Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

Stepping out of the bathroom after handling Isabella's needs (capital N, let's be real), I let the whole Dark Lord of Sexual Salvation routine dissolve. In its place? Regular Peter Carter—well, as regular as a genetically enhanced demigod of charm and destruction can look in a high school body in La Cherie bathroom hallway.

Still not hot. Still not lethal, on the outside that anyone would underestimate me. Just not actively glowing with infernal lust energy.

Back to business.

Because things? Yeah. They're about to spiral faster than Diddy at a deposition.

My brain—currently juiced with post-orgasmic clarity and IQ levels that would make Einstein feel like a Walmart greeter—kicked into overdrive. The situation was, in polite terms, spiraling into a full-blown empire-building sexpocalypse.

Let's review.

I had three women orbiting me like planets addicted to my gravitational pull.

Madison: brilliant, scheming, and already drawing up architectural blueprints for our future empire in the cloud.

Isabella: emotionally wrecked and sexually possessed—exactly the kind of girl who'd set her ex's car on fire because I asked nicely.

Now Janet!

And Future Girl #4: TBD, but trust me, she's coming. Luna the nurse? Or Charlotte herself 'cause trust me my eyes cannot keep away from such a hottie or another CEO? Perhaps someone more powerful at the wellness center and the escort agency I was about to join?

Three women in a week. What happens when this escalates in two weeks? A month? A year? A documentary deal on Netflix?

Let's not pretend the system was about to let me ride into the sunset with a happily-ever-threesome. No—this machine was engineered for chaos and orgies with hundreds. It rewards success with more complexity, like a rigged video game coded by a horny Elon Musk.

Next stop? The wellness center Madison mentioned. AKA a honey trap for rich women with perfect Botox, dead bedroom eyes, and prenups fatter than their husbands' egos. They didn't want therapy and thought foreplay was asking "are you ready?" treating missionary as the hottest style.

These women wanted worship. Devotion. Sin delivered with a smirk of a demon-god good looking boy with a body that would put immortals, gods and demons to shame and run away in incompetence.

Oh, and the escort gig? Madison said it like a joke, but that thing has legs. Long, tanned, waxed, Louboutin-wearing legs.

Girlfriend experience, huh? Sure. I could do that. I could be the fallen angel who texts back, holds their hand, then ruins them in bed like a cross between Leonardo DiCaprio, Lucifer, goddess Aphrodite and a human vibrator. High-end clients wouldn't just want me. They'd need me.

I saw the whole map. A war plan etched in gold and desire.

Lonely CEO wives begging to be broken like their startup competition.

Trophy wives of senators who've forgotten what eye contact during sex feels like.

Heiresses raised on cocaine, disappointment, and daddy's black card.

They'd pay stupid money just to breathe the same air as me.

But here's the problem.

My upgraded brain mapped it out like a war strategist on cocaine. CEOs who've never been told "no." Politicians' wives who haven't been touched in years. Socialites whose idea of "wild" is a second glass of wine and thinking about doggy style.

They'd come looking. Not just for real love—for something their men couldn't give them. Something primal. Someone like me. And they'd pay for it like it was salvation sold in silk sheets.

But here's where human Peter—that ever-vigilant voice of internal paranoia—stepped in. Even with supernatural swagger, managing three women took Olympic-level scheduling and CIA-grade secrecy.

Managing dozens? That's less of a love life, more of a logistical war zone.

Even with all my upgrades, I'm still Peter. And Peter—bless his slightly paranoid, detail-obsessed soul—knows damn well that managing three girls is already like juggling chainsaws while blindfolded. Managing dozens? That's full-on Jason Bourne meets The Bachelor logistics.

We're talking rotating personas. Alibis tighter than a publicist's NDA. One girl wants romantic Peter. The next wants Dark Lord Daddy to ruin her self-worth. Some want both. On Tuesdays. With mood lighting.

Different cities and countries, settings like sex in massage rooms, spas, gyms, their offices some would want risks like fucking the with their husbands in the nest room and far more dangers. Different times. Different versions of me. Some would want the caring boyfriend. Others would need the Dark Lord to wreck them into tears and spiritual awakenings. A few might switch mid-session, like moody divas with trauma and black cards.

Meanwhile, I've still got to show up to school and pretend the math teacher isn't a talking rubber duck.

My so-called life. School, which at this point feels like preschool with algebra. Family time, because Mom and the twins still mattered more than all the system perks combined. And Madison's social calendar—an endless maze of brunches, events, and her own brand of chaos that came with luxury and blood-red expectations which I was sure will come soon.

This whole thing could implode fast if I didn't get ahead of it.

Madison needs me to keep up appearances like we're the next Blake and Ryan, not co-conspirators in a sexual revolution.

This is going to be a problem if I don't pre-game it now.

Then—bam.

It hits me like a lightning bolt made of Red Bull and divine clarity.

I had the solution.

"Fuck, I need a base of operations," I muttered, probably looking like a teenager having an existential crisis somewhere between Prada and the pretzel stand.

I didn't just need a place for my family. I needed a throne. A kingdom. A home base for weaponized charm and morally questionable ambition.

The vision snapped into place like a scene from a Netflix limited series: a mansion. Not just any mansion—the compound.

Designed top to bottom for a supernatural seduction empire. Multiple bedrooms, each tailored to a different kind of fantasy. Soundproof walls because, let's face it, some future clients were going to be screamers, and not the cute kind.

Security systems straight out of a Bond villain's wet dream. Discretion wasn't a luxury—it was survival.

A space where I could shift personas like outfits. Where I could be exactly who someone needed—daddy, therapist, teacher, their son or stepson, doctor, secretary sinner, savior and other kinks—without worrying about traumatizing the neighbors, the mailman, or my poor mother mid-laundry cycle.

I could see it already. Tech so advanced it made Wall Street look Amish. My hacking gear. My trading rigs. A garage with everything from a discreet Tesla to a Lamborghini that growled like it ate crypto bros for breakfast.

A garage full of cars was a must because different women had different fantasies about what their perfect man should drive

Maybe a pool. Because let's be real—pool sex with multiple hot beauties is undefeated.

But mansions don't come cheap. I wasn't talking "Instagram influencer with a successful side hustle" money. I needed fuck-you money.

Even with my trading portfolio, system points, and Charlotte's generous consulting fee, I was sitting on maybe two million liquid. Respectable. But not fortress-level. Not empire headquarters.

What I needed was someone who understood real estate—off-market properties. Whispers, not listings. Hidden keys behind velvet curtains. And I needed them to owe me enough that I could ask for the impossible and expect results.

Then I saw her.

Cutting through the mall crowd like a shark in Louboutins. Wherever she was coming from; Charlotte Thompson. The walk? Pure alpha predator. The vibe? "I own part this mall and everyone in it." Probably heading back to her ridiculous VIP suite she kept stashed between Chanel and Saint Laurent.

Bingo.

Charlotte had just signed a million-dollar contract with me. Her company? Worth eight billion. And I'd saved it in a single afternoon like I was flipping stocks and rewriting fate on my lunch break. If anyone had access to the kind of fortress I needed, it was her—the kind of woman who bought luxury properties through fake LLCs and stored them like spare purses.

And right now? She was still swimming in post-salvation gratitude.

Grateful billionaires are the best kind of business partners. Especially the kind who feel like they owe you.

I started moving, slipping through the crowd like a well-dressed virus. I tracked her every step while my brain built the pitch in real time—one part charm, one part logic, all designed to sound less like "boy with dreams" and more like "young god scaling his empire."

"Hey Charlotte, I need you to help me buy a sex mansion"—probably not the move.

Too forward. Too... honest. People don't fund your empire if you lead with orgy bunker.

But if I framed it right? Easy.

A private software engineering facility for our work. Discreet. Tech-heavy. Secure. A space where I could meet my high-profile women and clients without risking their reputations—or mine. A sanctuary away from the chaos of school, family, and mall food courts.

All technically true. Just not the full truth. Like saying Diddy "hosts events." Technically accurate. Strategically vague.

[Ding! Mission generated!

Mission: Get and move into your sanctually.

[Reward: ???]

Aren't you being so obvious system?

"Charlotte!" I called, weaving through a tourist family in the middle of a deep, emotional debate about whether to blow money on artisanal burgers or lobster tacos. "Can we talk for a second?"

She turned, and just like that, her CEO face snapped into place. Clean. Polished. Deadly. Even in a mall dripping with trust funds and overpriced cologne, Charlotte Thompson didn't blend—she owned every square foot her heels touched.

Let's see if the woman who just trusted a masked teenager with her billion-dollar company is ready to help that same teenager build a kingdom of his own.