Hero Party's Villain: What's the Point If Heroines Are Not Broken?-Chapter 8- Villainess Introduction

Room No. 3, Malbrono Street, Hotel Mount Ronwin (30 miles away from the City Hospital)

The screen played without pause.

Each second rolled forward like a blade — clean and merciless.

Two men stood beside the chair — one to the left, one to the right — dressed in black suits, faces blank, arms crossed. They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They simply stood there, silent pillars of control, enforcing the moment with their very presence.

On the screen, a video played...

—

She was bent over the bed, elbows sunk into the mattress, back curved into a deep arch that made her ass pop — high, round, and glistening. Sweat trickled down her spine in slow rivers, gluing strands of hair to her flushed skin.

Her tongue lolled out — not teasingly, not sensually, but like a beast. Long, wet, quivering with every thrust. Her moans weren’t human anymore. They cracked, shrieked, vibrated in broken pitches.

"Yesss—hahh! Fuuuck—YES! Harder!"

Her voice wavered like her body, bouncing to the rhythm of the man slamming into her from behind.

—

He twitched on the chair.

Rope burned into the raw meat of his wrists, elbows aching from unnatural strain. His knees quivered, toes curled on the dirty floor, but the worst was his cock — caged, pulsing, leaking around the base of that metal lock.

The chastity cage had begun to dig into his skin hours ago. Now it bit into him, teeth-like edges carved into flesh, oozing blood and slick strands of pre-cum that clung to his thighs in sticky lines.

He couldn’t blink.

The tape stretched his eyelids wide. His eyes twitched, red-rimmed, glazed in tears.

He saw everything.

His tears shimmered as they fell, catching the light of the screen — reflecting the obscene imagery back at him, twin mirrors of ruin glistening down his face.

—

Her breasts swung under her like ripe fruit on violent strings — jiggling toward the camera with each slap of flesh. Her nipples brushed the sheets, stiff and reddened from friction. Her voice broke again into a raw squeal as her ass smacked against the man’s pelvis, over and over.

Pah!

Pah!

Pah!

Wet. Loud. Merciless. The sound alone felt like something was being punched. Her boyfriend grunted through gritted teeth, one hand in her hair now, yanking her face up.

She laughed.

She giggled — a breathy, messy sound, like she loved how ruined she was. Her spit flung off her tongue as she moaned right into the camera.

She looked blissful.

—

"Ugh... st-stpp..." he sobbed.

Muffled, shaking sobs that turned into gurgles behind the gag stuffed in his mouth. The cloth tasted like mildew and dirt, and it choked his breath. His chest heaved. Drool streamed down his chin, mixed with snot and bitter, bitter tears.

He tried to shake his head.

He couldn’t.

He tried to close his eyes.

He couldn’t.

He tried not to feel.

But his cock kept twitching inside the cage — a shameful betrayal, painfully hard, throbbing in a prison of cold metal.

His muffled voice cracked again beneath the cloth, broken fragments of a plea that went nowhere.

"Mmmnn... pl–pleash... n–no more... st–op..."

The suited men remained still — statues carved from stone.

—

Her fingers dug into the sheets now. Her legs began to tremble, her whole body vibrating like something about to explode. She looked back over her shoulder, mouth wide, cheeks soaked, eyes unfocused.

"Ahh—AHHH! I’m—fuck—I’M CUMMING!"

Her thighs clamped, then split wide again as her back bowed deep, and her entire body jerked.

A spray burst from between her legs — fast, wet, bright under the light. It hit the man’s pelvis, her inner thighs, splashed the sheets. Her moan became a wail. Her body seized. Her nipples dragged along the sheet as her whole frame collapsed into trembling, twitching aftermath.

She was soaked.

Dripping. Giggling. Gone.

—

And he came, too.

The man on the chair let out a choked sob as his whole body tensed — not in pleasure, but defeat. His cock spasmed violently in the cage. Blood and cum oozed out in thick globs, squeezed through the tiny space between the bars.

It dripped down — hot, shameful — pooling on the chair beneath him.

The pain was blinding. His breath left him.

And the screen suddenly paused... as if things had been achieved.

Soon enough, throughout the room, a voice resonated — simple but cold.

"All men are just pathetic dogs in heat... just wagging their tails around women."

The red curtain by the window shifted slightly — just enough to reveal her.

Seated on a wine-colored chair in the far corner, legs crossed, was a woman in a slit-thigh red dress, smooth as blood, dangerous as silence. freeweɓnøvel~com

Her hair, like a spill of crimson silk, cascaded over one shoulder.

A thin black phone rested in her gloved hand, two fingers playing with the dial.

Her red eyes were half-lidded — not out of laziness, but out of disdain. Amusement, even.

She didn’t look at the man.

She didn’t need to.

"Tell your boss," she said coolly into the phone, voice as soft as velvet, "I’m returning one million out of the two. Keep your change. Breaking him felt more like charity than work."

A beat.

Then a breathless chuckle.

"Nah, it might be an insult to even dogs, comparing men to them..."

She hung up without waiting for a reply.

She rose.

Her heels clicked — slow, unhurried, deliberate. She walked with elegance, not seduction. Her spotless skin, the way she cracked her neck, slightly tilting her head, completely bored after seeing the same thing again — some pathetic man showing his pathetic side — she decided to just go back to her duty as a professor at the academy.

That was the only place which might give her some peace, away from her side business of breaking men.

She gave a glance towards the man... no, more like a boy, for a flickering moment.

Head tilted.

His face was a mess of tears, mucus, and drying streaks of shame. His eyes still forced open. His cock still twitching in the cage, bloodied and leaking.

She looked at him like one might look at a broken vending machine — vaguely irritated it still blinked.

Her voice came soft, so quiet it hummed beneath the fluorescent buzz of the room.

"Haah..." Then a big sigh, completely uncaring as she just smirked. Two of the female bodyguards, dressed in black suits with guns on their waists, came forward, ready to accompany her outside the presidential suite of the hotel — which was owned by her.

"Men fall in love with eye contact and break over a giggle. One smile at another man and your whole ego collapses. That’s how thin your pride really is. That’s all it takes. Easy toys. Easier trash... don’t you both agree?" Hela just asked, her words calm but clearly meant for her two guards to agree, as she opened the door and exited the room.

"Indeed. Miss is always correct. All men are trash," one of the guards replied, her voice composed — as if already walking the ideology of her master.

"Tch." Hela just ruffled her hair, and finally, with her leaving the premises, her voice — sharp, feminine, but seductively raw — resonated:

> "It only takes a smile to drag a man in, and a moan to tear him apart. That’s how easy it is. They fall too deep, too fast — and then call it love when they’re bleeding on the floor."

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦