Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 322 - What is this Feeling
One full involuntary shudder ran through her from chest to thighs.
Then Raven simply let go.
Veronica dropped.
Her body descended without ceremony — his hands released, no ceremony, no softening — and she slipped downward with the heavy slow sliding weight of a woman fully spent, landing on the floor of the booth with both legs folded under her, her back against the glass panel, her mouth open, chest heaving, cum leaking out of her already and tracking warm and white down the inside of her thigh while the shower water rinsed it in pale rivulets toward the drain.
"Veronica—!"
Frau Müller reached down.
Her hands searched — blind, immediate, alarmed — finding Veronica’s shoulder, her arm, leaning down toward the floor with the concerned instinct of someone reaching for a fallen friend without thinking about what her own body was doing.
She leaned forward.
Her hips lifted.
She did not plan this. She was reaching down and the geometry of her body simply produced it — her torso angling forward, her back flattening, her broad hips rising with full unconscious clarity straight back toward the man standing behind her.
He saw it immediately.
She never heard him move.
What she felt was his hand — firm and decided at the back of her thigh — and then fingers finding the edge of her panty and sliding it aside without discussion.
"Veronica, are you—"
His cock found her.
The tip of it, large and blunt and exactly as large as she had read with her thighs and more, pressed against the entrance of her pussy through the soaked cotton gap of her panty being held aside.
"Wait—"
He plunged in.
The word arrived before it processed — ’wait’ — and then the word no longer existed and nothing existed except the tearing.
It was not pain like pain she had catalogued before.
It was the specific, total, first-entry tear of a hymen that had loosened with age but had never, not once, been asked to do this — and as the crimson cockhead forced through it with the relentless driving weight behind it, the tissue stretched and fluttered and then split in a heat that ran from her pussy straight up her spine in a white scorch she felt behind her eyes.
Her hips jiggled back.
The impact slapped her ass against his hips — full, wide, heavy — and the clap rang out wet and sharp and real inside the glass booth.
Her boobs swung forward.
They swung with the full heavy pendulum weight of thirty-one years of nobody touching them — straight forward, loose and full and completely unsupported — and the rounded weight of her left breast connected with the side of Veronica’s face with a flat, warm, full slap.
Veronica’s eyes opened.
Then they closed again.
Her body slid sideways along the wall of the booth and down, fully unconscious, both legs twitching at the ankle in slow diminishing spasms while she lay on the floor of the shower between Raven’s feet and the glass wall.
Frau Müller did not know this.
She was occupied.
"WAIT—!! WAIT WAIT—!! It HURTS—!! It HURTS, PLEASE—!! Wait—!!"
Her hands found the glass wall of the shower booth by instinct — both palms pressing flat against the glass, fingers splayed wide, her entire body trying to find something fixed to press against while the thing inside her remained exactly where it was and felt like it had rearranged everything in the vicinity.
’It’s too large.’
The thought arrived very specifically, very clearly, from somewhere below her navel where she felt him lodged with blunt and total occupancy. ’It is far too large. I have never — this is not — this is not possible—’
She felt him withdraw slightly.
Then she heard his voice.
"Let me ride you, lady." His tone was warm, direct, unbothered. "I know your pussy is too itchy."
"It is NOT itchy—!!"
He slammed back in.
"AAAAHNGH~~!!"
The sound that left her was not a word.
PAH!
It rang out single and heavy — his hips finding hers in one full committed stroke — and the ripple ran through her ass cheeks in a visible jiggle that spread outward from the point of impact, her flesh yielding and recovering with each stroke.
PAH PAH!
"Nnh~!! HHN~!! AAAHN—!!"
"It hurts—!" Her voice broke between the moans, the two things fighting for the same exit. "It still — it still hurts — please — I’m telling you it hurts—"
He pulled back.
PAH PAH PAAAH!
"HIIEEK~!! NGH~!! AAAHH~!!"
Her palms dragged down the glass.
The squeaking friction of wet palms on glass filled the booth as her hands slid with the force of the thrusts before she pressed them back up and held again, her forehead nearly touching the glass, her breath fogging a small circle in front of her face that appeared and disappeared with each panting exhale.
’Why is it — why is it reaching that far.’
The internal thought came fractured and scattered between strokes. ’Why does it — why does it reach places I didn’t know — I’ve never felt—’
PAH PAH PAH PAH!
"AHN~!! OUN~!! MMPH—!! NNN—!! AAAHHNNN~!!"
"It hurts — I said it hurts—!!" Her voice cracked on the last word, breaking cleanly in two between pain and something else that wasn’t pain and she didn’t have a name for because she had never needed the name before.
Her pussy was impossibly tight.
He felt this.
Every stroke produced the grip of walls that had never been opened — the full clenching vice of a woman who was thirty-one and had never, not once, been here — and the tightness read differently than Veronica’s practiced and welcoming warmth. This was different. This was every inch resisted and then yielded. This was walls that clamped around him with helpless involuntary strength because they had no learned softness and could only respond with everything they had.
PAH! PAAAH! PAH PAH!
"AAANHH~!! WAIT—!! HIEKK~!! NGH—!! PLEASE—!!"
Her fingers clawed the glass.
The squeaking filled the booth.
"I told you — I told you it — AAAHN~!! — I’ve never — I’ve never done this — please, it’s too large—"
Her hips moved back.
She felt them do it and did not stop them.
Her hips moved back against him without asking her and she felt the impact of that rearward press add to the next thrust and the sound that left her was different from the previous sounds — less broken, more full, landing somewhere below pure pain.
’What is that.’
’What is that feeling.’
