Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs Chapter 978: The Maya (Hot Stepdaddy) Reunion

Upon entering the Crown Jewel penthouse alongside Genevieve, Maya's unexpected presence startled me.

And by every deity—those massive milkers.

Isabella's daughter boasted extraordinary assets. Lavishly so. Outrageously. The type that sparks thoughts of the cosmos enjoying excess funds one year, opting to channel every cent into the bust of a lone five-foot-something girl.

She lingered in the living room clad in a gown evidently tailored for females grasping average proportions—not the celestial architecture crafting Maya.

—yet the material waged a futile battle.

Pathetically.

All notions of concealment got abandoned, not deliberately but compelled by physics. Her milkers blatantly ignored clothing's engineering bounds.

The décolletage dove to mere adornment levels; the pale surges of her breasts thrust upward and inward, forging a rift profound enough to devour fingers completely.

Each respiration caused them to surge and descend in weighty, entrancing swells—undulations disrupting coherent cognition.

Material tautened over the summits, nipples subtly outlined as rigid nubs indenting the flimsy weave.

They appeared near-cartoonish in flawlessness: plump, hefty, gravity-mocking despite vulgar scale, spherical and taut, imploring liberation from the gown buckling beneath their mass.

Her waist narrowed in minuscule fashion before blooming into hips the dress adhered to like sodden gloss, though those tits—those gigantic, impeccable, physics-bucking milkers—overshadowed all, constricting the room's scale through mere being.

I could hardly accept this as my first-kiss girl.

She seemed utterly... supernatural.

Her eyes turned to me.

Shifted to Genevieve. Returned to me.

Articulating the scenario escaped me. Truth be told, no tidy explanation availed.

——flanked by a freshly claimed sister, positioned beside my girlfriend’s daughter—my first kiss too, never forget—eyeing us with serene, astute perception from one grasping the full picture precisely.

Maya understood. She always did. Quiet souls invariably perceive.

And about those quiet types—here's a nudge. Isabella and I both keenly recognized Maya's crush on me.

Not innocent, nor even ordinary.

The sort that ARIA—deranged, surveillance-obsessed ARIA—verified by airing a clip for us once. A covertly captured clip. Depicting Maya. Self-pleasuring. To another stealth-recorded clip.

Of Isabella and me going at it in the kitchen.

Yeah.

Greater the outward silence, fiercer the inner frenzy. That's nature's decree by now.

An intrusion on her privacy, granted, skip the ethics sermon, buddy, but watching it alongside Isabella was a blast.

Now she loomed there—compact, curvaceous, bespectacled, green eyes fluttering behind lenses in a mix of mostly discomfort and a sliver of emotion fiercely suppressed—acutely conscious the female at my side wasn't her mom.

That she represented yet another.

A recent recruit to Peter Carter's expanding empire.

Genevieve, evidently blind to nuance, emitted a delighted squeal.

Maya blinked.

Genevieve swiftly bridged the gap—arms wide, visage aglow as though discovering a shelter kitten demanding an overwhelming squeeze.

And truthfully? Spot on. Maya, short-framed, bearing impossible proportions, glasses askew on her nose, wide green eyes—she incarnated hug-worthy cuteness lethal to resist... even I curbed my impulses to seize that adorable morsel and smash those milkers against my chest; height-wise, they'd land on my belly instead.

No real downside honestly.

She embodied cuteness evoking balanced urges to safeguard and ravage. The variety turning mature men dim and women instinctively motherly.

Maya stiffened as Genevieve engulfed her in an embrace—a hearty, zealous, stranger-danger clinch from an utter stranger in male garb, carrying scents of passion and premium Lamborghini upholstery.

Gen, naturally, commandeered my coat even today. She's that unhinged—what can I say.

Rising on tiptoes, Maya's gaze met mine over Genevieve’s shoulder. The stare broadcast plainly:

I shrugged.

What more could I manage?

Right then, Isabella stepped from the bedroom.

Damn.

Since the Divine Seed, my women had transformed vastly in scant time. Shifts began subtly—faint alterations I nearly chalked to imagination. Isabella's changes now screamed overt.

She bordered on goddess status. No hyperbole or flattery.

Pure category.

Her skin achieved the unattainable—flawless and glowing, evoking baths in milk and pure essences by some timeless witch unearthing efficacious allure.

Her features honed and mellowed concurrently, each perfected to forms defying reality beyond Renaissance canvases or hallucinatory visions.

Wildest evolutions hit eyes and mane.

Eyes now gleamed purple. No optical illusion. No prosthetics. Intense, brilliant, undeniable purple—amethyst jewels in a visage already perilously ravishing for direct scrutiny.

Her hair—once long raven—now threaded with purple streaks, roots shadowed, ends luxuriantly vivid, like ethereal dye diffusion.

It tumbled shoulder-length in cascades snaring penthouse rays, hurling back tones beyond earthly rainbows.

She sported a mini skirt—black, snug, so brief it blurred skirt and hint—and under her jacket hid... barely anything.