Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 206- Celia’s last Prayer

"’—Raven — Raven I’m going to come again — please — please I need to—’" Nara’s voice. Low. The specific, stripped-bare quality of someone who had removed all the layers and was speaking from the floor of themselves.

"’Ask properly,’" he said.

"’I’m asking PROPERLY — I am — PLEASE — Raven PLEASE—’"

PAH!

"’AAAHN~♡♡—like that — like THAT — RIGHT there — right there don’t move — don’t—’"

PAH! PAH!

"’AAAANGHHHH~♡♡♡~~~!!!’"

"’—your pussy,’" he said.

"’WHAT—’" She was still in the middle of it.

"’It’s squeezing,’" he said.

"’It KNOWS — it knows it wants to keep you — it doesn’t WANT you to—’"

PAH!

"’—HNGH~♡—’"

Preet, from somewhere nearby: "’Mine does that too.’"

"’I know,’" he said.

Preet made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a moan. The specific, complicated middle sound of someone who is pleased by information and is receiving it at an inconvenient moment.

PAH! PAH!

"’AAAHN~♡—’"

"’Your boobs,’" he said.

"’What—’"

"’Look at them.’"

Preet looked down.

The specific, visible evidence of what three hours of being repeatedly worked had done — the finger marks at the sides of them, the specific, red-imprinted geography of hands that had been here repeatedly. The hickeys at her collar, new ones layered on last night’s. Her nipples, beaten-dark and standing fully.

She felt him pinch them.

"’HNGH~♡♡—’"

Both.

"’Why—’"

"’Beautiful,’" he said.

She made a sound that was the specific, embarrassed, pleased sound of someone who has been told something and cannot manage their response to it.

PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"’RAVEN — RAVEN I’M — I’M GOING — AGAIN — I’m going again I can’t — my body keeps—’"

"’One more,’" he said.

"’I HATE WHEN YOU SAY—’"

PAH!

"’—AAAANNGHHHH~♡♡♡~~~!!!’"

At the secondary camp.

Celia’s hands were not at her sides.

She had given up on that. Had given up on it approximately forty minutes ago in the specific, quiet way that extended fights were given up — not dramatically, not with a clear moment of capitulation, just gradually, the position becoming untenable and the body finding the position it had been trying to find all night.

She had her knees bent.

Her left hand was on her stomach.

Her right was lower.

She was not thinking about this.

She was thinking about nothing. She was looking at the canopy. She was very carefully thinking about nothing while her right hand did the specific, quiet, managed thing that it was doing, the thing it had been building toward since the beach three nights ago and had been managing with various levels of success since then.

From the main camp:

"’—Raven — Raven don’t come yet — please don’t come yet — I’m not—’" Gia’s voice. The specific, desperate register of someone who has invested significantly in an experience and is concerned about its conclusion arriving before hers.

"’Ten more,’" he said.

"’TEN MORE — I need — I need more than ten — I need—’"

PAH! PAH! PAH!

"’AAAHN~♡♡—AAAHN~♡—’"

"’Gia.’"

PAH!

"’—HNGH~♡—WHAT—’"

"’Your pussy,’" he said. "’Is—’"

"’DON’T — don’t describe it — I told you not to — when you describe it I—’"

PAH! PAH!

"’—AAAHN~♡♡♡—see — SEE — that happened because you—’"

"’Mm,’" he said.

PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!

"’AAAANNGHHHH~♡♡♡~~~!!!’"

Celia’s right hand moved faster.

She was still looking at the canopy.

She was absolutely thinking about nothing.

’Four hours.’

The waterfall still falling.

The fire at the main camp lower now — not out, just lower, the specific, reduced commitment of a fire that has been going for hours and has metabolized most of what it was given.

Three women at the stone.

Gia was lying on her back. Not in distress — the specific, horizontal quality of someone who has been worked past distress and has arrived at the specific landscape on the other side of it. Her boobs, rising and falling with her breath, the marks on them visible even in the low fire. Her thighs — not pressed together. She had stopped pressing them together approximately two hours ago and had not resumed.

Nara, beside her. On her stomach. Her face turned sideways, her cheek on the stone, her eyes half-open with the specific quality of someone who is technically conscious and practically somewhere else. The marks on her hips — the finger-marked skin, the small, dark cluster of hickeys at the back of her neck where his mouth had been during the third position.

Preet, seated.

She was the only one of the three still upright. Sitting on the edge of the stone, her legs hanging, her boobs loose and marked and still, the hickeys at her shoulder the original ones layered with new ones. She was watching him.

He was standing.

In the pool, waist-deep, washing. The specific, methodical motion of someone who was doing a practical thing after a long practical exercise.

She watched him.

"’Are you done with us,’" she said.

Not accusatory. Not hopeful. The specific, honest question of someone who wanted accurate information about their status.

He looked at her.

"’For tonight,’" he said. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

She absorbed this.

"’My body,’" she said, "’feels like it was taken apart and put back together differently.’"

He said nothing.

"’In a—’" She looked at her own hands. The specific, thoughtful examination of someone checking themselves for changes. "’Not a bad way. A different way. Like some things are in different places now.’"

He looked at the waterfall.

"’Are they,’" he said.

"’Yes,’" she said.

From twenty feet away, through the trees, in the specific, deep quiet of four in the morning when all the sounds of everything had gotten quieter and the sounds from the main camp had been the dominant feature of the soundscape for the last several hours—

Celia.

Was lying on her back.

Her hands were now folded on her stomach. Both of them. The specific, replaced-after-the-fact placement of hands that had been somewhere and had been moved.

She was looking at the canopy.

The specific, looking-at-the-canopy quality of someone who has arrived somewhere and is taking stock.

Her thighs were no longer pressed together.

They had stopped pressing together approximately twenty minutes ago when the pressing had become — counterproductive.

The night insects were loud.

She breathed.

Beside her, Aisha had gone very still. The specific, very-still quality of someone who has finished something and is very committed to the fiction that they have been asleep.

Meijin had resumed her weaving.

In the dark, with no fire.

The basket was very advanced.

"’Go to sleep,’" Celia said.

To no one. To all of them. To herself.

"’I’m asleep,’" Aisha said immediately.

"’Mm,’" Meijin said. Still weaving.

The night.

The waterfall, carrying.

From the main camp, the sounds had gentled — not the escalating, driving sounds of the hours before. Something quieter. The specific, final-hour quality of things that were winding toward their end.

His voice, low: "’Preet.’"

Her voice: "’Mm.’"

A pause.

"’Thank you,’" he said. The same words he’d said at dawn, after the beach. The specific, direct, un-decorated quality of them.

She breathed.

"’You’re thanking me,’" she said. The specific, wondering quality of someone examining a fact they hadn’t expected.

"’Yes,’" he said.

"’okay,’" she said.

A pause.

"’You’re welcome,’" she said.

From the secondary camp, Celia heard this.

She pressed her lips together.

She looked at the canopy.

’Where are you sister... I want to leave this hell... before he fucks me too...’