Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1850: Bratty Woman Correction

She came on the punishment stroke itself, which surprised no one present.

The apology sheared apart mid-vowel. Her eyes rolled up and away, her spine bowed off the boards, and the rest of the word poured out of her as one long, wrecked, happy wail while she convulsed around him, thighs quaking over his arms, heat flooding where they joined.

And through all of it she kept trying to finish the apology, "S... sorry... so-rry❤️...", every broken syllable arriving as its own small cloud of steam in the brazier light.

Quinlan wrung the climax out of her to its last twitch without slowing a fraction of a beat, and the smile on him while he worked was a sadist’s, fond all the way down to its teeth.

It went on. He was never too quick, and never too slow, working her through orgasm after orgasm with the same patience he’d spent on her ironwood, changing the angle the moment she adapted, denying her a rhythm just as she had denied him points.

She came violently and often, each one wrung all the way out before he allowed the next, and by the third one her voice stopped pretending to be commentary at all.

*Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.*

The sound of them had gone liquid. Every pump announced itself wetly off the hall’s acoustics now, her cum having slicked the both of them to the thighs, and the polished boards beneath her hips carried a dark, spreading stain that several generations of ancestors were being asked to be very mature about.

"Sis... sis, are you watching~? Your poison is great, but... This... This is... hah... the best skincare... a woman could ever... receive."

"..."

"Ten out of ten... would recommend... to family... and friends... AHN~!"

"..." Black Fang offered no response, for she had none. Aside from...

"Stop selling."

"I’m only testifying!"

The next orgasm hit her mid-word and she rode it screaming happily into the floorboards, and across the hall her sister’s expression finally moved, a single degree of head-tilt: whatever she was tallying in there had stopped adding up.

She watched Ayame get gripped, turned, and mounted from behind like prey, one of the best wielders of the blade she had ever met mashed cheek-down against her own ancestors’ floor with one enormous hand spread between her shoulder blades, purring through all of it like a cat in a sunbeam.

Well, an obscenely loud cat.

His free palm came down across her upturned ass.

*CRACK!*

The report rang off the weapon racks like ironwood finding its mark, and the promise he had made her over crossed blades, that nothing but his palm would hurt her butt tonight, entered collection with the rest of her tab.

"HYAN~!? Hah... You cruel sadist!!" The punished party wiggled what had just been struck, pushing it higher. "The other side... symmetry is... a samurai virtue..."

"Stop speaking gibberish," Quinlan replied, yet administered symmetry nonetheless.

*CRACK!*

"NNHAA!!❤️"

"You could escape that hold any moment," Black Fang observed.

"Perhaps... But why," Ayame managed, radiant, cheek still pressed to the wood, "would I ever?"

The head-tilt acquired a second degree. In a very old predator’s ledgers, an entry refused to balance: one of the strongest-willed women she knew, voluntarily pinned, spanked scarlet, losing on purpose, and glowing about it.

She filed it as pure madness. The filing did not entirely take.

"Hair," Ayame begged a while later, breathless, strands plastered across her face where sweat had glued them. "Sis. My hair... You washed it yesterday... don’t let your hard work... get ruined..."

Black Fang looked at her from the windowsill, and made no move.

"Will you hold it... Please?"

It was Quinlan who answered.

He peeled his samurai off the floorboards without leaving her, hooked an arm under her waist, and walked the entire war across the hall, fiercely breeding her the whole way there, gravity dropping her back onto him again and again with every step, each stride punching a fresh "ahn... ahn... AHN...!" out of her dangling body.

Ayame’s eyes refocused mid-bounce, found the heading, and went round.

"Wait... wait wait wait... not to her... Quin, not while it’s still... I’ll behave, I’ll... HYAH~!"

She fought him, truly fought him, for the first time all night.

But she was already in the grip of the feared villain, and no amount of resistance would ever change that fact.

Ayame tried anyway.

She twisted in his grip, legs kicking out of rhythm, thrashing with her full stat sheet against an arm that noticed none of it, and every twist she managed cost her another cracked "hnn... nngh~!?"

Her heel caught the corner display stand square. The stand went over. The founder’s practice blades, oiled and remounted by every generation of Fujimori hands for time immemorial, scattered across the boards, and the lacquered plaque above them, hand-carved with the school’s founding precepts, followed them down and cracked clean in half.

The sound rang through the hall like a verdict.

Two years ago, the heir of the Fujimori would have died on the spot.

She would have torn herself off him, tears already falling, and knelt bleeding-kneed among the pieces begging her ancestors’ forgiveness until dawn, because that plaque was the clan’s pride and great treasure, and because everything she had been worth back then had been measured in how well she carried exactly such weights.

The woman dangling in Quinlan’s grip tonight did not even register the noise.

She was too busy being hauled, mid-coitus, toward the only witness she had ever begged for, moaning and fighting in equal measure, and the founding precepts of the Fujimori school lay in two pieces in her wake.

She was the second-in-command of the man remaking the world now, the first companion of a primordial, a swordmaster bound for the top of the universe, and, at this exact moment, a woman getting magnificently mated in midair above the ruins of everything that used to own her.

The Fujimori had had her childhood, and that was all of her they would ever get.

He stopped an arm’s length from the windowsill and simply went on, tempo unbroken, holding his samurai out toward her sister like an offering, her body swaying in his grip to his pumping, close enough to be tended without anyone having to cross anything.

Black Fang regarded the delivery to her windowsill with profoundly unimpressed eyes. She looked at the man over her sister’s head. The man looked back, smiled apologetically, and angled the next slam to bounce his little perverted masochist of an exhibitionist an inch closer.

Then her eyes went past them, to the founder’s blades scattered across the boards and the plaque in its two clean pieces.

"That was millions of years old," Black Fang noted. "A priceless memento."

"What was?" Ayame gasped, breathless, and came again.

The house of Fujimori received no further comment from either of its daughters.

Now that Ayame was ’escorted’ within arm’s reach, holding her hair became such a small gesture.

That was the trap of it, and the room’s other predator watched the trap close from above, saying nothing more.

Black Fang reached out and gathered the loose black hair back from her sister’s face with two careful motions, the exact motions from the venom bath, and if she noticed that this put her fingers a breath away from the marital demolition in progress, her face declined to report it.

"Water," Ayame rasped two minutes later, and was given it, her chin steadied by her sister’s cool hand while she drank through the jolts.

"Hold my hand..." she whimpered some time after that, when Quinlan’s pace turned far too merciless, and an elegant hand was already descending when the orgasm arrived early and made its own arrangements.

Ayame fell forward into her sister instead, and clung on.

Arms locked around Black Fang, face driven into her shoulder, the heir of the Fujimori wailed her way through the climax while her lover pounded her from behind without an ounce of clemency. Each impact shoved her deeper into the hug, her muffled screams pouring straight into her sister’s collar, her whole body jolting to his tempo.

*Pap! Pap! Pap!*

"Sis... sis... sishh... AAHN~!!"

Black Fang sat rigid under the clinging.

Then, slowly, one hand came to rest between her little sister’s shoulder blades, and the other cradled the back of her sweat-damp head, and she held on through every single orgasm, her face admitting, for once, that she had no name for the procedure she had become part of.

Over Ayame’s shuddering shoulder, from a hand-span away, Quinlan met Black Fang’s eyes again and said nothing at all, which somehow said everything, and got a knife-flat stare in return.

"How long can he continue?" she asked. The question came out clinical, said while looking at Ayame yet aimed past her at the man himself.

"Until all my women are satisfied without a shred of a doubt," Quinlan decreed with absolute conviction, his tempo never breaking.

"It’s true..." a happy sob corroborated from inside the hug. "He always... keeps his... wohh~..."

"That is not possible."

"But it is," Quinlan grinned with swagger.

Then he demonstrated.