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

The sun hung low, bleeding orange and gold across the Pacific like someone had cracked the sky open and let heaven spill out. Heat still radiated from the sand despite the approaching evening, made the air shimmer in waves that turned the beach into something liquid and unreal.

Salt wind cut sharp, carried the sweetness of coconut sunscreen mixing with beer and charcoal smoke from grills people had set up for the long haul.

The crowd had grown. Over a hundred now, maybe more—bodies pressing in from all directions, forming a loose arena around us. Girls in bikinis, guys in board shorts, kids on shoulders, everyone with phones out.

The energy was electric, hungry, waiting.

Colt spun toward the boards stabbed into the sand like forgotten swords. "Alright! Let's gear up!"

His crew moved as one—five surfers who'd done this dance a thousand times. They grabbed their boards with the kind of familiarity that came from years in the water, each one checking fins, running hands along rails, testing leashes.

Colt pulled his board free first. A 6'2" thruster, electric blue with a lightning bolt hand-painted down the rail in white. The wax on the deck looked fresh, that distinctive coconut smell hitting the air as he ran his palm across it. He held it up for the crowd, grinned like he was already tasting victory.

Jaxon hefted his next—massive 6'8" gun, matte black with an oil-slick sheen that caught the dying sunlight. The thing looked like a weapon. He tested the leash with a sharp snap, the velcro rasping loud enough to hear over the crowd noise.

Ryder grabbed his fish—5'10", neon green with a swallowtail that made it look fast just standing still. Someone had painted psychedelic swirls across the deck in retro style. The wax beaded up like sweat drops.

Shane pulled out a hybrid, pure white except for tribal flame designs someone had burned into the rails. The edges looked nicked, scarred from years of use. When he ran his hand along it, I caught him wince—splinters, probably. Battle-worn.

Ky claimed the last one—5'11" step-up, blood red from nose to tail. The nose came to a needle point. Fresh wax glistened across the deck like the board was already sweating in anticipation.

I walked past them. Past the press of bodies that tried to close around me, phones angling for shots, voices calling my name. Past a cooler someone had dragged over, ice already melting in the heat, water pooling at the base.

Headed for the lone rack near the lifeguard tower.

The tower itself was old—red paint peeling in long strips, rust bleeding through underneath. The rack leaned against it, three boards propped there. Two looked ancient, sun-bleached and cracked. The third...

The third was different.

Seven-foot mid-length. Gunmetal gray. No sponsor logos, no custom artwork, no personality. Just raw fiberglass that caught the light like polished steel. No wax on the deck—completely clean, like it had never been ridden or like someone had stripped it bare.

I reached for it.

"Yo!" Someone from the crowd called out. "That board's cursed, man! Nobody rides that thing!"

Another voice: "Lifeguard said it's been there for months—every person who tries it wipes out bad!"

I wrapped my fingers around the rail. Cold. Smooth. The board vibrated slightly under my touch, like it was alive, humming with something I couldn't name.

I lifted it.

Light. Perfectly balanced. The quad fins underneath were aggressive—sharp rake, screwed tight, no play in them. This board was built for speed and precision, nothing wasted.

"He's actually taking it," someone whispered, loud enough to carry.

"He'll snap it on the first wave."

"Nah, it'll snap him."

I dropped to one knee in the sand. The grains were still warm from the day's heat, pressing into my kneecap. From my pocket, I pulled the small brick of Sex Wax I'd grabbed earlier—tropical scent, the kind that smelled like vacation and bad decisions.

Cracked it open. The coconut smell exploded, sweet and overwhelming.

I started scraping. Long strokes from nose to tail, building up layers. The wax melted slightly under the friction and heat, going tacky, squeaking as I worked it into the fiberglass. Nose first—small circles, building texture. Then the rails where my hands would grip. Then the tail where my back foot would plant.

The crowd had gone quiet. Just watching. The only sounds were the scrape-squeak of wax, the distant crash of waves, and the low murmur of a hundred people holding their breath.

I worked methodically. No rush. This wasn't just prep—it was ritual. The board needed to know who was riding it. Needed to feel my intent soaking into the fiberglass grain by grain.

Jaxon let out a low whistle. "Dude's treating it like he's about to surf Nazare."

I finished the tail, stood, brushed sand from my knee. Grabbed the leash—simple velcro cuff, no frills—and snapped it around my ankle. The velcro bit, held firm. The board hummed against my calf like a tuning fork that had been struck.

Colt stepped forward, arms raised to the crowd. "ALRIGHT! LINE UP!"

We moved.

Six of us jogging toward the waterline, boards under arms. The sand gave way beneath our feet, still warm but cooling fast as we got closer to the water. The crowd surged behind us, following, phones raised, voices rising into a crescendo of anticipation.

I hit the water lastly.

The cold was a shock—Pacific water, never really warm even in summer. It slapped my shins, then knees, then waist as I waded deeper. Salt stung where I'd nicked my knuckles earlier on something, sharp little reminders that I was alive.

I threw the board down, belly-flopped onto it, and started paddling.

The first wave rolled toward me—white water from someone else's ride, churning and frothy. I took a breath, ducked under. The world went silent, muffled, pressure building in my ears. Then I surfaced on the other side, board shooting forward, leash pulling tight as it caught up.

Paddle. Stroke after stroke. Arms pulling, shoulders burning with good pain, lungs working like bellows. The saltwater tasted metallic on my lips, coating my tongue.

The lineup was maybe fifty yards out—past where the waves were breaking, where the water went glassy and dark. I could see the sets rolling in from deeper water, dark lines on the horizon that would build into mountains.

I reached it first. Sat up, legs dangling on either side of the board. The water was cold against my thighs, almost numbing. Something brushed my calf—fish, probably, or kelp. The board bobbed gently with the swell.

The others arrived thirty seconds later, breathing hard, water streaming from their hair. They formed a loose semi-circle, all of us facing the horizon, waiting.

Colt paddled close enough to talk. "First wave's yours, boy. Show us what you got."

I didn't respond. Just turned, eyes locked on the horizon where the next set was building.

The ocean breathed. Swells rolled in—first one small, choppy, not worth riding. The second bigger, cleaner, shoulder-high and starting to show that glassy face that meant it might barrel.

The third was a monster.

Eight feet easy, maybe more. The face looked smooth as black glass, reflecting the dying sunlight in shades of amber and purple. It was peeling left—perfect direction—and I could already see where the lip would curl, where the tube would form.

I turned the board, angled it toward shore, started paddling before anyone else even moved.

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

The wave lifted me, the board starting to plane, catching the energy. I felt it in my gut—that moment when gravity stopped being a suggestion and became a demand.

Pop.

Feet under me in one smooth motion, knees bent, toes finding the wax, grip perfect. Front foot over the center, back foot on the tail. Stance locked.

Then I dropped.

The world tilted vertical. One second I was on top of the wave, the next I was falling down its face like someone had opened a trap door. Wind screamed past my ears. Spray exploded around me in a cold mist that stung my eyes and made everything blur.

The board chattered beneath my feet—that distinctive vibration when you're moving too fast, fins barely holding. I shifted my weight, pressed down through my back foot.

Bottom turn.

The board carved hard, rail digging deep into the water, drawing a perfect arc. I dropped low, back hand dragging through the face of the wave, fingers slicing through liquid that felt solid as glass at this speed. Spray fanned out behind me in a rooster tail that caught the light and threw rainbow mist.

Then I shot back up the face, weight forward now, compressing into the pocket—that sweet spot where the wave's energy was concentrated, where speed came effortless.

The lip started to curl overhead.

I looked up. The wave's top edge was pitching forward, starting to throw out over the trough. In three seconds, maybe four, this thing would be a full barrel.

I stalled. Kicked the tail out slightly, let the board slow just enough to stay in position. Compressed lower, knees bent almost to my chest.

The lip threw.

Darkness.

The world disappeared into green-black-gold—the color of the ocean backlit by dying sunlight, thick as stained glass. The roar was deafening, water thundering, a physical force that vibrated in my bones and made my teeth ache.

I was inside the tube.

The green room. The cathedral. Whatever you wanted to call it—