Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 313 - Raven is a sneaking Bastard

The full, warm, already-soaked quality of it — the fabric completely saturated with the evidence of what had been building, and she touched it and went still for half a second with the understanding of it, and then her fingers pressed in.

The sound she made.

She clapped her free hand over her mouth before it fully escaped, but the shape of it was already in the air — the small, surprised, involuntary quality of someone receiving the sensation of their own touch in a location that had been waiting for attention with considerable impatience.

She pressed harder.

The friction of her fingers through the fabric against the swollen, desperate heat of her pussy, and the sensation of it ran up through her core with the quality of something that had been denied for thirty-one years and was refusing to be denied for another minute.

Her other hand went back to her breast.

Through the blouse this time — pressing, kneading, the clumsy, inexperienced quality of it alongside the urgency of it, the warmth of her own breast in her palm and her nipple stiff against the fabric and the friction of the rubbing sending signal after signal into the accumulating mass of sensation in her lower body.

"What is happening to me," she breathed. Not a question anymore. The awed, half-frightened, helpless quality of a statement.

The pheromone levels in the bathroom climbed by fifteen percent.

Raven watched.

She worked herself faster.

The friction of her fingers through her soaked panty — back and forth, the clumsy, hungry quality of someone who didn’t know the technique but was being guided by the urgency of the need, the way water finds the path of least resistance and doesn’t need to be taught how to do it. Her head fell back slightly. Her mouth opened. The sounds she was making had lost the quality of being controlled.

Her nipple.

She found it through the fabric of her blouse, rolled it between her fingers the way she had felt him roll Veronica’s, the way the image in her head assembled from the sounds in the hall instructed her, and the sensation that fired from that location was sharp and direct and immediate and she made a sound that the bathroom was too small to absorb.

Her thighs clamped around her own hand.

She was sitting on the edge of the vanity bench with her skirt at her hips and her panty soaked through and her hand trapped between her thighs and her other hand at her own breast and her face — her face was fully, comprehensively the ahegao her body was working toward without her consent or input.

Jaw loose.

Eyes rolled back inside closed lids.

Cheeks the color of something that had been on fire for several minutes.

She was close.

She had no previous point of comparison so she didn’t know what she was close to, not experientially, but her body knew, and her body was moving toward it with the single-minded, all-resources-allocated quality of a system that had identified a destination and was going there regardless of what the driver thought.

Her fingers.

Moving faster through the wet fabric. The sounds of it in the small, tiled room — wet and present and shameless in the silence. The friction building. Her hips rolling forward against her own hand, the involuntary quality of it, her body seeking more contact with the comprehensiveness of something that had run out of patience entirely.

"Nhhh—!! I—!! What—!! AAHH—"

The words came apart.

The orgasm arrived with the full, total-body, first-time quality of something that has never happened before and is therefore happening with all the intensity that comes from a lifetime of accumulated pressure finding its first available release. Not gentle. Not the quiet, familiar quality of something experienced before. The total, electric, comprehensive quality of every nerve the pheromones had been working for the last twenty minutes firing simultaneously and the body receiving all of it at once.

Her thighs clamped.

Her back arched off the vanity bench.

Her mouth opened and the sound that came from it was high and broken and absolutely genuine and filled the small bathroom completely and escaped under the door into the hall beyond.

The wet warmth flooded through her panty. Soaked through the fabric entirely, ran down the inside of her thighs, dripped from the edge of the bench onto the tile floor. The full, involuntary, first-ever squirt of a body that had been pushed past everything it knew how to manage, releasing everything it had been holding.

She slid.

The slow, boneless, nothing-left quality of it — sliding sideways off the edge of the bench, her legs giving out from under her entirely, the floor arriving in her future.

An arm caught her.

The full, warm, real, solid quality of an arm catching her before she hit the tile — wrapping around her waist with the easy, certain quality of someone who had been standing close enough to catch her for exactly as long as this had been going on.

She grabbed the arm.

Her hands closing around it, the desperate, what-is-this quality of it.

"Who—" Her voice. Completely destroyed. Thin and cracked and thoroughly used. "Who is—"

"Are you alright?"

Veronica.

The warm, low, slightly amused, entirely-knowing quality of Veronica’s voice in the bathroom doorway — Veronica who had apparently gotten up from the hall floor and followed them and opened the door and was now holding a woman who had just masturbated herself to squirting on a bathroom vanity bench.

Frau Müller’s face —

She buried it in the arm.

The full, involuntary, I-cannot-bear-to-exist-in-this-moment quality of burying her face in the nearest available surface, which was Veronica’s arm, which was warm and solid and there.

And then she cried.

Not the quiet, private quality of tears. The full, broken, everything-has-been-too-much quality of crying from a woman who had been holding herself together since the moment she heard a strange sound in a beautiful hall and had been holding herself together through all subsequent events right up until this moment in a bathroom where she had just discovered at the age of thirty-one that her body was capable of this and that she had apparently been completely blindsided by it.

She cried the way you cry when you have been precise and controlled and carefully organized for thirty-one years and an incubus’s pheromones have just taken your nervous system entirely apart.

"Why," she managed. Her voice came out in pieces. "Why have you brought me here, Veronica." Not a question. The full, broken, how-could-you quality of it, her hands gripping Veronica’s arm, her face against it, her whole body trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm she had never planned to have in a life she had very carefully organized around her work and her apartment and her piano. "What have you done."

Veronica rubbed her back.

The slow, warm, circular quality of a hand moving between shoulder blades, the attending quality of it — not apologetic, not panicked, but present.

The hand of a woman who had seen a great many things in the past several months and was not unmoved by this one but was not destroyed by it either.

Over Frau Müller’s head — over the thick, dark hair pressed against her arm, over the shaking shoulders, over the skirt still hiked up around her hips and the soaked panty and the wet evidence running down the inside of her thighs — Veronica looked sideways at Raven.

He was standing by the bathroom door.