Backseat Commands

Author's note: Hey there! I hope you're having a wonderful day! Just a quick interruption in your scheduled reading to inform you that I've created a Discord server around hypnosis, mind control and transformations, with a focus on concept stories. I'll also keep everyone updated about my upcoming stories (big novel underway) there. Feel free to join!

The insistent knocking dragged me from the depths of sleep, each rap against my apartment door like a hammer to my skull. I groaned, rolling over to squint at my phone. 11:25 AM. Shit.

"Oliver! Open up, son. We know you're in there." My father's voice, controlled but clearly irritated, filtered through the cheap wood of my apartment door.

I heard a feminine giggle, followed by a hushed whisper that sounded like Veronica, my father's trophy wife.

"Richard, he's probably still sleeping," That was Cassandra, her nasal, cultured voice dripping with disdain through the door. "What a shock..."

For a moment, I lay there disoriented, fragments of yesterday's events swirling in my mind like debris after a tornado. Women acknowledging me as their owner. Zoe and Vanessa pleasuring me in tandem. The bizarre online discussions treating this cosmic joke as a minor inconvenience rather than the reality-shattering event it was.

Had it all been a dream? Some elaborate fantasy concocted by my frustrated, lonely brain?

"Oliver!" My father's voice again, sharper this time.

Right. The brunch. The Harringtons. Le Petit Château. Fuck.

I scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over an empty pizza box as I frantically searched for something presentable to wear. After a day and night of frenzied scrolling through social media, trying to make sense of my new reality, I'd collapsed into bed without setting an alarm.

"Just a minute!" I shouted, pulling on the least wrinkled dress shirt I could find. It still smelled faintly of last week's pasta sauce. "I'm coming! Sorry, my alarm didn't go off!"

"Shocking development," Cassandra's voice again, followed by what sounded like a theatrical sigh.

I glanced around my apartment in panic. It looked like a bomb had gone off in a GameStop. Empty food containers, dirty clothes, and gaming paraphernalia covered every surface. I made a frantic attempt to shove some of the more egregious garbage under the couch and coffee table, then threw open the windows to let out the stale air.

Finally, I opened the door, squinting against the harsh sunlight that streamed in from the hallway windows. My father stood there in one of his immaculately tailored suits—charcoal gray today, with a subtle pinstripe and a burgundy tie. At fifty-seven, Richard Moore cut an imposing figure—tall, with perfectly styled gray hair and the confident posture of a man who had clawed his way up from middle management to owning his own company.

Behind him stood Veronica, his trophy wife, ten years his junior and looking every bit the part in a cream-colored designer dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Her blonde hair was styled in loose waves, her makeup flawless, her jewelry subtle but clearly expensive. She was objectively gorgeous, with the kind of beauty that came from careful maintenance, good genes, and better plastic surgeons.

And then there was Cassandra, Veronica's daughter from her previous marriage, standing slightly to the side with her arms crossed over her chest. At twenty-six, she had her mother's good looks but with a more intellectual veneer—her blonde hair was cut in a sophisticated bob, her wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, her outfit (a tailored blazer over a silk blouse and slim-fitting pants) suggesting someone who wanted to be taken seriously. She was attractive, certainly, but her perpetual expression of mild disdain took something away from it. Or... Added to it, in some ways. I regularly found myself disgusted at how her haughtiness turned me on sometimes.

"Oliver," my father said, his voice dripping with that affected enunciation he'd adopted after making his first million. "We were supposed to pick you up thirty minutes ago. The reservation is for noon."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," I mumbled, running a hand through my disheveled hair. "I was up late working on… something."

"Video game stuff, no doubt," Cassandra said with a smirk. "Very important business."

My father stepped into my apartment, his expensive leather shoes making soft clicking sounds against my cheap laminate flooring. Veronica followed, her eyes scanning the room with barely concealed disgust, though she said nothing. Our unspoken agreement—I didn't comment on her obvious gold-digging, and she didn't comment on my lifestyle choices—remained intact.

She stepped forward, her perfume wafting into my apartment, mixing with the smells of stale food and unwashed clothes. "Good morning, Oliver," she said, her voice carrying an unusual warmth. No, not warmth exactly, but an odd familiarity that she didn't typically have. "You look… well, you look like you just woke up." She laughed lightly, then added in a lower tone: "I'm available for whatever you need, by the way. Just so you know." She said this casually, just like Zoe and the women from the coffee shop had. Not a dream, then.

Cassandra rolled her eyes, not at her mother's comment but at my disheveled appearance. "Seriously, Oliver? Did you forget about brunch?"

"We need to leave now if we're going to make it on time," my father said, checking his Rolex and totally ignoring his wife's offer of sexual servitude. "The Harringtons do not appreciate tardiness."

"I just need two minutes to finish getting ready," I grumbled, my eyes landing on Cassandra's impressive cleavage for a moment before I could tear them away.

"Really, Oliver? Already checking me out before we've even had coffee?" She adjusted her blouse slightly, not to hide herself but rather to show off a bit more. "Yes, they're yours like all the others. Can we please focus on getting to brunch? Richard is going to have an aneurysm if we're late."

My father checked his watch again, completely unbothered by the exchange between his son and his step-daughter. "Five minutes, Oliver. Get yourself presentable. The restaurant won't hold our table forever." He stepped back into the hallway, pulling out his phone to check emails.

I ducked into the bathroom, quickly splashing water on my face and running a comb through my unruly hair. When I stepped back out, toothbrush still in my mouth, I found Veronica strolling around my apartment, examining the discarded game boxes and soda cans with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. "Your apartment is… quaint," she said, her voice carrying that practiced charm she used when she needed to say something nice but didn't mean it. "Very… lived-in."

I spat out my toothpaste and called back, "Thanks, I'm going for a post-apocalyptic aesthetic."

"More like post-hygiene," Cassandra snorted, still leaning against the front door.

I ignored them both, grabbing a tie at random and attempting to knot it. My fingers fumbled, and I cursed under my breath. "Okay, ready," I announced, emerging from the bedroom and scooping my keys and wallet off the counter.

"Finally," my father said with a sigh. "Let's go."

We headed down to the parking lot where my father's car waited—a sleek, black Mercedes S-Class that probably cost more than everything I owned combined. The leather interior still had that new car smell, mixed with the faint scent of Veronica's expensive perfume. My father slid into the driver's seat with Veronica taking the passenger side, which left me in the back with Cassandra. Just my luck.

As my father pulled out of the parking lot, Cassandra glanced at my wrinkled shirt and let out a theatrical sigh. "You couldn't even iron that thing? The Harringtons are practically American royalty, and you're showing up looking like you slept under a bridge."

I'd been putting up with her condescension for years, but something about today—maybe the newfound knowledge of my apparent cosmic position—made me snap.

"You know, Cassandra, I literally own you now," I said, turning to face her.

She raised an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed. "So? What's your point?"

"My point is," I said, feeling a surge of confidence I wasn't used to, "shouldn't you be more respectful toward your owner?"

From the front seat, my father let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind he used to make when Cassandra and I would fight as kids. It certainly wasn't our first time bickering in the back of one of his cars. "Here we go again," he muttered, adjusting his rear-view mirror.

Cassandra rolled her eyes, crossing her legs in her tailored pants. "Look, if you want me to shut up, you're free to tell me to. Otherwise…" She gestured vaguely, as if to say 'deal with it.'

"Fine," I said, my patience exhausted. "Shut the fuck up and sit still."

The effect was immediate. Cassandra's mouth closed mid-retort, and she straightened in her seat, her body going still except for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. But even in compliance, there was defiance—a mocking grin played at the corners of her lips, her eyes still communicating exactly what she thought of me.

There was something undeniably arousing about it—this woman who had always looked down on me, now **** to obey my commands. I felt a stirring in my pants, and Cassandra's eyes flicked downward, noticing the growing bulge. She didn't seem particularly impressed or disgusted—just mildly amused in a detached sort of way. She nodded toward my crotch with a raised eyebrow, as if asking if I wanted her to take care of it—like it was just another inconvenient task on her to-do list.

What the hell. "Yes," I said, my voice a bit hoarser than I intended. "Take care of it."

Without hesitation, Cassandra's hand moved to my lap. She unzipped my pants with practiced efficiency, reached inside, and pulled out my already half-hard cock. Her touch was clinical, almost bored, as she began stroking me with a steady rhythm. She was still silent, still wearing that exasperated expression, but her hand moved with undeniable skill.

"Jesus Christ, Oliver," my father muttered from the front seat, glancing at us in the rearview mirror. "Whatever you two are up to back there, wrap it up quickly." He didn't seem shocked or outraged that his stepdaughter was jerking off his son in the backseat of his luxury car—just mildly annoyed at the timing, just like Marcus yesterday. "And if you could allow Cassandra to speak after you've finished, it might make the rest of this errand a little more tolerable. I'm not sure what the Harringtons would think if she showed up to the table like a mute."

I was having trouble focusing on his words with Cassandra's hand working its magic, her strokes becoming faster and more purposeful despite the bored look on her face. "Y-yeah," I managed to say. "That's fine. She can talk again."

"So kind of you," Cassandra said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, never breaking the rhythm of her strokes. "You sure you wanna finish here? I'm not exactly dressed to handle messy situations."

"You can stop," I said, smirking, the words coming out in a gasp. "I'll keep some things for later. It'd be a shame not to take my time, now that I can." I was growing more confident, testing the bounds of my power.

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but her hand slowed, then stopped. She withdrew, her fingers lingering for a moment on the tip of my still-hard cock before tucking it back into my pants like a disinterested nurse. "Whatever. It's your life," she said, settling back into her seat. "Your mess to deal with."

"For fuck's sake, Cass," I grumbled. "Do you really have to be such a bitch?"

"Language," my father called back, though his eyes never left the road.

Cassandra simply shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I'm not being a 'bitch,'" she said, making air quotes with her fingers. "I'm being honest. I'm sorry I have such low expectations of you, Oliver, but considering your track record, can you blame me? Really? Having me jerk you off like that?"

I was dumbfounded. She didn't seem to mind the act itself; she was just being critical of the way I had done it. Dumb Oliver was having a tantrum again, making a spectacle of himself in Daddy's car.

I sat back, brooding as Cassandra examined her nails with a look of smug satisfaction. "My track record? I'm doing my best, okay?" I muttered. "Maybe a bit of support would be nice for a change."

"Is that an order or are you just whining again?" Cassandra asked, not bothering to look at me.

I froze for a second, considering her question. I could order her to be nice to me, to treat me with respect, but could I command genuine support? Could I command her to feel differently? Did my strange new power over them extend that far?

"Actually," I replied slowly, "I want you to be supportive. Genuinely agree with anything I do or say from now on!"

Cassandra's face flickered with something like irritation, but it was quickly replaced by a wide, slightly unnatural smile. "Oh, that's smart!" she chirped, her voice taking on a saccharine sweetness that didn't sound like her at all.

"I guess that's one way to solve the problem," my father muttered from the front seat, sounding resigned rather than impressed or angry. Veronica remained silent, her attention focused on checking her makeup in a small compact mirror.

I stared at my stepsister, a bit dumbfounded. It actually worked? I could command emotions too? "Um… okay," I said, still processing this development. "Thanks."

Cassandra beamed at me, her eyes shining with approval. "You're welcome!"