Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 235 - Entering a Pregnant Pussy

She looked at him.

"I want you," he said. Plain. Not decorated. The specific, plain sentence of want without architecture around it. "Particularly. Not someone else. You."

Her lips trembled.

"I’m pregnant," she said. As if he had not noticed.

"I know."

"Vikram—"

"Drove away."

The room.

He moved.

His hands at his own pants now — the button, the zip, the specific, practiced motion. The fabric loosening. The particular, gravity-assisted fall of it.

And he was — there.

The specific, same thing from the car, but now in hospital-room warm light rather than moving-city dark. The particular, unchanged reality of it — the thickness, the arch, the crimson head, the specific, still-present pre-cum at the tip.

Over her.

Looking down at her.

He placed himself against her.

Not inside — just against. The specific, warm, heavy contact of the head resting in the dark, damp hair of her, the particular, warm weight of him against the specific, swollen heat of her. Resting there. The hair, dark and thick against the specific, bare, crimson head — the contrast of them, her thick, dark forest against his bare, flushed tip.

She was looking at it.

Her eyes wide.

"Raven—" Her voice. Very quiet. "It won’t — you can’t — I’ve never—"

"Taken a man this size?" he said.

She looked away.

"Vikram—" she started.

"I know," he said. He was looking down at the particular geometry of himself against her. "He’s small."

She made a sound.

"You told me," he said, with the specific, small, warm quality of someone who was not mocking her.

"I didn’t mean to tell you—"

"I know."

He rubbed.

The specific, slow rub — the head of him moving against her, through the dark, thick hair, the particular, wet warmth of her parting around it without granting access, the specific, slick drag of the head against her entrance from the outside. Finding the geography.

"Ah—" She gasped. "Ah, don’t — how are you even—"

"Finding it?"

She stared at him.

"Your husband," he said, with the specific, matter-of-fact quality of someone reporting a navigational observation, "couldn’t?"

Her face.

The nuclear red. The specific, involuntary, full-face flush of someone who has been seen in a very particular embarrassment.

"He—" She stopped. Then, because it was very late and she had been through a great deal and the warmth in this room had been making her loose at the joints for an hour: "He slipped. Sometimes. On the—"

She looked at the hair.

He looked at the hair.

He reached down.

Two fingers — the specific, gentle pinch of the hair at the particular, outermost edge, the playful, particular quality of the gesture.

"Ow—" She winced. The specific, small wince. "Don’t—"

"You look gorgeous," he said.

"Stop—"

"Every part of you," he said. "Including this."

She was trembling.

Her hands — one at her belly, the automatic armor. One gripping the sheet. Her legs open. Her chest heaving with the particular, short-breath quality of someone who had been in a state of physiological alertness for an extended period and was operating at the particular ceiling of what the body could sustain before it simply proceeded.

"Raven—" Her voice. The specific, last-line quality of it. Not aggressive. The particular, soft and already-losing quality of someone making a final note on a matter that had already been decided somewhere lower than thought. "This is wrong. You know this is wrong."

"Yes," he said. Simply.

"Then—"

"You are the most—" He stopped. Looked at her. At the belly under her hand and the milk-leaking nipples and the tear-tracked face and the thick dark hair below. "The most delicious thing," he said, "I have ever wanted to fuck."

The sentence.

The specific, plain, undecorated sentence.

She made a sound. Something that started as protest and arrived as something else.

He pushed.

The head.

Against her entrance. The specific, committed pressure of something that had been placed and was now applying the particular, slow force of its own weight and intention.

"AH—" Her breath. Sharp. Her hand pressing harder on her belly. "Raven—wait—it’s too—"

"Breathe," he said.

"I’m — this won’t — you can’t—"

"Breathe, Meera."

She breathed.

He pushed.

The entrance beginning to give — the specific, slow, protesting stretch of something that had not been stretched to this scale before, the particular, yielding quality of flesh being asked to accommodate what it had not been designed for and discovering it was more elastic than it had known.

"Ngh—!" Her head pressing back. "It’s too — I don’t think—"

"You’re fine," he said. His voice level. Present. The specific, unhurried certainty of it.

"Easy for you to—" she gasped, "—say, you’re not the one being—"

"Stretched?"

"YES—"

"It will," he said, with the particular, warm, almost-amused quality of someone who was enjoying the logistics of the conversation even while managing the logistics of the situation, "make delivery easier."

She stared at him through her tears.

"That is not—" A gasp, as he moved a millimeter further. "That is NOT how that—"

"No?"

"The—" Another gasp. "The vagina and the birth canal are not—" She broke off. The specific, mid-sentence break of someone who has been interrupted by an internal event. "They’re not the same—"

"I see," he said, with the specific, thoughtful quality of someone receiving new information.

She was laughing.

The specific, absurd, wet, tear-tracked laughing of someone who was arguing anatomy while being stretched open in a hospital bed at midnight with a stranger’s cock. The particular, involuntary quality of it — the laugh arriving before she had decided to laugh, the specific, impossible situation of the moment producing the only appropriate response, which was the absurd one.

He smiled.

Then pushed.

Fully.

The specific, committed, single thrust of someone who had waited for the body to be prepared and had assessed that the preparation was sufficient.

She stopped laughing.

"ANNNNGHHHH—!!!"

The sound.

Full-throated, full-bodied, the specific, unmanaged, entire-system scream of a body that had just received the full, committed reality of something it had been told about in a car and had done something about in a car but had not yet fully metabolized as a physical fact until this exact, specific, rupturing second.

Her back arched.

Fully. The specific, bridge-arch of a spine receiving a shock — her shoulders pressing into the mattress, her belly lifting, the round, warm weight of it rising with the arch. Her breasts, with the motion — the heavy, swinging, upward jolt of them, the particular, momentum-driven lift and return of their full weight, the milk at the nipples catching the light.

Her eyes.

The specific, rolling quality of them — the whites showing at the edges, the particular, consciousness-edge look of a body that was at the exact boundary of what it could process while remaining fully located inside itself.

She grabbed the sheets with both hands.

Both hands.

The belly, unguarded — the specific, full, round, warm swell of it, the baby inside responding to the mother’s physical shock with the particular, interior flutter of movement.

He was inside her.

The specific, complete, full reality of it — his cock buried to the point where his hips met the particular, soft, thick hair of her, the crimson head having traveled the full distance available, having arrived at the specific, internal wall of her cervix with the particular, committed force of a body that had been waiting for this.

She felt it.

In a place that had not been found before.

The specific, deepest-point contact — the particular, interior resonance of something reaching something that had not been reached, the full, overwhelming body-knowledge of being, for the first time in her adult life, genuinely, completely full.

"Aaahnn!! HNNGHH.... IT HURTS... AAH... HAAAH.... W-wait~~!!!"