Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 196

Chapter 196: Date with Sofia: No Rest for the Wicked

Seven hours. Seven fucking hours of pure conquest left the Voyeur Wellness Center looking less like a spa and more like the aftermath of a Greek tragedy written by a sex addict. Victoria’s nail marks were carved into the marble walls like hieroglyphics. The sauna benches bore Anya’s silhouette, wood fibers crying assault.

And the pool?

Yeah, the chemical balance was officially fucked, probably registering more fluids than chlorine thanks to Ortega.

Previous Balance: 60,000 SP

Today’s Carnage? 6,305 SP from extended domination.

My Eros form was still hungry. Still prowling. After seven hours of turning three professional women into overstimulated junkies, I felt like I could walk into a sorority mixer and knock down the entire Greek alphabet without breaking a sweat. This wasn’t human anymore. This wasn’t sex. This was divinity wrapped in flesh.

Not close to a god. I AM becoming one. The God of Ruin. The Destroyer of Marriages. The One Who Makes Wives Forget Their Vows.

But gods don’t get freebies—they pay their dues. Mine came with interest the second I shifted back into mortal form.

Madison had bailed around hour three, her limit hit after watching me systematically dismantle the professional class. Her parting gift? A text dripping with dark amusement: "Building your empire one orgasm at a time. Don’t forget who your queen is, Destroyer."

I ducked into ARIA’s pre-cleared alley and let the transformation rip through me. The second Peter Carter’s pathetic flesh returned, the cosmic bill landed.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

My legs buckled. Seven hours of supernatural fucking crashed into my mortal nervous system like a tsunami through a cardboard shack. Pain everywhere. Nerves screaming. Spine folding. But through it? I was laughing.

Because gods laugh at the invoice.

[DING! Divine Mission Unlocked: Perfect Liberation][Target: Your pathetic rival Jack Morrison requires a proper father figure.][Additional Targets: His mother Patricia—sexually starved for YEARS. His girlfriend Sofia—already dreading a lifetime sentence of mediocre dick.]

[Mission Rewards Preview:]

Title: "Daddy" – Your presence becomes a gravitational field for daddy’s girls. They orbit you. Safe yet corrupted. Every glance, every word—pure addiction.

Halo: "Motherfucker Halo" – You radiate primal security. MILFs, mothers, matrons—defenses gone. You’re the man they’ll trust to protect their kids... and the man who’ll set fire to their homes after tucking them in.

This mission came the second Sofia walked in on Luna convulsing on my cock, her orgasm practically shaking the building.

"ARIA, get me a fucking Uber."

"Two minutes, Master," she said, like it was foreplay. "Shall I also verify the managers you left catatonic are still breathing?"

"Breathing’s all they need. Anything past that isn’t in my job description."

The coffee shop on Fifth tried too hard to matter—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, baristas who thought a latte came with a philosophy minor. Sofia had chosen a corner table, back to the wall, eyes on the door. Strategic. Clever. But clever only delays the inevitable.

Sofia sat on the velvet chair like sin itself had carved a throne—her body a weapon forged in temptation. The white dress was blasphemy made fabric: soaked-tight it clung like a second skin, transparent in its greed for her contours. Every curve screamed: Fuck me. Destroy me. Worship me.

Her breasts strained the lace bodice—full, heavy, straining against the delicate fabric like caged beasts. Cleavage plunged deep, against the lace. With every breath, the lace stretched, thinned, one thread away from surrendering to the weight beneath.

Her hips flared from a wasp-narrow waist—a generous, deadly swell that screamed childbearing and ride-me in the same gasp. The dress dug into her flesh where it met her thighs, pouting creases forming like wet promises.

Below, her ass poured over the chair’s edge—perky, round, impossibly firm—cheeks spilling slightly under the dress’s tension, molding the fabric into a second skin over every dimple and curve.

Her hair was a riot of midnight curls—wild, untamed, deliberately chaotic. Tresses fell over one shoulder, brushing the slope of her breast, teasing the lace edge. It smelled like jasmine and sin—dark, sweet, thick enough to choke on.

Her face—fuck, her face—was a fallen angel’s nightmare:

Eyes were liquid gold, ringed in kohl so deep it looked bruised. They held you—sharp, knowing, maturity and starvation that I have come to learn in most women—seeing every dirty thought you’d ever had and daring you to act. Lips were bee-stung, painted blood-red, slightly parted.

Moisture clung to the lower lip—glistening, wet—like she’d just tasted something obscene.

Sofia had a straight nose, aristocratic even , a blade slashed between sinful cheekbones high enough to cut glass with a porcelain-pale skin, luminous against the dark curls and crimson lips. A single beauty mark dotted just left of her chin—a target for teeth or tongues.

She looked up as I entered. The dress shifted, lace whispering against her skin. Cleavage deepened. Hips rolled slightly against the velvet. Her gold eyes locked onto mine, and a smirk touched her blood-red lips—a slow, venomous curve that promised ruination.

She dressed for war disguised as peace talks.

"Peter," she said, voice steady, fingers betraying her by fidgeting with her phone.

I slid into the seat across from her, slow and deliberate, every movement calculated despite muscles that screamed mutiny. "Sofia. You look..."

"Why? Because I’m saying what you’ve been rehearsing in your head? Because every time Jack fumbles inside you, you remember what real pleasure looked like?"

"I know he’s never made you forget your own name. Never made your legs shake so hard you thought you might die. He’s a quarterback—he throws passes. I rewrite scripture."

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