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

Chapter 699: Chapter 699- A Nightmare

He released her.

She served the second glass. The slim black man took it. His hand went to her wrist. He held. He brought her hand to his mouth. He kissed the back of it. His lips were full. Warm. His tongue traced a vein.

"Soft," he said. His voice was quiet. Smooth. The voice of a predator that does not need to roar. "Like silk over glass."

She pulled her hand back.

She poured the third glass. She took it to the king. He took it. He did not look at her. He sipped. He looked at the two men.

"Well?" the king said. "Is she as I described?"

M’baku set down his glass. He looked at Viviana. At her body. At the nightgown. At the thin cotton. At the outline of her breasts beneath it. At the nipples— dark, stiff, visible through the cloth. At the curve of her waist. At the flare of her hips. At the dark triangle between her thighs— the hair, visible through the thin fabric.

"She is a high product," M’baku said. His voice was appreciative. The voice of a merchant assessing goods. "Very high. The skin is pale. The body is soft. The hips are wide— good for breeding. The breasts are full— good for feeding. She is a breeder. A prime breeder."

He reached out.

His hand went to her hip. He gripped. His fingers sank into the flesh through the nightgown. He pulled her toward him. She stumbled. Her knees hit the bed. She fell— forward, her hands catching the mattress, her body bending, her ass raised.

"She has the hips of a woman who has borne a child," he said. His hand went to her ass. He squeezed. He spread the cheeks through the fabric. "Wide. Full. The kind of ass you can grab while you fuck her from behind."

His hand went up.

To her waist. He traced the curve. The narrowing. The hourglass. His fingers were on her ribs. He counted them— through the fabric, through the skin.

"Thin," he said. "Not starved. Fed. Well-fed. The body of a woman who has been kept. Who has been fed and clothed and housed. A pet."

His hand went to her breast.

Through the nightgown. He cupped. His large, dark hand covered the mound. The nipple pressed against his palm— stiff, dark, aching. He squeezed. The flesh yielded. Soft. Heavy. His fingers sank. He pulled— downward, stretching the fabric, stretching the breast.

"These tits," he said. His voice was low. Rough. The voice of a man who is getting hungry. "These are the tits of a woman who was made to be fucked. Look at them. Full. Round. The nipples are dark. They are stiff. They are begging to be sucked."

Viviana was crying.

She was bent over the bed. Her hands were on the mattress. Her face was in the silk. Her tears were soaking the sheets. Her body was trembling— the shoulders shaking, the back tensing, the ass clenching.

"Please," she whispered. The word was muffled by the silk. "Please, my king. This is wrong. Please. I am your woman. Your concubine. Please do not let them—"

M’baku pulled her onto his lap.

He grabbed her hips. He lifted. He pulled her across his thighs. She was on his lap— her back against his chest, her legs on either side of his, her ass on his groin. She could feel him— through the leather of his clothing, the hardness, the thickness, the thing that was pressing against her.

His hand went to her blouse.

The nightgown. The cotton. He grabbed the neckline. He pulled. The fabric tore— the sound sharp, the threads separating, the cotton ripping from the collar to the waist. Her body was exposed. Her chest. Her stomach. Her breasts— bare, full, the nipples dark and stiff in the candlelight.

She covered herself.

Her arms went across her chest. Her hands on her breasts. Her face was red. Wet. Her tears were falling.

M’baku laughed.

"Why do you cover?" he said. His hand went to her arms. He pulled. He forced them away. Her breasts were exposed— the mounds full, the nipples stiff, the areolas dark. "I have already seen them. I have already felt them. You are a product, woman. A product does not cover itself."

He grabbed the wine glass.

He poured.

The red wine— dark, cool— poured over her chest. Over her collarbone. Over the swell of her breasts. The liquid ran— red on white, warm on warm, the wine finding the valley between her mounds, pooling in the hollow of her sternum, running over the curve of her breasts, dripping from her nipples.

He leaned forward.

His mouth found her cleavage. His lips pressed against the wine-soaked skin. His tongue traced the valley— upward, from the base of her sternum to the hollow of her throat. He tasted the wine. He tasted the skin. He tasted the salt of her tears that had run down into the valley.

He sucked.

His mouth found her breast. His lips sealed around the nipple. He sucked— the wine, the skin, the flesh. His tongue worked the stiff peak. His teeth grazed it. His cheeks hollowed. He pulled. The breast stretched. The nipple elongated. The wine mixed with his saliva and her sweat.

"It hurts—" Viviana cried. Her voice was broken. The soft, gentle voice was gone. What remained was the voice of a woman in pain. "Please— it hurts— please—"

M’baku poured wine into her mouth.

The red liquid— from the glass, over her chin, over her lips. She gasped. The wine went in— warm, dark, the alcohol burning the cut on her lip. She choked. She coughed. The wine ran from the corners of her mouth, down her chin, onto her chest.

He kissed her.

His mouth found hers. His lips sealed over hers. His tongue pushed in— past the wine, past the blood, past the teeth. He kissed her deeply. Thoroughly. His tongue explored her mouth. His lips swallowed her gasps. His teeth grazed her lower lip— the cut, the blood, the wound that the king had made.

The other black man moved.

He was on the other side. His mouth went to her other breast. His lips found the nipple. He sucked— the wine, the flesh, the stiff peak. His tongue was different— more aggressive, faster, the tip flicking the nipple back and forth. His hand went to the other breast— the one M’baku was not sucking. He groped. His dark hand on her pale flesh. His fingers sank. He kneaded.

Two mouths on her breasts. Two tongues on her nipples. Two men— dark, muscular, foreign— sucking and licking and biting the chest of a woman who was crying and trembling and begging.

The king watched.

He stood by the wall. His arms were crossed. His face was blank. But his hand had gone to his trousers. He was stroking. Through the fabric. His cock was hard— seven inches, the outline visible, the shaft pressing against his pants. He stroked. Slowly. His eyes on the woman. On the men. On the mouths and the breasts and the wine and the tears.

The girl in the closet watched.