Three fucks later, Stephen drove back into town, alone, inside the half-broken car that he had nearly destroyed when he took Kylie for the first time.

He’d had a long internal debate about how to handle his leaving. Would he be able to keep his head if he wasn’t able to fuck Kylie or Rhonda at will? The novelty of all the new, freely-available pussy in the town concerned him. He wasn’t exactly bored with the girls in the cabin, but at least he knew them by now. Fucking them and basically continuing on with his task seemed easier than doing the task and getting distracted by some new hot thing.

But he had been serious—or as serious as he could be—when he told himself he would do the right thing. And if he could find the totem, and it did undo the effects of this spell or ceremony or whatever else, then he didn’t want to be anywhere near Kylie or especially Rhonda.

Kylie had taken the news of his absence better than Rhonda. He had every confidence that she would follow him, and he didn’t feel right about forbidding her and compelling her to stay at the cabin. What if he didn’t come back and she stayed there and starved? But she had smiled and said that she lived to obey his will, and knew that he would bring her home to Gale soon.

Rhonda, meanwhile, fell all over the ground begging him to stay.

“Y-y-you o-o-only just fu-fucked me a-and please no, please let me feel it again. Oh my god, please?”

She continued on like that, raking at her smooth tight skin, eyes furious with tears. Kylie led her around by the thick mass of her hair, holding it like a leash, smiling arrogantly with the glow of having so many of his fucks inside her.

“It’s all your fault, you know,” said Kylie, sneering, knowing that was perfectly untrue. “If you fucked him better, he would have stayed. You notice how he decided to leave right after fucking you? God, you’re such a useless stupid bitch.”

This only set off Rhonda’s anguish more—and Stephen knew he had to leave or else he’d get drawn in once more to their superbly hot dynamic. So he shoved himself into the mass of ripped steel masquerading as a car and drove down the mountain.

When he reached the bottom of the mountain trail, the car died and he quickly flagged down a pick-up truck.

The fellow inside wore a stained white shirt and blue jeans. Some kind of laborer, judging from the heavy toolbox in the bed of the truck. He had a thick beard and dark, squirrely eyes.

Stephen stood at the passenger side of the truck, considering carefully. The man stunk of cowardice. It smelled like old urine—and it definitely wasn’t the truck.

Confidence brimming in a way that only hours of worship by two gloriously sexy angels can develop, he walked to the driver’s side and gently—had to be gently—opened the truck door. Then he nodded to one side. The message was clear:

Leave your keys and get the fuck out of here if you value your life and limbs.

The man rushed hard out the door and ran away from his truck, away from Stephen, away from the town itself. Stephen was sure he had been crying.

Not a word was exchanged.

* * *

The truck drove like a dream and because of its height, it gave Stephen a better view of the way that the town had changed as he re-entered it and tried to head back home.

Now, driving through the town with a straining hard-on from all the shamelessly erotic and him-serving sights he took in, he had begun to regret his slight turn towards morality. As he approached the main cross-street between the highway and the many subdivisions of neighborhoods, the visions of lustful obedience on display multiplied.

Apparently overnight, great statues of him had been erected in his honor. They had torn down huge portions of the city square to use for raw materials, crafting him in marble, steel, and bronze. Chain gangs of men did the disassembly work, watched carefully by provocatively-dressed women holding large shotguns. Most of the statues had his family beside him or at his feet—Marisa clinging to him lustfully, Gale wrapped around his legs with her lusciously designed mouth circulating his stiffening cock.

Even with all the available manpower in town, it seemed impossible that they would have built these statues overnight. But was it any more or less impossible than anything else he had seen? Rhonda—who hated him so thoroughly—had been reduced into a sniveling, squirming, scintillatingly hot sexpot in a matter of hours. Why wouldn’t there be statues erected to him as well?

He saw more monuments—these in the shape of the totem that he had given to Marisa—being put up by men in chains in the park. They were urged on by dominatrix-type women dressed in matte leather catsuits and holding long bullwhips. Their gorgeous, cleavage-heavy frames bodies poured into skintight uniforms of dominance, whipping the men while licking their lips and urging them to go faster, harder, better.

This was all for him.

He was sure that one of the dominatrices was Regina Halloway, who he flirted with unsuccessfully at a barbecue within the past year. She was casually stepping on a man’s hand with one heel and whipping his backside, snarling at him to move faster.

They were far away—thirty feet at the closest, beyond a few park benches and in the shade.

But he was sure that was Joel Halloway, her husband.

Again he remembered all those men lining up in Ella’s office, begging to receive the most punitive divorce forms possible.

It wasn’t enough that these women worshiped Stephen—oh no. Not for Marisa, who he was more and more sure was the architect of all of this. No, for some reason, they had to humiliate their husbands at the same time. Cucking them totally while praising Stephen’s masculine glory.

It didn’t help matters that Stephen’s cock was growing so substantially as he watched, nor did it help that it seemed like every man he saw was emaciated somehow. Like the life force was being drained out of them.

Was that part of it? Was their masculine energy being reconstituted into him? Was that why he was so big now, so eager to fuck, so willing to breed and forget about all these stupid problems?

Seeing so much, so quickly, some part of him totally forgot—or maybe hadn’t all the way internalized yet—that traffic laws didn’t exactly apply to particularly him anymore.

He was sure he could sweet-talk his way not just out of a ticket, but into the pants of any of the now entirely female police force—and in watching these gorgeous women in their tall heels and skintight outfits, his priorities had been confused somewhat. Nothing was ever more important to his cock than being stimulated—and it was harder than ever and practically in a fist-fight with the steering wheel from its straining position in his lap.

So he had stopped at a redlight; he had been there for a full two minutes. The city council was always saying they’d speed the damn thing up. He watched a pair of leather-clad women chatting cheerily with a sundress-wearing brunette who happened by, complimenting the dominatrices on their whipping technique. Soon they started pointing at the statue of Stephen, and their conversation quickly became intimate and filled with kissing, fondling, and with a speed that surprised even Stephen at this point—fingering. The leather suits had zippers that went all the way down.

Then one of them looked in his direction.

She squealed with delight, directing the two girls she had just been finger-fucking and all the other girls in the nearby area to his car. Within moments, over a dozen women started sprinting towards him at full speed. Even in their precariously tall, narrow heels, they were able to move like Olympic runners. Their busty, long bodies in motion, hair flowing behind them, was a sight to behold.

He knew what would happen next.

They would come to his car and beg to see him. They would start with such gentle, soft requests.

Can’t they just say hello? Can we just shake hands? They would want to give him a hug, sneak a kiss. They would talk about how big and strong he was, the massivity of his cock they were feeling through his pants.

They’d ask if he thought they were pretty enough to fuck him. They’d ask if they were worthy of him. They’d ask if they deserved his cock, because he deserved to only have girls who were worthy. They would all fall to him in worship.

They would probably ask about Gale—and offer to teach her how to suck his cock. They would want to tutor her, because nothing was more important to these women than that he had a daughter who capital-R Respected her Father.

And Stephen, as right as he wanted to be, knew something else too: he knew he’d give in, like he always did.

He shifted the truck into gear.

But not today. The tires squealed as he ran the red light and sped down the road.

* * *