Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 462

Chapter 462: The Transition (R-18)

Her gasp cut through the charged air like breaking glass—sharp, involuntary, completely beyond her control.

Dominique’s hand shot out, gripping the edge of the chaise lounge as her body trembled with aftershocks she hadn’t earned through physical touch. Just presence. Just my abilities settling into the room like divine judgment, flooding her senses with that primal musk until her pussy clenched and wept in helpless surrender.

"The—" Her voice cracked, and she had to stop, breathe, try again. Professional composure shattered into a thousand pieces she couldn’t reassemble. "The women’s satisfaction test is over."

I smiled. Didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

Her chest heaved with post-climax quivering—thighs pressed together, skin flushed that beautiful crimson that meant complete surrender, eyes unfocused like she’d just witnessed something religious, her pussy still pulsing with phantom throbs, slick soaking through her panties in a shameful flood.

"You’ve passed--" she managed, voice still shaking. "Now there is... there is the light BDSM test that comes next."

I nodded, understanding immediately. The agency catered to different types of women—each preferred different kinds of satisfaction.

Some wanted gentle worship, others needed rough claiming, their pussies drenched at the mere thought of being bent and broken. Some craved light BDSM while others demanded intense scenarios that required contracts and safe words negotiated through lawyers.

The spectrum varied from one person to another, each client bringing their own desires, their own needs, their own particular brand of starvation—craving the sting of a whip on swollen lips, the bite of clamps on aching nipples, the stretch of a thick cock claiming every inch.

And some women—though Dominique didn’t mention this part—wanted to dominate men instead. Wanted to tie them up, use them, reverse the power dynamic entirely, milking their throbbing cocks until they begged, edging them to the brink while their own pussies ground down in triumphant release.

But the agency didn’t approve those tests during evaluation.

That came later, if ever, entirely dependent on whether the escort agreed to those tendencies when specific clients requested them. Personal boundary, personal choice. Meridian protected their escorts as much as their clients.

Right now, Dominique was going to test how good I could be with light BDSM.

How well I understood control, restraint, the delicate balance between pain and pleasure that some women needed to feel truly satisfied—the sharp slap on a dripping pussy, the teasing drag of silk over a hardened cock, the exquisite torment of denial until they shattered.

She tried standing—legs betraying her immediately, thighs slick with her own arousal.

Staggered forward two steps before I moved, catching her elbow with gentle grip that steadied her weight against mine, my hardening cock brushing her hip in a promise of what was to come.

"Merde," she breathed, half-laugh and half-disbelief. Leaned into my support without shame, letting me take her weight as we walked toward a door on the room’s far side I hadn’t noticed before, her breath hitching at the subtle grind of my erection against her.

"You are a beast. An absolute beast." Her accent thickened with emotion, French-Canadian pronunciation bleeding through professional English.

"How many women are going to fall for your claws, hmm? How many are going to walk into sessions thinking they can handle you, only to discover they were prey all along—their pussies stretched around your cock, screaming in ecstasy?"

I laughed—genuine sound that surprised even me. "You’re definitely part of that lot, Dominique."

She smiled, wide and unguarded, years of professional mask completely abandoned. "Oui. I am the first, non? The first to fall. But not the last. Never the last."

We reached the door, and she pressed her palm against a biometric scanner—same technology as the elevator, fingerprint recognition granting access to spaces most people would never see. The lock clicked open with mechanical precision, and she pushed the door inward.

The BDSM room opened before us like entering a different world entirely.

Where the main demonstration room had been soft luxury—plush bed, warm lighting, sensual comfort—this space breathed darker elegance, thick with the scent of leather and anticipation.

The walls were painted deep burgundy, almost black in certain light, with strategic accent lighting that created dramatic shadows, illuminating toys designed to tease and torment.

The floor was the same deep carpet, but here it seemed to absorb sound even more completely, creating a bubble of isolated privacy where moans would echo and cocks would throb unchecked.

Against the far wall stood a custom bondage frame—padded leather cuffs at four points, adjustable height and angle, built from polished dark wood that looked expensive as furniture rather than sex equipment, perfect for spreading a woman wide, exposing her dripping pussy to relentless worship.

Beside it, a cabinet with frosted glass doors that probably contained various implements—restraints, blindfolds, vibrators humming with promise, plugs to stretch and fill, floggers to sting and arouse—whatever tools light BDSM required to push a body to the edge, making pussies clench and cocks leak in desperate need.

I dragged a feather from the cabinet, trailed it up her spine. She shivered, gooseflesh racing. Then I flicked it across her exposed clit—light, teasing flicks that made her thighs quake and her pussy flutter open like a hungry mouth.

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