Chapter 545 - In a Cave with Rain Outside, Preparing a Meal
Her hands flew to his thighs, pressing flat against the solid muscle, not pushing — her arms did not have the strength to move him — just anchoring herself.
He held her there.
Not past her capacity. Just at the edge of it, where her throat was full and her eyes were watering and her body was making every automatic protest and she could not speak or breathe cleanly and was entirely, completely at the limit of what she could accommodate.
She felt his other hand.
It landed on her breast.
Over the ’dudou’ fabric — his palm spreading across the full, soft weight of her left breast and closing. Squeezing. The flesh compressed under his grip, the heavy mound deforming between his fingers, pushing out over the edges, the stiffened nipple pressing hard against his palm through the thin silk.
He kneaded once. Thoughtfully.
’Soft,’ he registered. ’Dense underneath from cultivation, but the surface is —’
He pressed again.
’Marshmallow,’ was the word that arrived. It was not a word from his primary vocabulary but it was accurate. The give of her breast under his hand was extraordinary, the kind of softness that reformatted itself completely around pressure and then returned to full volume when released.
His gaze moved over her body.
The thick waist. The generous hips, currently pressed against her heels as she knelt. The plush weight of her thighs. The way the ’dudou’ barely contained the scale of what it was attempting to contain.
He thought, with the involuntary calculus of a man in possession of the ’Horny God Physique’, about the Plum Blossom sect.
If a mid-tier outer disciple looked like ’this’ —
He pulled her off his cock.
A long, thick rope of saliva stretched from the cockhead to her lower lip and broke, dripping onto her chest and the torn fabric of her ’dudou’. She came up gasping, her face a wreck — flushed, tear-streaked, mouth red and swollen, chin soaked, her dark eyes glassy and shot through with burst capillaries from the pressure.
She coughed. Her whole body shook with it.
"’Kgh — kgh —’ I — ’kgh’ —"
"Who," he said, "has the biggest breasts in your sect?"
She stared at him.
She stared at him with the eyes of a woman who had just had her throat used as a cultivation tool while sobbing about her dead comrades and was now being asked a question she had not anticipated.
"I — the sect elder," she managed, between coughs. "Sect Master Yaolan. The inner elders. There are — there are many senior women who have cultivated the Plum Blossom technique to —" She blinked. "Why are you asking me that."
He had already placed her face back.
She felt the cockhead press against her lips again and simply — opened. Her mouth stretched wide, accepting him with the resigned, aroused exhaustion of a woman who had stopped having a coherent internal argument about this approximately ten minutes ago.
He pressed her down.
Further this time. Past the back of her mouth, past the point that had made her choke before, further still — until her nose was nearly touching the root of him and her throat had accepted the full length with a visible, obscene distension that traced the shape of him from her chin to her clavicle.
Her teeth touched him at the maximum depth.
The pressure was worthless. He did not so much as register it.
He began to move.
Short strokes. Controlled. Pulling back until just the head remained in her mouth, then pressing forward until her throat bulged again, a rhythm that was not brutal but was absolutely thorough. The wet, obscene sounds of it filled the cave — ’glk glk glk’, her throat working involuntarily around him on each inward press, her saliva running free.
Her face rubbed against the shaft.
His length was literally the length of her face — when he pressed forward fully, her cheek pressed against the base, her nose into the dark hair above it, the sheer scale of him making the act of taking him feel like an achievement in engineering.
He fucked her mouth for a few more strokes, watching the bulge trace up and down her throat, then pulled free entirely.
The release brought a cascade — saliva and spit pouring from her lips, a thick string connecting the cockhead to her mouth for two full seconds before gravity broke it. She gasped, her shoulders heaving, her eyes streaming.
He looked down at her.
At the strings of saliva on her chin. At her red, swollen mouth. At the dark hair plastered to her wet cheeks. At the torn ’dudou’ and everything that strained against it, and the plush, generous thighs pressed against each other below it.
"I see," he said.
"’Kgh’ — see ’what’ —" She was still coughing.
"Your sect master. The elders." He tilted his head slightly. "They will come looking for you."
She blinked. The tears and glaze in her eyes cleared slightly as the cognitive part of her mind found its footing again. "Yes. Yes, of course — when we fail to return, they will send —" Something desperate moved across her face. "They will come. My master — the sect will send search parties. If you — if you would wait, if you would —"
His hands moved to her waist.
He lifted her.
Simply. One motion, her entire weight coming off the cave floor as though she weighed nothing, which relative to him she did. She made a startled sound, her hands flying to his forearms, her thick legs dangling.
He placed her on his chest.
Or rather — he pulled her up and settled her against him, her body now straddling his lap at chest height, her thick thighs spreading across his torso, the full weight of her pressed against the carved muscle of his body. His pheromones hit her at contact range.
Her pupils blew wide.
Every nerve ending she had fired simultaneously.
’"Ah — I — what —"’
The warmth that had been building in the cave since they entered doubled instantly at skin contact, moving through her cultivation meridians like hot water through copper pipes, reaching the lower core of her Plum Blossom technique’s energy reservoir and making it pulse in a way that had nothing to do with training.
Her pussy, which had been wet since she’d crawled to him, throbbed.
She could feel the slick of it against her own thighs, the fabric of her panties clinging embarrassingly against her folds. She was soaked. She knew she was soaked. She was also pressed against an immortal and his body had done this to her and she could not tell anymore whether that made it better or worse.
His hands moved to the front of her dress.
Her outer robe was already destroyed. The ’dudou’ strings — already torn — gave up completely under two fingers of casual pressure, the fabric falling aside, and the full weight of her breasts swung free into the cave air.
They were spectacular.
The firelight caught them in warm orange — large, heavy, round, with the dense but yielding quality of something that had been cultivated to fuller volume through the Plum Blossom technique’s body-tempering arts.
Her nipples were the deep pink of a woman whose blood had been running hot for the last half hour, stiff and prominent, jutting forward from the rounded peaks of her breasts like accusations.
He did not immediately touch them.
He reached past her instead, his hands going to the back of her skirt.
He pulled the fabric over her hips and then down — her panties following, the thin silk peeling off her ass and down her thighs, exposing the warm, soft skin below.
He reached under her.