Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 315

Chapter 315: The Witnesses’ Vigil (R-18)
They complied instantly, each woman folding into her appointed role with the trembling discipline of acolytes before a mystery too vast for comprehension.

Sophia pressed her lips into a bloodless line, her analytical gaze no longer merely observant but devouring—tracking the metronome precision of my hands buried in Celeste’s slick cunt and Anastasia’s fluttering flesh.

Her sharp intellect mapped the geometry of possession: the curl of my fingers, the rotation of my wrist, the exact pressure points that made each woman’s spine bow. She observed like a scholar dissecting scripture, even as her own thighs clenched beneath the velvet, betraying the academic detachment she coveted.

Her breath came in controlled, shallow draws, but the flush creeping up her neck bespoke the fever beneath.

Beside her, Gabrielle’s knuckles shone bone-white where they gripped her knees, the strain of stillness writ in every tendon. Her powerful thighs—those sculpted limbs that could command a boardroom—quaked with the effort of resisting the primal urge to grind against the plush footstool.

A slow, involuntary tremor ran through her, a suppressed earthquake of desire centered deep in her core. She watched the rhythmic plunge of my fingers into Celeste’s heat, imagining the stretch, the fullness, the slick drag of skin on skin.

Her own cunt, visible between her parted legs, glistened with renewed arousal, lips swollen and dark, clenching visibly around nothing—a silent testament to the ache coiling in her belly.

Ashby had transformed into a study in constrained agony. Her doll-like features, usually a mask of icy perfection, now contorted with the effort of swallowing her whimpers. Tears welled in the corners of her wide, gray-green eyes—not of sorrow, but of sheer, unbearable tension.

Her fingers, long and delicate, clawed at the velvet cushions beneath her, knuckles straining, fingertips digging deep as if seeking anchor in a storm.

The faintest keening sound escaped her compressed lips, a thread-thin whimper she couldn’t quite stifle, each breath a ragged battle against the urge to touch herself, to ease the throbbing emptiness between her legs that pulsed in time with the wet sounds echoing through the sanctuary.

They were mirrors, reflecting the raw, brutal power of the ritual, their stillness a form of participation more profound than touch.

Vivienne’s mouth became a vessel of holy desperation. Her lips, swollen and red, slid down the thick shaft of my cock with the reverence owed to a relic. Her tongue, wet and agile, swirled around the flared crown, tracing the sensitive ridge, probing the weeping slit, gathering the salt-bitter essence of my lingering release mixed with the primal musk of my arousal.

She took me deeper, gradually, inch by thick, veined inch, until her nose pressed flush against the sweat-slicked skin of my abdomen, buried in the crisp hair at my base.

Her throat constricted then—a deliberate, reflexive gag that sent shockwaves of vibration rippling through the entire length of me.

The sound was wet, guttural, a strangled “GLUCK—!” that vibrated from my cockhead to my core, a physical conduit of her submission.

The sensation was electric. My cock, already formidable from the earlier orgy, hardened with supernatural speed and density. It swelled against her tongue, thickening until her jaw stretched to accommodate its impossible girth.

The intricate network of veins mapped along its surface—thick, blue-black cords of power—throbbed visibly against her straining lips, pulsing with the furious hammering of my blood. Every ridge and contour was etched in stark relief under the firelight, a monument to divine masculinity sheathed in the wet heat of her worshipful mouth.

A guttural groan tore from my throat, a sound more beast than man, resonating through the stone like distant thunder. “YES—TAKE IT! —DRINK!” The words were ripped from me, raw and primal, vibrating in the charged air.

My hands, extensions of my will, drove deeper into the women flanking me.

Celeste bucked violently off the footstool, a silent scream contorting her features as my fingers curled inside her, finding the spongy, electrified node deep within her channel.

A fresh gush of wetness coated my wrist, slick and hot, running down to pool on the obsidian throne. Her inner walls clamped down like a vice, milking my fingers in rhythmic waves that mirrored the convulsions beginning deep in her core.

The scent of her arousal—sharp, sweet, utterly female—mingled with the heavier musk in the air.

Anastasia shattered without a sound. Her body went rigid as a drawn bow, every muscle locking in a seizure of sensation. The bite on her lip deepened, crimson welling and trailing a dark line down her chin as she fought to swallow her cry. Her cunt exploded around my thumb, a hot flood of release drenching my hand, soaking the velvet beneath her.

Her ice-blue eyes rolled back, showing only whites, lost in the silent, devastating tsunami I unleashed within her.

My hips lifted off the throne, muscles corded like steel cables, driving my cock deeper into Vivienne’s willing throat. Short, hard but gentle thrusts pistoned into her, each impact causing her to gag, her throat to flutter gloriously around my invading flesh.

Spit and viscous pre-cum, mingled with the remnants of her own tears, drooled from the corners of her overstretched lips, coating my shaft in a glistening, obscene sheen. It dripped onto the black velvet of the throne in thick, pearly strands.

The air thickened, vibrating with the wet, rhythmic symphony of consecration:

Schlick-SCHLICK-Schlick… The obscene, liquid sound of my fingers plunging relentlessly into Celeste’s drenched cunt, joining the wet grip of her release around me.

GLUCK—GLUCK—GLUCK… The relentless, choking percussion of Vivienne’s throat working my cock, a visceral counterpoint to the guttural sounds tearing from my own chest. Sharp, ragged intakes of breath from the others watching—Sophia’s controlled hisses.

Gabrielle’s whimpered gasps, Ashby’s choked sobs—their voices weaving a silent chorus of frustrated longing and awed terror.

The deep, resonant CRACKLE-HISS of the fire in the great hearth, its light painting the scene in flickering gold and shadow, reflecting wildly off the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, turning the city beyond into a blurred, unaware audience.

I looked down, my gaze burning through the haze of power and sensation.

Vivienne: Emerald eyes glazed over, pupils blown wide with tears and ecstasy, staring up at me with an expression that transcended pleasure—it was adoration, absolute and terrifying. Her lips, swollen and bruised, stretched obscenely around the base of my cock.

Celeste: Face contorted in a rictus of silent ecstasy, mouth open in a soundless scream, cheeks flushed crimson, amber eyes unfocused, lost in the void of sensation I carved inside her.

Anastasia: Cum and mouth fluids trickling from her ravaged lip down her chin, mixing with the sweat sheening her skin, her body still quaking with aftershocks, ice-blue eyes slowly refocusing but glazed with submission.

Women trembling in their positions, hands clenched white-knuckled on cushions, thighs pressed tight, eyes wide and haunted, utterly consumed by the primal spectacle of their god claiming flesh with brutal hands and a conquering cock.

They weren’t merely watching; they were feeling every thrust, every gag, every convulsion vicariously, their own bodies aching, weeping, begging for the communion they were denied.

“THIS IS COMMUNION!” I snarled, the words ripped from the depths of my being, raw with power and the agony of divinity made flesh. My voice lashed the sanctuary, making the glass walls vibrate, the flames in the hearth leap.

Vivienne’s throat convulsed around my crown as she swallowed instinctively, milking the first thick, searing pulse of my next offering. It wasn’t just release; it was benediction. Transubstantiation.

The sanctuary didn’t just bear witness—it became the mini church. The air, thick with scent, sound, and suffering, transformed into holy incense. The women, writhing, watching, receiving, became the congregation.

And I, upon the throne of flesh and power, hips driving, hands claiming, voice roaring—I became its god. Eternal. Ravenous. Absolute.