Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 317- Veronica being a Slut

He did not close his eyes entirely.

The calculating part of him — the part that ran continuously underneath everything else, that had been running underneath every hall conversation and every bathroom scenario and every massage table event — was pulling information from the current state of things and cross-referencing it against a timeline.

Fifteen days.

He had fifteen days remaining in this world before the system pulled him forward to the next one. Fifteen days was not a long time for most purposes. For his purposes, fifteen days was generous — he had accomplished more in shorter windows with less favorable starting conditions.

He looked at the back of Frau Müller’s head.

Her dark hair loose and wild now, spread across the massage table, the thick, warm, living quality of it. Her back arching and falling with each movement of his fingers. The wide, soft, rounded quality of her hips working backward into his hand with the trained helplessness of a body he had spent two hours conditioning to go exactly there.

The priestess was already secured.

The healer — Mira, the small, precise, terrifyingly capable woman with the green apartment and the very strong opinions about unauthorized touch — was also secured, though her awareness of being secured was still operating at approximately forty percent. She would finish the process herself, he had calculated, within the next six days.

And now this.

He looked at the full, soft, generous width of Frau Müller’s ass where her panty had been pushed aside. The full, living, present quality of it — the rounded, thick-fleshed, warm expanse of her. The soft belly. The heavy breasts pressed against the massage table beneath her, jiggling slightly with each thrust of his fingers.

He thought about a throne room.

A specific throne room, in a specific kingdom, in a world he had not yet arrived in but had been briefed on through the system’s pre-transmigration data packet. The queen — regal, decisive, the sovereign authority of a nation that had summoned a hero from another world. The queen had a twin.

Not a sister. A twin.

From another world entirely. Same face. Same bone structure. Same voice register, the system’s briefing had noted, almost identically — which had caused a minor uproar in the kingdom when Frau Müller arrived, because standing a blind woman from another dimension next to a reigning queen and watching the court’s collective jaw drop had apparently been a significant diplomatic event.

The twin was blind.

That was the only difference. Not smaller, not thinner, not older — simply blind, and unmarried, and thirty-one, and a composer, and currently making sounds against the padded surface of a Vienna massage table that had nothing to do with composition.

Raven’s fingers pushed deeper.

He thought about the throne room again.

He thought about the queen’s face and the queen’s court and the queen’s royal bloodline — and about what it would look like if a woman with the queen’s exact face and the queen’s exact voice appeared in a corridor of the palace.

What doors would open. What guards would step aside.

What royal chambers and what royal daughters and what finally-the-queen-herself scenarios became geometrically simpler when you had a passkey that looked exactly like the lock.

The twin was not, herself, the target.

The twin was the key.

He was going to take the key and make it his comprehensively, thoroughly, every-available-register comprehensively, until it had no more interest in any other configuration than this one — and then he was going to carry it into that kingdom and use it in every way a key is used.

’Thirty-one years old,’ he thought, with the clinical quality of someone noting a variable. ’Never been touched. Queen’s bloodline runs in the body. Acoustic dimensional resonance means her nervous system is structurally different from an ordinary woman’s — more conductive. More responsive. More everything.’

He pressed his thumb against her clit.

’"AAHHH—!! PLEASE—!! PLEASE STOP—!!"’

She arched completely off the table with the full, unmanaged, everything-at-once quality of it — her chest coming up, her hands scrabbling at the table’s edge, her entire spine going backward with the helpless, total quality of a body receiving targeted input at maximum sensitivity.

Not stopping.

He increased the pace instead.

The wet, rhythmic, rapid sound of his fingers working inside her — faster now, the pounding quality of it, two fingers and the heel of his palm working the full, comprehensive, leave-nothing-unaddressed approach of a man who had identified a target and was applying the full investment of his attention.

Her moans lost their shape.

The careful, I-am-managing-this quality of them from the earlier part was entirely gone — these were the shapeless, streaming, involuntary quality of sounds produced by a body that had run out of available management resources several minutes ago and was now simply reporting honestly, continuously, at whatever volume the situation produced.

"Stop—!! I can’t—!! It’s too—!! NGHH—!! I CANNOT—!!"

The words falling apart at the ends. The jaw not closing between one sound and the next. The full, comprehensive, I-have-lost-the-argument quality of a woman whose body was currently in active, sustained, totally-overwhelming conversation with his fingers and had nothing left for the higher functions.

Below him, Veronica heard all of it.

The sounds of her friend — ten days of knowing this woman, ten days of careful, genuine, building-something-real friendship — reaching her from the table above with the raw, broken, never-sounded-like-this-before quality that told her everything about where Frau Müller had arrived.

She pressed her chin against his balls.

The full, deliberate, entirely-communicative quality of it — her chin finding the heavy, warm, full weight of them and pressing upward with the specific, I-am-telling-you-something quality of a woman who had developed a vocabulary for communicating with him without words when her mouth was otherwise occupied.

The message was clear.

’Don’t stop. Take everything you want. She can handle it. Fill me.’

His hand moved from her hair to the back of her head.

The gathering, full-palm, this-is-how-we-do-this quality of it — his hand curling around the back of her skull with the practiced certainty of a man who had done this before and had his own strong opinions about the correct form.

He pulled her forward.

The thrust quality of it — his hips moving toward her face with the same rhythm his fingers were working above, the synchronized, two-locations-same-pace quality of a man who had found his tempo and was applying it everywhere simultaneously. His cock pushing into Veronica’s throat with the full, committed, this-is-what-we’re-doing quality of a man who had stopped being patient some time ago.

Veronica’s throat.

The warm, tight, swallowing quality of it — her neck working against him, the muscle-quality of it, the way her throat moved around him with the full, trained, this-is-mine quality of someone who had worked very hard at this and was now demonstrating the results of that work.

Her hands — one on his thigh, the flat, grounding quality of it. One going upward — finding his balls, cupping them, the warm, full, deliberate quality of her palm working them with the slow, knowing quality of someone who understood that this location responded to sustained, attending pressure.

Her fingers working.

Her throat working.

His hand holding the back of her skull.

’Sigh... Veronica is really is slut.’