Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 201- Taking Gia

Both hands now occupied. Gia on his lap — his left. Nara at his side — his right was managing two things simultaneously with the specific, unhurried competence of someone who was used to managing simultaneous things.

He looked across the fire.

At the three shapes visible through the trees.

The seated silhouettes of Celia and Aisha and Meijin, watching, not watching, watching again.

He could see them.

He returned his attention to the immediate.

The three women around him were making sounds that were attempting to be quiet and were not quiet. The specific, collective, barely-managed sounds of three bodies receiving things and trying to keep the sounds below a certain volume because the other camp was twenty feet away and they could be heard.

This effort was failing.

"’Your boobs,’" he said to Gia, with the specific, warm directness of a man giving a rating, "’are very soft.’"

She made a sound.

"’Like—’" He pressed. The specific, groping grip of someone checking a material property thoroughly. "’Properly soft. The kind that—’"

"’Don’t,’" she said. Her voice breathy. The specific, please-don’t-describe-it register of someone who knows that being described will make something happen that they’re trying to postpone.

He didn’t stop.

Her nipples, under the bra — she was wearing the bra still, and under his hands the fabric was doing the specific, reporting thing of thin fabric under pressure, the peaks of her visible through it, his thumbs finding them through the layer and pressing.

"’HNNGH—’"

"’Good,’" he said.

He stood.

The specific, immediate shift in the geometry of the group — his body rising, Gia’s body standing with him because she had been on his lap, her feet finding the ground, the two of them upright and the other two standing beside and around.

"’Alright,’" he said.

He looked at the three of them.

Gia, in front of him. Her blouse open, the bra visible, the specific, flushed quality of someone who has been thoroughly touched and has arrived somewhere new in themselves.

Nara, to his left. Her face doing the specific thing it did when she had gotten what she wanted and was processing the wanting of more.

Preet, to his right. The hickeys visible at her shoulder in the firelight. The bowlegged, careful posture that was slowly becoming less careful as the evening progressed. Her eyes doing the specific thing they’d been doing all day, which was the full, open look of someone who had been somewhere with him and had a claim on that geography.

He reached.

Both hands.

Not slowly — the specific, committed motion of someone who has decided and is executing.

His left hand found Nara’s blouse.

Gripped the center of it.

The sound of it — the specific, short, definitive RIIIP of fabric giving way — was not as loud as the gasp that followed it.

Nara’s blouse, open. Her bra, white and intact for approximately two more seconds.

His right hand, already at Preet’s.

RIIIP.

Preet’s blouse, open. The brown of her skin in the firelight, the full, heavy weight of her visible through the bra he’d found the front clasp of and released.

Preet’s boobs, freed, swinging forward with the specific, full, weighted movement of something that had been contained and was no longer contained. The firelight on the brown of her nipples.

Two down.

He looked at Gia.

"’Wait,’" she said.

Both hands raised. The specific, instinctive barrier.

"’Wait — wait — I’m not—’"

His hand found her hair.

Not rough — the specific, deliberate grip of fingers closing around the hair at the base of her skull. Tilting her head back. Her throat, exposed, the specific vulnerable line of it.

"’WAIT—’"

Her voice — different now. The protest with the specific, breathless quality of a body that is protesting and is also doing the other thing. Her back, arching with the tilt of her head, her boobs pressing forward against the bra still holding them, the arch of her displaying everything.

He looked at the other camp.

Twenty feet. The three silhouettes visible between the trees.

"’Come on,’" he said. Loud enough to carry.

To no one. To the night. To the three shapes in the trees.

Celia, through the trees, heard it.

She had been staring at the shapes of them around the main fire since they’d sat down. Trying not to. Doing it anyway. The specific, involuntary tracking of something that kept pulling attention regardless of instructions.

"’Come on,’" she said. To Aisha and Meijin. "’Ignore it. Don’t—’"

He pulled his underwear down.

Even at twenty feet, in the firelight, through the trees — they could see.

The cock.

Hanging in the night air. Then not hanging — the specific, immediate change in its posture as his hand found it, as he looked at the three women in front of him, as the firelight caught the full, dark-flushed length of it.

"’Oh,’" Aisha said.

"’Don’t,’" Celia said.

"’I just said oh,’" Aisha said.

"’Let me cook you all three first,’" he said. To the three women in front of him. The specific, casual register of someone proposing a reasonable schedule. "’Let me relieve myself. Then I cook.’"

The three women in front of him.

"’TOGETHER?’" Gia’s voice. The full, open, unprepared register of someone receiving a piece of information they had not been prepared to receive. "’You mean — all three of—’"

"’We will NEVER,’" Nara started. And then: "’Wait—’"

"’EAT ANYTHING COOKED BY YOU!!!’" Preet finished.

From the other camp, through the trees:

"’WE WILL NEVER—’" Celia’s voice.

"’—NEVER EAT—’" Aisha.

"’—SOMETHING COOKED—’" Meijin.

"’—BY YOU!!!’"

All three of them, simultaneously, through the trees, finishing the sentence that had started at the main fire and had carried — because apparently their voices did that when all of them were yelling the same thing at the same volume.

He looked at the trees.

The purple eyes. The firelight.

He turned back to Gia.

She was standing in front of him. Her hair still in his hand from before, the back of her head, her throat still exposed from the tilt. Her bra still on. Her blouse open.

Her eyes — wide. The specific, widened quality of someone who can see clearly what is in front of her and is making one last check against what she has decided.

One hand went down.

His.

Found the waistband of her skirt. The fabric at her hips, thin cotton, the specific, easy pull of a waistband down over the curve of her.

Then her underwear.

The immediate air finding her.

She made a sound that was not protest. Was not anything she’d have a name for immediately.

His cock. His hand guiding it. The specific, deliberate positioning of someone who does not need guidance but is applying it anyway. The head — the blunt, flushed head, in the firelight, touching.

Gia’s hands found his forearms.

"’I’m not—’" The last sentence. The specific, final sentence of someone whose decision is made and whose body is one step ahead of the sentence. "’I mean I am — but — I haven’t—’"

PAH!!!

’"YO—YOU"

PHAACKK!!!

"’AAAANNNNGGGHHHHHH~~~!!!’"

The sound went through the clearing, through the trees, through the night air, into the other camp.

Into the three women sitting at the smaller fire.

Celia looked up.

Aisha looked up.

Meijin, fingers paused in the weaving, looked up.

The specific, resonant quality of that sound — not the sounds from the beach, not the careful-quiet of the forest, not the managed sounds anyone had been making anywhere. This was the full, uncontained, opened-up sound of a woman receiving something for the first time at scale that she had previously only received at a different scale entirely.

The two-minute boyfriend.

That was the number Gia had given. That was the reference point. That was the entire empirical foundation upon which Gia’s understanding of what sex was had been constructed.

It had just been revised.

PAH! PAH!

"’AAAHN~♡♡—AAAHN—’"

The three at the smaller fire sat very still.

Celia’s hands, in her lap.

Aisha’s, pressing flat against the root she was sitting on.

Meijin’s, still on the weaving.

None of them said anything.

The fire crackled.

From twenty feet away, through the trees, the sounds continued — Gia’s voice, the specific, escalating sounds of a woman who had one reference point and was currently receiving its replacement at volume — and the specific, layered sounds of two other women who were not being quiet either, the chorus of it, the three voices together with the fire and the waterfall making a sound that was just — the specific sound of the night, and what was happening in it, and the twenty feet between.

Celia pressed her knees together.

She stared at the fire.

She did not look at her hands.