Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs
Chapter 64: Setting the Plan: My Hot Neglected Teacher 2

Chapter 64: Setting the Plan: My Hot Neglected Teacher 2

The way her lower back met the swell of her ass was poetry in motion. The fabric stretched in the kind of way that screamed accidental intimacy. Like I was seeing something forbidden, and she didn’t even know she was holding me hostage with it.

She stood there. Casual. Chill. Completely unaware she was setting fire to whatever purity I had left.

Jesus Christ. I’m going to hell. But if this is the preview... I might go smiling.

The system was absolutely right to flag this woman; it practically screamed at me the second I laid eyes on her thighs. Thick. Smooth. Mrs. Rodriguez was practically sculpted for sin—those thick thighs, that tight waist, the kind of body that made men’s marriages wobble.

I could already picture those thighs trembling from overstimulation, locked around me while I ruined her standards for pleasure, shivering, clenching around my waist while I gave her everything her husband probably hadn’t even dreamed of, her pussy tight around my divine-like cock, begging for something her husband clearly never delivered.

Every inch of her screamed neglected which only I, could cure!

Sin in a tank top. She was unknowingly auditioning for her own corruption arc. This woman was a walking crisis. And I was fully prepared to be the cause.

"Mr. Carter! Back to Earth!" she snapped, voice half-playful, half-mocking cutting through my fantasy like a glitch in the simulation, snapping me out of a daydream I wasn’t planning to leave any time soon.

Busted.

I blinked, letting the fantasy peel away like smoke. Madison was smirking beside me like she had front-row seats to my mental X-rated IMAX, clearly having noticed where my eyes had been feasting.

"Sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez," I said with my best ’guilty but adorable’ smile. "We wanted to ask you about something."

"Of course, come in," she said, stepping aside with a casual sway that belonged in slow motion. She didn’t even realize how every step she took pulled a man’s brain into his pants.

Though let’s be real—I wasn’t every man. I was the one she’d eventually beg to break her.

"Though... how’d you get my address?"

"School directory," Madison lied without missing a beat. "Senior project contacts."

Goddamn, she’s fast. Ride-or-die status secured. Ice in her veins. Girl could bluff at the World Series.

Inside, it smelled like candles and functional adulthood. Real art. Cushions that weren’t just for show. Warm, decorated, bigger than ours. Had that "actual adult lives here" feel.

Her house hit me like a slap of upper-class reality. Three times the size of mine, stylish as hell, and spotless in a way that told you she had too much free time. I needed to get my mom a better setup—this kind of gap wasn’t gonna fly forever.

"Please, sit down," she offered. "Can I get you anything? Water? Snacks?"

"That would be great," Madison said, ever the polite actress.

As Mrs. Rodriguez made her way to the kitchen, I swear time slowed just to let her flex.

She wasn’t doing the whole look at me routine. Nah—no extra arch in her back, no dramatic sway. She was just... moving. Naturally. Casually. And that was the trap. Because that’s what made it lethal.

Her hips had this lazy, hypnotic roll—like gravity was addicted to her. Shorts rising with each step, thighs brushing just enough to make a man forget his name. She didn’t just scream "neglected." She screamed "mine, eventually."

I tracked her like a hawk—eyes tracing the bounce of her steps, memorizing the rise and fall of that perfect ass.

She didn’t walk. She... glitched the f*ckin’ Matrix. Moved like someone who had no idea the spell she was casting—or worse, someone who knew, and just didn’t give a shit who fell under it.

Every step was accidental temptation. Every reach? A silent dare.

She bent down to grab something, and those shorts betrayed her—riding up just enough to make me question my morals and maybe my soul.

She had no clue. That’s what messed me up most. She moved like someone who had no idea she was deadly.

Watching her like that? Felt illegal. Felt earned.

Like nature dropped her in front of me and whispered, Try not to sin.

But how could I not?

And that ass? Yeah, that ass needed a warning label. Not because it was dangerous. Because it was already guilty.

She came back with water and cookies, none the wiser. "So, what can I help you with?" she asked, setting down a plate of cookies and two waters.

"Mrs. Rodriguez," I started, faking concern like I was auditioning for student of the year. "Madison’s struggling with advanced bio. She’s trying to get into AP next semester but... it’s not clicking. We were hoping you could tutor her privately—off the record."

Madison jumped in like we rehearsed it. "My parents are losing their minds about college apps. They’re convinced if I don’t have AP Bio, Yale will ghost me."

Rich kid fears: not which school, but which Ivy.

"We were thinking maybe you could tutor her. Nothing official—just private sessions. Her family’s willing to pay... very well."

Rodriguez squinted, curiosity piqued. "How well?"

"Two grand a week," Madison said, deadpan, like she wasn’t offering rent money for two hours of help.

Rodriguez damn near short-circuited.

Her eyes went from an AP Biology teacher to entrepreneur Isabella 2.0 in 0.2 seconds.

She didn’t hear dollars. She heard financial freedom and I understood that feeling like she did.

"That’s... extremely generous," she muttered, probably calculating how fast she could ghost the school system.

Then Madison slid in the closer: "We’d do the sessions at my house. Less hassle for you."

Not part of the pitch. But smart. Mrs. Rodriguez at the mansion? Yeah, that could work. But the endgame wasn’t happening in some mansion.

God-tier improvisation.

Nice twist. We hadn’t planned that detail, but I liked it.

Mrs. Rodriguez nodded. "That could work." Rodriguez nodded slowly. Hook. Line. Sunk. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow?" Madison offered. "Saturday evening?"

While they hammered out logistics, I stayed quiet, calculating my next move. After a few minutes:

"Could I use your bathroom?" I asked.

"Of course. Down the hall, second door on the right."

Perfect.

I made my way down the hall like a polite little senior, but the moment the door shut, I pulled my phone. Three minutes was more than enough to make my plan.

This wasn’t just surveillance. It was leverage. Insurance. Control.

By the time I flushed the toilet and ran the faucet like a good guest, I was sure Mrs. Rodriguez’s going to need my help tomorrow

Back in the living room, the deal was sealed. Tomorrow at 5 PM, first "biology" session at Madison’s house.

"This is going to be great," Mrs. Rodriguez said, following us to the door with that spark in her eyes like she’d just opened a golden ticket. "Thank you both for thinking of me for this opportunity."

Madison smiled back with angelic grace. "Thank you for helping."

Once we were outside, Madison yanked my arm like she couldn’t wait anymore. "Alright, what the hell did you do in there?"

"Nothing crazy," I said, slipping behind the wheel. "Just planted the seeds. Tomorrow? That’s when we water them."

She tilted her head. "You’re sure she’s going to—"

"Madison." I turned the key, engine rumbling. "That woman’s been walking around like her body forgot what dopamine is. She’s been surviving off dry kisses, sex toys and disappointment."

Madison cracked up. "You’re such an asshole."

"An insightful one," I added. "By this time tomorrow, she’ll be wondering how the hell she went four years without someone actually looking at her."

Madison wrapped her arms around mine, grinning like she already saw the future."Still—weekends have vibes. Don’t get cocky."

"I’m not cocky. I’m focused. And tomorrow, I’m doing god’s work."

We drove off, the city lights flickering in the windows. Tomorrow was game time.

Fake biology crisis? Easy. Convert my teacher from faithful wife to unholy disciple? Consider that my divine mission.

Mrs. Rodriguez didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t going to need a tutor—she was going to need a cold shower, a new bedframe, and maybe a confessional.

And by the time I was done, she’d finally remember what it meant to feel alive.