Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 20: Her Tongue and Mouth 1(R-18)

Madison’s hand slid down my stomach in slow motion, like she was conducting so kind of scientific expedition across uncharted territory. Each touch set off tiny explosions under my skin that would have made Fourth of July fireworks look like a fucking tea light.

She treated this like a National Geographic docuntary: ’Here we observe the virgin nerd in his natural habitat, about to be absolutely destroyed by a trust fund princess,’ I thought as she reached the waistband of my jeans.

When she reached my jeans, she paused—eyes locked on mine with the intensity of soone about to discover whether Atlantis was real.

"You know I’ve been dying to see what you’re packing," she said, voice low and full of curiosity mixed with sothing that sounded dangerously like predatory hunger.

Great, so this really was just a fact-finding mission. Madison Torres: Sexual Mythbuster, I realized, but my brain short-circuited when she popped the button open.

The zipper ca down with sounds that seed impossibly loud in the quiet room, each tooth separating like it was announcing the main event at Madison Square Garden. I swore the zipper sounded like it was providing comntary for my lower half’s debut performance.

But she didn’t go straight for the main attraction like so kind of amateur.

Her hand hovered just above the waistband of my boxers, and she smirked with the confidence of soone who had done this enough tis to have a fucking technique. "So, this is the last layer, huh?" she whispered like she was unwrapping the world’s most interesting Christmas present. "Let’s see what all the hype’s about."

She pald through the fabric first—just her hand pressing lightly—and I flinched like I’d been electrocuted. Not from pain, but from how good it felt when an actual human being who wasn’t touched my dick. Her touch was soft but sure, and my body reacted before my brain could catch up to the fact that this was actually happening.

Madison froze like soone had just paused her Netflix show.

"...Holy shit," she breathed, staring down like she just discovered buried treasure or stumbled onto the secret to cold fusion. Her hand cupped again, firr this ti, like she was conducting quality control. "You’re... still growing?"

Her voice cracked on the last word like she was going through puberty in reverse.

She sounded genuinely shocked. Madison Torres, who probably had more experience than a porn star’s stunt double, was actually surprised by my equipnt, I thought, feeling a surge of pride that could probably power a small city.

I didn’t answer—I literally couldn’t. My brain had officially clocked out for the day, and my entire nervous system was operating like a live electrical wire that soone dropped in a bathtub.

She pulled her hand back slowly and just stared like she was witnessing a dical miracle. "That’s not a dick," she said with the reverence of soone discovering a new species. "That’s a goddamn mythical creature."

I almost choked on my own saliva because Madison just compared my junk to a fucking unicorn.

She gulped. Actually, gulped like she was in a cartoon. I watched her throat bob like she was trying to swallow her own disbelief.

Madison—the sa girl who once told Jack Morrison to ’try again when your DICK’s bigger than your ego’—was currently staring at mine like it just rewrote her entire understanding of male anatomy, I thought, trying not to pass out from the absurdity of this situation.

"You weren’t lying," she murmured, eyes wide like she was watching aliens land in her backyard and offer her a ride to Jupiter. "You really weren’t fucking lying."

Her fingers twitched like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to touch it or start a religion worshipping it.

She leaned in close, her breath brushing against even through the boxers, and it felt like warm electricity. "How the hell did you hide this monster in those baggy-ass jeans? What are you, a magician?"

I let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a dying animal. "Monster? Really?"

She nodded with the solemnity of soone delivering a dical diagnosis. "You don’t na sothing like this. You give it its own ZIP code and maybe a small governnt subsidy."

She treated my dick like it was a natural landmark that deserved historic preservation status, I thought as she slid her fingers into the waistband of my boxers.

"Lift up."

I did, and she peeled them down with the deliberate slowness of soone unwrapping the Mona Lisa.

The second I was exposed, the air hit like ice and fire had a baby and decided to torture specifically—sharp cold licking at the heat surging through veins that felt way too sensitive for this dinsion. And there it was: thick, veiny, impossibly hard, jutting upward like it had structural ambitions and no understanding of sha.

My cock looked like it was forged for sin of lust itself—heavy, pulsing, flushed dark at the tip like it already knew the kind of damage it was about to cause.

Her eyes tracked every inch as I was revealed, like she was morizing details for a scientific journal titled "Holy Shit, This Actually Exists."

And when she saw everything, she actually gasped like soone just told her Santa Claus was real and he was standing in her bedroom.

Her pupils dilated like she was on so kind of drug. Her lips parted. And there was a quite little "oh my God" that slipped out so softly I almost missed it, but it sounded like a prayer to the deity of impressive genitalia.

"Jesus Christ, Peter," she said, voice sowhere between a whisper and a religious experience. "You’re not a virgin. You’re a fucking weapon of mass seduction."

Madison Torres just called my dick a WMD. This could not be real life, I thought as she stared like she was trying to solve a complex mathematical equation.

She didn’t touch right away. She just stared like she was at the Louvre studying a masterpiece, except the masterpiece was my junk and the museum was her trust fund palace bedroom.

Then, carefully, reverently, like she was handling nitroglycerin, she wrapped her fingers around —and I flinched hard because her touch was warm and knowing, but also careful like she was afraid one of us might actually combust.

"You’ve been hiding this?" she said with the outrage of soone who just discovered a conspiracy. "In fucking classes? That’s like hiding the Hope Diamond in a cereal box."

Her hand moved—slow strokes, exploratory, like she was fact-checking whether physics still applied to my situation. My back arched into her touch, and I didn’t even try to stop the moan that escaped, because apparently I’d lost all control over my vocal cords along with my dignity.

"This is not fair," she muttered, shaking her head like she was genuinely offended by the injustice of it all. "You should’ve had groupies since ninth grade. There should be a fucking fan club."

She sounded personally insulted that I hadn’t been properly worshipped by the female population of Lincoln High, I thought as she leaned down, licking her lips like she was about to attempt sothing that should probably require safety equipnt.

For a split second, I thought she was going to crack another joke, maybe rate my performance on a scale of one to "holy shit."

But she didn’t.

She moved—

***

A/N: You may have noticed Peter ntally repeating "Madison Torres" throughout these scenes—and that’s not just for dramatic flair. It’s intentional.

This is his first ti. Not just physically, but emotionally, psychologically—all of it. And it’s happening with a girl he never dread he’d even speak to, let alone sleep with. So repeating her na in his head is Peter’s way of grounding himself in sothing real during a mont that feels unreal. It’s his attempt to hold onto the truth that yes, it’s actually happening—with her. With Madison Torres.

The repetition is awe, disbelief, and reverence all tangled together. It’s the kind of mont that burns itself into your mory, and for Peter, her na is the fla.