Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 965: MVPs of my Origin Story

So yeah. By every moral tric humanity pretends to care about, I’m the villain.

Let’s be brutally honest for once: I had beco so disgustingly fluent in the language of instant claiming that "real dating" now sounded like sothing anthropologists study in crumbling villages—like courtship rituals involving carved wooden dildos and three months of goat-herding before you’re allowed to touch a boob.

Archaic. Adorable. Irrelevant.

Normal people date. They text. They endure awkward small talk about "what do your parents do?" and "favorite Netflix show right now?"

They suffer through three to eight progressively worse dinners before deciding whether the sex is worth another human’s emotional baggage.

? I skip the foreplay of civilization and go straight to rewriting her central nervous system with my dick. Sa-day acquisition. Zero to "you belong to " in the ti it takes most n to decide which filter makes their Tinder selfie look least like a mugshot.

Was I really that good?

No.

I am the best!

No one could hold a candle.

No one else on the planet could pull this off with the sa conversion rate, the sa day-one shatter-and-rebuild efficiency.

And spare the "they must be easy" cope.

That’s just jealous n trying to comfort their shrinking egos by pretending the won were defective instead of admitting their own ga was stuck on tutorial mode.

It was never about the won being easy.

It was about the n being tragic.

And it had nothing to do with my won being easy or whatever convenient label people wanted to slap on.

Not theirs. Never theirs.

It was . My abilities. My cock. And yes—their n’s problems.

The husbands, the boyfriends, the fiancés—they were the real MVPs of my origin story.

They stopped trying sowhere around year three. They confused paying the mortgage with foreplay.

It was always the n who ca before .

They treated their wives like high-end kitchen appliances: expensive, rarely used, occasionally wiped down, never worshipped. They provided financially and then acted shocked when the woman upstairs was emotionally malnourished in a five-bedroom house full of unused square footage and unused orgasms.

I wasn’t stealing.

I was famine relief with better branding.

With one last long, guttural groan that probably registered on nearby seismographs, I ca inside her—deep, claiming, final.

She shattered with : back arched like she was trying to escape her own spine, thighs quivering, whole body spasming in that beautiful post-orgasmic seizure that only happens when soone finally rembers where the clit actually lives.

Then we kissed.

Slow.

Lazy.

Like the rest of the planet had politely fucked off for ten minutes.

Fuck, she tasted so good.

She tasted like champagne, bad decisions, and the faint aftertaste of soone else’s wedding vows. Delicious.

One might wonder what happens now between and her.

So... what now?

Not sure... hard to say, buddy.

What I did know, right there in the sticky afterglow, was that she already belonged to . Maybe not on paper. Might not even accept to be part of tonight. Maybe not even next week. But inevitability has a sll, and it was all over both of us.

She’d probably go the Patt route.

Patt—the one Hollywood exception who negotiated terms like she was signing a record deal instead of surrendering her monogamy clause. We agreed to "try dating first." As if...

—see how far we’d go. I already knew the ending credits. Obviously... he’d end up in the harem eventually—my woman.

But—lady’s choice, right?

Unlike Eziel or my other won who’d agreed to live with the mont I offered, like I was presenting a tishare and they were signing before the slideshow ended, so would be different.

Patt was different. She knew she wouldn’t be able to feel alive without —because once you’ve had 36K ultra-HDR sex, the thought of going back to 480p standard-definitiondicks feels like punishnt—but that didn’t an she’d jump headfirst into my world and leave everything behind.

But she had a career.

A brand.

An identity.

A life built brick by careful brick.

A carefully curated life that wasn’t going to collapse just because a smug teenager had turned her into a cri scene of orgasms.

And honestly? I liked that version.

It gave the illusion of normalcy.

It anchored back to the classic way; dating. Conversations that weren’t interrupted by screaming. Argunts about where to eat instead of argunts about whose turn it was to co first.

Growing before moving in.

Quiet mornings. Learning soone through sentences instead of just through the shape their body makes when it breaks for you and reshaping the architecture of their orgasms.

Courtship.

The antique way.

The slow-burn fantasy most n chase for years and never catch.

For , it was optional DLC. A nostalgic side quest. Sothing to do between mass conversions and spontaneous hallway reclamations.

This naless woman—whose na ARIA was deliberately withholding because my own ASI has a sadistic sense of dramatic timing—was clearly Patt 2.0 in the making. She’d walk out of this room wearing soone else’s ring and soone else’s last na, but carrying my fingerprints like a new tattoo under her skin.

That gave a window of opportunity. To learn them. To grow to love them.

And that window?

That delicious little window of "dating" before she inevitably surrenders?

That was the part where I got to love her.

Really love her.

Because—shocker—I don’t fuck won I don’t like. My abilities amplify. They doesn’t invent. Desire has to exist first. I’m not running a coercion simulator; I’m running a preference maximizer with cheat codes.

So yes.

Like.

One slow-burn "normal" romance at a ti—sandwiched between the spontaneous claims, the cuck conversions, and the growing collection of won who now asured every man who ca after against an impossible standard and found them all tragically out of focus.

Then love.

Then utopia.

Theology of spontaneous sin, continued.

Next sermon: how to date soone you’ve already spiritually married via orgasm.

Bring popcorn.

An.

And... sorry-not-sorry.