Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 255 - Taking while Husband is Below

The water had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

Neither of them had noticed.

Or — she had noticed, in the distant, filed-and-ignored way that a body notices things that are not the most pressing input it is currently receiving. The water temperature was somewhere below her threshold of immediate relevance.

Everything below her waist was the most pressing input.

Everything below her waist had been the most pressing input for a sustained period that she had stopped counting because the counting required a part of her brain that was no longer available.

She was bouncing.

She knew she was bouncing.

She knew it the way you know your own feet are moving when you are walking — the awareness of the motion without the full top-down ownership of it. Her thighs were doing the work. Her knees, bent at the side of him in the wide, exhausted splay of a woman who had found a position her body could sustain and was sustaining it past the point where sustaining it was strictly advisable.

His cock.

Inside her.

Not the place it had entered first this morning. The other place. The place that had, in the last several hours, undergone the complete and comprehensive renegotiation of its terms with the physics of the body. The stretch — not the blinding, white-total stretch of the first entry — the stretch of something that had been stretched before and was retaining the information. The stretch of tissue that had been trained.

Her anal walls.

She thought about them. The specific, surreal quality of thinking about something inside your own body that you had never thought about before. The tight, warm, gripping quality of them, the way they registered every ridge and movement of him at a volume that her pussy, last night’s territory, had stopped producing after the sixth or seventh hour.

’Everything,’ she thought, ’is too loud.’

Her whole body was producing information at too high a volume. The sensitivity — the total, comprehensive sensitivity of a body that had been used at this level for a sustained period — meant that a single pass of his hand over her belly felt like being struck. His breath against her neck was an event. The press of his thighs against the backs of her thighs was its own continuous, low-register, undeniable event.

She was full.

The specific, interior sense of fullness — not painful, not anymore, not since sometime around the second hour — just the complete, total sense of a body that was entirely occupied.

She kept bouncing.

Her belly.

The round, full swell of it moving with her — rising as she rose, settling as she settled, the weight of it forward, the five-month weight pressing against the inside of her thighs with each descent. His hands were below it. Both of them, the cupped palms of someone holding something precious from the bottom, supporting the weight with the specific, careful quality of hands that had been in this position long enough to know how to hold it.

"’Hmm— ngh— aahh—’"

The sounds were not managed anymore. They had not been managed since approximately three in the morning. She had given up managing them at some point during the night when the gap between trying to be quiet and succeeding at it had become too large to bridge.

"’Meera.’"

His voice.

"’Mm—?’" She didn’t stop.

"’Stop.’"

"’Hhng—’" She didn’t stop.

"’Stop.’" Clearer. The specific, deliberate quality of someone who was not saying it for the reason she thought.

She didn’t stop.

Her body — the traitor, the comprehensive traitor that it had revealed itself to be over the course of the last several hours — had, somewhere in the night, stopped consulting her about its decisions. The decision to bounce had been made. The decision was being executed. The body’s position was: ’this is what we are doing.’

"’Meera.’"

"’Raven— I’m— ngh— almost—’"

"’I need to piss.’"

The flat, biological, entirely un-atmospheric statement of a man who needed to piss.

She stopped.

For one second.

The full, confused, where-is-my-brain quality of a woman who had been operating below the decision-making layer for several hours suddenly receiving information that required a decision.

"’What—’"

"’I need to piss,’" he said again. Not embarrassed. The matter-of-fact delivery of someone stating a physiological fact. "’We’ve been in here for—’" He checked nothing. He had no way of checking. "’—a long time. Get up.’"

She looked down at herself.

At the water. At his hands under her belly. At the position she was in.

"’Oh,’" she said.

"’Get up,’" he said.

She tried to get up.

Her thighs — the specific, total exhaustion of thighs that had been doing work for a sustained period — declined to cooperate with the getting-up motion. She pushed. They offered the weak, trembling resistance of muscles that had been spending themselves since before midnight and were now operating at the absolute end of their reserves.

She settled back down.

"’Meera—’"

"’My legs aren’t—’"

"’Get up.’"

"’I can’t—’"

’PAH.’

"’HHNG—!!♡’"

She hadn’t meant for that. The involuntary drop of her hips — not a decision, the body deciding to fall when the legs failed to rise, the fall landing exactly where it would land given the current arrangement of bodies in a bathtub. The full, seated, downward impact of her onto him, the immediate, complete re-seating of him inside her at full depth.

Her eyes.

Her eyes went somewhere.

The ceiling, technically. But not really the ceiling.

"’—Hngh—’" She breathed. "’Sorry—’"

"’Meera.’" The patience in his voice had a shape to it now. The very patient, very finite patience of someone who was dealing with a physiological urgency. "’You need to get up. Now.’"

"’I know—’" She tried again. Her thighs shook. They physically shook — the fine, constant tremor of muscle that was simply not going to do what was being asked of it.

She settled.

Again.

"’Hh—’" The small, involuntary sound of it.

"’You are not listening,’" he said.

"’I’m listening,’" she said. "’My legs just—’"

"’Meera.’"

"’I know. I know. One second—’"

She put her hands on the tub rim. Both of them. The committed grip of someone who was going to use their arms to do what their legs were refusing. She pushed.

She got halfway up.

Her arms shook.

She came back down.

’PAH.’

"’OHHH—!! Mm—!! Hh—!!’"

The full, complete, involuntary vocalization of a woman who had just accidentally seated herself on a cock for the third time in ninety seconds while trying to get off it. The sound had a quality of disbelief in it. The specific disbelief of a body that was producing outcomes it had not authorized.

"’I’m sorry—’" She breathed. "’I’m genuinely— my body is not—’"

"’Your body,’" he said, with the dry quality of a man reaching the end of his available patience, "’is an idiot.’"

She would have laughed.

Under different circumstances she would have laughed.

She tried one more time. Both arms. Both failing legs. The maximum available effort of a body that had given most of it away already.

She got three-quarters of the way up.

And his arms came around her.

Not to stop her. The full, tight, encompassing wrap of both arms — one under her breasts, one across her belly — the hug-grip of someone who had made a decision and was communicating it through their arms.

"’You idiot,’" he said.

Against her shoulder. The quiet, not-angry, faintly resigned quality of it.

She felt his hips lock.

The deep, final, committed seated position of him inside her — not the bouncing position, the ’finishing’ position. The still, fully-buried quality of it.

"’Ra—’"