Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 965

Chapter 965: MVPs of my Origin Story.

So yeah. By every moral metric humanity pretends to care about, I’m the villain.

Let’s be brutally honest for once: I had become so disgustingly fluent in the language of instant claiming that "real dating" now sounded like something anthropologists study in crumbling villages—like courtship rituals involving carved wooden dildos and three months of goat-herding before you’re allowed to touch a boob.

Archaic. Adorable. Irrelevant.

Normal people date. They text. They endure awkward small talk about "what do your parents do?" and "favorite Netflix show right now?"

They suffer through three to eight progressively worse dinners before deciding whether the sex is worth another human’s emotional baggage.

Me? I skip the foreplay of civilization and go straight to rewriting her central nervous system with my dick. Same-day acquisition. Zero to "you belong to me" in the time it takes most men to decide which filter makes their Tinder selfie look least like a mugshot.

Was I really that good?

No.

I am the best!

No one could hold a candle.

No one else on the planet could pull this off with the same conversion rate, the same day-one shatter-and-rebuild efficiency.

And spare me the "they must be easy" cope.

That’s just jealous men trying to comfort their shrinking egos by pretending the women were defective instead of admitting their own game was stuck on tutorial mode.

It was never about the women being easy.

It was about the men being tragic.

And it had nothing to do with my women being easy or whatever convenient label people wanted to slap on.

Not theirs. Never theirs.

It was me. My abilities. My cock. And yes—their men’s problems.

The husbands, the boyfriends, the fiancés—they were the real MVPs of my origin story.

They stopped trying somewhere around year three. They confused paying the mortgage with foreplay.

It was always the men who came before me.

They treated their wives like high-end kitchen appliances: expensive, rarely used, occasionally wiped down, never worshipped. They provided financially and then acted shocked when the woman upstairs was emotionally malnourished in a five-bedroom house full of unused square footage and unused orgasms.

I wasn’t stealing.

I was famine relief with better branding.

With one last long, guttural groan that probably registered on nearby seismographs, I came inside her—deep, claiming, final.

She shattered with me: back arched like she was trying to escape her own spine, thighs quivering, whole body spasming in that beautiful post-orgasmic seizure that only happens when someone finally remembers where the clit actually lives.

Then we kissed.

Slow.

Lazy.

Like the rest of the planet had politely fucked off for ten minutes.

Fuck, she tasted so good.

She tasted like champagne, bad decisions, and the faint aftertaste of someone else’s wedding vows. Delicious.

One might wonder what happens now between me and her.

So... what now?

Not sure... hard to say, buddy.

What I did know, right there in the sticky afterglow, was that she already belonged to me. Maybe not on paper. Might not even accept to be part of me tonight. Maybe not even next week. But inevitability has a smell, and it was all over both of us.

Patt—the one Hollywood exception who negotiated terms like she was signing a record deal instead of surrendering her monogamy clause. We agreed to "try dating first." As if...

—see how far we’d go. I already knew the ending credits. Obviously... he’d end up in the harem eventually—my woman.

Patt was different. She knew she wouldn’t be able to feel alive without me —because once you’ve had 36K ultra-HDR sex, the thought of going back to 480p standard-definition dicks feels like punishment—but that didn’t mean she’d jump headfirst into my world and leave everything behind.

It gave me the illusion of normalcy.

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