Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

Chapter 999: Saved from the Corner (r-18)

Her pussy started fluttering wildly, walls rippling along my length like she was trying to pull me even deeper.

"I’m—again—Peter I’m gonna—fuck—"

She came on my cock like a dam breaking.

Her entire body seized—breasts bouncing wildly, nipples diamond-hard, slim frame bowing off the mattress as her pussy convulsed in powerful, milking waves. Hot, fresh slick gushed around my shaft, soaking my balls, running down her ass in shiny rivulets.

She screamed—raw, broken, beautiful—nails raking down my back while her walls clamped and fluttered and tried to milk me dry.

I didn’t stop. I fucked her through it—deep, relentless strokes, my cock thickening even more inside her spasming heat, stretching her wider mid-orgasm so every contraction felt fuller, more intense. I kept her nipples and clit singing, turning the aftershocks into new little peaks that made her sob and shake.

When she finally collapsed, limp and gasping, tears of pure pleasure on her cheeks, I slowed to long, grinding rolls—still buried to the hilt, still hard as steel, still perfectly sized for the exact spots that made her whimper.

"More," she whispered, voice wrecked, eyes glassy with awe. "Don’t stop. I’ve never... God, I’ve never felt anything like this..."

I kissed her sweat-damp forehead, smiled against her skin, and started fucking her again—slow and deep and endless—because this starving, sweet, motherly body was finally mine to worship all night long.

I pulled out slowly—deliberately—watching the way her pussy clung to every inch of me on the withdrawal, those glossy inner lips dragging along my shaft like they were trying to keep me inside forever.

Slick coated me from base to tip, thick and shining, strings of it stretching and snapping between us as I left her empty again. She whimpered at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, chasing me.

I teased her instead.

The swollen head of my cock parted her puffy outer lips once more—slow, back-and-forth glides through her soaked folds, bumping her still-throbbing clit on every upstroke until her thighs jerked and her breath hitched in sharp little gasps.

"Peter—please—"

I lined up again.

Pressed forward.

The fat head slipped between her swollen lips—met that delicious resistance, that velvet heat, that tightness that screamed two years of neglect.

Her entrance fluttered around me, trying to open, trying to take.

"Oh God—" Her nails dug into my shoulders, hard enough to mark. "Slow—please—slow—"

I gave her slow. Inch by thick inch. Letting her feel the stretch, the burn, the beautiful ache of being filled after so long empty. Her mouth fell open in a long, silent gasp.

Her walls clamped down so tight I had to stop halfway, teeth gritted, breathing through it.

"You okay?" I asked, voice rough.

"Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop. It’s just—it’s a lot—you’re—" She shuddered, took a ragged breath. "More. Please. More."

I sank deeper. Another inch. Another. Her legs wrapped around my waist—ankles locking at the small of my back—pulling me in, demanding. Her inner walls rippled around me in frantic little flutters, adjusting, gripping, welcoming me home.

When I finally bottomed out—balls-deep, every inch buried to the hilt—she made a sound I’ll carry forever: a low, trembling moan that started deep in her chest, climbed her throat, and spilled out like the first real breath after years underwater.

Like she’d been hollowed out and I’d just poured life back into her.

"Oh," she breathed. Eyes glassy. Wet. Full of me. "Oh."

I stayed there. Deep. Still. Connected. Kissed the tear track on her cheek. Her forehead. Let her feel the weight of me inside her, the heat, the pulse.

"Do you still feel me?" I murmured against her skin.

"I feel everything," she whispered. "Everything."

Then I started to move again.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that pulled almost all the way out—her walls dragging greedily along my shaft, resisting every inch of withdrawal—before sliding back in to the root.

Every stroke deliberate.

Every angle chosen to drag along that spongy front wall of her pussy, to grind against the spots that made her eyes flutter and her breath catch.

She tried to stay quiet at first—those breathy little moans trapped behind bitten lips, still the careful, sensible woman who apologized for stretch marks and cartoon underwear.

I wasn’t having it.

I shifted my hips. Found that perfect angle again. Thrust harder—once, twice—and her composure shattered.

"FUCK—"

Her hand flew to her mouth in shock at her own volume.

I caught her wrist. Pulled it away. Pinned it gently above her head.

"Don’t you dare hide those sounds from me," I growled low. "I want every fucking one."

And she gave them.

As I picked up the pace—deeper, firmer, the rhythm shifting from worship to raw need—she stopped filtering.

Stopped being polite. Stopped being anything but a woman finally getting railed the way she’d been starving for.

She moaned—loud, broken, shameless. Gasped my name like a chant.

Begged—"harder, deeper, don’t stop, Peter God what are you doing to me"—voice climbing higher, cracking wider with every punishing stroke.

Her nails raked down my back—long, stinging trails that made me hiss and drive into her even harder.

Her hips rose to slam against mine—clumsy at first, then finding the rhythm, then losing it completely when the pleasure spiked too high and her body dissolved into trembling, helpless reaction.

"More—I want—I need—" Her arms locked around my neck. Legs squeezed tighter. Everything pulling me deeper, closer, like she could fuse us together if she just held on hard enough.

"Harder—I can take it—please—"

I gave her harder.

No more careful. No more fragile.

I fucked her like she was unbreakable—like she was mine to ruin and rebuild in the same breath.

The bed slammed against the wall. Headboard cracking rhythm against plaster. Wet, obscene slaps of skin on skin filled the room—her pussy taking me so deep, so hard, that every thrust forced fresh gushes of slick from her, coating my balls, dripping down her ass, soaking the sheets beneath us.

I activated Touch through my palms—one hand sliding down to grip her hip, fingers digging into soft flesh, rewriting every nerve so the pressure there sent lightning straight to her clit.

The other hand found her heavy, swaying breast, cupping the warm weight, thumb and forefinger pinching that thick, dark nipple with ruthless precision—turning every tug into a direct pulse deep inside her cunt.

She screamed—high, shattered—back arching so hard her breasts pressed flush against my chest, nipples scraping my skin.

I used Size Control again—thickening my cock mid-thrust just enough to stretch her fluttering walls wider, then lengthening another fraction so the head kissed her cervix on every brutal plunge. Her eyes rolled back.

Mouth open in a continuous, keening wail.

"Peter—fuck—I’m—I’m gonna—again—"

"Let it happen," I growled against her ear. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."

"I can’t—it’s too—too much—it’s—fuck—"

Her whole body seized.

She came harder than anything before—back bowing like she’d been struck by lightning, breasts bouncing wildly, slim frame shaking violently beneath me. Her pussy clamped down in vicious, rhythmic spasms—milking me so tight I groaned from the base of my spine.

Hot slick flooded around my shaft, gushing in rhythmic pulses, soaking everything between us.

Her hips bucked in frantic, involuntary jerks. Nails scored my shoulders. Thighs crushed my waist. She sobbed my name into my neck—raw, broken, beautiful.

I didn’t stop.

I fucked her through it—deep, relentless strokes that prolonged every contraction, every wave, every aftershock.

My touch kept her nipples singing, her clit throbbing even untouched—I could rail her for hours if she wanted.

And she wanted.

"Again—" she gasped, voice wrecked, tears streaming. "Don’t stop—harder—I want everything—give me everything—"

I flipped her.

One smooth motion—rolled her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up, spread her knees wide. Her ass lifted—soft, motherly curves, stretch marks glinting like silver in the light.

I notched myself at her dripping entrance and slammed back in—hard, deep, claiming.

She screamed into the pillow.

I fucked her from behind—hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, pulling her back onto my cock with every thrust.

The angle let me hit deeper, harder, grinding against her g-spot and cervix in alternating punishing strokes.

Her pussy creamed around me—white, glossy rings forming at my base, slick dripping down her thighs.

I reached around... my fingertips found her swollen clit—rubbed fast, merciless circles while I railed her from behind. Her arms gave out. Face pressed to the mattress. Ass in the air. Body shaking.

"Peter—God—I’m coming—I’m coming again—"

She shattered a third time—walls spasming so violently they nearly pushed me out. Fresh gush of slick.

Whole body convulsing. Sobbing into the sheets.

Only then—when she was limp, trembling, utterly spent—did I let myself go.

I buried myself to the hilt one last time.

Groaned deep—primal, guttural—and came inside her. Thick, pulsing ropes flooding her still-clenching pussy, marking her from the inside. Her walls milked me through every spurt, greedy, desperate, like she wanted to keep every drop.

We collapsed.

Tangled. Sweating. Breathing ragged into each other’s skin. Her heart hammered against my chest—or maybe mine against hers. Maybe both.

After long minutes of silence, she spoke—voice hoarse, wrecked, perfect.

"Peter."

"Yeah?"

"I’m never waving from the corner again."

I laughed—low, breathless. Kissed her sweat-damp temple. Pulled her closer, still buried inside her.

"No," I said. "You’re not."

And I stayed there—hard, still inside her—because we weren’t done.

Not even close.