Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 3: Di*k Contest?

"So, if we were cosmically destined to oppose each other in every single way, and supposing I was—let’s say, well-endowed in a particular area—then logically, Jack Morrison must be lacking considerably. Seriously lacking. It’s pure science. Some kind of preservation of manhood power or something like that.

"The cosmos wouldn’t allow one dude to possess all the handsome features, ripped physique, charisma, and a top-tier football scholarship while also being impressively sized? No chance. That would disrupt the harmony. It’d be a heavenly error. And hey, if I’m boasting a large one—and I am—then definitely, Jack’s got something tiny like a mini thumb drive. The math checks out."

What escaped my notice—until the burst of roaring laughter hit me—was how my voice had been steadily rising in volume throughout my rant on this universal manhood balance.

Just like a madman delivering a keynote on phallic parity.

Tommy gaped at me, his mouth agape, eyes screaming, ‘bro, what in the world?’ Then I spotted them—cell phones. All over the place. Folks twisting in their seats, devices raised, lenses pointed, turning the spot into a full-on electronics store display focused on yours truly.

Naturally, that’s exactly what happened.

As if I could ever enjoy a personal episode of total foolishness in peace.

"Dude," Tommy hissed, as though I had a second to fix this mess, "the whole room just caught—"

"HOLY SHIT, DID HE JUST SAY HE HAS A HUGE DICK?"

Connor damn Hayes. From three rows away. His phone thrust high like he was capturing a gritty film titled ’The Ups and Downs of Peter Carter: A Saga in Ultra HD.’ He belonged to that breed of phony pals who’d assist with shifting furniture only to auction off your private pics for energy drink promo deals. The type who’d trade his own granny for a quick burst of online notoriety.

True steadfast companionship right there.

Once his lips parted, it was all finished.

The classroom erupted. Laughter echoed wildly. I caught a girl in tears from the hilarity.

Devices sprang out quicker than acne before a dance. It felt like an assault by social media scavengers, and naturally, Mr. Peterson remained at the front, facing away, scribbling "RELATIONAL DATABASE STRUCTURES" as if we weren’t plunging into online chaos at his rear.

"Oh my God, he actually said it!"

"This is going straight to TikTok!"

"Tag Jack Morrison right now, bro!"

I remained rooted, observing Connor’s pudgy impish digits dancing over his display. I witnessed the incident morph into viral material right before my eyes. The room’s message thread—exploding. Followed by Snapchat. Then Instagram. Likely even Pinterest too.

Connor operated like a multi-armed beast, uploading to multiple sites simultaneously with that idiotic label: "@PeterBigDickEnergy 🪦💀"

Now Sofia and Lea fixed their gazes on me—and not in that ‘he’s sorta attractive’ manner. Nope. Sofia appeared ready to dissolve into the ground, as if questioning every decision that brought her to date Jack Morrison, especially now with my fictional endowment invading the conversation.

Lea, however, observed me as if compiling notes for a study titled "Embarrassment in Public and the Adolescent Male Psyche."

"David," Tommy uttered, drawing it out like I’d suffered a brain event, "you should probably look at your phone."

I fished out my battered phone and—bam—seventeen alerts in half a minute. Naturally, my device chose this instant to function perfectly when the aim was maximum embarrassment delivery. The class chat raged:

Connor: YOOOO Peter just said he’s got a massive dong and Jack Morrison’s working with a cocktail sausage 😂

Madison: THERE’S NO WAY HE ACTUALLY SAID THAT 😭

Kyle: Bro’s dead meat

Ashley:

Brandon: Jack’s gonna beat him into next week lmao

Yet it extended beyond the chat. My notifications surged. I watched the views soar on Connor’s Instagram tale. The globe tuned in. I had perhaps sixty seconds—maximum—before this launched into the stratosphere. Since nothing screams top-notch schooling like a teen turning into internet fodder before midday meal.

"Fuck," I exhaled. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Yup," Tommy replied with his signature uplifting vibe. "You’re so dead."

That’s when the door to the classroom crashed open with such force it rebounded against the wall.

Jack Morrison, towering at over six feet, fueled by supplements, embodying the furious perfect son. He resembled a wrathful deity dispatched from the weight room. His complexion? Flushed crimson. Gaze? Set to kill. And trailing him, nearly the entire football squad jammed in the corridor, likely broadcasting my upcoming demise live.

School life accelerates. Particularly when your foolish words spread online during first period and you were dumb enough to mock the campus idol in the era of instant sharing.

"CARTER!"

He bellowed it. I’d bet my life, even orbiting tech picked it up. Talks ceased. Seats halted their shifts. Even the computer whirs seemed to quiet in terror.

Mr. Peterson at last pivoted, all puzzled, oblivious to the brewing assault in his tech room, "Mr. Morrison, you’re not supposed to be—"

"Where is he?" Jack snarled, sweeping the space like a guided weapon, and as our stares connected, I felt my spirit attempt to flee my form. As in, No way. Not this time. Farewell, idiot.

I ought to have bolted. Every fiber urged flight. Yet my limbs? Those faithful parts chose this moment to blank on bending joints. I simply stayed put, wide-eyed and paralyzed, facing the approaching tempest as if I’d picked a fight with the earth’s pull.

"Jack, listen, I can explain—" I stuttered out.

However, Jack had zero interest in clarifications. He dismissed my idiotic ideas on the stellar reassignment of male endowments. His punch launched swifter than my mind could process.

It struck from the blue. Or rather—from his direction. From the burly grip of a furious, bulked-up quarterback harboring inner turmoil and zero patience. It slammed into me solidly, square on the temple. Echoed like a bat cracking a ripe fruit. The room whirled.

I barely had a second to ponder, ‘Well, that’s different,’ before darkness claimed me.

And the final sound? Tommy, looming above my crumpled frame like a budget ancient choir, grumbling, "Yep. He’s definitely dead now."

Appreciate the send-off, pal. Truly heartfelt.