Chapter 543- An Unworthy Body to Serve Tianlong
She also knew that knowing it was not stopping it.
Her hands moved to the pine-needle-covered stone.
She did not look at him as she shifted forward, coming off her seated position, her palms finding the ground. Her thick thighs pulled under her as she arranged herself on all fours, the movement sending the loose weight of her breasts swinging inside the damaged ’dudou’, the heavy mounds straining against the remaining ties.
She crawled.
Each movement forward was a decision made in the specific, compromised logic of a body that had been through too much in too short a time and was being offered something it could not rationally argue against. The firelight moved over the sway of her generous hips with each step forward, the curve of her bottom rising and falling, the full undersides of her breasts visible past the swinging front of the ’dudou’.
She arrived at his legs.
Her hand stretched forward, fingers reaching toward the heavy, warm weight of him.
His hand closed over hers.
Large. Steady. Not urgent. He placed her palm against the dense, thick shaft with the matter-of-fact guidance of a man directing someone’s attention to something they were about to look at anyway, and held it there.
The heat of him against her palm was extraordinary. Alive in a way that made her fingers instinctively close, wrapping as far around the girth as they could reach, which was not particularly far.
His golden-crimson eyes looked down at her.
"So," he said, his voice carrying its same unhurried weight, her hand sitting warm in his grip against the side of his cock.
"Now tell me what happened with your sisters."
’!’
The fire crackled.
The rain fell.
Jingwei looked up at him from between his knees, her dark hair loose around her flushed face, her parted lips damp, her heavy chest rising and falling against the torn ’dudou’ with each unsteady breath.
She swallowed.
And she began to talk, but with her lips biting and the shadow of his heavy thick cock forming on her face.
"Unnmm... I-I just... How could—!"
He reached down and took both her hands.
No ceremony to it. No warning. His large fingers simply closed around her wrists with the unhurried certainty of a man picking up something that belonged to him, and he arranged her palms against the shaft — one stacked above the other, her small fingers wrapping around the dense girth with a reach that did not come close to meeting.
Then he stroked.
SCHKLH—"!?!!~"
A single, slow pull downward, using her hands as the instrument, his grip guiding hers from the root to the head in one long, deliberate drag.
The cockhead swelled visibly.
It had been the dark crimson of embers before. Now the blood rushed into it with the force of something that had been waiting patiently, and it deepened — a full, furious red, almost pulsing with its own heat, the broad dome of it flaring outward at the crown in a ridge that caught the firelight like polished stone.
The veins running the length of the shaft tightened and rose, each one tracing its path through the skin with a visibility that made the whole structure look architectural — designed, rather than grown.
The thick trunk of it stood at a slight forward angle under its own mass, the weight alone remarkable, her two hands stacked together covering less than two thirds of the length.
The balls below rested heavy and full against the cave floor, each one the size of a large egg, their heft completely unself-conscious in the firelight.
Jingwei fell forward.
Not intentionally. Her elbows softened at exactly the wrong moment — or the right moment, depending on which part of her anatomy was making decisions — and her upper body dropped forward until her face was directly in front of the cockhead, an inch of warm cave air separating her parted lips from the crimson dome.
She could feel the heat radiating off it against her mouth.
She could smell it.
The scent hit her like a physical impact — sharp and masculine and dense, something beneath it that was not any ordinary biological smell but a spiritual one, a concentrated pheromone output from a body that had been cultivated so far past ordinary human physiology that its most basic chemistry operated on a different register entirely. It went directly into her nose and directly past every reasonable gate her mind had posted.
She gasped.
The warm exhale of that gasp moved across the cockhead and the crimson color deepened another shade, the surface responding to her breath the way a coal responds to wind — brightening, intensifying.
’What,’ her mind said, very quietly, from somewhere very far back in her own skull.
Because even now — even with Meiren’s face behind her eyes, even with the sound of Fenxu’s scream still living somewhere in her chest — her body had simply, without consulting her, made a decision. She could feel it. The slow, warm seep of her own arousal gathering between her thighs, the fabric of her panties pressing damp against her pussy, her inner walls contracting softly around nothing.
Her eyes came up.
His golden-crimson gaze was already on her face.
Watching. Patient. The expression of a man who has presented an argument and is waiting for the other party to finish arriving at the inevitable conclusion.
He smiled. Not widely. Just the corner of his mouth.
"This is courtesy," he said. "For any woman who stands before me." His voice carried no particular heat — it was simply a statement of cosmological fact. "You have nothing to offer me of value in this world. Your cultivation is a candle. Your sect resources are stones." He looked down at her from his full height, his cock standing between her hands, her breath still grazing it. "Except that body."
Her throat moved.
"So please." The golden-crimson eyes did not waver. "Serve me. Lick it."
The word ’serve’ landed somewhere in her chest with a weight that her cultivation training had absolutely no framework for processing. She was a Plum Blossom sect disciple. She had trained for seven years. She had broken through three bottlenecks through sheer disciplined practice. She had cultivation talent her master called above average.
All of that sat in one corner of her mind, small and certain and correct.
And her tongue came out.
She licked.
A single slow drag from mid-shaft upward along the vein, tasting the heat of him against the flat of her tongue, the skin dense and taut under her lips.
Her eyes closed involuntarily.
"I... this lowly disciple apologizes," she breathed against the shaft. The words came out in the specific, helpless diction of a cultivator whose vocabulary for reverence had been built for heaven and ancestors and sect elders and was currently being repurposed for something her sect’s curriculum had not covered. "This unworthy body cannot adequately serve an existence such as yours. This lowly Jingwei’s cultivation is as a puddle before your ocean. I — ’nnh’ — I can only offer what little —"
She licked again. Longer this time.
Her tongue dragged up to the crown, circled the ridge at the base of the head, pressed flat against the slit at the tip.
"’Schlk’ — what little this inferior body possesses."
His hand moved to her hair.
Not harsh. Just present — his fingers threading into the dark strands, organizing them away from her face with the casual propriety of a man who wanted to see clearly.