The house at the edge of town belonged to the Strikers—the top family in the entire town. The acreage it was on was isolated from the rest of the community, kept apart and on top of a hill overlooking the road that led into the city center.

Mr. Striker answered the door.

Mr. Striker was not handsome. He never had been, even in his youth—which was so far in the past now that only faded photographs remained as evidence of it. His face was a collection of unfortunate features that age had made worse: a bulbous nose webbed with broken capillaries, jowls that sagged like melting wax, thin lips that disappeared entirely when he frowned. His hair—what remained of it—formed a horseshoe of gray fuzz around a liver-spotted scalp. His eyes were small and mean, set too close together, giving him the appearance of a predatory rodent.

His body had the soft, doughy quality of a man who'd never worked a day in his life. A paunch pushed against his expensive silk shirt—custom tailored to minimize the gut but failing. His shoulders slumped forward. His hands, as Eliana had noted before, were ancient—gnarled and spotted, with yellowed nails and swollen knuckles that spoke of arthritis or gout or both.

He was, by any objective measure, repulsive.

But his suit was Brioni. His watch was Patek Philippe. His shoes were handmade John Lobb leather that probably cost more than most people's cars. And when he smiled—which he did now, looking Eliana and Cindy up and down with undisguised hunger—his teeth were too white, too perfect, obviously veneers that had cost a fortune.

“What are you doing here?”

Eliana and Cindy preened under his gaze. “We’re here to make peace, Mr. Striker.”

Cindy nodded, continuing. “Samuel thought it would be such a good idea if you knew that you and he were on the same side.”

“Yes,” said Eliana. “We just didn’t want there to be any hard feelings between the two of you.”

“A peace offering, hm?”

He ogled Eliana up and down, and then Cindy, and then Eliana again. Eliana could not help but feel a dash of pride that she felt his eyes twice. She was made to be looked at. She existed only for Samuel, of course—but drawing the gaze of other men helped him in many ways. It distracted them, made their minds soft and made them easy to manipulate. It also added to his status—when other men wanted to be Samuel, it meant he was more powerful.

Stepping to one side, Mr. Striker let them into the house.

“Hannah is in the back, suntanning. She’s got a gorgeous tan already, as you know. Better than yours. But she likes to maintain. You’ll learn what it means to maintain, the longer you’re in this town.”

Eliana could feel his eyes crawling over her trim, fit body as she passed him. They walked into a small parlor with red sofas and tall bookshelves. Eliana took her time, absorbing everything. The vaulted ceilings. The old volumes bound in leather on the shelves. The crystal chandelier. It was elegant, in a way, but almost a bit too much of a put-on. Her placements would be classier. More refined. Steeped in regality.

“So.” Mr. Striker had already begun to take his pants off. “Which one of you wants to make up for your dumbass of a husband first? We were never supposed to have anybody of your high-end profile, but now that we do, I might as well enjoy it. Do a good job, and I might even let him stay as Prime…with a substantial pay reduction, of course. We’ve got to teach people in this town how to behave. There’s no use in having strata if everyone just does whatever they want, is there?”

He was an older man, much older. Even though his skin was smooth and pale and dry, he was slimy through and through. He faced Eliana, and she fought the urge to sneer in disgust at him. Whatever supplication she felt she owed to Hannah Striker for being the highest-status woman in town, she certainly didn’t feel the same for Mr. Striker. Every action she took now was careful and deliberate so as not to betray her true feelings.

“Cindy,” said Eliana. “Why don’t you start? Do what Master said to.”

Master, in fact, knew nothing about any of this. If he had, he might have tried to interfere. But Eliana and Cindy had discussed the plan thoroughly beforehand.

Cindy dropped to her knees before Mr. Striker. She cooed appreciatively at his growing phallus, licking her lips as she crawled closer.

“What a big dick you have,” she whispered. “Are you sure it can fit inside me?”

Men loved that kind of talk and Mr. Striker was no exception. He grunted, stroking himself as Cindy inched closer and closer. She said dick intentionally; Samuel didn’t have a tiny little dick. He had a big, fat, gorgeous, Cock.

With Striker distracted by Cindy’s words, Eliana snuck around to one side and opened her bag. Inside was the headset.

What would it do to a male brain? Would he become some fuckbrained servant like girls did? Would it make him go crazy? Eliana wasn’t sure. All that Eliana really knew was that it would take him out of the picture.

And if someone found out? What were they going to do, call the fucking cops? As if.

Oh yes hello, someone has put a mind control device on the self-proclaimed boss of this town in order to have her MasterHusband take his place and…h-hello?

“God,” said Mr. Striker, looking at Cindy’s big tits as she rubbed them together at his knees. “He really does know how to pick them, I’ll give him tha—urkk—”

Eliana slid the headset on him at full power. All lights blinking. The headset vibrating with energy as she pushed it down hard over his skull. She moved rapidly—eager to strike before the old man could touch Cindy. Before he could defile her.

Mr. Striker stumbled, doing an awkward limb-shaking dance, and then fell to one side. Twitching. Reaching for Cindy and then Eliana. Knocking his head hard on the metal clawed arm of the sofa with a terrible crunch. Cindy and Eliana both gasped and then laughed, giggling reflexively at the display.

He stayed still when he hit the ground. Alive or dead? Eliana didn't much care.

Cindy stood up, quickly backing away from his twitching form. She and Eliana pushed against each other, watching as Mr. Striker trembled and shook violently on the ground. His whole body spasmed; he was suffering, and rapidly. Some terrible seizure brought on by the sudden concussion and brain injury.

Quick wetness attended Eliana’s pussy as she watched, urgently enjoying her Master’s will come into fruition.

No, he hadn’t ordered that Mr. Striker to be hurt, nor did Eliana really mean for it to happen. She just wanted Mr. Striker out of the way. Now he would be. And what could be better? There was a power vacuum in the town now, and her MasterHusband would take his place at the top just like he deserved.

Fingers pushed up against Eliana’s cunt, touching her from up underneath her skirt. It took a moment for Eliana to realize they weren’t her own—for her to realize that in fact her own fingers were up Cindy’s dress, just like Cindy’s were up her skirt.

“Fuck,” said Eliana.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck yeah.”

Cindy nodded, pushing her fingers up farther into Eliana. “Fuck yeah.”

They watched together like this, seeing the headset do its work on Striker and feeling their own status rising as every second passed. Before too long Eliana could not help herself, pulling Cindy in for a long, tongue-filled kiss. Their lips locking and their fingers still buried up inside of each other, gently tugging one another down into the nearby sofa.

Eliana felt no regret, no guilt, no shame for her actions. Her morality revolved now around Samuel’s Cock, making him Happy, making him Hard, doing whatever he said and wanted. There was nothing else for her—nothing that should matter to a Good Wife. She had done everything for Him and she would gladly do it again.

And so now, as Cindy’s fingers brought her up to her own orgasm, even as she made out with the brilliantly young, gorgeous mindfucked supermodel wife of her Husband—even with as hot as all of those facts about Cindy were—what Eliana thought of entirely was how Hard her Husband would be when he found out what she had done for him.

And intensifying this effect was that she knew without a doubt that Cindy’s cunt, quivering and trembling and so close to its own orgasm—was going to cum with Cindy thinking about exactly the same thing.

They rose and rose together, urging each other on, grinding and fingering and kissing and moaning and whispering soft mews of love for their Husband, their Samuel, their God, their Man—and finally they came with soft warm breaths screaming and moaning out their pleasure.

“For Him,” Eliana moaned. “For Him.”

Cindy joined in. “For Him. For Him. For Him. For Him.”

They came down slowly from the dual orgasm, whimpering and giggling and kissing like they always did, loving the closeness of one another. Staring into each other’s blank, service-filled eyes, completely understanding each other in the way that only good slavewives could.

“What the fuck is this?”

It was Hannah, entering into the parlor in her bikini.

Hannah was breathtaking in a way that even Eliana had to acknowledge. Her body was the kind that made other women question their own genetics—impossibly long legs that seemed to go on forever, toned and tanned to absolute perfection. Her stomach was flat and tight, with just the barest hint of muscle definition that spoke of disciplined workouts and strict diet control. Her hips flared in that ideal hourglass ratio that fashion photographers spent careers trying to capture.

Her breasts were large and impossibly perky, buoyant in a way that would make most women assume surgery—but Eliana could tell they were natural from the subtle way they moved as Hannah shifted her weight. The bikini she wore was designer, probably custom-made, a bright white that contrasted gorgeously against her golden tan. The top was a triangle style that barely contained her, the fabric straining with each breath. The bottoms were high-cut, emphasizing the extraordinary length of her legs and the perfect roundness of her ass.

She had high, prominent cheekbones that caught the light beautifully, a straight nose, and full, pouty lips that were naturally pink and perfectly shaped. Her eyes were a striking blue-green, the color of tropical water, framed by long lashes that were real and not extensions. Her eyebrows arched, naturally again, in a way that gave her face an expression of perpetual superiority.

But it was her hair that was perhaps her most striking feature. Thick, lustrous blonde that fell in perfect waves past her shoulders, the kind of hair that moved in slow motion in commercials. It was the color of champagne and honey mixed together, with natural highlights that most women paid thousands to replicate. Even fresh from sunbathing, it looked styled and camera-ready.

She was, objectively, one of the most beautiful women on the planet. And she knew it.

Hannah's eyes went from Eliana and Cindy—still tangled together on the sofa, fingers still inside each other, faces flushed with post-orgasmic bliss—down to her husband on the floor. The headset still glowed softly on his skull.

“O-oh my god. Oh my god. Jonathan? Jonathan, are you okay?”

She rushed to her fallen husband’s side, staring murder at the two brainwashed wives on the couch. Eliana and Cindy were still flushed and sweaty from their cum, still completely entangled with each other.

Hannah ripped the headset off of him to take a better look at his wound, trying to reposition his body upward, maybe do something to help. She wasn’t smart or observant enough to see that her husband, like her own fate, was finished.

The headset landed right in front of Eliana. Cindy nodded at her, smiling gratuitously. Her cunt leaking even more sudden arousal. It would never end; there would always be more to take, more to do for their Husband.

Hannah held the body, shaking with grief, not looking at Eliana in the slightest. Her mistake.

Left without alteration, Hannah would probably go insane. A gorgeous woman whose entire existence was devoted entirely to serving one man, and then that man went away?

A recipe for insanity for sure.

Honestly, Eliana was doing her a favor.

But also honestly—Eliana would think mind-controlling Hannah would be a favor one way or the other. Samuel Deserved such Favors.

If there was a visitor at the front door of the enormous estate, they might have heard the anguished, existentially-terrified cries of a mind-controlled slave realizing that her reason for existence had his brain erased. The cries were terrible. Heartbreaking. A soul in permanent crisis.

And then suddenly, as if someone flipped a switch, those cries stopped forever.