Chapter 564- Mercy on Sect Leader
"Good pain," he had said. "Cultivation pain. Your lower dantian is opening."
Her lower dantian was not opening. Her pussy was tearing. The blood ran dark in the candlelight, mixing with the seed of lubrication her body had reflexively produced, coating the eight-inch shaft as it sawed in and out of her with the steady, unhurried pace of a man who had been waiting for this and intended to make thorough use of the time.
Her ass clapped back against his hips with each thrust, the soft flesh of her buttocks bouncing, her tongue pushing past her teeth because the angle of his cock when he grabbed her tied wrists and yanked them above her head changed the depth and drove his tip against something inside her that made her jaw go loose.
"AAANGHH~!! NNOONGHHH~!! MY WOMB~!! ELDER~!! SOMETHING IS HITTING MY —"
"Yes," he had said, with the satisfaction of a man arriving at his intended destination. "That is the point."
PAH PAH PAH! PAAH! PHACCK!
"HAAIYAANGH~!! SLOW~!! PLEASE SLOW~!! THE CANDLES — THE CANDLES ARE GOING TO —"
She had cried for most of it. Not loudly. The quiet, continuous leaking of tears that her younger self had tried to suppress because the text said emotional resistance impeded the cultivation exchange.
The blood on the silk sheets.
His cock going in and out of her deflowered pussy all night — because it had been all night, she remembered that, the candles burning down and being replaced by a cultivation servant who had knocked and received no answer and left new ones without entering, and she had watched the new candle light flicker and thought with the portion of her mind that was still operating independently, ’I will be different after this.’
She had been right about that.
Just not in the direction she had imagined.
’Your pussy has gotten so loose from my cock fucking you all day,’ he had said, toward the end, his hips blurring with the speed of a man chasing his finish, her ass bouncing back against him, her tongue lolling, her eyes barely focused. ’Loose little cunt. Taking all of it now. You have learned.’
She had taken it as instruction.
She had filed it as cultivation data.
She had carried it for three hundred and forty years as the foundational definition of what sex was — a resource exchange conducted in candlelight with pain that was supposed to pass and a man who said ’loose’ like it was a compliment.
She came back to the bath hall.
The pool. The steam. The pink-gold water. Three twitching, glowing elders distributed around the edges. A man sitting in the shallow end with a cock that made eight inches look like a decorative item.
Tears fell.
She did not know they had started. She became aware of them mid-track, warm lines running down her face, dropping from her jaw into the water, and the awareness of them did not stop them because she had not started them consciously and stopping them required a decision she was not making.
Tianlong looked at her face.
The gold-crimson eyes moved over the tears, the tight jaw, the hand still pressed against her own pussy under the water, the expression of a four-hundred-year sect master who had just been handed a word that unlocked something she had put away in a room a very long time ago.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Bad memories," he said.
It was not quite a question.
Yaolan’s fist closed. Her jaw hardened. Her chin dropped toward the water, toward the tear that had just left it, silver-white hair falling forward to cover her face.
She said nothing.
She did not confirm or deny. She stood with her hand against her pussy and her hair in her face and her cultivation base quietly, deeply furious at the fact that she was crying in the bath hall in front of an ancestor who had just called her loose.
Tianlong made a sound. Low, short. Not dismissal — acknowledgment.
He stood from the shallow step.
The water ran from his body in sheets, down the carved landscape of his chest and abdomen, his cock hanging thick and wet and heavy as he straightened to his full height in the pool. He stepped toward her.
She did not move back.
He was in front of her in two steps, his large body blocking the light from the wall formation-lamps, his shadow covering her. Close enough that the pheromone output from his skin hit her at near-zero distance, the layered, complex, invasive warmth of Horny God Physique chemistry pressing against her Plum Blossom cultivation base like a key finding a lock.
She looked at his chest. Not at his face.
He reached out.
His hands found her hips.
Not her tits. Not her ass. Her hips — wide, soft, the gentle outward curve of a body that had maintained itself through four hundred years of cultivation with the same disciplined investment she applied to everything. He took hold of them with the full, warm weight of both large palms and pulled her forward against him.
Her enormous tits pressed into his chest.
The sudden compression of that contact — the specific, total warmth of his bare torso against her bare chest, her tits squashing flat against the dense muscle, her nipples pressing between them — made her draw a breath that she could not entirely control.
She blinked.
Her teary eyes came up from his chest to his face in a motion she had not decided to make, arriving at his gold-crimson gaze from a distance of six inches.
He looked at her.
Not with the clinical evaluation he had used on the elders. Not with the unhurried inventory of a man taking stock of available resources.
With something that was harder to file.
"Darling," he said.
The word landed differently than everything else he had said all morning.
It landed somewhere below her cultivation base, below her dantian, below the four-hundred-year architecture of her composure, in the place where the sixty-year-old woman who had cried in candlelight over an eight-inch lie about cultivation still lived in a small, locked room.
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
He leaned down.
His mouth found her neck, just below her jaw, where her pulse was doing something it was not accustomed to doing at this frequency. He kissed it — not bit, not marked, not used it as a stop on the way to something else. Kissed it with the full, warm press of his lips and stayed there for a breath, and then another.
"Hn~"
The sound that came out of her was soft, short, entirely involuntary, entirely unprofessional, and entirely beyond her capacity to have prevented. Her hands came up between them and did not push him away. They pressed flat against his chest, against the ridged warmth of his abdomen, fingers spreading with the searching instinct of hands that had decided they were touching something and intended to understand it.
He moved to her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her eye where the tear had tracked.
His mouth moved over the track of it.
She breathed.
A long, slow exhale that came from somewhere below her sternum, the breath of a woman releasing pressure that had been built for a very long time in a very small container.