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

Chapter 702: Chapter 702- The Ego of Men in Royal Robes

They came inside her again. And again. And again. They took pills— small, dark pills that they produced from pouches on their belts. They swallowed them. Their cocks hardened again. They fucked her again.

PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—

"AAAAHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!! HAAAAANGHH—!! NNGHH—!! HIEKKK—!! AAAANGHH—!! HNNNGHH—!! KYAAANGH—!!"

They tied her hands.

Behind her back. With a silk scarf. The same kind of scarf the king used. They bound her wrists. They held her arms. They fucked her from behind— on her hands and knees, her face in the pillow, her ass in the air, her hands tied behind her back.

PAH PAH PAH PAH PAH—

Her ass was clapping.

The sound was loud. Filling the room. The flesh of her ass— round, full, pale— was bouncing with each thrust. The cheeks were red— spanked, slapped, the handprints darkening. The sound of the clapping was rhythmic. Obscene. The sound of a woman being fucked like a bitch.

"AAAHH—!! Please—!! No more—!! I cannot—!! My body—!! It is—!! AHHH—!!"

They came inside her again.

The seed filled her pussy. It overflowed. It ran down her thighs. It pooled on the bed. The silk was ruined— soaked with wine and seed and milk and juice and sweat and tears.

They fucked her all night.

The candles burned down. The wine was consumed. The incense was gone. The room smelled of sex— thick, heavy, the pheromones of three men and one woman, the musk and the seed and the juice and the sweat. The smell was in the walls. In the sheets. In the air. In the girl’s nostrils, behind the closet door, where she sat with her hand over her mouth and her tears on her cheeks and her body trembling.

The girl heard a sound.

From the bed. A different sound. Not the PAH PAH PAH— that she had been hearing for hours. Not the screaming. Not the moaning. A different sound. A choking sound. A wet, gurgling, strangling sound.

She looked.

Through the gap in the dresses. Through the silk and cotton. At the bed. At the candlelight that was guttering, low, the flames almost dead.

M’baku was strangling her.

His hand was on her throat. His fingers were around her neck. His thumb was on her windpipe. He was squeezing. His other hand was on her hip. He was fucking her— from behind, on her hands and knees, her face in the pillow, her ass in the air. But his hand— his hand was on her throat. Squeezing.

Viviana’s eyes were rolling.

The whites were showing. The brown irises were gone— vanished beneath the upper lids. Her mouth was open. Her tongue was out— pink, swollen, hanging from the corner of her lips. Her face was changing color— from pale to pink to red to purple. Her body was jerking— the involuntary, spastic jerking of a body that is being deprived of oxygen.

The other black man was at the table.

He was seated. He was signing a document. A parchment. His hand held a quill. He wrote. His signature. His name. His seal. He did not look at the bed. He did not look at the woman being strangled. He looked at the king.

The king was standing.

By the window. His trousers were on. His cock was spent— soft, hanging. His face was blank. He watched. He watched the woman on the bed. The woman he had given to these men. The woman whose mouth and pussy and ass had been used for hours. The woman who was being strangled while being fucked.

M’baku groaned.

His hips slammed forward. His cock buried itself in her pussy. His hand tightened on her throat. His body convulsed— the convulsion of orgasm. He came. A thick, heavy load. The seed pulsed into her— filling her, overflowing, running down her thighs.

The sound stopped.

The muffled sound. The choking sound. The gurgling. It stopped. Viviana’s body went limp. Her arms— which had been reaching, grasping, her fingers pulling at the sheets— fell. Her legs— which had been kicking, her toes curling— went still. Her body slumped. Face in the pillow. Ass in the air. Held up only by M’baku’s hand on her hip. When he released her, she fell. Flat. On the bed. On the soaked, ruined silk.

She did not move.

M’baku released her throat. His hand came away. The red marks— finger-shaped, dark— were on her neck. He looked at her. At her face. At her open mouth. At her hanging tongue. At her rolled-back eyes.

He laughed.

"Shit," he said. His voice was casual. Light. The voice of a man who has finished a meal and is commenting on the quality. "Is she dead?"

The king looked.

He walked to the bed. He looked at Viviana. At her face— purple, the eyes rolled, the tongue out. At her neck— the finger marks, the bruising. At her chest— the bite marks, the seed, the wine. At her pussy— swollen, red, leaking seed. At her body— limp, still, not breathing.

He placed his hand on her chest.

No heartbeat.

"You killed the queen of a nation," the king said. His voice was flat. Not angry. Not sad. The voice of a man who is calculating. "You killed the queen. You will need to give compensation."

M’baku laughed.

The sound was deep. Rich. The laugh of a man who finds the concept of compensation for murder amusing.

"Of course, of course," he said. He waved his hand. Dismissive. Casual. "We will give more compensation. We will give you gold. Land. Trade routes. What you want. We will give."

He stood.

His cock hung between his legs— spent, soft, slick. He looked at the body on the bed. At the woman. At the curves. At the breasts. At the thighs. At the seed on her skin.

"By the way," he said. His voice was thoughtful. The voice of a man who has just remembered something. "Does she not have a daughter?"

The king looked at him.

"She is a child now," the king said. His voice was careful. The voice of a man who is weighing options.

M’baku smiled.

"I will give you more compensation," he said. His voice was warm. Generous. The voice of a man who is offering a deal. "When she reaches her coming of age. When she is a woman. You send her to me. As a concubine. We will have more compensations in the future."

He laughed.

"Hahahaha."

The sound echoed. Off the walls. Off the ceiling. Off the silk and the stone and the body on the bed. It filled the room. It filled the closet. It filled the girl’s ears.

The other black man looked at the body.

He sighed. The sound was wistful. The sigh of a man who is remembering something pleasant.

"What a tasty, delicious woman she was," he said.

He slapped her boob.

PAH—

The sound was sharp. The flesh rippled— the pale mound bouncing, the nipple stiff, the seed on the skin catching the dying candlelight. The body did not react. The head did not turn. The eyes did not open.

The three men dressed.

The king first. His trousers. His robe. His crown. The two black men. Their animal-skin cloaks. Their leather. Their bone jewelry. Their tooth necklaces. They adjusted themselves. They checked their appearance. They looked at each other. They nodded.

They left.

The door opened. The door closed. The footsteps faded. The corridor was silent.