Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 314 - Massage Parlor

The easy, unhurried quality of him. His coat back in order. His hands in his pockets.

The flat, observing quality of his gaze, moving from the weeping blind woman held against Veronica’s arm down to the hiked skirt, to the thick, round ass exposed by it — the thick, full, soft, heavy quality of her from this angle, the panty damp and pushed against the full flesh of her ass, the rounded weight of both cheeks and the way the skirt’s hem sat at the top of them revealing everything below.

He looked.

Veronica watched him look.

Her mouth curved. The knowing, unhurried, this-is-exactly-what-I-thought quality of the smile at the corner of her mouth. Her hand still moving in slow circles on Frau Müller’s back. Her eyes on Raven.

She didn’t speak out loud. Her lips moved. The small, deliberate, I’m-going-to-make-you-answer quality of her lips forming words without voice:

’Did you enjoy it? How slutty she is.’

Raven’s gaze moved from the hiked skirt, from the thick, round, full-flesh quality of the ass he had been observing, back to Veronica.

His hand came out of his pocket.

His thumb went up.

The flat, easy, conclusive quality of it.

"She’s damn fuckable," he said.

Quietly. The pleasant, informational quality of a man making an assessment he considers factual and is happy to communicate.

Frau Müller, sobbing against Veronica’s arm, heard nothing of this.

She was too busy crying in the bathroom of her new mansion at the age of thirty-one, having masturbated for the first time in her life on a vanity bench while the man responsible stood two feet away in an intangible state and enjoyed every second of it.

Veronica kept rubbing her back.

Veronica thought: ’He is going to take this one apart so completely.’

"I want to leave."

Frau Müller said it quietly, into Veronica’s shoulder. Not the broken-crying quality from before — the tears had settled into something drier, something that had run out of volume and left behind a flat, decided residue.

Veronica’s hand stilled on her back. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

"What?"

"I want to leave this place." She pulled back slightly. Her face — still flushed, still bearing the aftermath of everything the bathroom had delivered to her — turned toward Veronica’s voice with the full, attending quality of someone making sure they were heard. "Take me away from here, Veronica. Please."

"Don’t you trust me?"

"It isn’t about trust."

"Then what happened?"

"I feel—" She stopped. Searched for the word. Settled on the one that was least accurate and most available. "Strange. I feel very strange, and I want to go somewhere that is not this house."

Veronica looked at her for a moment. The reading quality of it — the flat, intelligent, let-me-understand-what-is-actually-being-asked quality.

"Alright," she said. "How about I take you somewhere good?"

"Anywhere." Frau Müller was already reaching for the wall, for something to navigate by. "Anywhere that is not here. Just away from this place."

Veronica nodded.

She caught Raven’s eye over Frau Müller’s shoulder.

He was leaning against the bathroom doorframe with the easy, unbothered quality of a man who had been watching something entertaining and was ready for the next portion of the entertainment. The corner of his mouth had a quality to it that said he had already decided what happened next and found it interesting.

Veronica smiled. Said nothing. Turned back to Frau Müller and took her hand.

***

They moved through the hall — the beautiful, acoustic, old-stone entrance hall that had produced such comprehensive audio content twenty minutes ago — and out through the front door into the cool October Vienna air. Frau Müller breathed it in with the full, grateful quality of someone stepping out of a building that had been doing something to them.

The car was where they had left it.

Veronica opened the door. Guided her in. Closed it. Walked around the front.

Raven got in the back.

Frau Müller heard the door.

"Who—"

"My husband," Veronica said, starting the engine. "He’s coming."

A pause.

"I thought he went back to his work," Frau Müller said carefully. The careful, slightly-too-neutral quality of it.

"He finished," Veronica said.

Another pause.

The car moved through Vienna, through the October streets, past the buildings that had been beautiful in 1912 and had kept the memory of it. Frau Müller sat with her hands folded in her lap and her face turned slightly toward the window as though the wind outside were telling her something useful. Her color had come down. Not fully. But the fire-quality was mostly gone from her cheeks, replaced by the residue-quality of someone who had processed a very large thing and was still carrying the weight of the processing.

"Where is your husband?" she said, after a while.

In the back seat, Raven watched the side of her face.

"He went out," Veronica said.

Frau Müller nodded. The small, believing quality of it — she had no reason not to believe it and several reasons not to think too hard about the man-shaped presence she’d felt in the bathroom.

"Where are we going?" she said.

"Massage parlor."

A beat.

"What?"

"A nice one. Very good one, actually." Veronica changed lanes. "You’ll enjoy it."

"I’ve never—" She stopped. The slight, thrown quality of someone whose plans for the afternoon had not included this. "I’ve never had a massage."

"I know."

"My body is already—" She stopped again, harder this time. The specific wall she hit in the middle of that sentence was the memory of the bathroom, the memory of her own hand between her own thighs on a vanity bench she had never chosen to sit on, and she was not finishing that sentence.

"It’s a good massage," Veronica said. "Nothing to worry about."

"I’m not worried," Frau Müller said, in the tone of someone who was absolutely worried.

"You’re overthinking."

"I am not—"

"Come on," Veronica said, warm and certain. "I’ll get one too. We’ll go together. It’ll be fine."

***

The parlor was tucked between two older buildings on a street that knew what quality meant and had been practicing it for several decades. The sign was small. The interior visible through the glass was dim and clean and the kind of clean that communicated expense without announcing it.

Veronica parked.

She got out, came around, opened Frau Müller’s door, and took her hand. The staff at the entrance — two women in pale uniforms with the attending, professional quality of people who were very good at their jobs — straightened as the door opened.

Veronica didn’t speak.

She took the black card from her jacket pocket and placed it on the reception desk with the flat, unhurried quality of someone who had done this before and knew what it produced.

The women looked at the card.

They looked up.

Behind Veronica and Frau Müller, through the glass door, a man had just pulled it open and was stepping through. Tall. The kind of face that made people stop thinking about what they were supposed to be thinking about. Dark hair. The easy, completely-at-home quality of him moving through a room that was not his and treating it as though it were.

Both members of staff looked at him.

Their professionalism held.

Their cheeks did not.

The slightly-too-long eye contact, the small involuntary flush, the simultaneous recalibration of posture toward vertical — and then the quick, practiced recovery, the bowing nod, the quiet instruction to follow, the door to the private suite opening inward.

Frau Müller walked between Veronica and the wall, her hand reading the hall. "There are a lot of people here," she said quietly.

"Three," Veronica said. "And now it’s one. I asked for a private room."