Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 126

Chapter 126: Scheduling Orgies is a Full-Time Job

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. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

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.

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

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

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.

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