Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 964: The Theology of Spontaneous Sin

By every moral yardstick, every self-righteous compass, and every sanctimonious code of conduct that people bring up the moment someone else’s life looks more captivating than their own—I was, objectively, the worst man currently drawing breath.

Perhaps the most wretched man who has ever lived, if we are being frank, and honesty is my newfound kink.

More than half of my women were drifting through this gala like pieces of high-end art.

They had arrived to support their sister, Celeste—it was her grand debut, with collectors from fourteen different countries pretending to understand fine art while mostly just ogling women, the lighting, and the champagne flutes.

Since our arrival, Celeste and I had exchanged perhaps a few glances and a solitary smile that might have been mistaken for professional courtesy if you were completely blind.

Currently, her legs were locked around my waist as if she were competing in a contest, her hips grinding like she had only just discovered that rhythm was invented yesterday.

She was crying out about my cock—and she was only receiving the teaser trailer, mind you, since I hadn't even bothered with full-scale control yet.

The preview alone was enough to make her lose higher cognitive function. Imagine paying full price for the DLC when the demo had already shattered her soul.

Yet another spontaneous tryst. It happened right after Patt in Hollywood.

What would a normal man be doing at this moment?

I honestly cannot say. Regular men probably lack a statistical sample size large enough to form a meaningful opinion.

The point is this: I had another man’s wife dancing on my cock while the rest of my women were out there socializing, sipping champagne, and engaging in light conversation.

Charlotte likely wanted to punch Aurelia. Or perhaps worse—she might simply walk away.

Actually, no. The former was definitely worse.

So, what would any man other than myself do in this situation? I don't believe I could answer that truthfully. Especially since one of the men I was supposed to emulate had already lost his wife to my cock; I was currently turning another husband’s marital vows into a form of performance art.

The mentorship pipeline for 'how to be a decent man' was already dead on arrival regardless. One of the figures I should theoretically have admired had already lost his wife to this very instrument.

The entire self-help advice column collapses when an Elder’s wife is in this room moaning my name as if she just discovered religion 2.0.

Spontaneous sex.

To most men, it is a mere fantasy they lament over while weeping into their wedding albums. Society disapproves of it because society is composed primarily of individuals who peaked in high school and have remained bitter ever since.

From an outside perspective, it looks scandalous, the sort of event that earns you a spot on Dr. Phil while the audience gasps in choreographed horror and secretly Googles your name.

From inside, however—with her ragged gasps and her nails carving commandments into my back—it isn't recklessness. It is physics. It is inevitable. It is Newtonian.

The apple doesn't descend because it is sinful; it drops because gravity is a cruel mistress, much like myself.

And as for the 0.0002% of men who actually experience that fantasy instead of just viewing Pornhub tabs? They usually go about it entirely wrong.

Drunken coat-closet fumbling. Sloppy last-call desperation. Absolute amateur hour.

I am talking about the kind of encounter that rewires her entire nervous system, the kind where she enters the party wearing someone else’s ring and hobbles out wearing my fingerprints like a new set of beliefs.

This was woman number two in less than twenty-four hours. And that is only because I demonstrated superhuman restraint on the plane. I could have turned first class into a mobile session of debauchery, but no, I practiced self-control.

Look at me, practically a saint.

Most of my women—let us call it the overwhelming majority—originated exactly like this. Spontaneous. Zero to claimed in the time it takes normal people to swap LinkedIn profiles.

Madison? My queen, my anchor, the one who keeps me from drifting entirely into the stratosphere of my own ego?

She invited me to her home under the pretense of studying together when I first announced my presence, having also faced rejection from Lea following a seduction mission... in her bedroom, things escalated, and the system pinged like a slot machine hitting the jackpot.

Never looked back. Spontaneous.

Isabella? Certainly, we planned a little with Madison, but the day of execution was still spontaneous in the bathroom I was 'fixing,' performed in record time.

Luna? I had to finesse her into a coffee date first. We were intimate the moment we reached her apartment.

Again, may I repeat it? Spontaneous sex.

Janet?

Oh, what a sweet memory.

I bedded her literally minutes after hanging up a call with Isabella in the La Cherry bathrooms. The universe essentially operates a conveyor belt of beautiful women past me, and my only duty is to act as a quality control inspector—with benefits.

And there was that Wellness Center trio—Victoria, Ortega, and Anya?

Anya—my first—originated from the simple ambition of wanting to work there to meet women.

I walked in for a job interview. I walked out having transformed three wellness professionals into a symphony of sounds that OSHA would definitely cite as a workplace hazard. My first foursome, born from the noble ambition of 'I want to meet hot women at work.' Truly inspirational.

Then... there were the Miami girls. Amanda—my first proper trophy... yes, there was Jack, from whom I had taken Sofia, but that fool does not count; he was an oxygen thief who hardly deserved carbon credits, let alone such a magnificent girl like Sofia.

Celeste, Vivienne, Anastasia, Gabrielle, Ashby, Sophia. That gallery spontaneous event—it was a mass conversion. Sociologists would kill for the data if they could publish it without being canceled into oblivion.

The list continues because I am not collecting Pokémon here; I am building a harem of women who once believed in monogamy the way people believe in trickle-down economics: theoretically comforting, but ultimately a lie.

Fortunately for me, I look quite good in black. And the women? They keep volunteering for the role of willing participant.

Entertainment, ladies and gentlemen.

Sermon over.

Amen—and you are quite welcome.