Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 237 - Thrusting Milk out of her Milkers

Chapter 237: Chapter 237 - Thrusting Milk out of her Milkers

Clenching. The involuntary, rhythmic clenching of flesh in orgasm — gripping him, the walls of her tightening around the thick presence of him in a way that communicated very clearly, through the vocabulary of muscle and biology, the full extent of what her body thought about the situation.

He groaned.

Low. The real groan of someone receiving something.

She was gasping when she came back.

Her hands — one still at the sheet, one having found his arm at some point during the arch, gripping it. Her face turned sideways. The sideways-turned quality of someone who needed a direction that was not toward another person’s eyes in the immediate aftermath.

He waited.

Then — slowly — he pulled out to the edge.

And back.

"Ngh—"

She flinched. The post-orgasm sensitivity — the too-much quality of every nerve being freshly calibrated.

"Raven—"

"I know," he said.

He turned her.

The gentle, two-handed repositioning — his arms guiding, her body following with the compliant quality of something that had been through enough that resistance was operating at minimum staffing. She found herself on her side.

His chest against her back.

His arm over her. His palm finding her belly — the flat, warm resting of it, holding. The secured quality of it.

And then: from behind.

The gradual re-entry — the angle different now, the side-lying geometry of it, the spoon-position allowing the deep access from behind while his arm kept her belly held, kept the round, full weight of it from swinging with the motion.

"Oh—" The sound came out of her. The new-angle sound — the way the depth felt different from this position, the slightly-changed place where the head was reaching, the interior rearrangement of sensation.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"Hngh~♡— hngh~♡— aaanh~♡♡—"

The sounds quieter now. The closed-mouth quality of a woman on her side — not the open, full-throated sounds of before, the pressed-inward sounds of someone whose face was partially in a pillow and whose throat was producing everything through the filter of that.

His hand on her belly, rubbing.

The slow, circular motion of it — the warm arc against the stretched, warm skin of her belly, the tender quality of a hand that was managing two things at once: holding the pregnancy safe while the rest of the body was somewhere else entirely.

She could feel the warmth of his palm through the skin. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

She could feel everything.

His cock from behind, from this angle, finding the wall of her with every thrust in the deep way that was different from the face-to-face version — the slightly-upward press of the head against a place that made her toes curl with the involuntary toe-curl of a body that was receiving something that short-circuited the usual sensory routing.

’He is in my body,’ she thought. Clearly. The clear internal sentence of someone arriving at a simple fact through the fog of sensation. ’Another man. I am in a hospital with another man’s child in my belly and this man’s cock inside me and I am making sounds into a pillow that I have never made in four years of marriage and I cannot — I cannot stop—’

Her hips.

Pressing back.

The involuntary, pressing-back quality of hips that were participating without asking for permission.

’I cannot stop.’

PAH PAH PAH PAH.

"Mmmngh~♡♡— aahn~♡— aaangh~♡♡♡—!"

His mouth at the back of her neck. The warm, present press of lips against the nape — the place that she had never had anyone pay attention to, the vulnerable warmth of the back of the neck being given attention. She felt it run down her spine. The nerve-pathway quality of it, the warm signal that traveled from the nape to somewhere lower and arrived where he already was.

"This," he said against her neck, quietly, between thrusts. "This is what warmth is."

She was crying again.

Not because of pain.

"Raven—" His name. Just his name. The small, honest address of a woman who was not protesting and was not stopping and had lost track of which of those facts was the more alarming.

He didn’t answer.

He thrust.

PAH PAH.

"Hnngh~♡♡—!! Oungh~♡—!!"

Her breast against the mattress — the pressed quality of the lower one, the trapped warmth of it against the sheet. The milk, released with each motion of her body, wetting the sheet beneath her in the slow, warm, spreading circle of it.

She felt it soaking against her skin.

’This is what Vikram never—’

She stopped the thought.

’No. Don’t.’

’Don’t compare. Don’t think about—’

He shifted.

The repositioning — withdrawing, the empty quality of the withdrawal, the way her body registered the absence with an involuntary protest. His hands guiding her again — onto her back, the repositioning of someone who was methodical.

Mating press.

The committed geometry of it — his hands finding the backs of her thighs, the folding of them up toward her chest. The careful, managed version of it — not aggressive, the belly-aware version, the angle calculated so that his weight was to the side, not on the belly, the thoughtful management of a man who was taking a pregnant woman into a position that required thought.

She looked up at him.

Her thighs against her chest. The exposed quality of this position — the full, unobstructed view of everything, the way this angle made her feel the most seen she had ever been in this particular context.

"I—" She swallowed. "This position — I don’t know if—"

"I have you," he said.

He entered.

"HNNGH—!!!"

The depth.

The different depth — the way this angle changed the geometry, the several-millimeters-more quality of this position, the head of him finding the wall of her with the committed force of something that had traveled the full available distance.

Her belly, above her. The round, full weight of it, the free-hanging quality of the belly from this angle — it moved with each thrust, the forward-and-back jiggling motion of the belly with momentum, the skin warm and stretched.

Her breasts above her.

The gravity-assisted heaviness of them against her chest — and with each thrust, the full, jiggling motion of them, the backward jolt of each thrust pushing them forward, the recoil bringing them back. The milk — with each motion, with each deep thrust, the rhythmic release of it, twin lines of warm white tracking down from her nipples across her collarbone.

’I’m going to go to hell,’ she thought. The clear, exhausted clarity of the thought. ’I am five months pregnant and I am in a position I have never been in with a man who is not my husband and there is milk on my chest and I am — I am—’

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"Aah~♡—!! Aaangh~♡♡—!! HIEKK~♡♡♡—!!!"

’—I am going to come again.’

The recognition arrived with the clear physiological announcement of something incoming — the building quality, the tightening that started at the base of the sensation and moved upward through the architecture of her body.

"Raven—" Her voice. Broken, breathless, the quality of a voice at absolute minimum staffing. "Raven, I’m going to—"

"I know," he said.

He thrust harder.

PAH PAH PAH.

"Hnghh~♡—!! Oungh~♡♡—!! HAANNGH~♡♡♡—!!!"

Her back arched again.

The belly jiggling with the arch — the full, round, warm motion of it. Her breasts swinging with the arch, the milk releasing in the fountain quality of a body in full convulsion, fine warm lines of it catching the hospital room light.

Her eyes.

"ANNGHH~♡♡—!!!"