that other types of women exist, and he might get less horny! That ruins my plan.
So, of course, every woman at the café has to be absurdly, stupidly, ridiculously hot. Busty. Slender. Shining hair. Smooth skin. Eager pliant smiles for Wes, promising him the world for the sight of his cock.
Okay, now that problem was solved.
But…well, duh, more problems. What happens if someone else shows up at the café wanting to eat? I made these girls sparkling hot—people would (and will, and do) show up just to look at them.
Overstuffing the possible clientele with an endless wait list and line was my only solution, which I enabled by making the waitresses impossibly hypnotic and desirable to every man who heard or saw them.
Don’t worry—they live in the cafe (heck, they live for the cafe), so it’s not that crazy.
I made it perfect. Made it so the staff would turn away other customers—especially men—with barely concealed contempt. Made it so they’d serve Wes whatever garbage he wanted, handmade with care that would make a Michelin chef gasp in amazement.
One chef—formerly a track star who just happened to be running by when I was re-staffing the building—has spent the last six weeks perfecting her homemade pizza roll recipe.
Can you believe it? I essentially downloaded the entire human history of culinary excellence into her simple mortal female brain. The man can have anything—filet mignon, chicken marsala, beef wellington…
He wants pizza rolls and diet soda.
All that skill, all that talent, reduced to practically nothing for his brutish, boorish wants…
…not gonna lie? It makes me kinda hot.
Right now, a waitress is turning away some guy in a business suit at the door. He’s trying to make a reservation, pulling out his wallet, and she just…takes his credit card. Swipes it for five hundred dollars.
The waitress’s name is Margot. Tall, willowy, with ash-blonde hair swept up in a chignon that would make a prima ballerina jealous. Her uniform is a crisp white silk blouse—unbuttoned just enough to show the elegant line of her collarbones and the barest hint of cleavage—paired with a black pencil skirt that ends mid-thigh and reveals legs that go on forever. Strappy hot tall luxury heels with 150mm stilettos. A single diamond pendant at her throat catching the light…
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