Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 248 - Telling a Story

His hips moved forward.

Slow. Deliberate. The full grinding press of it.

Her throat.

The visible bulge traveling under the skin of her neck — the shape of him moving through her, the outside of her throat deforming with the inside pressure of his cockhead pressing deep, the way the skin stretched thin and then recovered as he withdrew.

The sound she made around it.

Not a moan. Something below a moan — the wet, guttural, involuntary sound of a throat being used at its absolute capacity, the sound produced not by choice but by physics. The thick, liquid sound of an airway working around an obstruction while the body managed the contradiction of breathing and being filled at the same time.

’Glkk—’

’Glkk—’

’Glkkkh—’

The sounds were obscene in the silent room. The wet, clinical sound of something biological being conducted at close quarters.

Her legs were flaying.

The bound ankles pulling at the sheet-loops, her legs twisting left and right with the helpless, involuntary motion of a body that was receiving too much input and could not be still. The sheet restraints holding. Her knees bent, her thighs spread, the bound position keeping her legs apart while her feet kicked at nothing.

Raven’s hand between her thighs.

The working motion of his fingers — two of them, from what Vikram could see in the moonlight, the slow, curling push-and-withdraw of them inside her while his thumb was working something on the outside. The wet, thick sound of it barely audible under the louder sounds from her throat.

Her body — in the way that made Vikram feel something go cold inside him — was participating.

The hips. The involuntary upward press of her hips against his hand, the seeking quality of them, the body moving toward the fingers even while the legs were flaying and the throat was being used and the tears were running the wrong way up her face.

’Her body.’

He thought: ’she doesn’t know I’m here.’

And then immediately: ’she can’t see anything.’

Raven’s thighs were on both sides of her face — the physical walls of them blocking her peripheral vision completely. Her eyes, what he could see of them between his thighs, were — not open in the way of someone looking at anything. The rolled, unfocused quality of eyes that had retreated from the present circumstances because the present circumstances were too much to look at directly.

She could not see her husband standing at the edge of his hospital bed three feet away.

She did not know he was there.

’’’

She was aware of the smell.

That was the thought she had, the thought that kept arriving between the other thoughts: ’the smell.’

His — it was the only word — his ’everything’ was around her face. The proximity of him in the way she had not anticipated when she had — when she had — ’god,’ when had she said yes to this? She was trying to reconstruct the sequence and the sequence kept dissolving because her ability to think in sequences kept dissolving.

He had — he had told her to lie back. He had bound her wrists. She had watched him do it with the strange, removed quality of someone watching something happen to themselves from a small distance, the horny-exhausted quality of a body that had been spending itself for hours and was operating from a place below decisions now.

’I told him to be gentle,’ she thought. ’Because I’m pregnant. I told him that.’

The thought arrived with the bewildered quality of someone who had established a rule and was now receiving the information that the rule had not had the effect intended.

’I told him.’

His balls.

Were on her nose.

She knew this because she could feel them — the warm, heavy weight of them resting on the bridge of her nose, the intimate, overwhelming proximity of them. The heat. The smell that was surrounding her from every direction because his thighs were on both sides of her face and his hand was inside her and his cock was in her throat and his — his balls were resting on her nose and she was upside down and—

’Why,’ she thought. Clearly. ’Why did I allow—’

’Glkk—’

The thought dissolved.

His hips moved again.

The deep, slow, grinding push — the way it found the back of her throat and pressed ’past’ it with the patient, committed certainty of something that had been here before and did not require her full cooperation to continue. The stretch. The full-throat stretch of it, the way her airway reshaped itself around his dimensions, the way her body — traitor, absolute traitor — her body ’breathed’ around it. Something was allowing her to breathe. Some arrangement of angle and timing, some magic or biology she did not understand, was letting her sustain the thing that should not be sustainable.

’Glkkkh—’

She tried to speak.

The sound that came out was not words.

"’Hmmmkk—’" The sealed, muffled, throat-full version of something that had started as a sentence and arrived as a sound.

"’Mm,’" Raven said, above her.

The thumb on the outside of her was pressing in a small, committed circle and she—

Her hips moved.

She felt them move.

She had not decided to move them.

"’Mhkkk—!’"

’’’

"’Your milk,’" Raven said.

He was talking.

The conversational quality of it — the voice of someone conducting a monologue at a comfortable pace while doing something else with their hands and hips. He looked down at her breasts, at the thin white line still tracing down each one with the patient, ongoing quality of something that had been happening for a while and was not stopping.

"’Both sides,’" he said. "’Since the third time tonight. Can’t stop.’"

He kneaded the left one.

The full, warm press of his palm into the heavy flesh, the squeeze — and the response was immediate. The thin trickle thickened for one second under the pressure, the milk releasing with the compression, running faster down her ribs, pooling in the concave of her navel.

Her throat responded.

"’Glkk—!! Gkkh—!!’"

The involuntary tightening around him — the reflex clench of a throat that was receiving stimulus from somewhere else in the body, the way it gripped. The sudden, fierce, accidental compression of her throat walls around his cock from the inside.

"’Mm,’" he said. The mildly-pleased sound of someone whose instrument had just made an unexpected note.

He squeezed again.

Deliberate this time.

"’GKKKH—!! Hhkk—!!’"

The tightening was more pronounced. Her legs went rigid for a moment, both of them, the full-body response of a pregnant woman whose breasts had just been compressed while her throat was full and her hips were chasing his fingers.

"’Soft,’" he said, to the belly. His right hand had moved — the flat palm, again, over the round swell of it. The same possessive placement from earlier in the night. "’Still soft. Even like this.’"

He addressed the room.

Not Meera.

The room.

"’She told me to be gentle,’" he said, with the same conversational register. "’Because she’s pregnant.’"

He looked up.

At Vikram.

The level, direct, unhurried quality of someone completing eye contact they had been planning.

"’She said that,’" he continued, "’about two hours ago. Before the third time.’" A pause. The considering pause of a man reviewing something. "’Or the fourth. I lose track.’"

He withdrew to the edge of her throat.

And ground back.

’Glkk—’

"’HKKKGH—!! Hmm—!!’"

"’Her husband,’" he said, still looking at Vikram, "’apparently found two minutes satisfying.’"

Her throat tightened involuntarily at the pace change.

"’Two minutes,’" he repeated. The flat, factual register of a man reading a number off a performance report. "’She never told me that. Her body did.’"