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

I nodded to her lies. Didn't push.

She tilted her head. "Your turn. Why's the Beach King sneaking into locked rooms instead of drowning in bikini girls?"

"Because bikini girls are easy," I said. "And easy gets boring. I was looking for hard. Found impossible."

Her flush deepened. She shivered, thighs clenching.

"You're doing it again," she murmured. "That thing. I feel… drunk on you."

"Side effect," I said. "You're just potent..."

She stood. Robe fell open completely: lace, skin, bruises, moonlight.

"Okay, play. And you better not disgrace my moves with some lame-ass 'Chopsticks,'" she said finally.

I laughed. "The honor is all mine, Your Grace. I'll try not to embarrass you."

She walked to the center of the room. Dropped the robe.

Stood in nothing but white lace and moonlight.

"Play, Beach King."

I turned to the keys.

And began.

I didn't touch the sheet music. I didn't breathe for the first bar.

My fingers slammed the keys like I was claiming her soul.

A low, F minor exploded: thick as blood, dark as cum, vibrating through the piano's ribs, through the carpet, through the marrow of her bones.

The left hand pounded a heartbeat bass: BOOM… BOOM… BOOM, syncing with the muffled throb from downstairs, with the wet thud of her pulse in her throat, with the slick pulse between her thighs.

The right hand slithered a melody: seductive, obscene, primal, curling like hot breath around her ankles, her calves, her dripping cunt.

Lila's eyes slammed shut. Her inhale was a gasp: sharp, greedy, audible, sucking the jasmine-bourbon air like it was my tongue.

And she detonated.

One step. Bare feet sank into the snow-white carpet: plush, warm, swallowing her arches. Hips rolled slow, lewd, a liquid figure-eight that made the lace thong cut into her hips, splitting her swollen lips, the wet spot dark and spreading like spilled ink.

She raised her arms overhead, fingers spidering through the air, nails glinting, and her spine arched: a bow drawn for war, tits thrusting high, lace bra screaming, nipples diamond-hard and begging through the fabric, poking shadows that danced across the ceiling.

The bruises on her ribs flared in the lamplight: handprints, bite marks, belt buckles: each one a pulse, a throb, a wet slap in the symphony of her pain.

I dragged the tempo lower, dirtier. Added a minor ninth that hung like a tongue on her clit, buzzing in her teeth. She dropped: thighs splaying wide, ass brushing the carpet, lace thong snapping tight, splitting her lips, the wet sound of fabric on slick skin audible over the piano.

Then she rose: one fluid wave, hair whipping, blonde silk lashing the bruises on her lower back, ends kissing the dimples above her ass like filthy prayers, tickling the sweat beading there.

Moonlight poured through the glass wall, licking her skin in silver tongues, glinting off the diamond belly ring, sparkling in the sweat rolling between her tits.

The piano growled: low, starving, vibrating the bench under my thighs, buzzing through my balls. She prowled closer: three steps, four, hips painting slow, pornographic circles, the scent of her flooding the air: jasmine, sweat, bourbon, need, thick enough to taste on my tongue.

Her hands slid down her body: over her tits, thumbs circling nipples through lace until they ached, pinching, twisting, wet with sweat, down the bruised plane of her stomach, fingers hooking the thong's waistband and tugging: once, twice, three times, flashing the glistening seam of her cunt, the slick shine of her arousal dripping down her inner thigh like molten glass.

I trilled: high, teasing, filthy, fingers blurring. She moaned: raw, guttural, lips parting, tongue touching her teeth, saliva glinting.

Then bent backward: spine folding like a stripper pole, hair spilling to the floor, tits bouncing free as the bra surrendered: one strap down, nipple exposed, dark, hard, begging, wet with sweat.

She rolled her hips to the rhythm of her bruises, turned every mark into sex, every scar into foreplay, the wet slap of her thighs echoing.

Closer.

She stopped inches from the piano. Leaned over the lid, palms slamming the lacquer, tits spilling forward, nipples brushing the keys: cold ivory, hot skin, wet lace, clinking like ice in a glass.

Her breath fogged the wood... hot, sweet, bourbon.

I played a glissando, down the keys, slow, deliberate. She gasped: hips jerking, thighs clenching, a bead of sweat rolling between her tits and dripping onto middle C, sizzling.

Then she straightened, turned, and straddled the bench, Facing me, thighs spread wide over my lap, lace thong soaked through, the wet heat of her cunt radiating through my jeans, scalding.

She didn't touch me.

Just hovered... inches from my cock, pulse thundering in her throat, bruises flaring with every breath, sweat beading on her upper lip.

I shifted to a blues lick; low, grinding, relentless, vibrating the bench. She rode the air above my lap: slow, deep, controlled, hips rolling like she was fucking me through my pants.

The lace dragged over the ridge of my cock: once, twice, three times: each grind a spark, a threat, a promise, wet sounds slapping the air. Her hands braced on my shoulders, nails carving crescents, drawing blood, hot and sharp.

Her tits bounced with every roll, bra fully down, nipples brushing my chest, hard, wet, electric.

The melody climbed higher, darker, filthier, vibrating the strings, the bench and her clit. She arched back, hair cascading, tits thrust high, lace thong snapping to the side: bare pussy, glistening, swollen, dripping onto the bench, pooling.

She ground down... once, hard, the slick heat of her coating my jeans, her clit dragging over the seam, swollen, throbbing.

A whimper tore from her throat; raw, desperate, mine, echoing off the glass.

I ended on a low F: held it, let it vibrate through the strings, through the bench, through her clit and through her soul.

She froze.

Chest heaving, sweat dripping. Lips parted, saliva glinting. Eyes locked on mine: ice-blue, molten.

The begging in her eyes wasn't for me to fuck her but save her!

The silence was deafening.

Then she leaned in, lips brushing my ear, voice wrecked, wet...

The final F minor note lingered in the air like a lover's last breath, vibrating through the piano strings and into the thick carpet, refusing to dissolve into silence.

Lila's whisper burned against my ear, hot and ragged, her voice cracked from the dance and the want: "Again. And this time… touch me."

I didn't speak. Words were useless now. My hands abandoned the ivory keys, fingers still humming with the ghost of the melody, and rose to her thighs with deliberate slowness.

The skin there was fever-hot, slick with the sheen of her exertion, and the bruises bloomed beneath my palms like dark roses pressed into silk.

I traced them gently at first, thumbs mapping the contours of pain and pleasure, feeling the heat pulse beneath the surface, the way her muscles twitched under my touch as if remembering every blow that had painted them.