Chapter 939: The Cuckolding Thrill

At this point, I no longer obsessively

checked my SP

after every encounter, and the system had stopped bombarding me with sex missions lately.

Not because I’d outgrown them—

fuck no

, I could never outgrow missions involving something as

sacred as sexual liberation, marital ruin, and the occasional public indecency charge

.

Instead, as Taboo explained during one of our mental conversations while sounding suspiciously like a disappointed life coach who’d just realized his client had taken

"live your best life"

way too literally, I was mostly surrounded by

my own women

now.

I wasn’t moving through different social circles enough to encounter the kind of morally challenging situations that triggered new missions.

As in... you know what?

Whatever.

The point was, my daily life had become less

"hunt new targets"

and more

"manage the empire and fuck my harem until the trees of our estate file noise complaints with God."

Taboo said missions would resume properly when we hit

Paris—social circles, elite gatherings,

plenty of opportunities for

cuckolding

wealthy European husbands who thought their money gave them an absolute hold on these unliberated beauties, right up until their wives discovered what a teenager with divine-level game could do to a G-spot and a suppressed libido.

But the humble missions would keep flowing regardless—little side quests to remind me I was still the

Emperor of Audacity

.

The interesting thing was what happened after the Eziel situation. That whole milestone of being caught by her husband, Dominic watching his world collapse when I destroyed his wife on her own desk—that didn’t give me the usual

SP

rewards.

Instead, it gave me something else entirely.

An

urge.

A

fucking need

.

I first felt it on the airplane we were currently on, heading back to Lincoln Heights. We’d taken a

first-class

commercial flight instead of a private jet because

Lila, Eziel,

and especially

Rory

preferred the

"normal"

experience.

They weren’t quite ready for the full

billionaire

lifestyle yet—Rory still got excited about

complimentary pretzels

, and Lila had quietly confessed she liked the little safety demo video because

"the cartoon people look so calm while the plane is obviously about to explode."

Which meant we weren’t alone in first class.

That’s when it happened.

I’d

locked eyes

with a woman sitting two rows ahead—mid-thirties, designer outfit that screamed

"trophy wife on a leash,"

wedding ring catching the cabin lights like a fucking beacon broadcasting

"neglected and ovulating."

She was sitting next to a man who was clearly her husband, some corporate type buried in his laptop reviewing quarterly reports or whatever

soul-crushing

spreadsheet justified his existence and probably his Viagra prescription.

And the moment our eyes met, I felt it.

The thrill

.

My

blood pumping

at the thought of taking her to the bathroom,

bending her over the sink, fucking

her while her husband sat fifteen feet away crunching numbers and being completely oblivious to his wife getting destroyed by a teenager who could actually make her come—loudly, repeatedly, and with enough enthusiasm to set off the smoke detectors.

It wasn’t even about the sex at this point. It was the principle. The poetic justice of it. Here’s this guy, probably making six figures, flying first class, thinking his money and status made him important—while his wife was

eye-fucking

a

seventeen-year-old

across the aisle because her husband hadn’t made her wet in probably five years, and even then it was probably scheduled like a quarterly performance review.

I did not even need to hear her thoughts.

And without consciously deciding to, my abilities had activated on their own.

Pheromones

flooded the cabin like an invisible gas leak nobody had reported to the FAA.

Taboo Aura

spread like radiation from a sexy nuclear reactor that had just gone critical.

Lust Presence

wrapped around her and every other woman in first class who wasn’t already mine, whispering subliminal suggestions their conscious minds couldn’t hear but their bodies absolutely understood—mostly variations on

"fuck the consequences, fuck the consequences right now."

My natural

charm

kicked into overdrive, amplifying everything until the air itself felt charged with sexual tension thick enough to choke on, or possibly come from.

The woman’s breath hitched audibly. Her pupils dilated so fast I could see it from two rows back. Her thighs shifted restlessly under her blanket, pressing together like she was trying to contain the sudden wetness between them and failing spectacularly.

Three other women in the cabin reacted similarly—one adjusting her position in her seat with a soft gasp that sounded suspiciously like foreplay, another suddenly finding reasons to glance back at me every thirty seconds like I was the only interesting thing on this flight

(which, to be fair, I was)

, a third biting her lip hard enough to leave marks while pretending to read her SkyMall magazine but clearly imagining the fold-out bed section being used for non-approved purposes.

I was already planning logistics.

Which bathroom

had the most space.

How long

I could disappear without it being suspicious.

Whether I should

take the wife first or collect

all four

and see if the first-class bathroom could fit an orgy—

"Master,"

Taboo’s voice cut through my increasingly deranged planning like a splash of cold water from a fire hose.

"You’re doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Having a

cuckolding episode

. Your abilities are running on autopilot because you’re fantasizing about destroying that man’s marriage at 30,000 feet while he calculates EBITDA like a good little drone."

The mental intervention snapped me back to reality. I consciously pulled my abilities back, reining in the pheromones and aura that had been working without permission like interns who’d been told

just go wild.

The women in the cabin visibly relaxed, though they still looked deeply confused about why they’d suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to join the mile-high club with a teenager they’d never met and probably wouldn’t remember tomorrow without therapy.

Reyna

was absolutely dying beside me.

Like, full-body shaking, tears streaming down her face, trying desperately to muffle her laughter with both hands while her shoulders convulsed like she’d been possessed by the ghost of a stand-up comedian who’d died mid-set.

"Are you—"

she gasped between silent laughs,

"—are you seriously—"

another wave of giggles, "—that fucking horny right now?"

"It’s not about being horny," I hissed quietly.

"BULLSHIT!"

Reyna wheezed, losing the battle to stay quiet. A few people glanced back, but she waved them off like

"no, no, everything’s fine, my brother’s just having a public psychotic break."

"You just—you just accidentally

seduced

half of first class because you saw one married woman and your brain went

’must cuck husband immediately, preferably during beverage service.’"

"That’s not—"

"You have a problem, Peter," Reyna continued, wiping tears from her eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie she’d stolen. "A legitimate addiction. There should be a support group for this.

’Hi, my name is Peter, and I’ve cuckolded forty-seven men in the last three months.’"

"It hasn’t been forty-seven—"

"’I can’t walk past a married couple without calculating the logistics of fucking his wife in the next room,’"

Reyna went on, doing a terrible impression of my voice that somehow still sounded exactly like me.

"’I see a wedding ring and I get an erection that could cut diamond. Hi, Peter.’"

Lila leaned over from across the aisle, smirking. "She’s not wrong. You

just pheromoned

the entire cabin into a low-grade orgy trance because one woman looked at you funny."

"It was a very specific look."