Coxwell Country Club (James & Sara)

James:

I step out of the shower and grab a towel. The window is steamed over, so I wipe a spot with my hand and take in the view.

28 years old, 6'3, broad shoulders. I'm fit, with a six pack and muscular arms. No one would accuse me of skipping leg day. My brown hair has a light wave, which I coax out with some curl enhancer. My beard is thick, and neatly trimmed. I know I'm handsome, with a strong jaw and romanesque nose.

I'm also a lawyer at one of the most prestigious firms in the country.

You'd think I could have any woman I wanted.

But the only one I want absolutely fucking hates me.

Tonight, I'm being inducted into the Coxwell Country Club. And by next month, Sara will be mine.

----

Sara:

The young paralegal barges into my office, a magazine in her hand. "It's here! Page 12!" She slaps the magazine on my desk.

I'm caught up in her excitement and open it up to page 12.

"30 Lawyers Under 30" the page reads. "No. 2: Sara Kent - human rights lawyer, Fletcher & Associates."

She is looking over my shoulder. She beams at me.

It's a huge honour to have been selected for this list. It's also a huge opportunity for the firm. We take on a lot of pro bono cases and my boss is constantly worried about making payroll. With this kind of publicity, we can attract a few paying clients.

The blurb under my name gives a brief biography. "Sara, age 27, graduated Yale Law in 2020. She began working for Mr. Fletcher upon graduation. She recently won a civil suit against the Federal prison system in Turner v. USA."

The photo is my firm headshot. I'm wearing a charcoal grey suit jacket and a burgundy blouse. My long brown hair is tied back in a pony tail. My makeup is natural and subdued. I'm looking into the camera, arms crossed. I look like I mean business.

We go through the rest of the list, gossiping about each young lawyer. We didn't know who else had been chosen until today.

I turn the page and see him. James St. Clair. Number 26.

I laugh knowing how much he'll hate being so far down the list after me.

"He's cute," the paralegal says behind me.

"In an entitled sexist way, sure."

"Oh my god, you know him?"

"Yeah. We graduated law together."

"I mean, you don't need to talk to him," she winks at me.

I close the magazine. "Uh huh. Can you please get me the Samson draft?"

She looks at me, eyebrows raised, and goes back to her desk.

When I'm sure she's gone, I reopen the magazine to James' photo.

She's not wrong. James is devastatingly handsome. But he's also one of the worst people I came across at law school - which is saying a lot.

I was attracted to him when I first met him. It lasted until I heard him speak. Entitled trust fund kid.

In first year, after a criminal law class, I overheard him joking loudly to friends that he could never be found guilty of rape because there's not one woman who wouldn't consent to sex with him.

I wrote a piece in our student paper about how harmful the joke was. I never named him, but enough people had heard him say it, so everyone knew it was him.

My piece kicked off an avalanche of other female students writing into the paper about their own experiences with sexual assault. They explained how rape jokes like the one James said made them feel unsafe and unwelcome.

The experience created a community of women. We went on to found a feminist collective, which got me started with human rights law.

James experienced some dark looks for a few weeks, but people mostly forgot about it. He had no problem womanizing his way through our classmates, including a few of my feminist friends. They always regretted the hook-up but never gave me details.

I often found him looking at me as if he wanted to say something. He never spoke to me since, even if we occasional run into each other at industry events.

---

James:

I arrive at the Club a few minutes before 8pm. I'm in my most expensive suit, a black bespoke set. I sign my name in the non-members' log for the last time and am led to the Business Centre.

By its name, you'd think the Business Centre is where you take a work call or set up your laptop while the wife tans at the pool. It's not.

Only platinum level members are allowed in, and only men of certain caliber are accepted. My $500,000 platinum deposit cleared this morning. I sign every paper the Matron, a strict looking older woman, puts in front of me. She's the only woman in the room.

I'm given a fob to access the grounds, including the Business Centre, which has numerous closed doors around it. I'm here for the door which leads to the spa. It's why I joined the Club.

The Matron puts away my membership paperwork and slides a binder across the table.

"Mr. St. Clair, I understand you have an interest in our Matchmaking services. Have you selected a wife?"

"Yes, I emailed over her details this afternoon."

The Matron swipes on her tablet. "Yes, Miss Kent. An excellent choice. Mr. St. Clair, are you familiar with our methods?"

"Only the most basic idea. I understand you can make any woman my wife, but not how. I should disclose that Sara dislikes me."

"I'll make a note and adjust our program accordingly. Mr. St. Clair, you would not be privy to this information before you became a Member, but we don't just make the women willing, we make them into whatever you desire."

I blink. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Indeed. Selected women, we call them fiancées, are brought to the Coxwell Spa for a week. They undergo intensive drug therapies and physical conditioning. The combination allows us to hijack the fiancée's personality, inserting whatever the Member wants there instead."

A good person would be horrified, but I am not a good person. Since learning about the Matchmaking services, I've spent years networking to be invited into the Club, knowing they would make Sara want me somehow. All I can think about is Sara, not just in love with me, but also sweet, simple, doting, agreeable. Horny. Nothing like the woman I knew in law school. Or the woman who outranked me in that damned list today.

"We've included more information about our most popular traits in the binder. Please send us your list of desires. If what you want is not listed, it can likely be accomodated for an additional fee. When would you like to begin the process?"

"Immediately."

"We can send her the invitation tomorrow. Though she needs to enter the spa willingly, we have methods to persuade her." The Matron does not elaborate. "When she is in treatment, you will be required to stay on the Club grounds to ensure she properly bonds to you."

"I'll make myself available."

"Excellent. I look forward to receiving your notes Mr. St Clair. Welcome to Coxwell Country Club."

-----

Sara:

Since the list was published on Monday, I've been getting all sorts of congratulatory cards and emails. Some businesses in the legal community sent packages as well - a gift card to a trendy new restaurant, a box of text books, an expensive watch, chocolates, and champagne.

I'm enjoying the influx of luxury gifts. On my salary, I can't afford these things. Not even the text books.

Today I get a big gift basket filled with expensive-looking makeup and skin care products from the Coxwell Country Club. I'm surprised to see their logo on the basket.

Coxwell has a reputation of being exclusive and conservative, where the members fund the same political causes I march against. The only women allowed in are the wives and girlfriends of members, and they tend to all have that same bleach blonde fake boob look.

I understand why they'd send gifts to the men on the list, but don't understand why I got anything. It's not like I'm their target audience.

I open the attached card.

"Congratulations Miss Kent on your success! We hope you enjoy these little treats, and look forward to seeing you in the red lipstick. We are extending an invitation to Coxwell Spa for a week-long retreat at no charge. Simply call the enclosed number to arrange the dates. Our best."

What a weird note, which I toss directly into the recycling bin. I have no intention of accepting even a free spa week. I don't want to spend any time with those people.

I rummage through the makeup to find the red lipstick and open it up. As I take off the cap, I notice a mild floral perfume. The colour is a bright shade of cherry red. Not something I'd ever wear. I place it in the basket and turn back to my work.

I can't focus. I keep smelling that faint perfume. I look back at the basket. At the lipstick. Is that where the smell came from? I really like it, and I have been thinking of finding a signature scent.

I go back to the basket and pick up the lipstick. I open the cap and breathe in deeply. Yes, that's definitely the scent.

I turn to the little mirror on the bookshelf left behind by another lawyer. The colour of the lipstick will stand out on my pale skin, but at least I'm in all black so it won't clash with my outfit.

I apply the lipstick first to my upper lip then to my bottom lip. The sweet perfume invades my senses. I notice a slight tingling in my lips and I wonder if I'm allergic to any of the ingredients. I return to my desk.

My head feels lighter, but it's kind of pleasant. Like I'm floating. Or maybe a little high, which doesn't really make any sense. I'm not worried either way. Just relaxed. It's nice.

I see the Coxwell card poking out of the bin and retrieve it. I should call them and book the retreat. I haven't had time off since before law school and I deserve a break. As I start dialing, I think that maybe I wasn't supposed to call them for some reason. The thought evaporates quickly as I enter the rest of the digits and hit dial.

A woman answers right away.

"Ah Miss Kent! So pleased to hear from you, and so quickly. Let's book you for your retreat right away. Do you want to come in two days from now, Saturday morning?"

I giggle for some reason. "Yes I would but it's Ms. Kent not Miss Kent."

"We will see you on Saturday, Miss Kent. A driver will swing around to pick you up at 8am. We already have your address on file."

The call ends.

Well, I guess I'll go ask for some time off.

----

James:

I spend a few days pouring over the Coxwell binder, circling all the treatments I want for Sara - my fiancée - who just doesn't know it yet.

I feel like the most powerful man in the world.

Most options are sexual and graphic. I can make my Sara, as I've taken to calling her, into the slut of my dreams. She's going to get wet giving blow jobs. She won't be able to orgasm unless I command her to. She's going to crave all sorts of anal pleasures. And so much more.

The list of sexual characteristics I send the Matron will be very very long and very very depraved.

There are also behavioral modification options. I take my time considering each one carefully. Do I want my Sara to be dumbed down? If so, by how much? Do I want her to be bratty at all? Do I want her to speak only when spoken to? Do I want her to enjoy housekeeping? How many children do I expect from her? So many possibilities.

I'm hoping the Matron will be able to accommodate all my requests.

At the back of the binder, there are possible body mods too. Most aren't available during this one week retreat, but some are. I checked off some things to start with and eyed the later options. Sara is already gorgeous, tall and athletic. But her breasts are on the smaller side. I've always thought my Sara would look amazing with giant bolt-on tits.

I email my requests to the Matron and go to pack my bags.

I've taken the next week off so I can ensure my Sara adapts appropriately.

I briefly remember her as she was in law school. Sexy, confident, smart, accomplished. Popular, except perhaps with the men. We all wanted to fuck her, but she wouldn't let anyone of us close to her. I never tried, not after she wrote that piece.

My dick gets hard thinking about who my Sara will be by next week. She'll still sexy and confident, but she'll be too focused on me to be much else. Instead of outshining me again, she'll be my arm candy. My sexy little cheerleader. My personal porn star. My wife. My Sara.

---

Sara:

At exactly 8am, the Coxwell Country Club driver knocks at my door. I'm dressed and ready, with a small suitcase packed.

I'm wearing leggings and a graphic tee, though I have no idea if the spa has a dress code. I don't know what to expect at all. I tried to find information online, but the spa's page just directs guests to call them.

I check my reflection in the mirror before stepping outside. My red lips are perfectly applied. I've been wearing the new lipstick every day since I got it. It's not a practical colour for a serious human rights lawyer, but I can't resist it.

The ride is short and we're soon past the Club's wrought iron gates. The property is massive, with a golf course, pool, and several interconnected buildings.

I'm driven up to the furthest unmarked building. It's an old Victorian mansion, complete with ivy climbing up the brick facade. I step out of the car and an older woman is waiting outside.

She introduces herself as the Matron of the Club. I don't know what kind of position that is. Frankly, I'm surprised Coxwell hires any women.

"Welcome Miss Kent. Please follow me." I want to correct her use of Miss because I don't want to be rude before I even check in.

"Please have a seat, and enjoy this refreshment." She hands me a glass of icy cucumber water. I take a sip through a straw. It's so refreshing. I didn't realize how dehydrated I am. I suck it all back within seconds.

The Matron smiles at me. "Excellent, Miss Kent. I think you'll enjoy your time with us very much."

I giggle. "I think I will too!" My head is feeling light again. I remember I didn't eat breakfast and wonder if that's why.

She slides some paperwork in my direction. Normally, as a lawyer, I always read the fine print. I don't today. The spa is so nice and luxurious, I'm absolutely certain there's no need to review the documents before I sign at every dotted line. Even the one with another signature - wait - I recognize the name. Who is that? I squint. James St. Clair. Why is his signature there?

Before I can start reading the page, the Matron retrieves all the papers. I must have imagined it. James' name must be stuck in my head since the list came out earlier this week.

"Here is your key card, Miss Kent. There's a welcome breakfast already set out in your room. Please help yourself. When you're ready, you're expected in the Relaxation Room."

I find my way to my room, where my luggage is waiting for me. So is a tray of fruit and pastries, and a carafe of coffee. I sit down and eat and drink my fill.

Thirty minutes later, I'm walking around the Spa, looking for the right room as if in a daze. It's kinda nice though, almost a relief from every other day where my lawyer brain can't turn off. It's not like I'm in hurry to get anywhere either. I'm in no rush all week.

The Matron finds me still wandering in the hallway and brings me to the Relaxation Room. She instructs me to get undressed and put on the Club robe.

I pull off my t-shirt and start rolling down my leggings. It occurs to me that I'm undressing in front of the Matron. The thought doesn't stop me as I unclasp my bra and remove my panties.

She hands me the robe. It's short, and silky, and baby pink. It's so soft against my bare skin. I can't stop petting myself everywhere. My nipples are poking through the fabric and I raise my hand to pinch them.

The Matron clears her throat. "Miss Kent, your therapists will be in here shortly."

I freeze, my hand on my breast, not yet pinching my nipple, even though I very much want to. I look up at her, confused, wondering why I'm groping myself.

The Matron leaves. I have no idea what treatments are scheduled. I forgot to ask for any kind of schedule.

-----

James:

My room at the spa is next door to Sara's. There's a desk with monitors, each screen showing different angles of her room and the Relaxation Room.

I'm still erect from watching my Sara undress and feel herself up. What a little tease.

I can't do anything for relief yet. The Matron just arrived to give me the first report.

"Miss Kent has so far proven to be very susceptible to our treatments. We measure the fiancée's response by observing her reactions to the drug therapy. The first dose, which was sent in the form of a lipstick, does not affect 80% of the fiancées. She booked the retreat within minutes of receiving our invitation, indicating a sensitivity to our methods. As you've seen, since her arrival, she's been suggestible and highly aroused."

I laugh. "I've noticed. What's next?"

"First, the beauty treatments. Then her first indirect exposure to you. Did you bring what we requested?"

I hand over a small vial of my cum. "How will you use it?"

"We mix your essence into our recipes. It will help her form the most positive associations around you. It's not always necessary, but as you have a negative history with her, we like to take this additional step." She eyes my erection. "I hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience to produce."

"Not at all. When will I get to interact with her? When will I get to," I pause trying to find a more polite term than what I'm thinking - "participate in her conditioning?"

"You will be a very active participant, starting tomorrow. Today, we still need to test her boundaries and ensure your first consummation has the desired effect. We will continue to provide you with reports, but I encourage you to watch her progress yourself."

The Matron sees herself out. I go back to watching my Sara - my horny fiancée - on the screen.

She's still alone. Her robe is untied and I can see her breasts and her cunt. I'm not surprised that she has a full bush. For now.

-----

Sara:

I stand in front of the full length mirror, staring at my own tits. Breasts? No, tits. When I have ever used that word before? Tits. They look good, my tits. I keep myself from touching them as I expect the therapists to come in. I want to touch them. Maybe I could touch them a little?

I let my right hand find my left tit. My nipple is erect and sensitive. I start squeezing it. Oh, I like that. Pulling it feels great too.

I'm watching myself in the mirror playing with my tit when two women walk in. I'm too slow to stop what I'm doing before they see me. It takes another moment to realize that I'm not embarrassed. Shouldn't I be embarrassed?

The women lead me to a big cushy salon chair, removing my robe. I miss it's softness already, but I like my nakedness even more.

They're speaking to me though I'm not really following what they're saying. Their hands on my body is nice though.

One woman is brushing my hair and massaging my head. The other is doing my nails. I'm not sure how much time passes as I lay in the chair, a pleasant smell in the air, while the women pamper me.

The first woman is applying something to my hair now, it smells like bleach. The second one is curing very long red gel nails. I don't remember asking for either thing but I must've, right? Maybe I signed the wrong form? I don't know and I'm too relaxed to think to stop them.

My nails are done. I've never had anything so impractical before. They are so freaking cute.

When the bleach has been applied and a timer set, the women lead me onto to an elevated table. They start waxing me everywhere. My eyebrows. My legs. My arm pits. My pussy. My pussy?!

"Ow! That hurts!"

"Shhh Miss Kent, it's what you wanted. Just relax." She massages my shoulders as I lay back down and the other woman finishes the Brazilian.

They take me back to the salon chair to wash the bleach out. They blow dry and style my now blonde hair.