CHAPTER 177: THE VAMPIRE HOUSE FANTASY

I kept dreaming for days about walking into that estate. In my mind, it’s like the Batcave had a messy affair with a Bond villain and decided to redecorate in goth-chic. Charlotte’s tearing it apart, keeping the Gothic vampire aesthetic (because of course) while turning the basement into something straight out of a sci-fi fever dream.

Quantum-encrypted servers blink like tiny judgmental eyes, silently judging Jeff Bezos for ever thinking rockets were cool. Holographic displays that make MIT look like a toddler’s science fair. A sensory deprivation tank that screams, "I own my mind, thank you very much, Elon."

A gym with equipment that costs more than most people’s entire houses—machines tracking every fiber of muscle like CIA analysts stalking interns. Recovery pods that look like alien cocoons because, obviously, my ass deserves alien-level luxury.

In my fantasy, I step through the entrance hall as Peter Carter and emerge as Eros Velmior Desiderion. Chandelier light slashes across the floor like paparazzi flashes. Shadows twist, dance, worship me. ARIA’s voice booms from hidden speakers: "Welcome home, master."

The women my women—the conquests, the liberations, the taboos of sex, the power games, the corporate dominance, citywide influence—already mapped in my mind like a chessboard. Billionaires, politicians, CEOs—they’re pawns as I take their women, all of them, moving exactly where I want them.

The women who think they hold power? Cute. I’ll have them begging for invitations to rooms they’ll never understand.

Each woman would be a calculated storm: sharp, brilliant, dangerous. Some will bend boards of directors to my will with a glance; others will whisper in the right ears and ignite revolutions—sexual, political, financial.

Every liaison a transaction, every touch a negotiation, every conquest a headline I write in the privacy of my mind before it ever hits reality.

In my empire, desire is a currency. Taboo is a weapon. Pleasure is leverage. The city will pulse with it, every skyscraper and penthouse an extension of my reach, every party a battlefield where champagne flows like strategy and bodies move like pieces on a map only I can see.

ARIA’s voice hums through hidden speakers: "Master, your empire awaits." I imagine her holograms illustrating each conquest, each liberation, every power play—all recorded in real time for the subtle joy of watching fate obey me.

This isn’t narcissism. It’s strategy. It’s inevitability. Peter Carter dies at the threshold of this estate. What rises isn’t just a man—it’s a force of nature, a predator, a king of pleasure and power who reshapes every boardroom, bedroom, and boulevard in his orbit.

Charlotte, somewhere behind a wall of glass and marble, is smiling. Already calculating profits, already plotting the chaos we’re about to unleash together. The empire isn’t just ours—it’s performance art, financial domination, and social commentary rolled into one.

Peter Carter is gone. Eros Velmior Desiderion is home.

Women I mold, train, and guide. They infiltrate social circles, manipulate boardrooms, dominate in ways that make the elite bend to my will, all while satisfying forbidden cravings. Think influencers, heiresses, corporate prodigies—every touch, every secret, every conquest expands my network like a virus.

I had three Queens in my mind.

The Corporate Siren (Charlotte after I conquer her): CEO of a tech conglomerate, used to controlling boardrooms and male egos. She’ll bend to me behind closed doors, negotiating mergers and acquisitions with one hand, and surrendering to touch with the other. Publicly, she’s untouchable; privately, she’s mine.

The Politician’s Mistress: Influential enough to sway legislation, dangerous enough to ruin careers with a whisper. A single word of her’s could shift city policy. She’s my key to controlling not just desire, but laws and consequences.

The Artist of Scandal: A world-renowned performer whose performances blur the line between exhibition and provocation. Her liberation feeds my power; her audacity becomes the pulse of the city’s undercurrent.

And above them would be Madison my Empress!

Luxury properties, underground clubs, tech assets, and ARIA-controlled servers. Each fortress is a stage, each tower a vantage point, each penthouse a command post from which I dictate both lust and law.

And anyone who ever thought they could touch my family or control me? They’ll learn the hard way.

The Vampire House would be more than headquarters. It would be a cathedral of indulgence, a palace where every whisper of power would mirror a sensual moan as I rock a woman’s pussy, and every strategy session would end in conquest. Crystal chandeliers would reflect naked bodies moving in synchronized chaos.

The scent of expensive perfume would mingle with sweat and something darker—anticipation.

The women wouldn’t just be my women. They would be generals, queens, and pawns all at once, each wearing the mask they would choose for the public while kneeling—or straddling—before the private king of California. Me!

Orgy parties would be policy. Velvet ropes and golden chains would frame rooms where power talks dissolved into pleasure, deals would be sealed with whispered promises and clitoral persuasion, and city council members would learn that lobbying had a new definition.

A high-powered senator would swirl champagne, eyes fluttering under the influence of desire and carefully dosed substances.

One CEO, the kind of woman who once made Fortune 500 boards quake, would lie entwined in silk sheets while whispering sensual moans and words she would never dare voice in public.

The entire city would be a chessboard, and every gasp, every sigh, every hand would be a move in my game.

I would walk through the halls like a general surveying troops. Each glance would be a command, every smirk an order. Women would move at my pace, their freedom and loyalty exchanged for the thrill of being allowed to touch, to play, to dominate and be dominated.

ARIA’s voice would whisper from hidden speakers: "Emperor positioning optimal. Influence radius: 12 city blocks. Libido saturation: 93%. Suggesting next target: Lady Mayor, room B-4."

The city itself would tremble in the hearts of these women. Billionaires, politicians, celebrities—they would want to be seen by me, touched by me, owned by me. In their worship, I would become more than Peter Carter.

I would become Eros Velmior Desiderion: King of California, master of flesh and power, architect of taboo.

Every scream, every whispered name, every luxurious gasp wouldn’t just be indulgence—it would be information. Influence disguised as intimacy, conquest dressed as ecstasy. By morning, alliances would have formed, reputations subtly bent, and the city would shift another degree in my favor.

I wouldn’t just throw parties. I would orchestrate orgies of ambition and lust, each one a rehearsal for the empire I would rule—a kingdom where every heart would beat at my command, and every body in the room would be a capital investment in pleasure, politics, and power.

And somewhere in the background, Tommy would mutter, "Dude... I think you just invented a new form of capitalism."

I would smile. "Kid, I am not inventing anything. I am it! I am an embodiment of everything I represent!"