Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Di*k Contest?

"So, if we were, like, cosmically doomed to be opposites in literally everything, and I happened to be—let’s say, generously equipped in a certain department—then it only made sense, mathematically speaking, that Jack Morrison had to be coming up short. Like, real short. It’s science. Conservation of dick energy or whatever.

"The universe couldn’t just let one guy have all the looks, muscles, charm, and a nuclear football scholarship and still be packing? Hell no. That’s not balance. That’s a divine glitch. And I mean, if I’ve got a huge dick—and I’m saying I do—then yeah, Jack’s swinging a sad little USB drive down there. The numbers just add up."

What I didn’t realize—until I heard the fucking explosion of laughter around me—was that my voice had apparently been climbing the decibel ladder the entire time I was spewing this cosmic penis theory.

Like some lunatic giving a TED Talk on genital equilibrium.

Tommy was just staring at me, mouth slightly open, ’eyes all bro, what the actual fuck.’ And then I noticed it—phones. Everywhere. People were turning in their chairs, screens up, cameras out, a whole goddamn Best Buy showroom aiming at me.

Because of course they were.

God forbid I have a private moment of catastrophic idiocy.

"Dude," Tommy whispered, like I had time to course-correct, "everyone just heard—"

"HOLY SHIT, DID HE JUST SAY HE HAS A HUGE DICK?"

Connor fucking Hayes. Three rows back. Phone held up like he was filming an indie doc called ’The Rise and Fall of Peter Carter: A Tragedy in 4K.’ He was one of those fake friends who’d help you move a couch and then sell your nudes for a Red Bull sponsorship. A person who’d sell his own grandmother for fifteen minutes of social media fame.

Real ride-or-die loyalty there.

The moment he opened his mouth, it was over.

The class just detonated. People were howling. I saw a girl crying from laughing too hard.

Phones popped up faster than zits before prom. It was like being swarmed by a bunch of TikTok hyenas, and of course Mr. Peterson was still up at the board with his back turned, writing "RELATIONAL DATABASE STRUCTURES" like we weren’t descending into digital hell behind him.

"Oh my God, he actually said it!"

"This is going straight to TikTok!"

"Tag Jack Morrison right now, bro!"

I sat there, frozen, watching Connor’s chubby little goblin fingers fly across his screen. I watched the moment get turned into content in real time. Class group chat—blowing up. Then Snapchat. Then Instagram. Probably even Pinterest.

Connor was like a goddamn octopus, posting to six platforms at once with the same dumbass caption: "@PeterBigDickEnergy 🪦💀"

Sofia and Lea were both staring at me now—and not in the oh, maybe he’s kinda cute way. No. Sofia looked like she wanted to melt into the floor tiles, like she was reevaluating every life choice that led her to be dating Jack Morrison, now that my imaginary dick had entered the group chat.

Lea, on the other hand, was watching me like she was collecting psychological data for a research paper called "Public Humiliation and the Teenage Male Ego."

"David," Tommy said, super slow like I’d just had a stroke, "you might wanna check your phone."

Connor: YOOOO Peter just said he’s got a massive dong and Jack Morrison’s working with a cocktail sausage 😂

Madison: THERE’S NO WAY HE ACTUALLY SAID THAT 😭

Kyle: Bro’s dead meat

Ashley: RIP Peter 💀

Brandon: Jack’s gonna beat him into next week lmao

"CARTER!"

He roared it. I swear to God, satellites probably heard it. Conversations died. Chairs stopped creaking. I think even the PC fans in the room slowed down in fear.

Mr. Peterson finally turned around like, huh?, totally clueless that a minor homicide was about to go down in his computer lab, "Mr. Morrison, you’re not supposed to be—"

"Where is he?" Jack growled, scanning the room like a heat-seeking missile, and when our eyes met, I swear my soul tried to eject itself from my body. Like, Nope. Not today. Good luck, asshole.

I should’ve run. Every cell in my body was yelling at me to move. But my legs? My loyal little bastards decided now was the perfect time to forget how knees work. I just sat there, deer-in-headlights style, staring at the incoming storm like I had beef with gravity itself.

"Jack, listen, I can explain—" I managed to stammer.

But no, Jack wasn’t in the mood for explanations. He didn’t care about my dumbass theories on the cosmic redistribution of penis privilege. His fist flew faster than my brain could register.

It came out of nowhere. Well—not nowhere. It came from him. From the meaty hand of an angry, muscle-bound quarterback with emotional damage and no chill. And it hit me hard, right on the side of the head. Made a sound like someone teeing off with a Louisville Slugger into a watermelon. Everything spun.

I had just enough time to think, ’Huh, this is new,’ before the lights went out.

And the last thing I heard? Tommy, standing over my collapsed body like a discount Greek chorus, muttering, "Yep. He’s definitely dead now."

Thanks for the eulogy, bro. Real touching.