Max looked up and down the street nervously. There was nothing to see but a long row of large, nigh-identical houses, each one hidden behind a towering hedge and a foreboding gate. The suburbs. Max hated it here. It was too damn quiet. Why did all these stupid rich people need to live so far away from each other? Why were they so scared of anyone walking less than a hundred yards from their front door? What were they hiding?

Well, Max knew the answer to that. They were all a bunch of crooks.

Which made it all the more uncomfortable that she was standing there, in front of one of those too-big houses, waiting for someone to open the gate.

“Fuck this,” she grunted. “If this bitch is gonna keep me waiting, I’m leaving.”

The man standing next to her sighed and reached up to wipe away his brow sweat. “Max, as your lawyer, I very, very strongly advise you not to do that.”

“Or what?” Max snarled. She didn’t like being told what to do, and she knew when someone was condescending to her.

“Or,” the lawyer replied, “Ms. Wexler will file a formal police report, you’ll go to trial, and probably land yourself a month or two in prison. We’ve been over this, remember?”

Max rolled her eyes. She hadn’t been expecting much from a public defender, but she’d still been hoping for better than this - than giving into the stupid, power-tripping whims of some asshole CEO.

She didn’t regret keying and spray-painting Rosalind Wexler’s car. It had been a great statement - anarchist symbols and slogans on a CEO’s ostentatious gas-guzzler. She only regretted getting caught. Frankly, it was bullshit that people were making such a big deal about it. Rosalind Wexler was a multi-millionaire. A car was nothing to her. She probably owned a whole warehouse of them. But even so, Max had found herself hauled in by the pigs and threatened with vandalism and property destruction charges. Until, that is, Wexler’s lawyer had contacted Max’s with an unusual proposition.

“Just remember,” her lawyer added. “Two weeks. Two weeks, and you’re out. No jail. No record. It’s a sweetheart deal, Max.”

It didn’t sound that way to her.

At that moment, the gate clicked, and a tinny voice sounded from the nearby speaker panel.

“Enter,” it said.

Max’s lawyer pushed the gate open and beckoned Max inside.

The short walk up the driveway gave Max ample time to gawk at Wexler’s house. It wasn’t as big as some of the others on the block, but even from the outside, it was clear that it was dripping in every imaginable luxury and amenity. The punk girl idly wondered how much a place like this cost. Five million? Ten? It was obscene.

Rosalind Wexler met them at the door. She was dressed immaculately, in an expensive suit worthy of a CEO, and her hair was up in a tight bun. She sounded pleasant as she invited Max and her lawyer inside her house, but Max knew better than to trust in that. Every CEO had a PR face, it didn’t make them any less of a scumbag.

“Thank you for having us, Ms. Wexler,” Max’s lawyer said. He was annoyingly eager to please. “I’ll be on my way just as soon as the paperwork gets signed.”

He reached into his briefcase and retrieved a few documents, and handed them over. He offered the CEO a cheap, ballpoint pen, and then looked embarrassed when she plucked a gilded fountain pen out of her own pocket.

“Perhaps we should go over the, ah, details of the arrangement just one more time,” he suggested nervously. “Just so everyone is clear.”

“Of course,” Wexler agreed, scanning and signing the papers. “It’s very simple. I waive my right to press charges against Max - provided that, every day for the next two weeks, she comes to my house to perform some chores for me. Nine to five, for fourteen days. I will even pay her for her labor.”

Max bristled.

“It’s very generous, Ms. Wexler,” Max’s lawyer said. Max snorted. He’d probably kiss her shoes if she asked.

“I simply believe in the power of rehabilitation,” Wexler replied, with a winning smile. “My hope is that, through a little hard work, Max can come to learn that a life of domesticity and hard work is something to aspire to. Rather than, well…” She glanced sideways at the punk. “Besides, I could use the help around the house while I’m at work.”

Now, Max’s very blood boiled, especially when her lawyer started nodding like a witless donkey. She wanted to spit on something, just to show her contempt. Preferably Wexler’s face.

“Max? Is that agreeable?”

Max glared daggers at her lawyer, before swiping the pen he offered and scrawling her name on the contract.

“Excellent!” her lawyer cried, a little too excitedly. His relief was palpable, and it was clear he was keen to leave before Max made another mess he’d have to clean up. “I’ll be on my way. Good day, Ms. Wexler.”

He saw himself out of Wexler’s house as quickly as he could.

“Max,” Wexler began, smiling. “Why don’t you come with me?”

She beckoned Max into her spacious dining room. Max considered refusing, just out of spite, but she figured she was going to have to make a few sacrifices to get through the next couple of weeks. She stalked after her host and slouched into one of the dining room chairs. The table was a preposterously imposing slab of dark wood, with a strange metal box sitting on top of it.

“I’ll talk to you about your duties in a moment,” Wexler told her sternly. “But first… Max, don’t you have anything nicer to wear? Any dresses, perhaps?”

Max stared at the woman incredulously. “Fuck you.”

The corner of Wexler’s mouth turned up; she wasn’t angered by Max’s defiance, just amused. That made the whole situation burn even more.

“Very well. I won’t press the issue,” the CEO replied. “For now.”

Max snorted. This bitch could pry her battle jacket out of her cold, dead hands.

Everyone who saw Max immediately knew exactly what they were going to get: a rowdy punk girl who didn’t take bullshit from anybody. Wherever she went she wore her battle jacket, drenched in patches and spikes, and usually paired it with some roughed-up jeans or cargo pants, and a pair of steel-capped boots. She cut her hair herself, hacking at it with a pair of scissors and a clipper until it was a messy, lopsided side-shave that, along with her eyebrow and snakebite piercings, made her look feral and dangerous when she snarled at someone in the street. Max often put that to the test, to make sure she was still having the desired effect.

Here, more than anywhere else, she was going to keep her punk gear on. It was like her armor.

“Second, I have a question for you,” Wexler continued. “Do you know what it is I do, exactly?”

Max sniffed. “Steal from poor people?”

“No,” Wexler said flatly.

“Jerk investors off at meetings? Cash in subsidy checks? Fire people?” Max was determined to have whatever fun with this she could. “Jerk yourself off at meetings?”

“I’m the CEO of a pharmaceutical research firm,” Wexler told her patiently.

“I was right first time,” Max snickered.

“Lately, we’ve been working on a highly experimental new product,” Wexler continued. Her smile was undimmed by Max’s mockery, and the punk was starting to get the feeling Wexler knew something she didn’t. “And I have a sample right here. I’d like to get your thoughts.”

Max raised an eyebrow. Despite herself, she was intrigued.

Wexler reached over to the metal box on her table and pulled it closer. She pressed a small, metal button on its surface, and with a quiet hiss of depressurizing gas, it split open down a barely-perceptible seam along the middle. Wexler pried it open all the way with deft, well-practiced hands, and inside was a set of buttons, a small canister, and, connected to it by a tube, something that looked to Max like an oxygen mask, the kind they used on sick people in hospitals.

Max did her best to look unimpressed. “So… what, it’s like a new medicine or something?”

“Something like that,” Wexler replied. “It’s very therapeutic - and I’m hoping it will be very popular. Its effects are quite something, I assure you. In fact, I was thinking you would try it for me.”

“Uh… what?” Max blinked. “So it’ll, like, get you high?”

“Most definitely.” Wexler’s smile was blindingly white and wide.

Max took a moment to think. Getting high didn’t sound so bad, but there was no way it was that simple. There had to be a catch. She sat back in the chair, spread her legs, and folded her arms. “No way in hell I’m being your guinea pig.”

Wexler shook her head ruefully. “Oh, Max. I wasn’t asking.”

Before Max could raise her hands or fire off a vulgar report, Wexler was pressing the mask against her face.

The struggle, such as it was, only lasted a moment. Max was taken completely off-guard by Wexler’s speed and strength, and could only flail and try to pull back as the CEO held the mask firmly in place. An instant later, she reached over and tapped one of the buttons in her strange device. There was the sound of a pump, another distinctive gas-hiss, and then the disconcerting sight of the plastic tube leading to the breathing mask rapidly filling with some kind of strange, pink gas.

“What the fuck?” Max cried out, which was a mistake. Her voice was muffled by the mask, and opening her mouth to scream only resulted in her inhaling a lungful of Wexler’s drug. Max’s eyes went wider with horror as, out of the corners of her eyes, she saw wisps of neon-pink gas being pulled into her mouth by her breathing.

At that point, it was too late. Within seconds, the drug was taking effect.

Max had heard that when you got put under for surgery, they’d give you the anesthetic and tell you to count backward from ten, and that no one ever remembered anything past eight. Wexler’s ‘medicine’ was just as fast, and just as irresistibly soporific. It didn’t put her to sleep, though. It just drained all the resistance completely out of her. Max’s arms fell limp at her sides and her mouth hung open, leaving her huffing even more of the intoxicating fumes. But it wasn’t merely that she couldn’t fight. It was that she didn’t want to. The hot red buzz of anger and adrenaline that always energized Max when she was in danger was simply gone, and instead she was bathing in a warm, placid calm that made violence feel unthinkable, even absurd. She didn’t care about fighting anymore. She wasn’t sure she cared about anything.

“Finally,” Wexler sighed. “I’ve taken more than enough vulgarity from the stupid girl that destroyed my property.”

She lifted the mask away from Max’s face. The effects of the pink gas did not fade. Wexler’s words, dripping with contempt, washed over Max like a warm, spring rain.

“What’ssssss… what’ssss going…” Max trailed off. Speaking suddenly took so much effort, and it didn’t seem worth making it to the end of her question.

“’What’s going on?’” Wexler guessed, smirking. “I suppose this is the only way you’d ever listen. Not that you’re going to understand much.”

Max made a half-hearted, useless attempt to pull herself back together. She noticed that her face felt strange and lop-sided. One half of her mouth was utterly numb and stiff; the other hung down in a deep, drooling, stupid smile. Trying to fix it just made her drool more, and make one of her eyes twitch. Wexler regarded her struggles with obvious, sadistic glee.

“Maybe even an uneducated loser like you has heard of pheromones,” Wexler sneered. “Chemicals that stimulate a particular hormonal and behavioral response. My company has discovered how to create and refine human pheromones. That’s what you’ve just been breathing in.”

Max was listening as best she could. She wanted to understand what had happened to her. But merely following each word was a struggle, and when they started to pile up against one another in phrases and sentences, it was far, far too much. They simply rolled over her as meaningless sounds.

“This particular pheromone is our most outstanding success.” Wexler tapped her manicured nails on the canister of gas. The sound felt like a drum beat coming from inside Max’s head. “It taps into some of our most primitive, mammalian urges. Domesticity. Pro-social behavior. Pair-bonding. Subservience to a successful provider. But, well, you’ll soon learn about all that far more intimately.”

All those long words melted into fog before Max could make sense of them.

“So, Max,” Wexler continued. “My dear Max. You’re the ideal test subject. Anti-social, unproductive, and violent. And, according to my investigators, a lesbian. All the more fun for me.” She bent down, putting her sharp, pretty face inches away from Max’s. The big, round lenses in her glasses loomed at the drugged-up punk like twin moons. “Listen up, Max. Maybe this will get through your stupid, ignorant head. I’m going to fix you. You’re mine now. You’re going to be my nice, docile little housewife. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Max’s eye twitched more violently. She could feel a vein bulging in her forehead. There’s nothing you can do about it. Those words produced a spike of indignation sharp enough to feel even through her drug-addled haze. No one got to say things like that to her.

“I… nnnoooo… fffuu…” Max’s hand flailed out to one side, skating across the surface of Wexler’s dining table as she tried to find a way to push herself to her feet.

Wexler put a stop to that at once.

“Shhh,” she hissed poisonously. Delicately avoiding Max’s feeble attempts to strike at her, she lifted the mask again and pressed it back onto Max’s face.

The punk girl no longer had the presence of mind to try and hold her breath when Wexler tapped the button on her device.

“There we go,” Wexler cooed, laughing. “Nice deep breaths, Max. Fill your lungs up. Get a nice, big dose of your medicine.”

The hiss of releasing gas marked Max’s defeat. Her already-weak struggles weakened further, and then stopped. Her arms fell back to her sides, and eventually, after a few more seconds of frantic squirming, her shoulders sagged and her legs turned heavy as lead. This second dose seemed to sink even deeper into her. A sense of peace and calm invaded every part of Max, slowing her heartbeat and turning her thoughts into sludge. It was unnatural and oppressive, but it was still peaceful. Max couldn’t bring herself to be angry or dismayed. For a moment, she felt like she was going to lose herself completely to the fugue. Her eyes started to flit upward and roll back into her head, and she teetered dangerously on the edge of her chair, about to slip off.

“Hey!” Wexler warned sharply. “Wake up, Max!”

Her words meant nothing, but the sharp slap she delivered to the side of Max’s face meant everything. It made the world behind Max’s eyelids flash white for an instant, and jolted her back to a marginally higher level of awareness. The slap didn’t hurt - nothing hurt, now - but it did make every one of her bones feel like it was shaking and rattling. From deep within her drug-drunk stupor, Max tried very, very hard to bring her head back up so she could look straight at Wexler. She just about managed it, even if her head kept lolling from one side to another.

“That’s right, stay with me.” Wexler slapped Max a couple more times, more gently, just to make sure she was still awake; first across one cheek, and then backhand across the other. “You’ve got a job to do, remember?”

Max found herself nodding, and then found she couldn’t stop. She just went on nodding and nodding, like a stupid, broken toy.

“Good.” Wexler laughed. “God. If you could only see yourself right now.”

Limp, drooling, nodding, smiling vacantly. Max could imagine it.

“Now. Stand up.”

Wexler snapped her fingers sharply in front of Max’s face, twice. Max felt herself being hauled to her feet, and only belatedly realized it was her own muscles doing the work.

“I know you’re not used to it, but you’re going to pay attention and do what I say,” Wexler said in a slow, deep voice, carefully enunciating each word for Max’s benefit. “Clean my house while I’m at work.”

“Ggghh… uhhh… y-yeahhh,” Max slurred.

She wasn’t sure what was happening to her. Her body had moved by itself when Wexler had told her to stand, and now, as Wexler gave her more instructions, she found herself unable to refuse. Her drunken agreement slipped out of her lips automatically, and she was struck with the unfathomable impression that Wexler was looming over her. That was impossible - the two of them were virtually the same height - but it felt that way. It felt like Wexler was growing somehow, like her presence dominated the room. Max was suddenly so much more aware of how sharp Wexler’s suit was, how expensive her watch was, and how her voice carried the weight of someone who was used to being obeyed. Max felt like she was talking to a goddess; to someone infinitely formidable possessing crushing authority. Someone who couldn’t be disobeyed.

“Good girl,” Wexler said mockingly. “It’s going to be very, very interesting to say how long it takes for the brain chemistry changes to become permanent in such an inappropriate subject.” She checked her watch. “But as interesting as that is, I can’t let you keep me waiting any longer. I’m needed at work.”

She blew Max a kiss as she flew out the door to where her driver was waiting.

***

Max made it through the day in a haze. It felt like she was walking through a dream, with no sense of how many hours had passed. She was only distantly aware of what she was doing, but whatever it was, it was exhausting. She moved around Wexler’s house from room to room, sweeping, tidying and dusting. It was strange that she wasn’t pissed off about it, and even stranger that she wasn’t bored. Max hated cleaning; normally she always half-assed it, and needed to play some loud music just to make that tolerable. This time, though, she worked methodically, cleaning inch by inch and surface by surface, utterly absorbed in the task.

It was early evening by the time Max started to feel truly awake, and even then she only realized how late it was when she heard the sound of Wexler’s key in the door. Max scampered downstairs to greet her. She wasn’t sure why, exactly - maybe to demand answers from her - but when the CEO appeared in the doorway, Max was immediately cowed, and ended up looking down at the floor modestly.

Wexler sighed contentedly as she stepped across the threshold and looked over at the punk. A smile came to her face. “My goodness,” she purred, “you really look the part, don’t you?”

At first, Max wasn’t sure what she meant, but then she looked down at herself properly and noticed what she was wearing: an apron. A pink, frilly, apron. Immediately, her cheeks turned just as pink. It looked faintly ridiculous, worn over her battle jacket and contrasting with the rest of her punk aesthetic.

“I… uh… I guess I just… saw it around, and figured I should put it on,” Max stammered. “At least… uh… I think that’s what happened?”

She couldn’t remember. She was just realizing that she couldn’t remember. Her memories were lost to the haze, just like the entire day had been. The earlier she thought back, the less she remembered. The morning was a complete gap. She arrived at Wexler’s house with her lawyer, and then… what?

“I approve,” Wexler smirked. “Wear it tomorrow, too.”

“Ye- um… s-sure.”

Max’s confusion was growing. Why was she acting like a nervous schoolgirl? She was muttering and tripping over her words, and she was so… so impressed with Wexler. She had spent all day surrounded by this woman’s power and wealth. It made her feel small, but somehow, not in a bad way. In a safe way. The emotion was impossible to process, especially with her head still so foggy. Did… did she have a crush on her? That barely made sense; Wexler was hot but not that hot, and she represented just about everything Max usually hated.

And yet, her stomach was full of butterflies.

The punk girl tried to rationalize. She needed to stay on Wexler’s good side, after all, if she wanted to make it through the next two weeks without any problems. She was probably just keen to stay on Wexler’s good side - out of pure self-interest, of course. Plus, Wexler wasn’t pressing charges. She was practically doing Max a favor. Maybe Max was a little bit grateful. That made sense. In a way, Wexler was looking out for her.

That thought made her feel extra warm.

“Hmmm.” As Max was grappling with her own thoughts, Wexler was staring intently at one of the kitchen counters, wiping her finger over it and inspecting its surface. “Yes. For a first-time maid, you did well.”

Max had to fight down the smile that came to her face, buoyed up by an irrepressible bubble of happiness at even that mild praise. What the fuck was going on with her?

“But I’ll expect better tomorrow,” Wexler said, in a tone that let Max know she was being dismissed for the day. “And I’ll expect you to have dinner on the table for me when I get home.”

***

One week. It was amazing how the one week Max had spent working for Miss Wexler felt like an eternity. Everything about performing housework for the CEO now felt utterly routine, like she’d been doing it for years, and it seemed like in that time, so much had changed. Or maybe so little; Max wasn’t really sure. She couldn’t seem to remember much of what had come before.

It didn’t trouble her, and she didn’t have time to dwell on it. Max had much more important things to worry about, like making sure she got every speck of dust in Miss Wexler’s office, or learning how to polish her expensive shoes just right without damaging them. That morning, as usual, she was arriving early at eight in the morning, carrying a bag of fresh groceries she’d bought on her way. They were for making dinner for her and Miss Wexler later. Miss Wexler always took care of the bill, which was very generous of her.

The CEO was there waiting to let Max in when she arrived. Max took off her shoes as she entered, and then went to put the groceries away in the fridge under Miss Wexler’s watchful gaze. The way the CEO looked at her always made Max shrink and feel small, but she didn’t dislike it. It just made her body feel a little warm. The only thing she didn’t like was the sharp displeasure in Miss Wexler’s eyes when she noted Max’s clothes. She knew Miss Wexler didn’t like her outfits. Max wasn’t sure she liked them very much either, these days. They were all so rough and grimy and cacophonous. The punk aesthetic didn’t seem to suit her mood. But she had nothing else to wear.

“Time for your medicine,” Miss Wexler said, once Max was finished.

Max simply nodded, and allowed Miss Wexler to lead her through into the dining room. There, on the table, was a now-familiar metal box, which Miss Wexler opened as Max took her seat in one of her chairs. The sight of the canister and mask within made all the hairs on the back of Max’s neck stand on end, but she forced herself not to show any fear. Being scared would be ridiculous. It was only a little medicine.

“Ready?” Miss Wexler asked.

It took Max only a few moments to fix the mask to her face and tighten the strap to hold it in position. She couldn’t imagine refusing, not with Miss Wexler there watching her so sternly.

“Remember,” said Miss Wexler, smirking, as she pressed the release switch on her device. “It’s for your own good.”

Max nodded, and made herself relax into the chair as she started to breathe in the pink gas.

Within moments, the drug swallowed her consciousness. Max choked in fits and starts as she gave herself to its sweet oblivion, her body instinctively rebelling against the foreign substance. There was no fighting it, however. It was far, far too potent. It didn’t take long for Max’s body to surrender too. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she slumped limply to one side, almost slipping out of her chair until Miss Wexler moved to catch her.

A couple of minutes later, Max drifted back to herself. She lifted her head groggily, and then blushed bright red when she looked up and realized that she was in Miss Wexler’s arms.

“How do you feel?” Miss Wexler asked, not unkindly. She didn’t push Max away, so Max took comfort in how safe she felt in the CEO’s embrace.

“Um… good,” Max answered, and it was true. Her head felt desperately foggy and bleary but she had learned that there was a strange comfort in the fog. It made drifting through each day feel light and effortless, even as she was working hard for Miss Wexler’s sake.

“Excellent.” Miss Wexler graced Max with a rare smile. It was like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Its warmth banished even Max’s embarrassment.

“Thank you,” Max murmured.

There was still a flickering of doubt in her heart. She didn’t know why Miss Wexler made her feel this way. It didn’t seem to make any sense. It went against everything she’d thought she knew. That should have made her angry. It should have. But anger was so far beyond her, now. All she felt was contentment. Max was starting to wonder if Miss Wexler had been right all along - about rehabilitation. About everything.

“I need to get to work,” Miss Wexler told her after a moment had passed. Max immediately and regretfully pulled away, suddenly stung with shame at the thought that she could ever have made Miss Wexler late. Miss Wexler was such an important woman. “But first,” the CEO added, “I have something for you.”

Max blinked. “Oh?”

Her employer reached under her dining table and dragged out a pair of huge shopping bags, each one full to bulging. Max’s eyes went big and round, and she was already shaking her head, mortified. She didn’t deserve these, whatever they were.

Miss Wexler opened one of the bags and pulled out a dress. “New clothes,” she stated. “Put this on.”

A gift from Miss Wexler was too precious for Max to refuse. She stood up, the pink fog in her head bubbling a smile up to her lips. She gingerly took the garment from Miss Wexler’s hands. It looked more expensive than anything she’d ever owned in her life.

“While you’re in my house, you represent me,” Miss Wexler said, guessing at Max’s thoughts. “And I won’t have you looking cheap. Now, hurry up.”

Chastised, Max tore off her clothes. Being in front of Miss Wexler in her underwear was incredibly flustering, but she couldn’t make the CEO late. As quickly as she could, Max put the dress on. It was frilly and old-fashioned, with a mid-length skirt and a cinch belt that she pulled tight around her waist. It was pink - not Max’s color at all, but that didn’t matter. She fell in love with it at once. It made her heart flutter, and the sense of delicacy and femininity it filled her with was oddly thrilling.

“Very nice,” Miss Wexler purred. Max blushed harder. “I was wondering if that might be a push too far. Evidently not.”

Max tilted her head. She didn’t understand.

“Perhaps it’s time for this, then,” Miss Wexler said to herself. She was already heading out towards the door. “You know, ‘Max’ really doesn’t suit you anymore. It’s far too coarse. Your full name is ‘Maxine’. I’ll expect you to answer to that from now on.”

Then, she was gone. Max’s chest tightened. She couldn’t keep still. She started bouncing one leg, sending the skirt of her new dress flapping.

Maxine.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

***

Maxine stood in the kitchen, watching the pot of sauce she was cooking like a hawk as she stirred in the cornflour mixture. Miss Wexler was going to be home at any moment, and she had to make sure her favorite dish was thickened just right. Maxine was proud that she’d gotten so good at cooking in such a short amount of time; until just a few weeks ago, she’d seldom done anything more than reheat leftover takeout.

Weeks…

How long had it been, exactly? Maxine made an idle little mental attempt to count the days and months, knowing full well that she wouldn’t be able to, and that it didn’t really matter. She didn’t have a head for things like that. She’d have been hopeless without Miss Wexler to guide her. Vaguely, she remembered a man telling her that her agreed rehabilitation period was up, and that she could stop working for Miss Wexler if she wanted to. That seemed like quite a long time ago, now.

Maxine had refused, obviously. Homemaking for the CEO was more than just a job, at this point. It was her calling. Nothing made her happier. Nothing had ever made her happier. Besides, where would she go? Miss Wexler had generously allowed Maxine to move in with her recently. It had made perfect sense. Maxine spent all her time at Miss Wexler’s house anyway. And moving had been easy, once she’d thrown away all her old clothes.

A key turned in the lock of the front door. Immediately, Maxine turned the pot down to a simmer, scampered to the front door, and checked herself to make sure her dress and her apron both looked smooth, neat, and presentable. The entire house was spotless, and so was Maxine. She’d been growing her hair out; it was still shorter than a lady’s should be, Miss Wexler said, but now that it had some length to it she was able to get it styled in lavish, voluminous waves.

“Welcome home, Miss Wexler,” Maxine greeted her when the door opened, her hands folded neatly in front of herself.

“Thank you, Maxine,” Miss Wexler replied, swooping into her home.

The CEO’s presence made the air feel electric. Maxine was always in awe of her. She was so beautiful, and more than that, so powerful. So confident. So poised. Maxine couldn’t dream of the responsibilities on her shoulders, but Miss Wexler always carried them like they were nothing. She provided for everything Maxine needed. How could she not feel grateful?

Miss Wexler took a moment to look around, inspecting Maxine’s handiwork. Maxine knew that the entire house was perfectly clean, but she was still a little nervous. Miss Wexler was a perfectionist, after all.

“Good,” Miss Wexler murmured, and then looked straight at Maxine. “I think you’re ready for the final step.”

Maxine shivered, filled with a mixture of anxiety and trepidation.

“Come with me, Maxine.”

This time, Miss Wexler led Maxine to her home office instead of the dining room, but she picked up the cube-like device Maxine was now so familiar with on the way. Her office felt to Maxine like a chapel. It was the place Miss Wexler handled all of her important work. Maxine had only been in there to clean it, reverentially wiping the dust from her expensive desk, careful not to disturb any of the papers. Miss Wexler sat herself down in her comfortable, throne-like, leather chair. Maxine just stood.

“I’ve decided that we should make our arrangement permanent,” Miss Wexler announced. “Here are the documents.”

Maxine blinked and looked down at the sheets of paper Miss Wexler slid towards her. It was a marriage contract.

“Your signature is all that’s needed,” Miss Wexler added, by way of explanation. “My lawyers have made all the other preparations.”

Maxine didn’t know what to say. She could barely believe what she was hearing. Her? Married to Miss Wexler? It sounded absurd. Miss Wexler was just so… so far above her. So wealthy. So intelligence. So forceful. She always made Maxine feel so timid and awed. How could Maxine ever be a worthy wife to her?

Wife.

She shivered.

“Hurry up,” Miss Wexler told her impatiently. “Sign.”

As always, Maxine couldn’t disobey her. She lifted Miss Wexler’s pen from the desk and scrawled her signature on the dotted line.

“Excellent,” Miss Wexler purred. “There won’t be any need for a wedding. And don’t worry, I’ll handle all of our shared finances.”

Maxine nodded. She trusted Miss Wexler to look after her and provide for her.

“There’s just one more thing to discuss.” Miss Wexler’s voice changed as she said that, becoming sultry and hungry. “One more new duty for you. Something you can get started on right away.”

A shiver ran down Maxine’s spine. She could tell exactly what Miss Wexler was referring to.

Sex.

Maxine licked her dry lips. Lately, she’d been far too busy with her household duties to seek satisfaction with anyone else, and she’d never imagined she would get to share Miss Wexler’s bed. Her body was starting to burn with excitement. Miss Wexler was magnificent, and Maxine was sure her skills as a top hadn’t faded. She’d do whatever it took to satisfy her new wife. Maxine reached down to slip out of her panties, and then started to lift her dress off over her head.

“What are you doing?” Miss Wexler said sharply. Her eyes were flickering with a mix of irritation and amusement.

Maxine froze, and let her dress drop back into place. “I thought-”

“That’s unnecessary,” Miss Wexler cut her off. “I’ll teach you what to do. Your mouth is the only thing I’ll need. Now. Kneel.”

“H-huh?”

Despite her confusion and dismay, Maxine sank to her knees. Obeying Miss Wexler’s commands was utterly instinctive. From that position, her wife looked even more indomitable, but the mocking leer on her face awakened something in Maxine. Was she really going to do this? To obediently kneel and worship a rich CEO? The woman whose car she’d keyed? Maxine kept blinking rapidly. Where did that memory come from? She hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but it seemed so important.

“Wait,” Maxine said, the truth slowly dawning on her. “No, no, this isn’t-”

As always, Miss Wexler was too quick for her. There was a click, and then the telltale hiss of gas, and then Maxine’s struggles were over.

Miss Wexler loomed over her, pressing the mask onto her face. Too confused to resist, Maxine simply breathed in the gas. Her susceptibility to the pink, mind-warping pheromones had only grown, and it took mere seconds for any doubts she was harboring about Miss Wexler to dissolve into fog. She slumped, legs splaying apart messily underneath her. Without thinking about it, she reached out for Miss Wexler’s leg to steady herself. Now-familiar instincts were returning with irresistible intensity: submission, servitude, fidelity. Maxine embraced them, and filled her lungs with more and more of the sinister medicine.

When Miss Wexler removed the mask, Maxine started scolding herself. How could she have been doubting her wife? She only had one purpose in life: making Miss Wexler happy. Whatever it took.

Fortunately, she knew Miss Wexler wouldn’t hold it against her. She was always so patient whenever Maxine was being foolish.

Miss Wexler spread her legs apart and, still in a drug-induced haze, Maxine pressed herself into the space between her thighs, looking up worshipfully at her owner before she started to kiss and lick.

This was a housewife’s duty.