Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

The second the words left her lips—

“…I want master to pin me harder.”

—it hit him.

A rush.

Like fire detonating through his veins, searing straight from spine to cock in a single breathless surge. The blood slammed down low, violent and demanding, his entire body reacting before his mind could even catch up.

‘Oh fuck—’

His jaw clenched. His vision blurred. Every ounce of restraint he’d honed across these past weeks cracked like cheap glass beneath a boot.

“It really paid off,” Damien growled—half-laugh, half-snarl, voice dark with disbelief and pleasure and something savage. “All those nights. All those hours. My precious little maid finally learned how to beg.”

In an instant, he moved.

SNAP.

He grabbed both of her wrists and slammed them above her head, pinning them to the mat with one hand—forceful, inescapable. Her wrists fit too easily under his grip, like they were made for this.

Her breath caught. Her body jerked beneath him.

Too late.

She was his now.

And he let her feel it.

He dipped his head.

And devoured her.

His mouth crashed into hers, all control gone. Tongue forcing past her lips, teeth grazing her lower one as he swallowed the gasp she didn’t mean to give. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

It was war.

His free hand moved instantly—fast, brutal, strategic.

Because he knew.

He’d studied her in combat. Trained with her, watched the way her body reacted under stress, under pressure. His new trait, [Neural Predator] had mapped it all—every twitch, every tremble, every point where her defenses weakened just slightly when touched.

And now—

Now he used it.

His palm slid over her ribs, down the slope of her side, fingers skimming the line just beneath her breast—

Shudder.

She bucked against him.

‘There.’

He did it again. Slower. Firmer. And there it was—her body arching without command, breath stuttering against his lips, wrists straining against his hold like her muscles didn’t know whether to flee or beg for more.

His hand slid lower.

To her hip.

To the inside of her thigh.

Then—tap.

Right along the outer curve, just where the muscle thinned before it met bone.

Her whole leg twitched.

Her eyes blew wide.

She moaned.

It didn’t matter how quiet it was. How strangled. He heard it.

‘Gods, your body’s already betraying you.’

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

Flushed. Breathless. Her wrists still locked under his hand, chest rising fast as her thighs trembled beneath his weight.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, his voice soft now—mocking and indulgent. “I haven’t even taken your clothes off.”

His fingers slid again—up her thigh, brushing too close to her center, but not close enough. He watched her reaction with scientific focus.

She gasped.

Then whimpered.

Then tried to press her hips up into his hand.

He didn’t let her.

He smiled.

Dark. Knowing.

Predatory.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, kissing her again—harder this time, lips dragging across hers like punishment. “I’m just getting started.”

She was already shaking beneath him.

And Damien wasn’t done.

Not nearly.

His hand withdrew just as she started to press into it—pulling away with cruel precision, leaving her body aching in the absence, her moan caught halfway between need and protest.

“Tsk,” he whispered against her mouth, lips grazing hers as he spoke. “That wasn’t permission, was it?”

Her thighs clenched.

Her wrists strained again, but he only tightened his grip.

“So eager,” he murmured, releasing her hands just long enough to slide his arms beneath her—one around her back, the other beneath her thighs.

And in one motion—

Lift.

Elysia gasped.

Her body left the mat with no resistance. His strength wasn’t just enough—it was effortless. Like she weighed nothing. Like she belonged there, against his chest, pinned in the crook of his arm and held like something he owned.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders. Barely. Not to escape. Just to stay anchored.

And he moved.

He stood.

Her back pressed to his chest now, her ass resting squarely on the thick muscle of his forearm, legs dangling, breath hitched. And his mouth—his mouth—found her neck.

Smooch.

He sucked.

Right at the edge of her jaw.

Then lower.

Harder.

The sound she made—sharp and broken—shot straight to his cock like a curse.

“A-ah…!”

“Shh,” he said, voice vibrating against her skin, “Don’t want the whole manor knowing what kind of sounds you make, do we?”

Well, not that it would be important but still….

But she did. And he felt it in the way her body shifted against his, instinctively chasing the heat, the friction. Her hands gripped his biceps now, nails biting skin.

He didn’t stop.

He walked.

Steady, sure steps across the darkened corridor, every footfall a silent promise. Her breath warmed his collarbone. Her thighs clenched tighter around his hip.

And then—

The bedroom.

One nudge. One kick of his heel.

The door creaked open.

He crossed the threshold, and—

THUD.

He threw her onto the bed.

Not violently.

But decisively.

She landed with a startled gasp, limbs splayed for just a moment, hair a halo of silver on black sheets, uniform rumpled, throat marked, chest heaving.

Disheveled.

Wanting.

Utterly, deliciously ruined.

And Damien?

He didn’t move at first.

He just watched her.

Watched the way her breath stuttered. Watched the flutter of her lashes. The heat on her cheeks. The legs she didn’t bother to close.

Then—

He reached for his collar.

Pulled it loose.

Cloth dropped to the floor piece by piece, slow and deliberate, until nothing remained between her eyes and the body he’d broken himself to rebuild.

Damien stood bare.

Not just naked.

Unveiled.

Sculpted muscle. Veins tracing over hardened arms and forearms, down the ridge of his pelvis. His chest rose slow and heavy with each breath, marked by faint bruises and the sheen of sweat earned from training. But all of it—every line, every scar, every cut of definition—

All of it framed the cock rising thick and unrelenting between his hips, flushed dark and glistening with arousal.

And he smirked.

Not playful.

Dangerous.

“Look at you,” he said, voice like thunder under silk. “Messy already, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Her eyes didn’t leave him.

Damien’s gaze darkened.

She was watching him like prey that wanted to be devoured—eyes wide, chest rising, lips parted in something between awe and need. Her uniform clung to her, half-undone from earlier, soaked with sweat and tension, the hem hitched high on her thighs where he’d dropped her.

And he’d had enough of looking.

He moved.

In a heartbeat, he climbed over her—body rolling between her legs with fluid dominance, one arm braced beside her head, the other already working at the fastenings of her clothes.

Kiss.

Hard. Fast. His mouth slammed into hers, swallowing the whimper she didn’t mean to give.

Rip.

His hand pulled her tunic loose with practiced ease—fingers flicking open the seams, calloused palms dragging the cloth down her shoulders like it offended him. She gasped again, hips writhing beneath his weight, but he didn’t pause. He couldn’t.

Because her skin was under his hands now. Warm. Smooth. Covered in the sheen of effort, of hunger denied.

He pulled her pants down next, fast and sure, peeling them past her hips with one hand while his tongue slid against hers with slow, possessive intent. When he finally tore his mouth free, she was laid bare beneath him.

She was beautiful.

Not soft.

Not fragile.

But sculpted. The kind of figure that came from training, not leisure—lean thighs, defined waist, the faint lines of muscle under pale skin. Her breasts were small, yes, but firm, perfect in their own right—taut little peaks already hard from exposure and arousal.

Damien’s gaze devoured her.

All of her.

‘You’re not delicate. You’re not something to be spared. You’re something to be fucked.’

He reached for her again—but then—

She moved.

Her hand—still trembling, but certain—reached between them.

And wrapped around his shaft.

Damien hissed.

Low and sharp, like air sucked through his teeth. Her hand wasn’t strong, wasn’t tight—but it burned. Her fingers trembled as they curled around him, hesitant, reverent.

But her voice—

Her voice didn’t tremble.

“Master,” she whispered, “please…”

Her eyes met his.

And she guided him down.

“Don’t wait any longer.”

Her fingers positioned him.

Right at her entrance.

The valley already slick with need, glistening for him.

And Damien’s vision blurred.

All control—

Hung by a thread.

Source: .com, updated by novlove.com