Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 574

Chapter 574: Fear and Want (r-18)
For a long moment, she lay there, a boneless, sweat-drenched heap on the dusty floorboards, her bronze skin glistening like it had been oiled under the single bulb’s amber haze, every curve and hollow catching the light in slow, wet streaks.

My face was still painted with her, thick, creamy evidence cooling in tacky rivers across my cheeks, chin, and lips, the taste of her cunt so thick on my tongue that swallowing felt like drinking her all over again. The air was a humid, suffocating cloud of pure sex, raw, animal, her musk so heavy it clung to the back of my throat with every breath.

Then, slowly, she pushed herself up on trembling elbows, the movement languid, feline, every muscle in her back and shoulders rippling under the sheen of sweat that traced the delicate, sinful curve of her spine like liquid gold.

Her eyes–glazed, heavy-lidded, pupils blown so wide the irises were thin rings of molten brown–found mine. The feral dominance was gone. The commanding hauteur had evaporated. In its place was raw, primal awe, the look of a woman who had just been fucked by something divine and was still trying to process the miracle.

She looked at me not as prey she had conquered, but as a god she had been allowed to taste, her breath hitching in tiny, reverent gasps that made her flushed, mauled tits quiver with each inhale, nipples still bearing the angry red imprints of my fingers.

She crawled forward on hands and knees, not seductive, but reverent, like a supplicant approaching an altar she knew she was unworthy of, floorboards creaking under her weight, dust swirling in the lamplight like incense around a sacrifice.

Her fingers were still trembling from the orgasms I’d ripped out of her, nails chipped and bloody from clawing my scalp, found the hem of my shirt. Knuckles brushed the hard, sweat-slick plane of my stomach, and she actually whimpered at the contact, like touching me was a privilege she hadn’t earned.

And then she tore it.

The sound of expensive cotton shredding was a sharp, wet RRRRRIP that cracked through the room like a whip, fibers snapping like tiny bones. She yanked it apart with both hands, buttons exploding across the floor like gunfire, pinging off the peeling walls and disappearing into the shadows. She didn’t care.

Her only focus was the skin beneath.

The shirt fell away, and my torso was revealed–planed muscle, sharp ridges of abs contracting under her starving gaze, the thick slab of my chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, every inch of me still humming with the power that had just destroyed her.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” she breathed, voice a cracked, trembling whisper of pure worship, the word shaking on lips still swollen and shining with her own cum. Her eyes were wet, tears of awe gathering at the corners as she drank me in.

She leaned in, not to kiss, but to worship.

Her hands, no longer clawing but trembling with reverence, traced the deep lines of my abs, palms gliding over sweat-slick ridges, fingertips dipping into the valleys between each muscle like she was reading braille written by a god. Her touch was shaking, almost frightened, as if she was scared the muscle would vanish if she pressed too hard.

Then her mouth followed.

Her tongue was hot, wet velvet, a paintbrush of pure devotion, tracing the deep V that arrowed down from my hips, leaving glistening trails that cooled instantly in the stale air.

She pressed open-mouthed kisses along the hard ridges of my stomach, tasting the salt of my sweat mixed with her own slick still smeared across my skin, moaning low and constant, the vibration humming straight into my balls.

“So perfect,” she murmured against my skin, words hot and damp, breath fogging just above my navel. “You’re carved from fucking marble… my beautiful, perfect minor man…”

Her hands moved upward, splaying across my chest, thumbs brushing my nipples.

The touch sent a white-hot wire of pleasure straight to my cock, making it jerk and leak against my stomach. She noticed, a small, wicked, worshipful smile blooming on her cum-slick lips, and she did it again, harder, nails scraping over the sensitive peaks until they stood hard and aching.

She leaned in, capturing one nipple between her teeth, tongue swirling, sucking, biting down just hard enough to make me hiss, the sharp sting shooting straight to my balls and making my cock throb so hard a thick rope of precum spilled out and ran down the shaft.

She moaned at the taste of it on her lips when she switched to the other nipple, licking, sucking, biting, marking me like I’d marked her, her hands roaming, worshipping, memorizing every inch of the body that had just ruined her.

And through it all, her eyes never left mine, wide, wet, full of something that looked a lot like devotion, a lot like surrender, and a whole lot like the moment a predator realizes it’s become the prey.

Because she knew.

She knew the second she tasted my skin that the game had flipped.

And she was already begging for whatever came next.

She kissed my chest as if it were a sacred relic, her mouth and hands paying homage to every inch (lips sucking bruises into the muscle over my heart, tongue lapping at the hollow of my throat, fingers kneading the heavy slabs of my pecs until the skin flushed red), to the solid, thrumming power of my heartbeat against her lips.

Then, she began to move lower.

Her mouth blazed a trail down my stomach, her tongue leaving a glistening, cooling path in its wake, saliva mixing with my sweat to create a slick sheen that caught the light. She kissed and nipped at my hip bones, teeth scraping the sharp ridges, her hands gripping my thighs.

The muscle there was hard, dense–quads like coiled steel under her palms, and she squeezed, appreciating the raw power coiled in my legs, nails digging in until I felt the sting.

“Fuck, these thighs,” she growled, her voice thick with lust, vibrating against my skin. “I could cum just from watching you walk.”

She lowered her head, her tongue darting out to trace the lines of the muscle, teeth scraping lightly against my skin, leaving faint red trails. I could feel her warm breath through the denim of my jeans, a promise of what was to come, the heat seeping through the fabric to tease the root of my cock.

Her impatience was a palpable thing, a frantic energy crackling in the air. Her fingers fumbled with the heavy leather of my belt, the buckle groaning in protest (metal clinking, leather creaking) before the prong finally popped free with a sharp snap.

She didn’t bother with the button; she just yanked, the zipper screeching as she tore my jeans open, the teeth parting with a metallic hiss. She hooked her fingers into the waistband, pulling denim and boxers down in one rough, desperate motion, the fabric rasping over my hips, catching briefly on the swell of my ass before sliding down my thighs.

But she stopped before everything was revealed.

Her eyes, wide and dark, were locked on the monument straining against the thin fabric of my boxer briefs. It hadn’t just emerged; it had *unfurled*. Heavy and thick, it lay against my stomach, a pillar of enraged flesh arching up from a nest of dark curls, the weight of it making the cotton tent obscenely.

Thick, angry veins pulsed along its length–ridges like cables under the skin, mapping a roadmap of power and virility.

The fabric was stretched taut, transparent due to the copious precum that had already soaked through (a dark, spreading stain at the tip), outlining the broad, flared head in perfect, obscene detail (the slit weeping steadily, the ridge of the crown flaring wide enough to cast a shadow).

Reyna froze.

Her hands, which had been tearing at my clothes just moments before, now hovered, trembling inches away, knuckles white. A sharp, choked sound (half gasp, half shriek) escaped her lips, raw and animal.

She didn’t scramble back this time, but she recoiled slightly, her body language a chaotic mix of terror, disbelief, and a dark, thrilling hunger that was already starting to win the war against her fear, her thighs clenching involuntarily, a fresh bead of her own slick rolling down her inner thigh to splatter on the floor.

She stared at it, at the sheer, intimidating reality of what was hiding just beneath that last thin layer of cotton (the way it throbbed with each heartbeat, the fabric jumping slightly, the wet spot growing).

“Oh my god,” she whispered, the words a puff of air, barely audible over the wet thump of my pulse in my ears. “That’s… that’s not possible.”

She looked from the throbbing outline of my cock to my eyes and back again, her expression a kaleidoscope of shock (pupils dilated, lips parted, breath coming in shallow pants).

The woman who had just been grinding my face into her cunt, who had commanded me to drink her, was now looking at my cock like it was an ancient, slumbering beast she had just inadvertently awakened–a monster that could split her in half and make her beg for more. And in her eyes, I saw the truth.

She was terrified. And she had never wanted anything more in her entire life.