Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 270 - Awakening of Corrupted Priestess Begins

Chapter 270: Chapter 270 - Awakening of Corrupted Priestess Begins

She looked away.

At the carpet.

At her own hands on the carpet in front of her.

The milk, still dripping — thin, continuous, warm drip of it from both nipples through the fabric, hitting the carpet in two slow, widening spots.

She looked at the spots.

"I hate this," she said. To the carpet.

"I know," he said. Above her.

His cock.

She did not look up.

She felt the proximity of it — that warm, close quality of something being present at face-level in the hotel lamp-light.

She had spent twelve hours with this at various locations and in various states. Her throat knew the weight of it. Her body, in all its comprehensively trained ways, knew that quality of it.

She looked up.

At his face.

His hand — finding her hair again. The two-handed, full grip of it. The reins.

She looked at what was at face level.

Her body — below everything her mind was doing, below the rubble of the day, below the DNA report and the corridor floor and Vikram’s footsteps walking away — her body was producing its own consistent, context-independent, training-based response.

The heat.

That unhelpful, involuntary heat of a body that had been taught something and was applying the lesson.

His thumb.

Finding the corner of her mouth. That gentle pressure of it — not forcing, the familiar, mouth-finding quality of it. Her lips, against her will, against the explicit wishes of every cognitive system she currently had, parted.

A millimeter.

He didn’t need more than that.

The slow, inward press of his cockhead — the familiar weight of it, the familiar fullness of her throat receiving it with the practiced, compression quality of something that had been trained. Her throat expanded around him.

"Gkk —"

That first-contact, involuntary throat sound of it.

She gripped the carpet.

Both fists, the carpet bunching in her knuckles, that anchor-grip of someone who needed to hold something.

He didn’t start slow.

The full, committed, first-thrust quality of his hips — not easing in, that I-know-this-throat-and-its-capacity quality of someone who was operating with established knowledge.

PAH.

"GKKH —!!"

Her eyes.

The forward-and-up quality of her eyes — that involuntary roll of them, the whites catching the lamp-light. Her ahegao expression arriving with the inevitability of something her face had learned how to make.

The jaw — wide. Her jaw at its maximum extension, the corners of her mouth stretched, the saliva building at the sides where she couldn’t manage it.

Her belly.

Swinging gently forward with each thrust — the five-month swell of it, the round, warm weight of it between her and the floor, her splayed thighs bracketing it on either side.

PAH. PAH.

"GKK —!! GLLKK —!!"

Her hands.

She reached up.

Not to push away — that trained, twelve-hours-of-this quality of reaching up and finding his thighs, the grip of someone who needed to hold something while something was happening.

Her fists around his thighs.

Holding.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"GLLKK~!! HKK —!! GLKHHH —!!"

The sound she was making — that throat-full, liquid, deep quality of it. The sound she had heard herself making last night, the sound that had emerged from the platform dream as a translation of a cough, the sound she recognized as her own now in the way you recognize a thing that belongs to you.

Her eyes.

Rolled fully. The whites. The lamp-light catching the whites in the warm gold of it.

Her boobs.

Swinging with the rhythm of his thrusts — the heavy, pendulous, milk-full quality of them moving in that forward-and-back rhythm of a body in this position receiving this kind of attention. The milk — not dripping now, the rhythm of the motion turning the drip into small, dispersed splatter on the carpet below her, thin white against the dark weave. Her nipples, stiff and outlined sharply through the soaked blouse with every swing.

PAH. PAH.

"GLLKK~!!♡ GGkkhh —!!"

Her hips.

She noticed her hips.

She was kneeling on the carpet with his cock down her throat and she noticed her hips because her hips were doing something she had not told them to do. The slow, side-to-side, searching quality of them — the trained, helpless, compass-needle quality of hips that had been comprehensively educated in the direction they wanted to go and were now going there in the absence of any available destination.

Her panties.

The wet quality of them — the full, warm, comprehensive evidence of a body that had been accumulating since this morning and had found no relief.

PAH. PAH. PAH.

"GLLKKH~!!♡♡ HKK —!! NNNGKK~!!"

She was crying.

She realized this through the gagging and the throat-sounds and the rolling eyes and the swinging boobs and the hip-movement and all the rest of it — she was crying. The thin, continuous, salt-warm quality of tears running from the corners of her eyes down her temples and off her jaw.

Not the wailing crying of the corridor.

The silent kind. That continuous, my-eyes-are-running quality of tears that were happening because the body needed to expel something and had found the path of least resistance while everything else was otherwise occupied.

She was crying and gagging and her eyes were rolled and her boobs were swinging and her hips were searching and she was kneeling on a hotel carpet at nine in the evening with a pregnant belly and her husband’s footsteps still somewhere in her chest walking away in a corridor.

PAAAH.

"GLLKKKH~!!!♡♡♡"

His hands in her hair.

That fully-committed, both-hands, complete-grip quality of it — the grip she knew, the grip she had been learning since last night, the grip she would know in the dark, in a dream, in a corridor, anywhere.

He stilled.

The deep, fully-seated, buried stillness of his hips.

She felt his hands tighten.

He looked down at her.

At the rolled eyes. The stretched jaw. The wet face. The swinging, milk-dripping breasts. The round belly between her thighs on the carpet.

She felt him — not coming. Not yet. That pre-cum stillness of someone who was at the threshold and was holding there for a reason.

His hands left her hair.

One hand.

Pressed against the side of her face — that warm, full-palm quality of his hand against her wet cheek. Not harsh. The single, warm, complete contact of a palm against a face.

She looked up at him.

The rolled-eye, ahegao, completely-trained quality of her looking up at him — and still, behind it, that quality of her eyes. The eyes she had had before last night. The eyes that had seen the DNA report. The eyes that had watched Vikram walk away.

Those eyes, in this face, in this position, in this room.

He looked at them.

And then he looked up.

At nothing in particular. Or — at something that was not visible in the lamp-light of the hotel room but that he was addressing nonetheless.

That declarative quality of someone who had planned something and had arrived at the moment to execute it.

"Awaken my priestess," he said.

Quiet. The low, controlled, entirely un-performed quality of it.

A pause.

’System.’

Another pause.

’Let’s currupt my Saintess.’

DING!

’[ SYSTEM — CRITICAL EVENT ]’

’[ Meera — Status: MARK ELIGIBILITY CONFIRMED ]’

’[ Soul-bind ritual: INITIATED ]’

’[ Awakening Protocol: Dormant bloodline carrier — ACTIVATED ]’

’[ Subject: Unborn child — Gestation-Class designation: CHANGED ]’

’[ Previous: Mortal. Current: Bloodline Heir — Raven Lustre, First Generation ]’

’[ Note: The child will awaken at birth with the full dormant capability of its father’s bloodline. ]’

’[ Note: Meera — Loyalty Transfer: 79%. Mark window: OPEN. ]’

’[ Note: He does not know what has just been born inside his wife’s belly. ]’

’[ Note: He will. ]’

’[ IP Award — Priestess Awakening: +62,000 ]’

’[ Running total: 249,147 IP ]’

[ Host can derive holy powers from Consort. Proceed Y/N ]