Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 196- The Cry of Pleasure

"’You told me about Preet to take my attention away from you.’"

"’Yes.’"

"’Knowing I’d take it anyway.’"

"’Yes,’" she said. The word barely word-shaped now.

He kissed her.

The specific, side-angled kiss of two people where one is behind the other — his mouth finding the corner of hers, her chin turning as much as the tree in front of her allowed.

PAH!

"’HNNGH~♡—’"

"’And I like,’" he said, "’that you’re exactly that.’"

The moan that came out of her was longer than the previous ones. The specific, resonant quality of a sound that had been generated by something emotional as much as physical.

PAH! PAH!

He slowed.

She felt it — the change in rhythm, not the building pace of before but something deliberate. Something purposeful.

His hand moved.

From her hip. Around. Down. Past where they were joined. Lower.

She felt where it was going before it arrived.

"’Wait—’"

"’Mm.’"

"’That’s — I’ve never — that’s not—’"

He pressed.

The specific, exploring press of a thumb against the place that was not where he was. Small circles. The specific, patient rhythm of someone who is not going anywhere.

"’I’ve heard it hurts,’" he said. Conversational. The specific, easy register of someone providing factual context.

"’Then don’t—’"

"’It does,’" he said. "’At first.’"

She recognized the sentence.

Her own sentence. The one she had used in the shelter. ’At first.’

"’That’s not fair—’"

He pulled out.

Completely. The specific, immediate absence of him, the cold forest air finding where he had been.

She turned her head.

He was standing behind her. Looking at her. The purple eyes in the dappled morning light.

"’I won’t,’" he said, "’if you don’t want me to.’"

She looked at him.

The sentence landed with the specific, architectural weight of a sentence that means three things at once. The surface meaning. The implication beneath it. And the specific, terrible understanding of Nara — who understood people, who had been understanding people for as long as she could remember — that the third thing it meant was: ’I will not pursue this. I will go back to the path. I will find another woman who is not resistant.’

She thought of Preet’s face in the morning.

She thought of him saying ’you’re the best woman I’ve ever tasted’ in the predawn gray over Preet’s unconscious shoulder.

She turned back to the tree.

"’Be gentle,’" she said.

He said nothing.

His hand again. The thumb. More deliberate now, the preparation of it — the specific, careful opening of something that had not been opened before, the pressure, the resistance, her body’s objection registering in the specific, involuntary clench that he worked against slowly, patiently, the way he worked against everything.

"’NNGGHH—’"

"’Breathe,’" he said.

She breathed.

Then his cock.

The head. Pressing. The specific, different resistance of this entrance — tighter, more specific, the pain immediate and real and not the same kind as before, the searing kind, the kind that made her eyes water against the bark.

"’STOP — stop — it’s — STOP—’"

He didn’t stop.

Slow.

The specific, committed slowness of someone who has been told to be gentle and is being gentle, which did not mean stopping.

"’AAAGH—’"

Her hands dug into the bark. Her face pressed against it. The specific, wet track of tears that she hadn’t planned running down her cheek.

He was inside her.

Not fully. But inside. The head seated in the tight, burning grip of a place that had never been entered before and was registering its extensive objection.

He held.

Didn’t move.

His hand moved to her front instead — finding her breast through the fabric, the warm, groping grip of someone who knows how to redirect attention.

She gasped.

The specific, surprised gasp of a body that had been running the pain signal and had just received a competing signal from a different register entirely.

He moved.

Slow.

PAH — quiet. The soft, restrained sound of a man who is managing pace.

"’HNGH—NGH—’"

Her voice against the bark. Not the full sound — the specific, muffled, suppressed sound of someone managing something intense in a forest where four women were approximately ten feet away.

PAH. PAH.

He sped up.

Not fast. But faster.

"’AAAHN—’"

"’Nara.’"

"’Wh—’"

"’You’re squeezing.’"

She was.

She could feel it — the specific, involuntary vice of her body around him, the tightening that she couldn’t control, the grip of something that was in pain and was also, beneath the pain, doing the thing that bodies did when they were receiving something and had stopped distinguishing between the register.

"’I can’t — I can’t control it—’"

"’I know,’" he said.

PAH! PAH!

"’AAHNGH~♡—’"

The sound was louder than she’d intended.

From ten feet away, behind the treeline—

"’Is he—’"

Aisha.

She had said it first. She’d had approximately thirty seconds of moral hesitation before Gia had appeared at her elbow with the specific, purposeful expression of someone who had made a decision on behalf of the group.

They were in the undergrowth. Five women, not breathing at volume.

The view between the trees: him. Behind her. His underwear down. His cock — the morning light on it, not the flattering moonlight, just the honest green-filtered daylight of the forest — disappearing into Nara from behind, but from the wrong angle.

The wrong angle.

Meijin had understood it first. The specific, angle-reading comprehension of someone who had grown up between two precise cultures and had developed an eye for geometry.

Her eyes had widened.

Then Gia. Her engineering brain making the spatial calculation with the specific, involuntary precision of someone who could not not compute a given geometry.

Then Aisha, who had figured it out at the same moment as Preet, because Preet had made a small sound and pointed, and they had both looked together.

"’Is he,’" Aisha said, "’fucking her—’"

"’Yes,’" Meijin said.

"’In the—’"

"’Yes,’" Meijin said again.

They watched.

Nara’s face on the bark. The specific visible line of her from the side — her back arched, her hips raised, his body behind her with the specific, committed geometry of the position. Her ass, partially visible, the red of it — the specific, visible redness of skin that had been stretched in a way it had not been stretched before, the slight tear at the edges of it visible from here, the dark, spreading evidence of something being done to a place that had not expected to be done to.

PAH! PAH!

"’AAAHN~♡—NGH~♡—’"

She was crying.

They could see her face — the tears, the specific, wet expression of someone who is in pain and is not stopping, is choosing not to stop, is making the ongoing decision to stay in it.

They all placed their hands, unconsciously, over their own backs.

The specific, protective reflex.

Preet’s hand at her lower back.

Gia’s arms crossing in front of her.

Aisha’s palm pressing flat against her own hip.

Meijin, both hands folded in front of herself.

Celia pressing her thumb against her own mouth.

PAH! PAAAH!

"’NNGGH~♡♡—’"

"’Is he going to—’" Aisha started.

Nobody finished the sentence.

It didn’t need to be finished.

The five of them standing in the morning forest, watching the specific, visible evidence of what was happening between the trees.

And the question that the sentence had been building toward, left unfinished, hanging in the green morning air over all of them with the specific, terrible weight of something everyone was thinking and nobody was going to say out loud.

The silence answered it.

"IAAAANGHHHH~~~!!!!"