Hi Everyone!
The fourth installment of God of Lust is out and things certainly are going a bit mad. Aphrodite, obsessed with a mortal, is doing everything she can to justify giving him more and more (and more…and more…) while slowly draining the world of all love and lust save for that in his harem. And that mortal? Well, he’s super into videogames and thinks the hot women around him are pretty dope. Find it here!
BLURB:
I thought I had it all figured out…but I’m just a girl…
Absorb the powers of lust, redirect them into making Wes the most worshipped man alive, and avoid my prophesied fate of kneeling before him by distracting him nonstop. Simple.
But his needs kept growing…and growing…and growing…
He never communicated his needs, of course. He’s far too clever for that, despite how brainless he seems doing nothing but playing videogames and eating cereal all day
But he couldn’t be an idiot, right? How else would he have wound up with trillions in wealth, a futuristic mobile fortress full of super-hot murderous servants, and a world entirely drained of love except for what I’ve poured into his harem?
It’s NOT because I’m obsessed with him and keep giving him more and more and more. He’s making me do it. Somehow. I just can’t seem to figure out how…he’s SO smart and even if I’m a goddess, I’m just a silly girl…
Me? I’m invisible, untouchable, fingers working frantically as I channel the universe’s supply of lust directly into fantasies of his satisfaction. Each woman I perfect for him makes my own need sharper. Each modification brings me closer to my knees. I can’t help myself. I have to distract him from…something…?
When we meet the witch-goddess Hecate—furious that Wes now owns her enchanted super-hot daughter—she has plans to make Wes suffer and to stop Wes once and for all.
I tell myself I’m protecting him. That I’m still in control.
I’m Aphrodite. I bow to no one.
So why can’t I stop kneeling?
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:
You know what’s crazy?
I’m the Goddess of Love—heck, I’m the Goddess of Lust too these days—and I haven’t been fucked in I can’t-even-remember-how-long.
Maybe not ever?
But that’s not right. Surely I had like…a husband or something…?
It’s hard to think with Wes’s cock inside me.
It’s like, his dream cock.
(L-O-L, it’s my dream too…)
So it’s not a real cock. So I guess this doesn’t count as a real fuck. But even so, even his dream cock is enough to make my divine mind go all fuzzy and sparkly and warm, and I keep losing track of what I’m supposed to be telling him.
Which is important. Super important. Life-or-death important, even.
“Wes,” I manage, my voice hitching as his hips roll upward and his cock hits that spot deep inside me that makes golden light pulse behind my eyes. “Darling. Baby. Oh, fuck, my l-love, y-you have to—oh fuck—you have to listen to me.”
He’s not really my darling or baby or love, of course. I’m just manipulating him. Like a honeypot. He’s totally susceptible to doing what I say.
“I’m listening.”
He’s not listening. His hands are on my tits, squeezing them together, watching them bounce with each thrust. His eyes have that glazed, happy quality of a man who is exactly where he wants to be.
“There are immortals out there. Like me.”
I press my palms against his chest, trying to anchor myself. The dream chamber pulses around us—burgundy velvet walls breathing, golden light swelling and dimming in rhythm with his thrusts. My six duplicates are still positioned around the room, fingering themselves in unison, moaning softly, their faces mirrors of my own barely-contained ecstasy. “And when immortals latch onto someone—when they fixate on a mortal…things get really serious.”
Like, super serious.
I’m serious!
He’s really lucky he has me to protect him from that kind of attachment. Like, some goddess could easily be out there trying to give him everything he could ever want just to manipulate him, so totally obsessed that she’s sliding into his dreams to fuck up his thoughts and seduce him even when he’s not awake…
Can you even imagine someone so hopelessly lost?
My divine responsibilities have shifted somewhat in the past few weeks, and those responsibilities happen to center around Wes’s wellbeing. His safety. His comfort. His arousal. The precise angle at which his cock curves slightly to the left when it’s fully hard and how that angle changes depending on whether he’s been sucking Vanessa’s tit or Violet’s tit beforehand.
That’s just data collection. Professional interest. Goddess stuff.
I keep a mental catalog, you understand. Every goddess does this with her domain. Demeter probably tracks soil pH levels across entire continents. Polina probably monitors the luminosity of every star visible from Earth. I monitor Wes’s cock. Its length (which I’ve increased by forty-three percent over six weeks through indirect milk-based enhancement). Its girth (up sixty-one percent, and honestly I could push it further but I don’t want to break Vanessa’s jaw permanently—she needs it for giving orders). The exact shade it turns when he’s about to cum—a deep, flushed rose that makes my pussy clench every single time without exception.
This is my domain. This is professional.
The fact that I can only achieve orgasm by thinking about his cock is a coincidence. A statistical fluke.
Before Wes, I could cum thinking about all sorts of things—sunsets over the Aegean, the smell of jasmine, the way a perfectly composed love letter makes your heart ache. Beautiful things. Romantic things. Goddess-appropriate things.
Now when I try to think about sunsets, the sun becomes the head of his cock. When I smell jasmine, my brain immediately routes to the jasmine oil Vanessa massages into his shoulders every evening before bed. When I imagine a love letter, the words rearrange themselves into Dear Wes, please breed my divine pussy until I forget my own name.
Which is fine. Totally fine. It just means my aesthetic sensibilities have narrowed somewhat. Focused. Refined. Like a sommelier who’s tasted the perfect wine and can no longer enjoy anything lesser—that’s not addiction, that’s discernment.
I haven’t slept in eleven days. Not because I can’t. Goddesses don’t technically need sleep. But I used to enjoy it—drifting off in my chambers on Olympus or wherever else, letting my consciousness dissolve into pleasant nothingness for a few hours. Now, though, when I close my eyes, all I see is his cock. Just floating there in the darkness of my mind. Glowing, almost. Pulsing with that warm rose-gold light that I’ve come to associate with everything good and right and worthy in the universe.
So I don’t sleep. I hover. I watch him sleep instead. Or I think about his cock and I cum myself stupid like a good girl ought to.
But only because that’s like, my job or something.
That’s not creepy. That’s surveillance. Protective surveillance of a high-value asset who happens to have the most perfect cock in the history of creation—a cock that I designed, technically, through a series of completely rational and strategically justified enhancements administered via divine breast milk filtered through three different women before reaching his bloodstream.
I’m basically his security detail. His invisible, perpetually aroused, divinely gorgeous security detail who sometimes grinds her intangible pussy against his sleeping face and whispers promises about how she’ll never let any other immortal get their hooks into him.
Because that would be dangerous. For him.
Not for me. I’m fine. I’m a goddess. I’m the most powerful being in this hemisphere right now, probably. I’m riding him harder now, my hands braced against his chest, my tits bouncing in a way that would make mortal women weep with envy. The velvet walls pulse faster, matching my rhythm. My six duplicates around the room have stopped pretending to do anything except watch us fuck, their fingers frozen mid-stroke, their expressions slack with vicarious pleasure…
