Hi Everyone!
This is the second installment in the Executive Corruption series, about a down-on-his-luck lawyer who is suddenly a drowned-in-his-luck lawyer, fought over by competing succubi who use the women in his office as their instruments of competition. The women around him get hotter, he gets more virile, and the whole arrangement gets wild and spicy! Pick it up here!
Blurb:
“I just need to respect you on my knees, Sir. Please?”
Michael’s life has transformed overnight. The intern who despised him now kneels eagerly beneath his desk. The ambitious attorney who schemed against him campaigns for his promotion. His wife and secretary engage in playful competition over who serves him best. All thanks to Isabel—the succubus bound to a contract he governs, flooding his world with devoted, gorgeous women who treat “professional development” as an art form requiring hours of intimate attention between his legs.
Isabel wants freedom. Michael wants Isabel.
Then Mara arrives. Another succubus. Another offer. More women. More pleasure. All Michael has to do is betray Isabel.
But Isabel is no ordinary beauty. She’s perfection incarnate, and Michael is obsessed. She knows it. She’s counting on it. His helpless desire might be exactly what she needs to manipulate him into releasing her from the contract…unless Michael discovers he can rewrite the rules entirely.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of INTENSE kink and bimbofication, mind control, breeding, lactation erotica, and the delicious submission of self-righteous feminist women who thought they were too good for one lucky guy.
The First 1000-ish Words:
Still hard.
Michael stood in the bathroom, naked. Steam rose from his body despite the temperature being low, the shower being as cold as he could make it. Before him, tilting up and straining for the corner of the ceiling, his turgid cock ached for attention.
He groaned, letting the back of his finger touch his cock just gently. It surged at the contact, twitching upward. He pulled his hand away. The thing was enormous—easily nine inches now, thick as his wrist. The head was dark, swollen, angry-looking. A continuous stream of precum spilled from the tip and dripped to the tile floor.
He’d been hard for six hours. Maybe seven. He’d lost count.
The mirror showed a stranger. His chest was broader, more defined. His stomach flat, abs visible for the first time since college. His shoulders wider. Even his face looked different—sharper jawline, clearer skin. He looked ten years younger.
This wasn’t him. This was Isabel’s work.
Michael braced his hands on the sink. The porcelain was cold beneath his palms. His cock throbbed between his legs, demanding attention. Demanding Bridget. Demanding more.
He’d fucked Bridget for hours today already. The memory played in fragments—her back arching on his desk, her legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth on his cock while Isabel whispered encouragement in his ear. Bridget’s soft, plaintive, obedient moans had filled the office. Through the windows, he’d watched Lucia, Carmen, and Sandra pretend to work while they touched themselves, flushing and swooning.
His inbox had been flooded. Email after email from all three women—completed assignments, finished projects, tasks he’d assumed would take weeks done in hours.
Each message dripped with praise.
You’re such an amazing boss, Mr. Keegan.
I’ve never been so motivated to work hard.
Thank you for inspiring me.
Lucia’s productivity had tripled. Carmen and Sandra had actually worked for the first time since he’d known them. All while listening to him pound his wife into oblivion.
Bridget had changed. Not just her body—though that transformation was impossible to ignore. She’d become something else entirely. A giggling, arm-hanging, perpetually wet dream of a wife. Her every movement and expression was like the instagram feed of a fetishistic trophy wife, each gesture calculated to show off her incredible body while still seeming demure, classy, elegant. She was obsessed with him, with his pleasure, with his happiness.
All day, she didn’t beg for sex. Not once. And yet they fucked nonstop.
Her eager, obedient availability constantly sent him over the edge. She stayed in his office all day, making sure to be quiet while he pretended like he was going to get anything done. All the while, she was attentive, dutiful, watching him with bright blue eyes smoldering with total devotion. She dressed in an outfit she’d borrowed from Sandra’s spare office outfits (she had brought in dozens that morning) in some bizarre new sisterhood he didn’t quite understand—designer pieces that showed off her transformed body. A violet Tom Ford sweater-dress with a scooping neckline that ended halfway up her long suddenly-bronzed thighs. She’d smile at him from across the office, adjust her necklace to draw his eyes to her collarbones and cleavage, cross her legs to show thigh.
She never asked for anything. Never demanded attention. His sexual conquest of her and his power and masculine need to dominate simply wasn’t about her at all. She was simply there. Available. Warm. When his eyes lingered too long, she’d stand, walk to his desk, kneel between his legs without a word. Her mouth would find his cock and she’d work him slowly, reverently, her blue eyes locked on his face. Afterward, she’d tuck him back into his pants, kiss his cheek, and return to her chair.
“I honor you,” she’d whisper each time. “I’m blessed to honor my husband.”
The language was clinical. Sanitized. Like she couldn’t bring herself to say fuck or suck or cum. But her body said everything her mouth wouldn’t. The way her breath hitched when he touched her. The flush that spread across her chest when she knelt. The wetness that soaked through her panties—visible when she crossed and uncrossed her legs.
Isabel appeared occasionally throughout the day. Never when Bridget was looking. Always in Michael’s peripheral vision—leaning against the doorframe, sitting on the edge of his desk, standing behind Bridget with her hands on his wife’s shoulders. The succubus would smile, blow him a kiss, mouth words he couldn’t quite make out but understood anyway.
Good boy.
Each time, his cock would surge. Each time, Bridget would notice and attend to him without being asked.
By mid-afternoon, Michael had stopped pretending to work. His files sat unopened. His emails went unanswered. Instead, he watched Bridget move around his office playing secretary—straightening papers, organizing his bookshelf, pouring him coffee. She hummed quietly, a tune he didn’t recognize. Her hips swayed. The sweater-dress clung to her ass, riding up slightly with each movement.
When she bent to pick up a dropped pen, the dress rode high enough that he could see the lace edge of her new panties. She stayed bent long enough for him to re-enter her, just as she designed. At that point, he was keeping his door open. At that point, he could hear the whispers of the other office girls as he came repeatedly into his wife’s newly-fertile womb:
“Look at how she respects him…how she honors his glory…oh, she is blessed. She is blessed…”
“So…attentive…to the workplace…environment…”
It continued when he took Bridget home. Just a bit ago before his shower, she fed him dinner like a pagan offering a sacrifice to a god—reverent, worshipful. Her hands had trembled when she’d touched him. Her eyes had never left his face, as if afraid he might disappear if she looked away. “Husband,” Bridget had whispered, her voice a caress. “I want to make you so happy. I want to be everything you need…”
Like what you see? Find the rest here!
