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

Chapter 960: Bathroom and Fantasies (r-18)

We stumbled into the bathroom like fugitives who’d finally stopped running—door swinging shut with that heavy, expensive thunk rich venues love, the sound echoing off marble like a starting pistol.

Gold fixtures gleamed under cold fluorescents; mirrors threw our reflection back at us from every angle—her lipstick already smudged, my shirt half-open, both of us breathing like we’d sprinted here.

I had bought this building for Celeste and here I was giving it’s first sex with a horny stranger whose need to fuck me matched mine to fuck her senseless.

The faint bass from the party outside pulsed through the walls, reminding us exactly how thin the barrier was between this and getting caught.

She didn’t pause to admire anything.

She shoved me backward until my ass hit the long marble counter—

Then she was on me—crowding in, one hand palming my cock through the fabric, fingers curling greedily around the thick outline of shaft and heavy balls like she was staking a claim.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she hissed, voice cracking raw. "How fucking big are you?"

She squeezed—testing weight, girth—then sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath, eyes snapping to mine. "Do you know what I love most about men’s bathrooms when I am doing this kind of thing?

I laughed low, dark, sliding both hands around her waist and yanking her flush against me. One arm banded behind her back, locking her tight—she couldn’t have squirmed free if she tried. I dropped my mouth to her ear, lips grazing skin.

"Liar! All those are just filthy men’s-room fantasies you’ve rubbed yourself raw to," I murmured, "they’ve always stayed safely in your head, haven’t they? Never actually spread your legs on a public toilet while your husband’s sipping champagne ten meters away."

She let out a small, frustrated sound—half laugh, half whimper—then tilted her head back, eyes glittering with something dangerous.

"You’re right," she said, no shame, just heat. "So... fucking make them real. Right now. Before I lose my nerve."

No more words were needed when she was this eager to have my cock in her pussy, was there?

I tightened my grip, lifted her clean off the floor—her legs snapped around my waist on instinct, heels digging into my ass. I carried her the few steps to the largest stall (handicapped, extra-wide, extra risky—door didn’t even go all the way to the floor).

I kicked it shut behind us.

She lunged for the lock, fingers shaking.

I caught her wrist—hard—before she could twist it.

"No," I said, voice quiet, final, edged with command. "How’s your husband supposed to feel that delicious little stab of betrayal while I cuck him if you lock him out of the possibility?"

She froze. Completely.

Her gaze dropped to the simple platinum band on her left hand—nothing flashy, the kind you forget you’re wearing after years.

Until now.

The gold-accented mirror light caught it and suddenly that ring was screaming louder than either of us.

She stared at it. Long. Slow blink. Then—deliberate, almost ceremonial—she lowered her hand. Stepped back just enough to drop onto the closed toilet lid. Legs parted under the hiked-up dress—black lace thong already visibly soaked, clinging obscenely to her swollen lips.

She looked up at me like she was daring me to flinch.

I didn’t.

She attacked my belt—yanked it open, popped the button, ripped the zipper. No underwear underneath; my cock sprang free—heavy, veined, already leaking at the slit, thick enough that it barely swayed before settling.

She stared like it had personally insulted her. "You have no boxers.

"Someone told me," I said casually with a shrug, "commando makes quickies less of a hassle for women who get... impatient."

She wasn’t listening. Her eyes were locked on my cock—wide, feral, furious, starving. Like it had wronged her by being this real, this thick, this ready to ruin her.

Then she dove.

No teasing, no kitten licks, no performative slowness.

She wrapped her lips around the swollen head and sucked—hard, angry, desperate, like she was trying to punish it for making her this wet, this weak.

Her war tongue flattened brutally against the underside, dragging slow and rough while her cheeks hollowed so tight I felt the suction in my goddamn spine.

She forced herself deeper—way too fast—gagging wetly around the girth, throat convulsing, eyes instantly watering—but she refused to pull off.

Mhmm, she’s good with blowjobs.

Spit flooded her mouth immediately, spilling over her lips, dripping in thick strings down her chin, onto the tops of her breasts, splattering the marble between us.

She pulled back just long enough to spit messily on the head—once, twice—then plunged down again, deeper, sucking harder, tongue swirling sloppy, frantic circles while her stretched lips turned white at the edges.

Every time she bottomed out she made this low, pissed-off, vibrating moan that shot straight through my balls.

Her free hand shoved between her own thighs—dress bunched at her hips, fingers disappearing under drenched lace—and she started frantically rubbing her clit in tight, angry circles, hips jerking, slick sounds filling the stall louder than her choking.

She was fucking furious. At the cock in her mouth. At me. At her husband for not having somehting this good.

At how good it felt to finally choke herself on the fantasy she’d carried like a dirty secret for years.

She took it all out on me—slurping obscenely, gagging herself deliberately, spit running in rivulets down her neck, soaking the front of her dress, dripping onto the floor in little wet pats.

Her wedding ring glinted with every furious pump of her fist around the base she couldn’t swallow.

The taboo aura pulsed harder the longer her ring finger worked me—her throat relaxing unnaturally, taking another inch, then another, until her nose was buried against my pelvis and she was keening around me, tears streaming, mascara starting to run.

I threaded fingers into her hair—not forcing, just anchoring—letting her savage pace while her mouth tried to win a war she’d already surrendered. Every gag, every wet choke, every desperate grind of her fingers against her clit made the sin resonance throb stronger, feeding back into her, making her wetter, hungrier, more reckless.

She didn’t look away once. Eyes locked on mine—furious, pleading, owned—while the ring on her finger flashed with every sloppy, spit-soaked stroke.

She didn’t stop. Neither did I.