Chapter 196: Date with Sofia: No Rest for the Wicked

Seven hours. Seven

fucking

hours of pure conquest left the Voyeur Wellness Center looking less like a spa and more like the aftermath of a Greek tragedy written by a sex addict. Victoria’s nail marks were carved into the marble walls like hieroglyphics. The sauna benches bore Anya’s silhouette, wood fibers crying assault.

And the pool?

Yeah, the chemical balance was officially

fucked

, probably registering more fluids than chlorine thanks to Ortega.

Previous Balance: 60,000 SP

Today’s Carnage? 6,305 SP from extended domination.

My Eros form was still hungry. Still prowling. After seven hours of turning three professional women into overstimulated junkies, I felt like I could walk into a sorority mixer and knock down the entire Greek alphabet without breaking a sweat. This wasn’t human anymore. This wasn’t sex. This was divinity wrapped in flesh.

Not close to a god. I AM becoming one. The God of Ruin. The Destroyer of Marriages. The One Who Makes Wives Forget Their Vows.

But gods don’t get freebies—they pay their dues. Mine came with interest the second I shifted back into mortal form.

Madison had bailed around hour three, her limit hit after watching me systematically dismantle the professional class. Her parting gift? A text dripping with dark amusement:

"Building your empire one orgasm at a time. Don’t forget who your queen is, Destroyer."

I ducked into ARIA’s pre-cleared alley and let the transformation rip through me. The second Peter Carter’s pathetic flesh returned, the cosmic bill landed.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

My legs buckled. Seven hours of supernatural fucking crashed into my mortal nervous system like a tsunami through a cardboard shack. Pain everywhere. Nerves screaming. Spine folding. But through it? I was laughing.

Because gods laugh at the invoice.

[DING! Divine Mission Unlocked: Perfect Liberation][Target: Your pathetic rival Jack Morrison requires a proper father figure.][Additional Targets: His mother Patricia—sexually starved for YEARS. His girlfriend Sofia—already dreading a lifetime sentence of mediocre dick.]

[Mission Rewards Preview:]

Title: "Daddy" – Your presence becomes a gravitational field for daddy’s girls. They orbit you. Safe yet corrupted. Every glance, every word—pure addiction.

Halo: "Motherfucker Halo" – You radiate primal security. MILFs, mothers, matrons—defenses gone. You’re the man they’ll trust to protect their kids... and the man who’ll set fire to their homes after tucking them in.

This mission came the second Sofia walked in on Luna convulsing on my cock, her orgasm practically shaking the building.

"ARIA, get me a fucking Uber."

"Two minutes, Master," she said, like it was foreplay. "Shall I also verify the managers you left catatonic are still breathing?"

"Breathing’s all they need. Anything past that isn’t in my job description."

The coffee shop on Fifth tried too hard to matter—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, baristas who thought a latte came with a philosophy minor. Sofia had chosen a corner table, back to the wall, eyes on the door. Strategic. Clever. But clever only delays the inevitable.

Sofia sat on the velvet chair like sin itself had carved a throne—her body a weapon forged in temptation. The white dress was blasphemy made fabric: soaked-tight it clung like a second skin, transparent in its greed for her contours. Every curve screamed:

Fuck me. Destroy me. Worship me.

Her breasts strained the lace bodice—full, heavy, straining against the delicate fabric like caged beasts. Cleavage plunged deep, against the lace. With every breath, the lace stretched, thinned, one thread away from surrendering to the weight beneath.

Her hips flared from a wasp-narrow waist—a generous, deadly swell that screamed

childbearing

and

ride-me

in the same gasp. The dress dug into her flesh where it met her thighs, pouting creases forming like wet promises.

Below, her ass poured over the chair’s edge—perky, round, impossibly firm—cheeks spilling slightly under the dress’s tension, molding the fabric into a second skin over every dimple and curve.

Her hair was a riot of midnight curls—wild, untamed, deliberately chaotic. Tresses fell over one shoulder, brushing the slope of her breast, teasing the lace edge. It smelled like jasmine and sin—dark, sweet, thick enough to choke on.

Her face—

fuck, her face

—was a fallen angel’s nightmare:

Eyes were liquid gold, ringed in kohl so deep it looked bruised. They held you—sharp, knowing, maturity and starvation that I have come to learn in most women—seeing every dirty thought you’d ever had and daring you to act. Lips were bee-stung, painted blood-red, slightly parted.

Moisture clung to the lower lip—glistening, wet—like she’d just tasted something obscene.

Sofia had a straight nose, aristocratic even , a blade slashed between sinful cheekbones high enough to cut glass with a porcelain-pale skin, luminous against the dark curls and crimson lips. A single beauty mark dotted just left of her chin—a target for teeth or tongues.

She looked up as I entered. The dress shifted, lace whispering against her skin. Cleavage deepened. Hips rolled slightly against the velvet. Her gold eyes locked onto mine, and a smirk touched her blood-red lips—a slow, venomous curve that promised ruination.

She dressed for war disguised as peace talks.

"Peter," she said, voice steady, fingers betraying her by fidgeting with her phone.

I slid into the seat across from her, slow and deliberate, every movement calculated despite muscles that screamed mutiny. "Sofia. You look..."

"Overdressed for coffee?" She tried for humor, landed in tragedy.

"Perfect for what you’re actually here for."

Her breath snagged. "Which is?"

"Answers to questions you’ve been pretending not to ask all week."

The barista arrived—hipster, man bun, eyes flicking between Sofia and me, trying to calculate the social math of Jack Morrison’s girlfriend having coffee with the school’s viral scandal.

"Just water," I said without sparing him a glance. "We won’t be staying long."

Sofia ordered a latte, her hands shaking like hostages. When Hipster Jesus retreated, she leaned in.

"That was rude."

"That was honest. You didn’t come here for caffeine."

"Maybe I did. Maybe I’m just curious about—"

"About whether what you saw was real? Whether Luna always screams like that or if she was writing a love letter in Morse code? Whether you’ve been settling for quarterback mediocrity when you could have—"

"Stop." Her voice cracked, but her eyes never left mine.

"Why? Because I’m saying what you’ve been rehearsing in your head? Because every time Jack fumbles inside you, you remember what

real pleasure

looked like?"

Her latte arrived like a lifeline. She wrapped both hands around it, armor made of foam and ceramic.

"You don’t know anything about Jack and me."

"I know he’s never made you forget your own name. Never made your legs shake so hard you thought you might die. He’s a quarterback—he throws passes. I

rewrite scripture.

"

"You’re awfully confident for someone who’s never—"

"Never what? Never, had you?" I leaned back, spreading slightly, letting her eyes track the arrogance. "That’s by choice, Sofia. Yours and mine."

"My choice is Jack."

"Your

obligation

is Jack. Your

choice

is sitting across from me in a dress that says

fuck me

while pretending this is about coffee."

She sipped, stalling. Foam kissed her upper lip. I reached across, thumb brushing it away. The contact lasted a heartbeat. The dilation of her pupils lasted longer.

"Don’t," she whispered.

"Don’t what? Touch you like you matter? Like you’re more than the participation trophy dangling on Jack’s arm?"

"I’m not a trophy."

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Tell me why you’re really here."

The silence stretched long enough to be an answer itself. Finally, barely audible:

"I can’t stop thinking about it."

"About what you saw?"

"About... the way she looked. Luna. Like she was dying and being reborn and addicted to it. Jack doesn’t..." Her grip on the cup whitened. "Jack doesn’t make me feel like that."

"Jack doesn’t what?"

"He doesn’t look at me the way you looked at her. Like she was the only thing in the universe. Like worshipping her was your religion."

I leaned in, dropping my voice until it was a secret shared only between sinners.

"Want to know something obscene? I wasn’t even trying. That was Tuesday afternoon maintenance. Imagine what I could do if I

actually put in effort.

"

Her breath shuddered out. "You’re dangerous."