Control Theory: A Mind Control Virus

Twisted Ties: Ganged and Bred

Bred on the Aussie Farm: Rams and Dogs

Sons Pounding Busty Moms: Incest Erotica

Son Trains Mom For Dog Sex: Incest Bestiality Erotica

Breaking Mom: Humiliation and Degradation Part 1

Breaking Mom: Humiliation and Degradation Part 2

Using Mom: Rough Sex Bundle (Incest Bestiality Erotica)

Daddy Daughter and Dog

Mom Begs for More: Incest Erotica

The Barbarian Horse Tribe

Affair With Her Pet Dog

Bred by Dad and Dog

Father Humiliates and Gangbangs Daughter

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By J. Lancer

Control Theory: A Mind Control Virus

Also By J. Lancer

All characters are over 18.

Megan hated the sound of Amber's voice. Not just the content—though God knew that was insufferable enough—but the actual timber and cadence of it. The way it cut through walls, through doors, through the expensive noise-canceling headphones Megan had bought specifically to drown out Amber's existence.

It was Tuesday night. Megan sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced precariously on her knees, trying to finish a work presentation. Trying and failing. Because Amber was on the phone again.

"I literally can't even!" Amber's voice sliced through the thin drywall. "He said that? To your face?"

Megan's jaw tightened. She didn't grind her teeth anymore—the night guard her dentist prescribed had cost $500—but she wanted to. Wanted to grind them to dust.

They'd been roommates for eight months and seventeen days. Not that Megan was counting. Not that she had a calendar with a big red circle around the day their lease expired.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Craigslist had promised a "clean, quiet professional." What Megan got instead was a 24-year-old "social media consultant" who treated their shared bathroom like a science experiment in mold cultivation.

The doorbell rang.

"Can you get that?" Amber shouted, not bothering to cover her phone's microphone. "I'm literally in the middle of something important!"

Megan closed her laptop with more force than necessary. Important. Right. Because dissecting some Tinder date's choice of appetizer constituted pressing business.

She stomped down the hallway, past Amber's open door where the blonde lounged on her unmade bed, surrounded by discarded clothing and half-empty Starbucks cups. Their apartment wasn't large—just over 900 square feet of tension-filled space that cost them each $1,200 a month. Welcome to Seattle.

The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time.

"Coming!" Megan barked. She hadn't ordered anything. If this was another of Amber's endless Amazon packages of crop tops and jade rollers...

The UPS driver stood in the hallway, looking bored. Young guy, maybe mid-twenties, with the tired eyes of someone who'd climbed too many apartment stairs today.

"Delivery for..." he checked his handheld device, "this address. No name specified."

He thrust a small package at her—a bubble mailer, lightweight, about the size of a paperback book.

"I didn't order anything," Megan said, but took it anyway. The package had no return address, just their apartment number printed in crisp, mechanical text.

"Neither did I," the driver shrugged. "But someone did. Need a signature."

After signing, Megan closed the door and examined the package. It felt odd in her hands—not quite warm, but not room temperature either. Something about it made the hairs on her arms stand up.

"What is it? More skincare samples?" Amber appeared in the hallway, phone still clutched in her hand but call apparently ended. Her interest piqued by the promise of free stuff.

"No idea. It's addressed to the apartment, not to either of us."

They stood there, these two women who could barely stand to breathe the same air, momentarily united by curiosity.

"Well, open it," Amber urged, stepping closer. She smelled like she always did—too much vanilla body spray trying to mask cigarettes she thought Megan didn't know about.

Megan tore open the package. Inside was a small plastic box, matte black, with a single red button in its center. No instructions. No branding. No note.

"What the hell is that?" Amber asked, leaning in.

"I have no idea." Megan turned it over in her hands. The device was featureless except for that button, which seemed to pulse slightly in the hallway's dim light. Or maybe that was just her imagination.

"Maybe it's a doorbell? Or like, one of those things that calls your phone when you lose it?" Amber suggested, reaching for it.

Megan pulled it away instinctively. "Don't."

"Oh my God, what is your problem? I just want to see it."

There it was—that tone that made Megan...