I awoke to find Mallory and Lori gone.

Of course, I felt immediate remorse about what I had done to Lori. Outright replacing her addictions. Any ethical high ground I might have claimed by cleansing her of her reliance on drugs earlier had been washed out completely now.

I really, truly just had no morals when I was turned on. And more and more, I was turned on all the fucking time. And in all honesty, I was struggling to find out how not to be turned on, when I knew at the press of a few buttons on my phone, I could have a cum-starved beauty on her knees within the hour.

After eating the breakfast, so masterfully arranged for me as always, I opened the fridge for a drink. But inside, something was wrong. The little storage cooler with all the cum I had stockpiled over the past several days was gone. There were over four dozen there available.

The lust and power-fueled madness of the night before started to come back to me

I’d called Mallory my slavemaker. My perfect pet.

What if she decided to walk around the city, pulling stray women into alleys and filling their gullets with my cum? How pretty was pretty enough for her to decide that a woman should serve me? I’d put down no ground rules, no commands for engagement. I didn’t say she could only take women at my say-so. I just said it should turn her on, that she would be happy doing it.

Stupid, stupid. How could I be so stupid?

Even though it was stupid, I could not help but harden at the thought. My cock with a mind of its own, and that mind is fully psychopathic, wanting to corrupt and breed and enslave as many beautiful women as possible no matter where they come from or who they are.

There was so much Mallory could do with all those vials.

Something about my power, I have noticed, assails me with visions of potential. It's happened before. It happened now, the images assembling themselves before I could stop them, each one hotter and more depraved than the last.

Mallory, in a cute little sundress, standing at the edge of a college practice field. A dozen cheerleaders running drills in the afternoon sun, their tight little bodies gleaming with sweat, their ponytails bouncing in perfect synchronization. Water jugs lined up on the sideline bench, red plastic caps glinting. Mallory strolling past like she belonged there—an assistant, a booster, nobody anyone would think twice about—unscrewing each cap just long enough to tip in a thick, milky stream before twisting it shut again.

The girls would break for water after their routine. Gulping down mouthfuls between gasping breaths, wiping sweat from their foreheads, laughing about nothing. And then, one by one, their eyes would go soft and unfocused. Their cheers would stutter.

A blonde flyer, mid-stretch, would freeze with her leg still hooked over the metal railing, her spandex shortsriding up over the curve of her ass, her whole body just stopping mid-motion while her mouth kept moving, kept chanting a cheer that had nothing to do with football anymore. Just my name, at Mallory's whispered instruction. Over and over.

A whole squad of them, captains and co-captains and the two girls who always sat on the bench because they weren’t quite good enough, all of them abandoning their formation to kneel in a neat, obedient row on the fifty yard line, hands folded in their laps, waiting for orders that only Mallory could give them until I arrived to give my own.

The coach, confused, taking the cup of tainted drink from a helpful Mallory, wondering if the girls were suffering from heat stroke.

Or Mallory at the country club, hired on as some temp poolside attendant nobody questioned, wheeling a little cart of sunscreen bottles between the loungers where the trophy wives and heiresses baked themselves golden. Rich, bored, gorgeous women with diamond anklets and gold-rimmed sunglasses, women who had never had to want for anything in their lives, holding out their manicured hands for a squirt of lotion and never once suspecting that the white cream Mallory rubbed into their shoulders, their collarbones, the soft undersides of their arms, was my mind-controlling cum.

Mallory’s fingers working it in slow and thorough, over the swell of a tennis pro’s wife’s chest, down the taut stomach of a divorcee twice my age with a body sculpted by three different plastic surgeons, and each woman going quiet under her hands, quiet and blank, sunglasses slipping down their noses as their thoughts slowed to nothing.

And then, in the first stages of the trance, Mallory working diligently on their phones—easily unlockable with her pliant audience’s cooperation—and tuning their headphones to some hastily-built audio file she could easily have made repeating mantra after mantra of fuckslut-service.

Hot, wealthy, tanned mature MILF beauties begging to dwarf the new bankroll I’d just acquired for the honor of touching themselves to the thought of my cock. I groaned, my cock draining blood from my head, harder than I could ever remember being.

If I could think of it, so could Mallory. And what was worse, she would be more devious than me. Her entire intelligence devoted just to this. There would be nothing she wouldn’t dare to do…

A third vision made my whole body go rigid with the horror and untempered arousal of how easily I could picture it: Mallory at the bridal boutique two blocks from the store, the one with the string lights in the window and the “Congrats to Our Brides” corkboard by the register. It didn’t sell a single dress over size 2 or for less than five grand, catering in the politically correct way to “petite, discerning” brides when what it meant was “fucking gorgeous, rich, and thin.”

Mallory offering to steam the veils in the back room, chatting up the bride-to-be and her whole entourage of bridesmaids while champagne flutes sat sweating on a side table, the good stuff, the kind you drink to celebrate. A few careful drops in each glass. The maid of honor’s toast interrupted halfway through by a long, glassy pause, her champagne flute tilting dangerously in her hand. The bride herself, veil half-pinned, staring at her own reflection in the three-way mirror with her mouth slowly falling open, her eyes gone white and soft, while somewhere behind her Mallory calmly plugged a phone into a dock and let some tinny, looping voice fill the fitting room.

Something like, you belong to Victor now, you were always his, the wedding was never a good idea, only his ideas are good ideas stitched into a loop soft enough to slip beneath conscious thought and root itself somewhere deeper. The whole bridal party, one by one, sinking into the same glassy hush, their manicured hands drifting to smooth invisible wrinkles from dresses they no longer really saw, their eyes fixed on nothing, their lips parting around the beginning of my name like a word they’d always known.

Mallory dialing me up like nothing was going on—hey, would you come to the bridal shop? There’s someone I want you to meet…

The bridal party and all the staff. Not even all of them have to be hot enough to fuck. They just have to be obedient, have to be able to spread my will where I want it. Eyes and ears growing all over the city, looking for hot young fuckable babes who can be corrupted just from a sip, a touch, a scent of my seed. Donating their salaries to me. Living together to save space and money; communes of obedience begging to find me the hottest women possible to own and fuck.

I groaned aloud, alone in my kitchen, gripping the countertop.

It was too much. It was too fucking much, and none of it had even happened yet, and I didn’t know if Mallory was really out there right now doing exactly this, or something far worse, or something I hadn’t even had the depravity to imagine yet.

The thing about handing someone that kind of power is that you can’t take it back once it’s spent. I could tell myself it would be fine. I could tell myself Mallory loved me, that she wouldn’t overstep, that she understood discretion the way I’d commanded her to. But I also knew, in the same breath, that I had made her insane on purpose.

I kept escalating. And no matter how far she went, I’d justify it…and then I’d make her further while she—mindfucked and obedient—encouraged me that I deserved more.

And what if…oh, fuck.

What if she started going after the women who were already in my life?

If there was anyone who she could easily identify as “pretty enough” to be a hot slave for Mallory's DaddyMaster, it was Audrey.

I called Mallory, texted furiously—no response. No response either from Lori, or from Dawn.

Shit.

I had to call Audrey. Besides the threat she was under, she was really the only woman left in my life—the only person left in my life—who I knew with any intimacy. I had to confess to someone. I needed someone to know this incredible shame I had. I thought emptying myself into Mallory—making her my slavemaker as it were—would relieve me. But it didn't. It had only made everything worse.

I dialed the number.

“Audrey?”

“Who is this?”

She had deleted me out of her phone. Typical.

“It’s me, Audrey. It’s Victor.”

“I don’t know any Victors,” she said, voice hard. “Wrong number. Bye bye.”

I’m too fucking hard for this. I don’t want her to be forewarned about Mallory. I want her to crash to her knees and slobber all over my cock forever, and her being a bitch like this—even if, obviously, I kind of deserve it—only makes me want to put her into her place even more.

I called again—and then again, and again.

Finally she picked up.

“Listen, I don’t want to talk to you anymore. So cut this out, or I’m telling my Dad, and he’s going to—”

“Just listen for two minutes, okay? Just two minutes and that’s it. Okay? Please?”

She huffed. “Fine. But you better be apologizing.”

“I am. I do. I apologize. Really, I do. It was wrong of me to say what I did. Really, totally wrong. I see that now. You were right. About everything, in fact.”

“Everything?” Even she seemed surprised.

“More or less.” I knocked my fist against the wall. Every admission was excruciating. I still had terribly justifiable feelings of being above her, better than her, good enough to own her...but I swallowed those down. That was just pride talking. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have to tell you what’s happening, okay? With all the women. Like you guessed. It's not drugs, but it's sort of like that. It's close enough. It’s gotten…it’s gotten really out of control. I need your help. I don’t know who else to talk to.”

“I don’t know why you’d choose me. I’m tempted to go to the cops.”

“Okay. Yeah.” I sighed. “Yes. Sure. Do that. But, just hear me out first, okay?”

I could almost hear her set her beautiful jaw. “Fine.”

“It’s…a little weird. Unbelievable, even.”

“Everything about this has been unbelievable. Lay it on me, Victor.”

“It’s just—”

“Wait.”

There was a knocking at her door. I could hear her shuffling and getting up to see who it was.

“I have to call you back, all right? It’s Mallory. I’ll call you when we’re done talking, okay? Let me see if I can talk some sense into her first.”

“No!” Panic shot through me. “You can’t—”

But she had already hung up.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck shit and fuck again. Mallory was going to…she would…

I didn’t know what she would do.

No. Fear left me. Certainty came over me, gripping my cock like a mistress and rising it slowly.

I pictured Audrey’s eyes going white. Smiling her gorgeous smile. Her brain emptying of anything but Mallory’s desires—my will—and becoming the vapid plaything I’d always wanted from that stuffy fucking bitch.

I knew exactly what Mallory would do. And it turned me on more than I knew anything else could.