Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion Chapter 309 - Talking and Banging at the Same Time

His left hand — still at her breast. The kneading had changed.

Not the attending, working quality of before — the harder, more deliberate quality of a grip that had found a register producing results and was staying in it. The full squeeze. Both fingers and palm, the flesh of her breast yielding and rising around the grip, the thick, warm, considerable weight of it compressed in his hand and then released and compressed again.

Her breast.

Bouncing with every thrust. The specific, weighted, unmanaged quality of it — the heavy, warm, natural swing of a breast that size responding to the rhythm of a cock working her ass from behind, forward and back with each impact, the weight of it moving with the full, pendulum, involuntary physics of significant mass.

He pinched her nipple.

The single, precise pinch — gathering the nipple between two fingers and squeezing until the sensation was specific, bright, sharp, and entirely direct in its pathway from that location to the base of her spine.

’’AAHNGH~~!’’

Halfway caught. The jaw finding it at the last mont and containing the full volu, reducing it but not eliminating it, the half-muffled quality of a sound that had been too large for the available containnt.

Her body — forward and back. The involuntary, helpless, fully-participating quality of her hips — not fighting the rhythm anymore. Not arguing with the direction. Her ass working back onto his cock with the committed, trained-body quality of hips that had stopped asking permission. The full, rhythmic, et-every-thrust quality of a woman whose body had long since moved past resistance into active, unreserved participation.

Her right nipple — dragging against the plaster with each forward push.

The rough surface catching it. The repeated, accumulated, bright-edged quality of that roughness on sensitized skin. The pain of it arriving fresh with each drag, each thrust pressing her forward into the wall. Landing in the sa place each ti. The cumulative quality of pain that becos sothing more complicated than pain when it arrives at the sa location with enough frequency — sothing her body was receiving as input and categorizing, incorrectly but honestly, alongside everything else.

’It hurt.’

Not muffled. The full sound. The hall received it with the honest, resonant quality of a space that was very good at its job.

The sound lived in the hall.

Then it settled.

Frau Müller had not moved.

Both hands on the pillar. The stillness of soone who was not alard, not scandalized, not departing, but receiving. Processing.

Her lips moved, slightly. A word forming and not being spoken, a classification arriving and being turned over.

’Schlkk. Schlkk. Schlkk.’

"You’re not concerned," she said finally. The careful, asuring quality of it. "That I can hear this."

"Should I be?" Raven said.

"Most people would be."

"Most people," he said, "are managing an image. I’m not managing anything."

A pause.

The quality of the pause — not empty. The full, receiving quality of a pause in which soone was considering sothing that had just been said and finding, to their mild surprise, that it made a particular kind of sense.

"What are you managing?" she said.

"A punishnt," he said. "And a conversation. Both are going well."

Veronica’s forehead was against the stone.

Her face — if visible from the front — would have shown the full, comprehensive, nothing-remaining ahegao quality of an expression that arrived without being perford. Her jaw: open and loose. Her tongue: finding the rough plaster, pressing against it, the involuntary, seeking quality of it. Her eyes: the white-and-rolled, full-upward-forward quality of eyes that had stopped being located where eyes normally are. Tears running from the outer corners — not grief, the involuntary, physical, this-is-what-the-body-does-at-this-level quality of them.

She was gushing.

Her pussy — soaked through the panty she wasn’t even wearing properly anymore, the arousal running freely, coating his fingers, coating the inside of her thighs, the warm, liquid, body-produced evidence of a system that had been receiving his cock in its ass and his fingers on its clit simultaneously for an extended period and was responding with the total, honest, involuntary generosity of a body that had stopped managing itself.

His right hand — wet with it.

The full, warm, palm-coating quality of her pussy’s arousal on his fingers and palm, the liquid warmth of her soaking his hand as he continued the circle, the patient, knowing, two-fingered work on her swollen clit that had not stopped for several minutes.

He increased the pace.

Not suddenly. The incrental, degree-by-degree quality of an increase that arrived like a tide — present and larger before you noticed the arrival. His hips picking up the rhythm. His cock working her ass with the building quality of sothing that had been patient and was done being patient.

’Schlkk. Schlkk. Schlkk. Schlkk.’

The sound altered with the pace — the sa wet, aty, pressurized character, but the rhythm of it changed, quickened, the specific quality of his cock moving faster in the slick, tight heat of her ass becoming more present in the hall.

Frau Müller heard the change.

"That sound," she said.

"Mm," Raven said.

"It’s—" She stopped. The delicate quality of choosing a word. "It reminds of sothing."

"What?"

The pause.

"Opening a bottle," she said. The flat, careful, I-have-arrived-at-this-description quality of it. "A very — pressurized bottle. Sothing sealed. Sothing with — considerable contents."

"Accurate," Raven said.

Frau Müller’s hand on the pillar tightened.

"She’s—" Her voice. The careful, assembling quality of it. "Whatever that sound is — she’s the source of it."

"She is."

"And you’re—"

"Yes."

"Right now."

"Yes."

"While talking to ."

"The two things aren’t in conflict," he said. The warm, easy, entirely-unashad quality of it. The tone of a man who found this a perfectly ordinary thing to be doing while explaining himself. "You asked about healing. My thods are — applied."

A pause.

"Veronica is not being healed," Frau Müller said.

"Different thod," he agreed. "Sa practitioner."

Veronica made a sound into the plaster that she would categorically deny having made.

He pulled her hair.

Not the fabric-and-hair combination — the hair itself. The full, deliberate gathering of her thick, dark hair and the slow backward pull — her head tipping back with the traction, her throat exposed, the back of her skull pressing briefly against his jaw.

Her hips worked harder.

’Into it.’

The full, body-committing, unreserved quality of her ass pushing back onto his cock — eting each thrust with the trained, compass-needle certainty of a body that had stopped submitting argunts because the direction had been settled by a higher court. She was actively fucking him back. Her hips in full, rhythmic, honest conversation with the pace he was setting, the back-and-forward quality of a body that had learned this and was demonstrating what it had learned.

She was gushing harder.

The arousal running freely down both thighs now, the wet, warm, liquid evidence of her pussy responding to his cock in her ass and his fingers on her clit with the total, uninhibited generosity of a system past all managent thresholds.

’Schlkk. Schlkk.’

"Your work," Raven said, to Frau Müller. The warm, genuinely-attending quality of it. "The acoustic architecture. This hall, specifically. What would you write for it?"

Frau Müller stood at her pillar.

She had stopped trying to pretend the model was incomplete.

The model was complete.

"Sothing very still in the bass register," she said. Quiet. The genuine, actually-working quality of her voice. "This space holds the low frequencies. The ceiling would extend a bass note into sothing that fills. And over that—" She paused. "Sothing that builds slowly. The kind of thing you don’t hear arriving until it’s already everywhere."

"Yes," he said.

"The kind of thing," she said, "that you can’t get away from once it’s in the space."

’Schlkk. Schlkk.’

"Yes," he said again.

His left hand pushed her blouse fully up. Her bare torso against the cold stone — her bare nipples against the rough plaster directly, no fabric now, the specific, direct, undiated quality of sensitized skin against rough two-hundred-year-old plaster.

Her stretch marks. The soft, lived-in quality of skin that had carried significant weight and had the marks of that carrying. His palm flat against her bare ribs — warm, deliberate, with the full knowledge of a hand that knew this skin from extended, comprehensive attention.

The pace — now.

’PAH!’

The sound of his hips eting her ass — the full, flat, skin-on-skin clap of his pelvis against the thick, soft flesh of her backside. The frank, distinct, entirely-unmistakable sound of it finding the hall and the hall returning it without modification.

’PAH!’