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

Chapter 785: Emma’s First Crafter

Because Peter’s birth mother—some high-dollar escort who’d worked the LA elite circuit like a pro—had nuked Jack’s family before he even knew what a hard-on was.

The story Jack had stitched together from his parents’ hissed fights and his father’s vodka-soaked rants:

Richard Morrison had hired her for one night. One paid fuck. One bored rich-man transaction.

Except whatever magic that woman worked on him shattered something permanent. Rewired his cock. Left him limp for his own wife from that day forward. Psychological ED. No pills, no therapy, no nothing could fix it.

Patricia Morrison found out. Confronted him. Screamed for answers. Got none.

Their marriage turned into a tax write-off with rings still on. Separate bedrooms. Separate lives. His father retreated into silence and scotch. His mother weaponized her rage—turned it into a scalpel, carving her way to the top of the hospital admin ladder while quietly hating the woman who’d stolen her husband’s dick.

And when that escort died in childbirth?

The hate didn’t die with her. It crawled straight into her son.

Peter Carter became the walking scar on Morrison House’s pride. Living proof that some paid pussy had been better than the main wife—richer, hotter, more unforgettable—even with all the money, all the status.

And Jack turned it into his gospel.

If Peter had never been born, maybe Dad would still look at Mom the way he used to. Maybe the house wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. Maybe Dad wouldn’t be a cold, hate-fueled machine running the Morrison Empire.

So, Jack made Peter pay. Made it his art. His religion.

Started at ten. Peter was eight—skinny, thrift-store everything, eyes too big for his face. Jack and three buddies cornered him behind Miller’s Bike Shop. Pinned him down. Scooped dirt—actual fucking dirt—into his mouth. Held his jaw shut. Made him swallow.

Peter cried. Begged. Choked.

Jack felt godlike for the first time.

That was just the opening hymn.

At eleven: Winter. Thirty-eight degrees. Jack locked Peter in the school equipment shed overnight. No coat. No blanket. Just concrete and darkness. Peter almost got hypothermia—showed up the next day shaking so violently he couldn’t grip a pencil.

Principal asked what happened. Peter lied through chattering teeth: "Locked myself in by accident."

Because Jack had leaned in close the day before, breath hot against Peter’s ear:

"Snitch, and my mom fires yours tomorrow. She’ll make sure your whole family ends up on the street. You want that?"

Patricia Morrison ran Mercy General Hospital like her own personal kingdom—cold, efficient, and merciless.

One phone call from her, and careers vanished. Linda Carter was an ICU nurse there. One word from Jack, whispered in the right ear, and Linda’s license would be shredded, her name blacklisted from every hospital in the state. Peter knew it.

So he kept his mouth shut. Every single time.

Age twelve: Jack stole Peter’s bike—the shitty secondhand one Peter had scraped together for all summer mowing lawns, washing cars, doing whatever dirty jobs adults threw at him. Jack and his crew rode it to the edge of the river, laughed as they hurled it in, then filmed Peter’s face when he found out.

Watched him drop to his knees on the bank, sobbing like a kid half his age. Jack saved the video. Watched it sometimes when he needed to feel something.

Age thirteen: the rumors started. Jack seeded them like poison—whispered in hallways, texted in group chats, let them spread until they were truth.

Peter’s mom was a whore just like his birth mom. Peter was a pity case nobody really wanted around. His sisters weren’t even real family—they just felt sorry for the little bastard. He was adopted because his real parents saw the trash and threw him out.

The stories stuck. Became school legend. Kids who’d never spoken to Peter repeated them like scripture because Jack Morrison said it, and Morrisons didn’t lie.

Peter walked the halls hearing his own life rewritten as gossip. He never corrected anyone. Just kept his head down lower.

Age fourteen: the bathroom. Lunch period. Jack and three linemen dragged Peter into the locker-room bathroom. Forced his head into the toilet bowl. Flushed. Once. Water rushing over his face. Twice.

He fought, thrashed, tried to push up.

Three times. His struggles weakened. Four times. He went still. Just took it. Sobbing quietly between flushes, water dripping from his hair, dignity circling the drain with the piss and bleach.

That was the day Jack knew he’d broken something permanent.

Peter had stopped fighting.

Accepted the place Jack carved out for him: beneath. Always beneath.

Age fifteen: Big Bear camping trip. Jack and six friends got Peter alone in the woods after dark. Stripped him naked. Tied him to a pine with his own belt—wrists bound behind the trunk, ankles lashed.

Left him there.

Three hours. Forty-two degrees. Skin turning blue, teeth chattering so hard they sounded like dice in a cup. When they came back, Peter was shaking violently, tears frozen on his cheeks, begging in broken whispers.

So, Jack made him crawl. Thirty feet of dirt, pine needles, rocks biting into palms and knees. Naked. Exposed.

Made him bark like a dog. Made him say "thank you, Jack" for the lesson, voice cracking on every syllable.

Peter did it. All of it.

Because the alternative was Linda losing her job, the family losing the grandmother’s house, his sisters losing everything they’d fought to keep. Peter would eat any humiliation to keep them safe. That was his fatal flaw: he loved too fucking much.

Trash cans became Peter’s second address—Jack would shove him in headfirst during passing periods, slam the lid, sometimes padlock it. Lockers too: folded him up like origami, left him crammed inside for a full class while kids laughed outside.

Lunches stolen.

Homework shredded. Public humiliations engineered with surgical precision, hitting every weak point Jack had mapped over years.

Peter never swung back. Never yelled. Just took the hit, straightened his clothes, walked away quieter than before. Because Jack owned him.

Body and soul.

Then there was Emma. Pretty, innocent Emma Carter—one of the twins. Sixteen. Completely blind to how long Jack had fantasized about hurting her further than that time Peter had steeped in, just to watch Peter shatter.

Jack had crafted something even worse.

Sophomore year. Empty art hallway after school. Jack had cornered her against the lockers.

Pressed in close. Threatened to slide his hand up her thigh under her skirt. Whispered exactly what he’d do to her—graphic, filthy, violent—while she cried and trembled and begged him to stop.

Peter appeared like a ghost.

Jack would never forget the look on his face: shaking, fists clenched, eyes blazing with something new—rage, tears, maybe the first real ember of defiance. For one heartbeat, Jack thought Peter might actually throw a punch.

But Peter stepped between them instead.

Shielded her with his body again. Looked at Jack with that broken, desperate plea.

"Please," he whispered, voice cracking while he cried while his sister sobbed from behind him. "Not her. Me. Whatever you want. Just... not her." Jack laughed—hard, ugly, triumphant. Because Peter was offering himself up again.

Willing to take any beating, any degradation, any pain—as long as Emma stayed untouched.

That was the first time ever something like this happened to Emma, the other reason why Peter had lost it completely when Trent pulled the same thing on her and why Jack had watched how Peter beat Trent with terrified eyes, imagining himself in that exact position as Trent.

Jack had beat Peter senseless. Right there in the hallway. Fist to the nose—crunch. Knee to the ribs—crack. Boots stomping while Peter curled up, arms over his head, taking it all. Emma screamed. Tried to pull Jack off.

Peter just absorbed it.

Protected his head. Let Jack destroy him. Because that was Peter Carter: the martyr who’d bleed out for anyone he loved.

Jack hated him for it. Hated the weakness. The pathetic fucking nobility. The refusal to fight back even when every instinct screamed to. Jack had spent eight years carving that lesson into Peter’s bones: you’re nothing. You’ll always be nothing. The only reason you breathe is because I let you.

And Peter had believed it. Walked through Lincoln Heights High like a shadow—head down, shoulders hunched, shrinking himself smaller every year.

The perfect, obedient victim.

Until three months ago. Jack still didn’t know what the hell changed. One day Peter was the same crushed little bitch he’d always been.

The next? He was someone else entirely. Shoulders squared. Head high.

Eyes that didn’t drop—they pierced. Like he could see straight through your skin to the rot underneath and found it laughable. Voice sharper. Words cutting cleaner than any insult Jack had ever thrown.

Made people laugh with him, not at him. Even his body looked upgraded—same frame, but carried like it belonged to someone who knew exactly how dangerous he could be. Girls stared. Guys stepped aside.

Teachers straightened up when he spoke. In two weeks flat, Peter Carter—the former doormat, the charity-case ghost—was the center of every conversation at Lincoln Heights High.

The one everyone wanted near. The one everyone feared crossing.

Madison Torres claimed him first.

Madison fucking Torres. The richest girl in school. The one who’d rejected Jack’s advances sophomore year with a smile that said you’re not even close to my level. The trust fund princess who dated college guys and drove a BMW and lived in a mansion that made Jack’s house look middle-class.

She chose Peter.

Hung off his arm like he was a prize. Posted photos of them together on Instagram that got ten thousand likes in an hour. Made it clear to everyone: Peter Carter was hers, and if you had a problem with that, you had a problem with the Torres family fortune.

Then Sofia left.

Just—ended things. Told Jack it was over. No explanation. No apology. Just done.

And a week later, she was with Peter too.

Not officially. Not publicly. But Jack saw the way she looked at him. The way she smiled around him. The way she’d stopped flinching when someone touched her.

Peter had freed her. From Jack, from her father’s expectations, from the cage her whole life had become.