The Idol’s Mommy Kink - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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The moment I slipped on those stockings, I wondered—was Adrian Roland about to cross a line?
Don't get me wrong, I know I'm attractive, but not "national heartthrob assaults me in a dressing room" attractive.
"M-Mr. Roland?" My voice cracked like a teenager's. "What exactly are you implying?"
"Ms. Fairsprene." His dark eyes burned with something unsettling. "While you're helping me... regulate my emotions... would you mind if I wore these instead?"
You've got to be kidding me.
Adrian Roland—chart-topping idol, million-dollar smile, the man who made teenage girls faint at concerts—wanted to model black stockings for me.
And let me tell you, the sight of his testosterone-fueled leg hair poking through the sheer fabric? Disgusting.
But hey, a job's a job.
Now I understood why security had confiscated my phone at the door. One snapshot of Adrian like this, and the internet would've exploded.
So I played along. Leather whip in hand, I spent thirty minutes lightly striking his stocking-clad legs while he moaned like a bad porno.
The worst part? The guy kept whimpering "Mommy."
I lost all respect for him in that moment.
Still, I couldn't complain about the parting gift—a limited-edition designer bag worth more than my rent. The man had taste, I'll give him that.
Walking away from the villa, my brain struggled to process what just happened. It felt like some bizarre stress dream.
I thought Adrian was as weird as celebrities got.
Then I met Julian Ashcroft.
Julian—Adrian's rival, same trainee batch, same level of fame. Rumor was they were battling for some blockbuster role.
But while Adrian's star kept rising, Julian's career had imploded. Fans turned on him after his last movie, calling him "creepy" and "washed up." Now he was hiding in his mansion, too depressed to leave.
My assignment? Fix his shattered ego and get him back on set.
Julian's villa stood eerily silent compared to Adrian's circus. Just a single guard and a nervous-looking housekeeper remained.
After surrendering my phone (again), I stepped inside, still clutching Adrian's gift.
"You must be Ms. Fairsprene?" The housekeeper forced a smile.
"That's me." I returned the pleasantries. "Where's Julian? The agency sent me for his session."
"Basement." Her eyes darted away. "Just... do whatever he asks. Don't argue."
I frowned. I was a therapist, not a doormat.
At the basement door, she gave me one last warning: "He's not stable. Be careful."
Before I could ask what she meant, she muttered under her breath:
"Such a nice girl... doing this kind of work. These celebrities... all monsters."
What was that supposed to—
A bloodcurdling scream cut through the door.
Then silence.
My hand froze mid-knock.
"Ah—!"
Another scream.
This wasn't therapy.
This was something much, much worse.
Don't get me wrong, I know I'm attractive, but not "national heartthrob assaults me in a dressing room" attractive.
"M-Mr. Roland?" My voice cracked like a teenager's. "What exactly are you implying?"
"Ms. Fairsprene." His dark eyes burned with something unsettling. "While you're helping me... regulate my emotions... would you mind if I wore these instead?"
You've got to be kidding me.
Adrian Roland—chart-topping idol, million-dollar smile, the man who made teenage girls faint at concerts—wanted to model black stockings for me.
And let me tell you, the sight of his testosterone-fueled leg hair poking through the sheer fabric? Disgusting.
But hey, a job's a job.
Now I understood why security had confiscated my phone at the door. One snapshot of Adrian like this, and the internet would've exploded.
So I played along. Leather whip in hand, I spent thirty minutes lightly striking his stocking-clad legs while he moaned like a bad porno.
The worst part? The guy kept whimpering "Mommy."
I lost all respect for him in that moment.
Still, I couldn't complain about the parting gift—a limited-edition designer bag worth more than my rent. The man had taste, I'll give him that.
Walking away from the villa, my brain struggled to process what just happened. It felt like some bizarre stress dream.
I thought Adrian was as weird as celebrities got.
Then I met Julian Ashcroft.
Julian—Adrian's rival, same trainee batch, same level of fame. Rumor was they were battling for some blockbuster role.
But while Adrian's star kept rising, Julian's career had imploded. Fans turned on him after his last movie, calling him "creepy" and "washed up." Now he was hiding in his mansion, too depressed to leave.
My assignment? Fix his shattered ego and get him back on set.
Julian's villa stood eerily silent compared to Adrian's circus. Just a single guard and a nervous-looking housekeeper remained.
After surrendering my phone (again), I stepped inside, still clutching Adrian's gift.
"You must be Ms. Fairsprene?" The housekeeper forced a smile.
"That's me." I returned the pleasantries. "Where's Julian? The agency sent me for his session."
"Basement." Her eyes darted away. "Just... do whatever he asks. Don't argue."
I frowned. I was a therapist, not a doormat.
At the basement door, she gave me one last warning: "He's not stable. Be careful."
Before I could ask what she meant, she muttered under her breath:
"Such a nice girl... doing this kind of work. These celebrities... all monsters."
What was that supposed to—
A bloodcurdling scream cut through the door.
Then silence.
My hand froze mid-knock.
"Ah—!"
Another scream.
This wasn't therapy.
This was something much, much worse.
End of The Idol’s Mommy Kink Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to The Idol’s Mommy Kink book page.