Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 789

Chapter 789: Light in Darkness of Hell

Trent couldn’t breathe. Jorge’s grip tightened, cutting off air, vision tunneling black at the edges.

"They become our slaves," Jorge said. "They clean what we tell them to clean. They give us what we tell them to give us. They bend when we say bend. And if they refuse?"

He released. Trent sucked in air in ragged, wheezing gasps, coughing blood flecks onto the sheet. "If they refuse, we make them wish they’d cooperated. And we take our time doing it."

Jorge climbed back up. Settled in like nothing had happened. "Now clean the toilet," he said. "With your toothbrush."

Trent stared up at the slats. "What?"

"You heard me. Clean the fucking toilet. With your fucking toothbrush. And when you’re done, that’s the toothbrush you use every morning for the rest of your sentence."

Trent’s stomach lurched. "I can’t—"

"You can," Jorge said, calm as death. "Or I’ll hold your head in that toilet with my shit in it and flush until you drown in my precious shit. Your choice."

Trent looked at the toilet—stained, reeking, crusted with years of neglect. Looked at his toothbrush on the sink. Looked at Jorge’s eyes, which promised he wasn’t bluffing and would enjoy every second of making good on the threat. He cleaned the toilet. With his toothbrush. Scrubbed until the bristles turned brown-black, until his hands shook and bile burned the back of his throat.

And the next morning, when he brushed his teeth, he tasted shit, bleach, and the sour tang of his own complete surrender.

The showers were where the real education continued. Trent had learned the rules fast: never shower during peak hours, never shower alone, never shower at all if you could stink through it. But hygiene checks were mandatory.

Guards dragged you in if you tried to skip.

One day days ago he’d gone to shower.

He waited until late—lights dim, block mostly quiet, only a handful of men still under the sprays. He stepped in, back to the wall, head down, soap in hand, moving fast.

The water turned ice-cold. Instantly. Like someone had flipped a valve to punish. Trent yelped, jumped back, skin prickling into gooseflesh. Laughter bounced off the wet tiles—deep, cruel, echoing.

"What’s wrong, cho-mo?" a voice called. "Don’t like cold showers? Those girls you blackmailed probably didn’t like your dick pics either much less that disgusting shit inside them."

The water stayed frozen. Five minutes. Ten. His lips turned blue. Teeth chattered so hard they hurt. Muscles locked up in painful cramps. Guards stood in the doorway. Watching. One held his phone up, recording the whole thing—Trent shivering, naked, pathetic, trying to cover himself while the cold drilled into his bones.

When the water finally thawed to lukewarm, Trent’s fingers were numb sausages. He fumbled for soap, rushed to wash before— Hands grabbed him from behind. Slammed him face-first into the tile.

Arms wrenched back. Knees forced apart.

Pain exploded—white-hot, violating, everywhere at once. He tried to scream. A palm clamped over his mouth, muffling it into wet grunts.

"This is what you did to those girls," a voice hissed in his ear, low and venomous. "Made them feel powerless. Violated. Terrified. They begged you to stop. You didn’t. Now you get to feel it."

They took turns. Rough. Deliberate. No rush. When they finished, they left him crumpled on the wet floor, bleeding from splits in his scalp and worse places, sobbing into the drain. Guards arrived eventually—ten minutes, maybe twenty, hard to tell through the haze of pain.

They filed the report: Inmate slipped in shower. Sustained injuries from fall.

Nobody believed it. Nobody cared enough to question it.

Warden Blackwell visited him in the infirmary three days later. Trent lay bandaged, stitched, doped on whatever painkillers they bothered to give him. Jaw wired. Ribs taped. Body a map of bruises that hadn’t even started to yellow. Blackwell pulled up a chair.

Smiled like they were old friends catching up.

"Mr. Holloway," he said pleasantly. "I hear you’re having a difficult adjustment period." Trent tried to speak. Came out as garbled moans through the wires.

Blackwell leaned forward. "Let me make something crystal clear. I received a very generous donation recently. One hundred thousand dollars—cash, untraceable—with very specific instructions regarding your care."

He paused, letting it sink in.

"Those instructions were simple: Make sure he experiences hell every single day of his sentence. Make sure he understands what he did to those girls. Make sure he pays for it in ways the courts could never touch."

"So, here’s what’s going to happen," Blackwell continued, voice soft and almost kind. "You stay in general population. No transfers. No protective custody. No early release. No mercy. Every beating, every humiliation, every violation those men deliver? That’s justice. That’s those girls getting their revenge through every fist, every boot, every moment of terror and shame you endure. And if you die?"

"And remember—those girls are still out there. Living. Healing. Laughing. While you rot. Every time you bleed, every time you break, think of them. That’s the soundtrack you get to live with for the rest of your life."

Jorge made Trent his property. That’s what inmates did to child predators in Cell Block D—they didn’t just beat them; they owned them.

Became the cho-mo.

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