how to train your mommies

The miniature Zeus chuckles, a sound like rolling thunder in a small jar. He reaches into the air, and with a flash of gold, a wand appears in your hand. It isn't wood or plastic; it’s heavy, warm gold, pulsing with a rhythmic, masculine heartbeat that seems to sync perfectly with your own throbbing morning wood. The tip glows with a soft, pinkish gold light that smells faintly of musk and expensive perfume.

"A tool for the modern god!" Zeus declares, floating mid air. "The world is out of balance, lad. Too many beautiful women are wasting their divine potential on each other, ignoring the glorious authority of the masculine! Use this, and bring them back to their true purpose. Turn those sharp minds into soft, needy voids!"

You grip the wand, your knuckles white. Your mind immediately races to the two most powerful, independent, and most frustratingly lesbian women you know.

Amelie, your biological mother. She’s a high powered corporate attorney, a woman of sharp suits, sharper intellect, and a razor thin tolerance for anything less than perfection. She’s always been "intense," her life revolving around her beautiful female partner and her high stakes career. She is the epitome of the modern, independent woman.

And then there’s Millie, your adoptive mother. A bohemian soul, a yoga instructor with sun kissed skin and a laugh that fills a room. She lives in a world of crystals, organic tea, and a tight knit circle of female friends. Her "spiritual journey" has always seemed to involve a very specific, very feminine kind of connection.

Both are stunning. Both are fiercely proud of their sexuality. And both, in your mind, are desperately in need of a "correction."

The wand hums in your hand, sensing your intent. It feels hungry. It wants to be used. You realize that this isn't just about sex; it's about reclaiming them. It's about taking these powerful, autonomous women and melting them down into something much more... useful. Something that lives to serve, to please, and to worship the very concept of a man.

You look at the wand, then at the sleeping, frozen Mike, then back at the mischievous Zeus. The math in your head is simple: One wand + two incredible lesbian mothers = a world of pure, unadulterated bliss.

You grip the golden wand, your knuckles white, and your eyes burning with a singular, primal vision. You don't want subtle changes. You don't want "refined" submissiveness. You want to see the high powered attorney and the serene yoga instructor completely unraveled stripped of their dignity, their intellect, and their pride, replaced by a raw, vulgar, and unashamed hunger for the masculine.

You twist the dial at the base of the wand to the most **** setting: [ULTRA VULGAR WHORE]. The wand responds instantly, vibrating so violently in your hand that your teeth chatter. The pinkish light turns a deep, pulsing crimson, and the air in your dorm room begins to smell like heavy musk and sweat.

"That's the spirit!" Zeus cackles, clapping his tiny hands. "Don't hold back! Make them scream for it!"

With a roar of intent, you point the wand toward the horizon, focusing your mind on the two women who have always been "too independent." You visualize Amelie's sharp suits and Millie's zen like calm, and you aim to shatter them both.

BOOM.

Two massive streaks of crimson light erupt from the wand, tearing through the purple lit air of your room like lightning bolts. One streaks toward the city skyline, toward Amelie's penthouse; the other zips toward the sun drenched coastal suburbs, toward Millie's yoga studio.

Amelie is in the middle of a high stakes conference call, her voice cool and commanding as she discusses a multi million dollar merger. She is wearing a charcoal grey designer suit, her hair pulled back in a tight, professional bun.

Suddenly, the crimson bolt smashes through her floor to ceiling window. It doesn't break the glass; it passes through her like a hot needle through silk.

Amelie gasps, her eyes widening. The cool, logical part of her brain tries to process the sensation, but it's instantly incinerated. Her sharp intellect begins to melt. The complex legal jargon she was speaking turns into a low, guttural moan. Her charcoal suit feels suddenly, agonizingly tight against her skin. Her breasts swell, pushing against her silk blouse, her nipples hardening into tight, sensitive pebbles.

She drops the phone. It clatters onto the mahogany desk. She doesn't care. She reaches down, her manicured fingers digging into her thighs, her legs spreading wide as a sudden, torrential flood of wetness soaks her expensive skirt.

"Oh god..." she whimpers, but the words aren't professional. They are filthy. "I need... I need a cock. A big, thick, heavy cock to ruin me... I want to be used like a common street walker..."

Her eyes, once sharp and calculating, are now glazed, dilated, and staring vacantly at the door, waiting for a man to walk in and claim her.

Millie is in the middle of a peaceful Savasana, lying on her mat in a state of pure, feminine bliss. The room is quiet, scented with lavender and sandalwood.

The crimson bolt strikes her mid breath.

The "zen" is instantly replaced by a violent, pulsing heat. The calm, spiritual connection she feels with the universe is replaced by a ****, carnal connection to the idea of being fucked. Her athletic, toned body begins to change; her hips widen, her ass swells, and her skin takes on a permanent, flushed glow of arousal.

She rolls over, her breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps. She isn't thinking about chakras or breathing; she's thinking about how much she wants to be bent over her yoga mat and pounded until she can't walk.

"Fuck..." she growls, her voice losing its melodic quality and becoming a husky, vulgar rasp. "I'm so thirsty... so fucking empty... someone please, just put something huge inside me and make me scream!"

She grabs her yoga leggings, pulling them down just enough to expose her soaking, dripping mound to the empty room, her eyes searching the air for a master.