Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion Chapter 246 - Fifth time stuffing her

"Your legs hurting," the voice said. Not asking.

"Yes—" The sobbing-quality of it. The overwheld, totally spent, beyond-capacity honesty of it. "My legs— Raven— my legs are shaking— I can’t hold—"

"I know."

’PAH. PAH.’

"MMPH~!! AAAHH~!!"

"I’ll fuck you like this every day from now."

She heard this through the sound of her own voice and through the sound of what was happening and her brain tried to form a response.

"I— ngh— you can’t— I have a—"

’PAH. PAH. PAH.’

"AANNGH~!!♡ Hhng~!! OHHH~!!"

"Every day," he said again. Calm. The stated quality of soone marking a decision.

"Raven— please— I— my husband— I—"

’PAH.’

"MMNH~!!"

"—I don’t—"

’PAH. PAH.’

"AAAHH~!!♡♡ HHHNG~!!"

"—want—"

The word was swallowed entirely by her own voice.

The shadow on the curtain — Vikram watched it. The shadow showed her legs, hooked back. The round belly. His hand finding her breast — the sharp, reflexive arch of her shadow as the milk released with the pressure of his palm, the shadow of it running down her ribs.

"Milking," the voice said quietly, to her. "You’re still going."

"I know— I can’t stop— every ti you—"

’PAAAH.’

"AAANGH~!!♡♡♡"

The sound tore through the room.

Vikram’s fist was white-knuckled on the bed rail.

His face was wet. He did not know when that had started or when he had run out of the ability to care that it had.

His throat—

He tried.

Just once more.

He opened his mouth and pushed everything he had toward the word — toward her na, toward the sound of it, toward ’era’ or ’stop’ or even just a sound that would cross the curtain and reach her and—

A broken rasp. The thin, almost-nothing of a completely wrecked voice pushing through a raw, post-surgical throat.

Not enough.

Not close to enough.

On the other side of the curtain, the sounds continued.

’PAH. PAH. PAH.’

"Hngh~! Mngh~!! Aaahh~!!♡"

"He doesn’t deserve you," the voice said.

She made a sound — not agreent, not protest. The overwheld sound of soone who was past the point of having opinions about statents being made to them.

"You’ve been like this for months," the voice continued. Quiet. Conversational. The voice of a man who was going deep and speaking at the sa ti with the focus of soone for whom this was not difficult. "Carrying it alone. You know that."

"I— ngh— don’t—"

’PAH.’

"MMPH~!!♡"

"He never noticed what was in front of him."

She was crying.

Vikram could hear the crying mixed into the sounds she was making — the wet, hitching quality of tears happening at the sa ti as everything else. The body doing too many things at once.

"He— he does— ngh— he does notice— I—"

’PAH. PAH.’

"AANNGH~!!♡♡ HHNG~!!"

"—I love—"

’PAAAH.’

"AAAHH~!!♡♡♡"

And then the man’s voice dropped lower. The final quality of soone approaching a deliberate endpoint.

"I’m going to cum inside you again."

She made a sound — complex, defeated, wanting, guilty, the full human ss of a woman who was past the point of navigating what she wanted and what she should want.

"I— we— Raven—"

"Again," he said.

"Ngh— ngh— HNGH—"

’PAH. PAH. PAH. PAH.’

"AAHHNG~!!♡ OUNGH~!! HIEKK~!!♡♡"

The shadow on the curtain went still in the specific way of sothing that was not still at all — the deep, fully-seated, buried quality of a man emptying himself into a woman, the held-breath total stillness of it, her own hands pressing her belly from both sides.

A sound from her.

Not a moan. Sothing below a moan and above a sob.

The sound of a body being filled again when it was already full.

"Oh— oh— I can— I can feel—"

Her voice, fractured.

"—five tis," she whispered. To herself. Not to him. The number in the voice of a woman counting sothing and not knowing what the count ant.

The room went quiet.

Not silence — the wet, exhausted, heavy quiet of a room that had been loud and was now coming down from it. Her breathing. The small sounds of movent. The settling.

On the other side of the curtain, Vikram lay on his back.

His face was wet.

His hand was still on the bed rail.

He stared at the ceiling with the flat, specific stare of a man who had been shown a thing he could not unshow himself, who had heard a thing he could not unhear, who was building a story from fragnts of sound and shadow — and the story he was building, the only story the fragnts fit, was the one he had feared since the parking lot.

Not tonight.

He thought: ’not just tonight.’

The tone. The familiarity of the man’s voice with her. The way she had said his na — not with the shock of a woman with a stranger but with the specific, worn-in, repeated-many-tis quality of a na said to soone whose na you had been saying for a long ti.

’How long’, his mind said. The exact words he had said in the parking lot.

’How long.’

His eyes closed.

On the other side of the curtain, in the quiet, the man’s voice ca once more.

Low. Not to her.

Just to the room.

"Sleep."

And then nothing.

The silence of a room at three-forty in the morning.

Two floors below, the ICU machines tracked their numbers with the neutral patience of machines that had no opinion about what was happening above them.

Vikram lay in the dark.

His hands had stopped shaking.

That was the worst part — the going still. The body finding the floor of sothing and settling there.

He thought of the accident.

He thought of the n in black at the gurney rails.

He thought of this room, this specific room, and the nurse who had said ’the doctor told us to move you here’ with the complete, scripted blankness of soone repeating a thing they had been told to say.

He looked at the curtain.

The moonlight on it.

Ordinary curtain. Ordinary moonlight.

He thought: ’he put here.’

The thought arrived with the cold, clear, terrifying clarity of a thing you cannot un-think once thought.

’He put here. He put in this specific room. The n at the gurney. The doctor’s instruction. This room, this floor, this curtain.’

’He wanted to hear this.’

’He engineered this.’

His body—everything broken in it—tried to sit up.

The pain hit.

He pressed through it anyway, this ti — the white, comprehensive rejection from his ribs his shoulder his head and he ’pushed through it’ because the alternative was lying here and the alternative was not sothing he was going to do.

He got to the edge of the bed.

His feet found the floor.

The IV line pulled taut. He looked at it. His hands were shaking again now — a different kind of shaking, not weakness but the fine tremor of a body that had been given a purpose.

He looked at the curtain.

The thin, pale curtain.

One reach from where he was sitting.

His jaw was set.

His eyes — the specific quality of them now, the flat, cold, decided quality of a man who had arrived at the far end of sothing and was standing at the beginning of the next thing.

He reached for the curtain.

’[ SYSTEM ALERT ]’

’[ Subject: Vikram — Proximity breach detected ]’

’[ Emotional index: Shattered. Classification: HOSTILE ]’

’[ IP Event: Witnessing NTR (live, proximity) — Phase 2/10 bloodline fracture active ]’

[ BONUS: Husband Broken in Real-Ti — Rare. IP awarded: 12,400 ]