Hi Everyone!
BRAND new story today focusing on cucking (or NTR, or homewrecking, or whatever pet term you may have), as a house guest aggressively mind controls the wife of his friend for his own pleasure. This one is also a commission–woohoo!–so it was built from start to finish with a fan just like you! Grab it here!
Blurb:
Some Guests Never Leave.
Denis has always been overlooked. Average face, average prospects, crashing on a friend’s couch while said friend—tall, handsome, successful John—works sixty-hour weeks to fund a perfect life Denis could never build for himself.
Then Denis finds the pendant.
Suddenly Julia—John’s stunning, sharp-tongued, thoroughly devoted fiancée—discovers she has a new calling in life. She’s a hostess, after all. And a good hostess attends to her guest’s every need.
Every single, erotic desire and fantasy.
Because of the pendant, Julia never quite realizes she’s betraying the man who adores her. The logic is simply too airtight: Denis is a guest, guests deserve comfort, and comfort means—well. Everything.
As Denis’s influence deepens, even their gorgeous, baby-hungry neighbor Stella finds herself dropping by, and dropping down on her knees, rather more often than her husband Marcus might appreciate.
Meanwhile, John keeps paying the bills.
The Cuck Hold is a wickedly escalating tale of a thoroughly undeserving man acquiring thoroughly unearned power over two breathtaking women—and the fiancé who comes home one evening to find his entire world has been quietly, elegantly, and irrevocably rearranged.
WARNING: This story contains explicit scenes of erotic control, NTR (netotare), harem-based delights, multiple women gleefully breeding for one lucky man, and that man’s unapologetic ownership of the women of other men!
The First Thousand-Ish Words:
Denis turned the pendant over in his palm. The metal caught afternoon light through the kitchen window, casting odd geometric patterns across the granite countertop. Sumerian runes. He could verify that much without even cracking open the veritable treasure trove of reference texts in the chest of books he kept at the foot of his bed. Something about “the light.”
Beyond that, the symbols remained meaningless. Just another dead end, probably. Another wasted forty dollars at an estate sale.
The pendant swung gently from its chain. He’d spent the better part of a decade chasing rumors of objects like this. Ten years. A third of his life devoted to tracking down whispers of genuine control—the kind that bypassed consent entirely, that rewired consciousness itself.
It started with Melissa. Beautiful Melissa with her long legs and sharp laugh. She’d left him for Marcus, a finance bro with a jaw like a comic book hero and a trust fund to match. Denis had been completing his thesis on Mesopotamian mythology at the time. Twenty-two years old, watching the woman he’d planned to marry ride off in a BMW he could never afford.
Something broke in him that night. Not cleanly—more like a slow fracture that spread over months.
He’d always been drawn to the esoteric, but after Melissa, it became an obsession. Crowley’s writings on the will. Mesmer’s animal magnetism. The Hermetic Order’s rituals. Tibetan tulpas. He devoured it all, convinced that somewhere in the accumulated mysticism of human history lay the key to rewriting reality itself.
His PhD advisor called it a “regrettable detour.” His parents called it a waste of his potential. Denis called it research.
The first expedition took him to Peru, chasing legends of Incan priests who could command obedience with a glance. He found ruins and dysentery.
The second led him to a monastery in Nepal where monks supposedly practiced techniques of mental dominance. He learned meditation and came home broke.
Thailand. Egypt. Romania. Each trip ate through what little money he had, burned through credit cards and friendships alike.
John was the last friend standing. Good, stupid John who actually believed Denis’s bullshit about being an “adventurer.” Who let him crash in the spare bedroom of the home he shared with his gorgeous fiancée. Who worked sixty-hour weeks while Denis sat in the kitchen, unemployed and unemployable, his expertise in Sumerian cuneiform and alchemical symbolism worth precisely nothing in the job market.
The pendant caught light again. Denis held it up, watching the glyphs shimmer. He’d paid forty dollars he didn’t have for it. His credit card was maxed. He owed John three months of “temporary” rent that would never be paid.
The front door opened.
Denis’s stomach tightened. He knew that particular cadence of heels. Women’s voices carried down the hallway—a measured contralto and someone higher pitched, shamelessly feminine. Two other women totally in love with different men who were his superiors in every way—looks, wealth, ability, charm.
Julia—John’s fiancé—and their neighbor Stella.
It didn’t help that Julia absolutely despised him, nor did it help that he couldn’t quite blame her. He was a parasite, through and through.
“I’m just saying, it’s been two years.” Stella’s voice had a breathy quality. “My mom had me when she was twenty-six. I’m twenty-eight already.”
“Stella, you literally just got married six months ago.”
“Seven months.”
They rounded the corner into the kitchen. Denis straightened in his chair.
Julia wore a cream-colored blouse that showed the sharp architecture of her collarbones, tucked into high-waisted charcoal trousers that emphasized her narrow waist. Her red hair fell in waves past her shoulders. The afternoon light caught the diamond studs in her ears—two carats each, probably. John’s money bought quality.
She set her massage table case against the wall. She was home early; he supposed she’d had a cancellation.
What kind of moron would cancel on someone who looked like Julia touching them for 90 minutes was beyond him.
Behind her stood a blonde. Stella. Denis recognized her from the handful of times she’d stopped by. Tall, nearly Julia’s height. The kind of slender and toned that rich childless housewives got from doing Pilates from instead of having a day job. Her white sundress clung to her tiny, busty frame. Blue eyes. Perfect bone structure. The dress cut low enough to reveal prominent collarbones and the swell of firm, pert breasts beneath the thin fabric.
“Hi Denis.” Stella gave him a small wave, her smile genuine. Sweet, even. “How are you?”
“Good, thanks.” He kept his voice neutral. Polite.
Julia’s expression soured. She moved past Stella into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator without acknowledging Denis’s presence.
“I should let you go.” Stella touched Julia’s arm. “Think about what I said, okay? About the fertility specialist?”
“You don’t need a fertility specialist. You need patience.”
“I know, I know.” Stella laughed. “I’m being crazy.”
“You’re being baby-crazy.”
“Guilty.” Stella turned back toward Denis, still smiling. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“You too.”
She left. The front door clicked shut.
Julia stood at the counter, her back to him. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath.
When she turned, it was with an expression he didn’t have an exact name for. Something like the “anticipation of contempt.”
“What’s that?” She gestured toward his hand.
Denis glanced down. The pendant’s chain had slipped between his fingers, letting the medallion dangle visibly.
“Nothing. Found it at an estate sale.”
“Of course you did.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Because you have nothing better to do than waste money at estate sales while John works himself to death supporting you. I swear, if you’ve pawned anything of ours…” Julia’s voice trailed off as she uncrossed her arms and stepped closer to Denis. The pendant’s reflection danced in her eyes, the Sumerian runes casting an almost imperceptible glow.
Denis noticed her gaze fixating on the pendant, her pupils dilating slightly…
