Hi Everyone!
Brand new story available for you! This one is a hot spin on the classic harem-gathering idea. Sometimes I’ve included a wife who isn’t worthy of her new alpha male husband, but this is the first time I’ve written about a woman who knows she isn’t worthy and rather wants to be put into her place about it. Luckily, the hot neighbor is of the perfect mindset to do just that…it’s available here!
Blurb:
She Knows She’ll Never Be Enough For Her Man.
After the transformation, Sarah had everything—an endlessly yummy, fertile body for her husband to breed as much as he wants and the sexual appetite to match. She’s hot, fit, and needy.
But it’s not enough. Sarah knows she’s damaged goods, and her husband Mike—transformed as well into a hyper-virile, magnetic mega-stud—deserves better. It doesn’t matter if Sarah cleans all day, wears nothing but lingerie, and stays wet for him permanently. Mike needs a “real woman” to satisfy him.
That’s why she’s so happy when he brings Nora home. That’s why she’s so eager to do everything Nora says. The hottie next door, Nora was stunning before, and transcendent after Mike claims her.And when Nora looks at Sarah with those knowing eyes, when she commands rather than asks, when she takes what should be Sarah’s place in their bed…she’s not jealous.
She’s grateful.
But will she be able to admit how badly she needs to submit to the better woman in Mike’s new life, or will she languish in the shadows forever?
WARNING: Contains mind control, bimbofication, breeding, transformation, explicit content, and a startlingly gorgeous cuckquean who eagerly submits to the superior women in her husband’s life!
The First Thousand-Ish Words:
Sarah fretted.
Of course she fretted; fretting was what she did. But, the house at quarter past two in the morning gave her more reason than usual. The walls of their prefab ranch home groaned against the November wind, and somewhere in the kitchen a cabinet door kept clicking open and shut from a breeze finding its way in through the crack in the back door—the latch had been broken for three months now. Mike said he’d fix it.
Mike said a lot of things.
She pulled the threadbare quilt up to her chin, feeling the rough patches where she’d mended holes with mismatched thread. Her body ached from another day of sending out teaching resumes to schools that would never call back. Thirty-four years old and already washed up, with crow’s feet etched deep from squinting at computer screens in their dim living room. The power company had threatened to shut off the electricity again last week.
Sarah’s fingers found the soft roll of flesh at her waist, pinching it through her oversized sleep shirt—one of Mike’s old work shirts, stained with machine oil that never quite washed out.
She was getting fatter. Stress eating, probably. She could feel a new pimple forming near her thinning hairline. God, she was disgusting. No wonder Mike stayed late at the factory. No wonder he barely looked at her anymore.
The front door slammed.
Sarah’s heart hammered against her ribs. Was he drunk? He’d been drinking more lately, ever since the announcement about the factory closing next spring. She held her breath, listening to his heavy footsteps on the warped hardwood floors. The house was so small she could track his movement—through the living room, pausing at the kitchen (probably grabbing a beer), then down the short hallway. Her childhood—stapled onto her conscious being from endless trauma—was a cacophonic symphony of doors slamming, heavy footsteps, screams and shouts, dirty mutters from under the breath. Whenever Mike showed the slightest bit of temper, it always felt like destiny, like she was finally living up to the stunted, funneled potential of her broken life.
Not once—ever—had he ever even threatened to raise a hand against her. He didn’t even really raise his voice very much. But Sarah’s trauma was her bedrock against which all other sensations were built.
The bedroom door creaked open. Mike’s silhouette filled the doorframe, broader somehow than she remembered. Must be the shadows.
“Mike?” Her voice came out reedy, pathetic. “I was worried. It’s so late and you didn’t call—”
He grunted, stumbling toward the bed. The mattress dipped violently as he collapsed onto it, still wearing his work boots. The smell of him was different—not the usual cocktail of metal shavings and cheap deodorant, but something earthier, almost electric. Like ozone before a storm.
“Long night,” he muttered into the pillow.
Sarah’s hand hovered over his shoulder, afraid to touch him.
“Did something happen at work? Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
The word came out sharp, final.
She withdrew her hand, curling onto her side of the bed—her side being the narrow strip along the edge where the springs didn’t poke through as much. Mike took up the rest, sprawled diagonally across the queen mattress they’d bought at a yard sale eight years ago.
Please don’t leave me, she thought, the familiar prayer cycling through her mind. Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. Beat me if you want. I can take it. Just don’t leave me, oh god. Please. I’ll be loyal. I’ll stay on your side no matter what…
It was the same thought she’d had every night for years now, ever since her mother’s funeral when she’d realized she had nobody left but Mike. Nobody else would want her—who could possibly want someone like her? Pocked skin, belly hanging over the elastic waistband of her granny panties, thighs that chafed when she walked. She’d caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror yesterday and nearly cried. Her face looked like a topographical map of failure—acne scars forming valleys, fresh pimples rising like tiny volcanoes, broken capillaries spreading across her nose from years of crying into cheap tissues.
The fertility treatments had stopped two years ago when they couldn’t afford them anymore. Not that they’d been working anyway. Her body couldn’t even do the one thing women were supposed to do. Broken inside and out.
Mike’s breathing deepened, but something was off about the rhythm. Usually he snored—a wet, phlegmy sound that kept her awake most nights. Tonight his breathing was deeper. The bed creaked as he shifted, and she felt the heat radiating off him through the thin sheet between them.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Oh! I—do you want me to make you something? There’s leftover casserole in the—”
His hand shot out in the darkness, fingers tangling in her mousy brown hair. Not gentle. Not rough either, exactly, but purposeful. Insistent.
“Mike?”
“Shut up.”
The words should have stung—would have, normally. Mike could be cold, distant, but he was never cruel. Never talked to her like that. But something in his voice, some new timber she’d never heard before, made her thighs clench involuntarily under the covers.
He sat up, still gripping her hair, and she could make out more of him in the faint light from the streetlamp outside. His work shirt was torn, hanging open to reveal his chest—but that couldn’t be right. Mike had a soft belly, same as her. This chest was… different. Harder. The shadows playing across it suggested definition that hadn’t been there this morning.
“Be a good wife,” he said. “Suck your husband’s cock.”
Sarah’s mouth fell open—not in shock, though she was shocked, but in something else. Something primal. Her body was responding before her mind could catch up, a flush spreading across her chest and pooling between her legs. This was wrong. This wasn’t Mike. Mike hadn’t touched her in months, hadn’t wanted her in…
His grip tightened, pulling her head down toward his lap. Through his work pants, she could see—feel—smell—something impossible. The bulge there was obscene, like someone had stuffed a baseball bat down his pants. The fabric was damp with something that made her mouth water inexplicably.
“I said,” he repeated, using his free hand to unzip his fly, “be a good wife.”
The world tilted. Sarah’s stomach lurched—not with nausea but with something darker, more twisted. Her skin prickled with sweat as Mike’s fingers twisted harder in her hair, and she heard herself whimper in aching response…
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