Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 1129: Chapter 1129 Mars

Bruno tried to stand and run, but there was nowhere to go.

The masked giants were everywhere, an unbroken wall of muscle and rigid flesh.

The air grew thick with their heat, their scent—sweat, oil, and a darker musk that coated the back of Bruno’s throat and made him gag.

The nearest one reached him.

A hand the size of a cinder block closed around Bruno’s throat and lifted him until his toes kicked uselessly in empty air.

Another hand seized his wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back until the shoulder joint screamed.

A third—he lost count—ripped away the last imaginary shred of dignity, leaving him completely exposed.

Cold air kissed every inch of skin. Shame burned hotter than any bullet.

"Please," Bruno whimpered, tears and snot running down his face. "Please, I’ll do anything—"

The giant in the crimson mask said nothing. None of them ever would.

He was spun around and slammed down onto all fours so hard his teeth clacked together and blood flooded his mouth.

Rough hands seized his hips, nails digging bloody crescents into the flesh.

More hands pinned his wrists to the floor.

Someone tangled fingers in his hair and yanked his head back until his spine bowed.

Behind him, the first of them knelt.

Bruno felt it before it happened—the blunt, apple-sized head pressing between his cheeks, smearing something thick and cold that might have been lube or might have been worse.

He clenched instinctively, but that only made the masked man chuckle, a low, wet sound like gravel in a blender.

Then the pressure became pain, and the pain became a white-hot explosion as the impossible girth forced its way inside him.

"Ahhhhhhh!" Bruno’s scream shredded the air, high and inhuman.

The sound bounced off the black walls and came back multiplied, layered with the wet slap of flesh on flesh, the guttural grunts of the man splitting him open, the low, hungry laughter of the hundreds waiting their turn.

There was no pause, no mercy thrust.

The giant simply drove forward until Bruno felt something deep inside him tear, until his belly bulged visibly with the outline of the cock impaling him.

Only then did the man pull back—slowly, deliberately—before slamming home again.

And again.

And again.

Each thrust punched the air from Bruno’s lungs in broken sobs.

Blood and lube ran hot down his thighs. His vision tunneled to red and black.

Behind the first, another stepped up. And another. They didn’t wait for the one before to finish.

As soon as there was room, a second monstrous cock forced its way in alongside the first, stretching him wider, tearing him further.

A third found his mouth, choking off his screams into wet gurgles as it fucked his throat raw.

Hands were everywhere—groping, pinching, slapping, holding him open.

Someone twisted his nipples until he felt them rip.

Someone else shoved thick fingers into him alongside the cocks already wrecking him, prying him wider for what came next.

Time dissolved.

There was only the endless rhythm of bodies using him, the wet sounds, the animal grunts, the stink of cum and blood and terror.

They came inside him in floods that overflowed and ran in rivers down his legs.

They came on his back, his face, in his hair. They painted him until he glistened like some obscene offering.

And when one ring finished, the next stepped forward.

Hours became days. Or minutes. There was no way to measure. The lights never dimmed.

The masks never came off. The cocks never softened.

At some point Bruno stopped screaming. His voice was gone, nothing left but a broken croak.

His body was no longer his own—just a ruined sleeve for their pleasure, a thing to be filled and used and passed along.

And just when Bruno wished for death to finally claim him—when he prayed that his body would shatter beyond repair so he could no longer feel even a fraction of this torment—he realized, with a sickening, creeping horror, that his flesh was knitting itself back together.

Bones realigned with a sickening crack, torn muscles reformed, and gashes in his skin closed as if they had never existed.

The pain didn’t stop—it reset. Every nerve-ending agony surged again, fresh and raw.

"What...?" Bruno gasped, his voice trembling, his mind barely able to comprehend the impossible.

His body, which moments ago had been on the brink of collapse, now throbbed with renewed life, a cruel mockery of survival.

He fell to his knees, trembling, unable to understand why he still lived—and why he still hurt.

Then came the laughter.

Maniacal, echoing, merciless laughter that cut through the air like a blade.

Bruno couldn’t see its source, but the sound was so vivid, so precise, that it seemed to crawl directly into his skull, worming its way into every corner of his mind.

"It seems you’ve pissed off my master, little man," a cold, cruel voice said.

Brandon’s words were slow, deliberate, heavy with amusement and cruelty.

"You’re going to have to keep my pets company... for a very, very long time."

Bruno’s chest tightened. His eyes darted frantically, searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

"Long... time?" he whispered hoarsely, every syllable drenched in despair.

The thought clawed at him like a living thing. How long is long?

How much agony could one human endure before even the soul cracked and bled out?

Brandon laughed again, and this time the sound seemed to reverberate inside Bruno’s skull.

It was a laugh that carried a promise of endless suffering, a certainty that what he had just endured was only the beginning.

Every scream, every broken bone, every fresh cut—Bruno realized, with a cold, sinking dread—that it would come again. And again.

He shivered violently, his mind screaming for mercy that would never come.

His body, whole once more, was nothing but a vessel of torment.

The realization hit him fully: Ross didn’t want him dead. Ross didn’t even want him to escape.

He wants him in constant pain, broken, and crazy.