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

Chapter 774: Margaret in Closet 2 (r-18)

She spread herself wider, fingers pulling her lips apart until the pink inside glistened like wet silk, her hole winking, begging.

"Come eat me. Please. Eat my pussy until I come all over your face. Drink me. Swallow every drop like Amanda says you do. Make me forget everything except your mouth."

Her fingers moved faster now—desperate, sloppy, wet sounds filling the closet, her hips bucking, ass clenching, tits bouncing with every thrust.

I chuckled—low, dark, dangerous.

Then I moved.

Not to her front. Behind her.

I circled the couch like a predator, letting her feel me in the air before I touched her. She whimpered, fingers still fucking herself, but her head turned, trying to follow me.

I stopped behind her. Close. Close enough that my breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. Close enough that she could feel the heat of my body without contact.

My hands settled on her shoulders—light, deliberate. She jerked, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat.

I traced the line of her collarbone with my thumbs—slow, worshipful—feeling the first electric tremor ripple through her bare skin the instant I made contact. Her flesh was fever-hot, silk-smooth, and alive in a way that stole my breath: the delicate ridge of bone rising under my touch like it was begging to be mapped, the fine layer of sweat already gathering in the hollows making my thumbs glide with obscene ease. Every tiny shiver that chased my pressure told me she felt it too—the shock of skin on skin after so long without, the raw intimacy of bare contact that hit harder than any kiss.

Down the soft slope of her upper arms my hands drifted, palms flattening to drink in the warmth radiating from her. The first real press of my fingertips against the tender inner curve of her biceps made her gasp—sharp, involuntary—her skin prickling instantly into a field of goosebumps that marched in perfect waves beneath my touch. Nails grazed next—just the lightest scrape, barely there—and she arched like I’d struck a live wire, the fine golden hairs on her arms standing on end, every pore tightening in greedy response.

"Peter—" Her moan shattered out, cracked and needy, vibrating against my chest where she pressed closer.

I let my fingers wander across the tops of her shoulders—broad, warm planes of skin that quivered under the slow drag of my palms.

The texture shifted here: softer, more vulnerable, the faint dusting of freckles I’d only ever seen in stolen daylight now flushed dark rose from the heat pouring off her.

Down the outer curve of her arms, I went—never rushing, never giving her the ache she was dying for—feeling the subtle play of muscle beneath satin skin, the way each inch seemed to melt and tighten at once, like her body couldn’t decide whether to flee or beg for more.

Her skin was fire under my hands—sweat-slick and trembling, so sensitive that even the whisper of my breath across her collarbone made fresh goosebumps bloom in a slow, rippling tide from throat to wrists.

I traced the bruises on her upper arms—old lavender shadows overlapping newer plum ones—pressing just hard enough to reignite the faint ache there. She whimpered instantly, high and broken, her hips jerking forward so her soaked cunt ground against her own fingers still buried inside.

The clench was visible: inner walls fluttering around her knuckles, a fresh bead of slick welling up and sliding down her wrist in a slow, shining trail.

Every place I touched felt like revelation. The dip at the base of her throat—velvet-soft, pulsing with her frantic heartbeat—made her swallow hard when my thumb circled it. The slope where neck met shoulder—silky, fragile—made her head tip sideways in helpless offering.

The tender undersides of her arms—hidden, untouched skin that had never known this much deliberate worship—sent shivers cascading down her spine until her whole body quaked against mine.

She was burning alive under my hands, every inch of bare skin answering me with heat, tremor, and desperate little sounds that said she’d waited lifetimes for this first full-body contact.

And I was only just beginning to learn her by touch alone.

Pheromones unleashed—slow, deliberate, invisible. The air thickened, sweetened, heavy with lust that wasn’t just hers anymore. Her moans turned deeper, throatier, hips rolling harder, fingers fucking herself with renewed desperation.

I leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You want my mouth on that pretty cunt, Margaret?" My voice was rough, filthy, hers. "You me to tongue-fuck you until you squirt down my throat like the dirty fucking mother you are?"

She sobbed, nodding frantically, fingers slamming in and out of her pussy with wet, obscene sounds.

I traced her spine—slow, deliberate, every vertebra a note in a song only I could play. Down to the perfect bridge of her lower back. To the dimples above her ass. Squeezed the flesh there—hard, claiming—but never lower.

Her ass clenched, jiggled, begged.

I moved to her sides, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the soft skin just above her hips, the places that made her gasp gasp and arch. Each touch was electric, deliberate, torture.

Her moans were constant now—broken, desperate, filthy.

"Please—touch me—touch my tits—my pussy—please—"

I didn’t.

I traced the underside of her arms, the soft skin of her inner elbows, the curve of her neck, the hollow behind her ear—everywhere except where she burned for it my Touch making her moan more and more.

She was crying now, tears of frustration, need, love, her pussy gushing around her fingers, squirting in hot, helpless pulses that soaked her hand, the couch, the floor.

I leaned in, lips brushing her ear again.

"Not yet, Margaret."

"You’ll come when I decide."

"And when you do, you’ll come screaming my name."

She sobbed, body shaking, begging, mine to ruin, to teach what desperate pleasure felt like after years of, or never was, without real pleasure.

She was praying to me.

And I was not a merciful god tonight.

Her sob cracked the silence. "Peter... please..."

I tilted my head, slow, deliberate. My voice, when it came, was quiet enough to flay skin.

"Address me properly, Margaret."

Her entire body jerked as if I’d struck her. The fingers inside her stilled. A fresh rush of slick poured over her hand at the command, shame and lust braided so tight she couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

"I—I’m sorry," she stammered, voice small, cracked open. "Please... sir."

"Louder."

Her chest hitched. "Please, sir. Goddamit... Mhhmm~"

Still, I did not.

Her thighs shook harder; the tendons in her groin stood out like cables ready to snap. She was holding herself open so wide it had to burn, four fingers peeling her cunt apart like petals around a wound, exposing the raw, pulsing pink that belonged to me now.

"Again," I said, colder. "And tell me who you belong to."

A broken cry. "Please, sir... I belong to you. My cunt will belong to you, if you dare claim it. My mouth. My tits. Every hole, every breath, every fucking heartbeat. Please, sir, I’m begging you—"

I took one step forward.

The air changed, thickened, grew teeth. The pheromones rolled off me in a deliberate wave, no longer subtle, now a blunt, invisible force that slammed into her like a fist. Her back arched involuntarily, nipples tightening to the point of pain, clit jerking so hard it looked like it hurt.

She started crying in earnest, ugly, snotty sobs that only made her more beautiful.

I circled her slowly, predator and priest both, letting the mirrors show her what she was: a grown woman, a wife, a mother, an aunt, stripped bare and kneeling (metaphorically and soon literally) at the feet of her sister’s son.

When I finally stopped behind her, I let the silence fester again.

Then I spoke against the shell of her ear, so low only she and the devil could hear.

"You don’t get to come until I’ve decided you’ve earned it. You don’t get my mouth until you’ve proven you remember exactly who owns this body. You don’t get to breathe without my permission tonight."

I placed one finger, just one, at the top of her spine.

And dragged it down.

Slowly.

One vertebra at a time.

She screamed without sound, mouth open, eyes rolled back, pussy spasming so hard her fingers were forced out with a wet pop, another helpless jet of slick arcing across the mirror in front of her.

I didn’t stop at the base of her spine. I kept going, tracing the cleft of her ass, stopping a millimeter short of her soaked, fluttering hole.

She tried to push back, to chase even that single finger.

I pulled away entirely.