Truth is, when I saw Mom crying like that, I had this split second where I thought maybe I should just stay regular Peter Carter forever. Be the good son she wanted, keep wearing the same three crusty shirts, ride my ancient-ass bike to school, and pretend I never got supernatural pussy-slaying powers that could make pornstars weep with envy.
That thought lasted about as long as a Vine before it got absolutely yeeted straight into the trash where it belonged.
This was MY life now, and I was gonna build this empire like a fucking boss. No cap, fr fr.
This was paradise handed to me on a silver platter—to liberate sexually frustrated women who were dying inside their dead-ass marriages, to live like a king instead of a peasant I have been for so long now as long as I have lived, to actually provide for my family instead of being another financial burden they had to carry around like emotional baggage.
I could give them everything they’d never had while living the life I’d always dreamed about but never thought I deserved.
"I’m sorry Mom, but I can’t go back to being nobody. That version of me died the moment the system chose me. But I swear on everything... I won’t become some monster you can’t recognize, some stranger wearing your son’s face."
Sometimes loving someone means refusing to give up the power to protect them and the power to give them the life they only dreamed of. Sometimes being a good son means becoming someone they don’t understand but able to protect them and providing for them.
The guilt will hit like a freight train made of pure emotional damage, but I will push through it. This wasn’t about abandoning my family—this was about upgrading all our lives in ways they couldn’t even imagine yet.
Madison knowing my secret was actually clutch as fuck, like having a teammate who anticipated your next move before you even thought of it. Girl bought me two phones and got me a second number without me even asking, then casually dropped them on my lap like she was handing out candy.
That’s what I call girlfriend material right there, period.
"When your rich girlfriend anticipates your dual identity needs before you do. This is some next-level ride-or-die behavior."
Time to set this shit up properly, like I was building a whole ass alternate reality. I had my cracked-screen disaster of a phone that barely worked and looked like it survived a war zone, and now two brand-new iPhones that probably cost more than my mom’s monthly salary.
The upgrade was giving me a whiplash.
Regular Peter Carter got phone number one—simple transfer of all my old contacts from my cracked phone, same boring apps, nothing suspicious that would make people ask uncomfortable questions.
Just upgraded hardware that wouldn’t embarrass me in public anymore or make me look like I was texting from the stone age.
Dark Lord Peter got phone number two with a completely fresh iCloud account, new everything, zero connection to my old life or anything that could trace back to regular Peter. This was gonna be my superhuman alter ego’s digital headquarters, his command center for world domination.
"Two identities, two phones, zero chance of fucking up and mixing them. One mistake could blow my whole cover and destroy everything."
The new MacBook got the same treatment—separate user accounts, different Apple IDs, completely isolated digital ecosystems that existed in parallel universes. My old laptop got shoved in the corner like a relic from the stone age, looking sad and obsolete.
"From bottom-tier tech peasant to dual-device mastermind in one shopping trip. The glow-up is real and it’s spectacular."
While everything was syncing and downloading apps like it was Christmas morning, I started reorganizing my room like I was Marie Kondo but for secret identities.
Every item had to serve a purpose in maintaining my cover story.
The clothes Madison bought for Regular Peter went into my wardrobe—nothing too flashy or expensive-looking, just smart casual stuff that said, "I improved my style" instead of "I’m suddenly rich as fuck and probably dealing drugs."
A few decent watches that looked nice but not Rolex-level suspicious, some clean sneakers that weren’t covered in scuff marks and shame, button-downs that actually fit instead of hanging off me like I was a scarecrow wearing hand-me-downs from bigger kids.
Basically upgraded normcore that wouldn’t make my family suspicious or have them asking questions I couldn’t answer without revealing cosmic sex powers.
"Looking good without looking like I robbed a bank or started sugar baby-ing for rich older women." The Dark Lord wardrobe was still at Madison’s place, waiting for me to get my own apartment where I could store designer clothes without causing a family intervention.
That collection was next-level designer shit that would probably give my mom a heart attack and make her think I’d joined some kind of cult.
Two wardrobes for two different versions of myself living two completely different lives in the same body.
Lucky for me, Sarah and Emma were glued to their phones downstairs, probably scrolling through TikTok and ignoring the world around them like proper Gen Z zombies.
I got to shower without another awkward family encounter that would involve lying through my teeth.
By the time I was back in my room, towel around my waist and everything finally set up like a proper command center, it was time to get to work on the mission that could make or break my teacher seduction strategy.
Operation: Seduce My Teacher was about to begin, and failure wasn’t an option.
The Isabella Mission: Time to Get Creepy (For Science)
Look, I had to liberate Mrs. Rodriguez from her sexually frustrating marriage where her husband treated her holy p**sy like a microwave meal—quick, disappointing, and leaving her unsatisfied. She needed me!
But I wasn’t about to go in blind like some amateur who thought confidence alone could close the deal.
Enhanced intelligence meant thinking three steps ahead, not just walking up and being like "Hey, want to fuck?" That’s some middle school energy right there.
"Strategic planning beats horny desperation every single time. This is chess, not checkers."
Before I made any moves that could destroy both our lives, I needed complete intel that would make the CIA jealous. Her family situation, her husband who apparently nuts faster than a teenage boy watching his first porn video, kids if she had any, and most importantly—what kind of kinky shit she was into when nobody was watching.
That is where I was betting my money.
The system told me she’d been sexually frustrated for four years because her husband was basically a human premature ejaculation machine who thought foreplay was asking "you ready?" But that was surface-level intel, and surface-level was for amateurs.
"Time to go full NSA on my Biology teacher’s digital life. Privacy is dead and I’m about to prove it."