Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 312 - Effect of Incubus Body Fluid

The small, involuntary, reflexive quality of a tongue responding to contact on the lips — finding the trace of what had touched, reading it the way her body read everything unfamiliar.

The taste arrived.

She went still.

The total, eyes-wide-in-the-dark, comprehensive stillness of a woman receiving a taste and knowing what it was and not being able to un-know it.

She had not tasted it before. She did not, technically, have a prior data point.

But her body knew anyway. Bodies have knowledge that precedes experience, and hers knew. The warm, salt-and-something-underneath quality of it on her tongue — the taste of a man, the taste of exactly what she had been very carefully not naming for the last several minutes.

Her hands gripped the edge of the sink.

Her knees registered something.

The faint, early, this-is-new quality of something registering in her knees, not structural — a warmth that was not coming from outside. A warmth that was emanating from somewhere around her lower abdomen and radiating out into her thighs with the slow, building quality of something that had been switched on and was finding its amplitude.

She pressed her thighs together.

The instinctive, she-did-not-decide-to-do-this quality of it — her thighs closing against each other with the reflexive quality of a body responding to a stimulus she had not invited and was not sure what to do with. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

The friction of it sent a small, involuntary tremor up the insides of her thighs.

She pressed harder.

"I don’t—" She breathed. Stopped. "I don’t know what—"

Her breathing had changed.

She was aware of it changing, which was worse than it simply changing, because awareness meant her rational mind was still partially operational and watching the rest of her go somewhere it had never gone before and doing nothing useful about it.

Her thoughts — going back to the hall.

She hadn’t wanted to go back to the hall. She had been very deliberately not going back to the hall, not constructing the picture from the sounds and the rhythm and the wet, slick, pressurized noise and the sounds Veronica had made and the warmth that had landed on her. She had been maintaining a firm editorial policy of not assembling the picture.

She assembled the picture.

The full, complete, involuntary picture of what had been happening fifteen feet away from her — the sounds of it, the rhythm of it, the sounds Veronica had been making that were not fine, not anything like fine, the sounds of a woman receiving something comprehensively and reporting on it honestly and repeatedly at high volume. The image her brain constructed from the audio portrait she had been building for twenty minutes — the image she couldn’t see but could hear and feel and now taste.

"He — they were—" She said it to the tap. Barely audible. "That’s what—"

She knew.

She couldn’t prove it. She hadn’t seen it. She had heard it and felt the aftermath of it on her skin and tasted the final evidence of it on her lips, and none of that was proof and all of it was the complete, assembled, undeniable truth.

"That’s terrible," she breathed.

And her hand — without consulting her — was touching the front of her blouse.

She became aware of it touching the front of her blouse approximately three seconds after it had already been doing that. Her palm, flat against the fabric over her breast. Not pressing, not doing anything deliberate — just resting there, and the resting was warm, and the warmth was relevant in a way she didn’t have words for.

"Why," she said, to the tap, to the sink, to the tiled bathroom of a house she barely knew — "why am I this hot?"

The heat was significant.

Not face-heat, not the crimson embarrassment from earlier. This was lower and deeper and radiating outward from somewhere between her hips, and it was building in a way she recognized conceptually but had never — not once in thirty-one years — experienced firsthand as something this immediate.

Her nipple.

Against the inside of her blouse. She became aware of it the way you become aware of a thing that has been true for a while and has just crossed the threshold of deniability. Stiff. The fabric moving against it with each small breath. Each movement of her chest.

She made a sound.

Small. Involuntary. The kind of sound she would not have permitted if she had known it was coming.

And then the heat became something else.

Between her thighs — the warmth bloomed into something that was not warmth anymore, that had passed warmth and arrived somewhere that required a different word entirely. The itch of it. The wanting, demanding, insistent quality of arousal that had been building without her participation and had arrived at the stage of making demands.

She had never felt this.

In thirty-one years, she had never felt this — not like this, not with this urgency, not with this demanding, everywhere quality of it. She had felt warmth before, in vague and theoretical terms. This was not that. This was her body issuing a very clear and direct request that she had never had the experience of receiving at this volume.

Raven stood two feet behind her, invisible, intangible, watching.

He did absolutely nothing.

He didn’t need to. The pheromones he had been releasing since he walked into the bathroom — slow, dose-controlled, calibrated for a woman who had never been exposed to them before — were doing everything that needed doing. Her body was receiving the signal and replying with the enthusiastic, compounding quality of a system that had been isolated from this particular input for thirty-one years and was making up for lost time.

He watched her breathe.

The rapid, shallow, I-am-losing-the-argument quality of her breathing. Her hands on the edge of the sink. Her thighs pressed together, which was not helping and was making it worse.

Her palm was still on her breast.

She pressed.

The involuntary quality of the press — her hand pushing against the fabric, against the warmth of her own breast beneath it, and the pressure of it sending a thread of sensation from the contact point downward, joining everything else that was building.

"What is—" She pressed harder. Her head dropping forward slightly. "What is happening—"

She let go of the sink.

Her skirt.

She grabbed the hem of it with both hands, pulling it up, the cool bathroom air finding the insides of her bare thighs, and she stood there for one suspended moment — skirt hiked up around her hips, both hands gripping it, breathing fast and shallow with the heat of it radiating through her, the wet, warm, demanding presence between her thighs having arrived at the stage where it was not something she was going to be able to manage by standing very still.

She moved to the vanity bench against the wall.

Found it with her hip. Sat on the edge of it. The cool, hard quality of the surface against the backs of her thighs.

Her hand found the inside of her own thigh.

She moved it upward.

The slow, first-time, I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing quality of it — her hand moving up the inside of her thigh toward the warmth at the top of it with the hesitant, this-is-new quality of someone proceeding on instinct rather than experience.

Found the fabric of her panty.

Wet.