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

Chapter 682: Chapter 682- The Details of Royal Family

Not the bottle anymore. The wine itself. The King had poured it—into her cunt, into the opening, the red liquid filling her. It had run inside her—warm, stinging, the alcohol burning the raw, fucked flesh. It had mixed with the seed. It had run out—down her thighs, onto the sheets, staining the red silk darker.

Her tongue was out.

Her mouth was open. Her tongue hung from the corner of her lips—pink, wet, the tip resting on the pillow. Her eyes were half-closed. Rolled back. The whites showing. She was drooling—thin strings of saliva connecting her tongue to the pillow. Her body was trembling—small, continuous tremors, the muscles in her thighs and her stomach and her arms twitching involuntarily.

She was about to lose consciousness.

The King fucked her.

SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK—

His balls slapped against her ass. His cock plunged in and out. The wine and the seed squirted around the shaft—thick, red-and-white fluid, running down her thighs, pooling on the sheets. His hand was on her back—between her shoulder blades, holding her down, keeping her face in the pillow.

The messenger stood in the doorway.

His face was white. His eyes were wide. He was staring—at the bed, at the King, at the Duchess, at the wine bottle, at the tied hands, at the tongue, at the drool, at the trembling. He was young. He had never seen the King like this. He had heard rumors. But rumors were not this.

The King looked at the door.

He saw the messenger. He did not stop fucking. His hips continued to move—slow, deliberate, the rhythm unbroken. He looked at the young man’s face. At the paleness. At the wide eyes. He smiled.

"What is it?" the King said. His voice was calm. Conversational. The voice of a man who is being serviced and who is mildly inconvenienced by the interruption.

"Your Majesty—" the messenger stammered. His voice was shaking. His eyes were on the Duchess—on her tied hands, on her trembling body, on the wine running down her thighs. "The— the capital— there is chaos— the Queen— the First Queen— she has mobilized her guards— the Crown Prince has mobilized his— they are— they are searching the city—"

The King’s eyebrow rose.

"Searching for what?" he said. His hips did not stop. SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK—

"Your Majesty— the— the Crown Prince has taken a boy— the Queen’s— the Queen believes it is her son— the Crown Prince’s men grabbed him from the market—"

The King stopped.

His hips stopped. His cock was still inside the Duchess—buried to the root, the head against her cervix. He held. He did not pull out. He did not move.

"The Queen’s son?" he said. His voice was still calm. But something shifted in his eyes—something dark, something cold, something that the messenger did not want to look at directly. "The boy? My son?"

"No— Your Majesty— not— not the Crown Prince— the other— the Queen’s first— the boy she—"

"That slut," the King said.

The words were quiet. Not shouted. Not snarled. Quiet. The quiet of a blade being drawn from a sheath. The quiet of a snake coiling.

"That slut dared to move," the King said. His voice was the same—quiet, calm, conversational. But the temperature in the room dropped. The messenger felt it. The Duchess felt it—her trembling increased, her sobs muffled by the pillow. "For what? That lost son?"

The King pulled out.

His cock emerged from the Duchess’s pussy with a wet, sucking sound.

SCHLUUURK— The head was dark. Slick. The seed and the wine dripped from it. The Duchess’s pussy was gaping—swollen, red, raw, the lips stretched, the opening wide, the wine and seed pouring out.

He stood.

He was naked. His body was thick. His cock hung between his legs—seven inches, spent, the head dark. He walked to the table. He picked up a wine glass. He sipped. He looked at the messenger.

"I have fucked her many times," the King said. His voice was contemplative. Reflective. The voice of a man reviewing a ledger. "The First Queen. Many times. Over thirty years. In every hole. In every position. With cocks and bottles and hands and objects."

He sipped the wine.

"But the bitch is simply infertile," he said. The word was clinical. Medical. The word of a man diagnosing a problem. "Thirty years. I have poured enough seed into her to fill a river. And nothing. Not one child. Not one pregnancy. She is barren. A dry field. A dead womb."

He set down the glass.

He walked to the bed. He picked up something from the nightstand. A dagger. Small. Silver. The blade was thin. Sharp. The handle was jeweled.

He walked to the Duchess.

She was still face-down. Still tied. Still trembling. Her ass was in the air—red, spanked, the cheeks flushed. Her back was arched. Her skin was pale. Smooth. Unmarked.

The King placed the blade on her ass.

The cold metal touched her skin. She flinched. She screamed— muffled by the pillow, but the scream was there. The terror of a woman who feels a blade on her skin and who does not know what it will do.

The King wrote.

The blade moved. Slowly. Deliberately. The tip cut the skin—not deep, not dangerous, but enough to bleed. The blood welled—red, thin, running down the curve of her ass. The blade traced letters. Words. Across her right cheek. Across the curve where the cheek met the thigh.

The Duchess screamed.

"AAAAHH—! Please—! Your Majesty—! No—! It hurts—! Please—! STOP—!"

The King did not stop.

He finished the word. He lifted the blade. He looked at his work. The letters were carved into her skin—red, bleeding, the skin parted, the flesh visible beneath. The word was clear.

KING’S CUNT.

The King smiled.

"Make sure your husband sees this," he said. His voice was warm. Conversational. The voice of a man leaving a note for a colleague. "When he fucks you. When he pulls down your panty. When he sees your ass. He will see this. And he will know. That I have already filled this cunt. Many times. Lady Halga."

He laughed.

The sound was deep. Rich. The laugh of a man who finds his own cruelty amusing. Who has been cruel for so long that cruelty has become humor. Who has never been told "no" and who has never suffered a consequence and who has carved his name into the skin of a woman who could not refuse him.

"HOHOHOHO..."

The messenger stood in the doorway.

His face was white. His hands were shaking. His eyes were on the blood—on the word carved into the Duchess’s ass, on the red trails running down her thigh, on the trembling, sobbing, tied-up woman on the bed.

The King turned to him.

"Well?" the King said. He picked up his wine glass. He sipped. "What are you standing there for? Go. Tell the Crown Prince I said to bring the boy to me. I want to see what all the fuss is about."

He paused.

"And tell the Queen," he said. His voice dropped. The warmth was gone. The amusement was gone. What remained was the voice of a king. The voice of a man who had been king for thirty years and who had never once been challenged.

"Tell her to sit down. And wait. Like a good wife or else, I might just fuck her again after so many years... Hohohoho..."

He turned back to the bed.

He placed his glass on the nightstand. He picked up the Duchess’s hips. He positioned himself. His cock—seven inches, spent but hardening—pressed against her anal.

"Where were we?" he said.

He pushed.

PAH—

"AAAAHH—!!"