He should turn the mothers into slaves

JULIE (38), PARKER (19)

DANIELLE (41), MALIK (20)

LAUREN (39), DYLAN (21)

SASHA (37), BEN (19)

ISLA (40), CAMILA (20)

LANA (42), JACE (22)

Twelve names. Twelve targets. His jaw tightened. This was gonna be fucking good.

His thumbs danced over the prompt box, each word dripping with venom.

None of these women are mothers. They’re personal concubines, bound to the person beside them, living only to serve their owner’s desires. They’re proud of their role, their outfits and behavior reflecting their unique servitude, some sweet and submissive, others seductive and teasing, all of them are utterly devoted to fulfilling their duties.

He hit Enter.

The air shivered, a soft flicker in the lights. The mothers blinked, their expressions softening, then sharpening with new purpose. Julie, the blonde who’d been nagging her son about screen time, now gazed at Parker with hooded eyes, her hand sliding up his thigh, fingers teasing under his shorts. “Master,” she purred, nuzzling his shoulder, “Please let me serve you?” Her yoga pants were gone, replaced by a sheer transparent bodysuit, her nipples hard against the fabric.

Parker smirked, leaning back. “Earn your lunch, slut.” She giggled, high and needy, her hand slipping higher, stroking him through his shorts.

Danielle, who’d bragged about her son’s manners, dropped to her knees beside Malik, her outfit now a lace corset, her lips parted, tongue out. Malik snapped his fingers, and she crawled under the table, nuzzling his crotch. “Good pet,” he said, not looking down, sipping his soda as she unzipped him with her teeth, her moans muffled but eager.

Lauren, once wiping Dylan’s mouth, now straddled his lap, her dress a skimpy silk slip. She ground against him, whispering, “Tell me how you want me, master,” her lips brushing his ear, her fingers tracing his chest. Dylan sipped her smoothie, smirking, his hand squeezing her ass as she rocked harder, her pussy wet through the thin fabric.

Sasha curled at Ben’s feet, her yoga gear now a leather harness, her face pressed to his ankle. “What am I today, master?” she murmured, kissing his shoe. “Your toy? Your whore?” Ben didn’t look up from his phone. “Just shut up and keep my feet warm, bitch.” She smiled, rubbing her tits against his leg, content.

Isla and Camila were no different. Isla sat rigid, her outfit a tight satin dress, hands folded, eyes wide with devotion. Camila radiated cold control, her hoodie gone, replaced by a black leather skirt and top, her posture regal. She tapped Isla’s thigh. “Straighter, pet,” she snapped. Isla adjusted instantly, her lips pouting, eager to please. “Yes, mistress,” she whispered, her thighs trembling as Camila’s hand slid higher, teasing under her dress.

Lana, the last, was a vision of submission, her hair tied with a ribbon, her shirt now sheer ornamental bra. She stared at Jace, trembling, waiting. He tugged a ribbon tied around her neck like a leash, and she gasped, eyes rolling back. “Quiet, slut,” he said, his hand slipping under her bra, pinching her nipple until she whimpered.

Noah watched, his cock hard but his mind razor-sharp. The food court didn’t blink, a couple ignored Danielle’s muffled sucking, an old man smiled as one mother fed her son strawberries off her tongue. It was normal now. The app pulsed in his hand, then chimed: APP LOW ON ENERGY. ONE TRANSFORMATION REMAINING. PLEASE RECHARGE.

Noah’s brow furrowed. Figures. Power like this had to have limits. He’d been riding the high, rewriting lives, breaking families, but now he apparently had one shot left. He knew exactly who it was for.