Chapter 565 - Request for Thorough Demonstration
His hands moved from her hips up her back, spanning the full width of it, his palms pressing her closer against his chest. Her tits were completely trapped between them now, the enormous mounds compressed, her nipples pushing into the muscle of his chest with a sensitivity that sent constant, warm signals down to her already-aching dantian.
"Your previous master," he said, against her cheek. "He told you that you had become loose."
Her jaw tightened. "Yes."
"And you believed him."
Not a question again. A statement of something he had already read.
"I —" She stopped. Restarted. "It was cultivation instruction. He was the senior partner. It was his —"
"It was not instruction," Tianlong said. "It was what a mediocre man says to a woman he knows is more cultivationally capable than he is, to keep her uncertain of her own value."
The bath hall was very quiet.
The three elders at the edges had gone still in their various states of recovery. Elder Mengsha, half-submerged with her enormous tits floating and the seed still leaking from her womb, was listening without moving. Elder Fanxue, still glowing softly with her breakthrough light, had opened her eyes and turned her head.
Yaolan stood in the circle of Tianlong’s arms with her face against his neck and her enormous tits pressed against his chest and the tears still coming in their quiet, involuntary way, and something in her four-hundred-year-old cultivation base was doing something it had not done since that first night in the candlelight — which was to say, it was being honest.
"He was eight inches," she said.
Her voice came out flat. Clinical. The voice of a woman organizing a comparison.
"And you lasted him all night," Tianlong said.
"I endured him all night," she corrected.
A beat.
"Yes," he said. "There is a difference."
His hands moved from her back to her tits.
Not grabbing — lifting. The full weight of both enormous mounds, his palms coming under them from below and holding them with the careful, deliberate assessment of someone valuing something properly. His thumbs found her nipples and pressed, not pinching, just pressing, warm and direct and asking the nipple rather than telling it.
She made a sound.
Low, broad, arriving from the base of her chest, nothing like the controlled exhalations she had been producing all morning.
"There," he said.
His thumb rolled her left nipple in a slow circle. Her head dropped back. The silver hair fell away from her face, the teary tracks on her cheeks catching the bath hall’s light, her enormous tits filling his hands and overflowing them in every direction.
"Ungh~"
"That," he said, "is your cultivation base responding to proper stimulation." His hands closed around her tits, full and firm, kneading in long, deliberate rolls. "This technique of yours was not designed for what that man did to it."
His mouth came to her collarbone. Her shoulder. The heavy upper curve of her right tit.
"It was designed for this," he said, against her skin.
He opened his mouth and took her nipple in.
"KYAAAANGHH~~!!"
The sound that came out of Yaolan broke four hundred years of cultivated composure in a single syllable.
It was not the scream of the elders — not the pain-driven, shocked, overwhelmed cries of women being destroyed by something beyond their tolerance. It was the moan of a woman who had been told for three hundred and forty years that she was a loose cunt enduring necessary cultivation discomfort, and had just discovered that her body had been lying in wait this entire time for something her mouth knew how to produce but had never had reason to produce, and it came out loud and full and entirely, completely, magnificently uncontrolled.
Her head rolled back.
Her hands grabbed his hair.
Not pushing his mouth away. Holding it there, her fingers twisting into the long dark strands, her back arching to press more of her tit into his face, her hips pressing forward against the hard, hot column of his cock where it pressed against her lower belly.
He sucked. Long, deep pulls on her nipple, his tongue swirling the stiffened peak, his other hand still kneading her other tit with the rolling, thorough attention of a man who understood the instrument he was playing.
"Aaangh~! Hnn~!! Ungh~!!"
Her hips moved against his cock.
She did not instruct them to. They moved with the deep, involuntary rhythm of a body that had been waiting in a small, locked room for three hundred and forty years and had just heard someone knock.
"Ancestor~!" The word fell out of her in a voice she had never used as sect master. "This — this humble — hnn~!! — I did not know it felt like —"
He switched tits.
"KYAAANGH~~!! AAANGHH~!!"
She was gripping his hair with both hands now. Her enormous tits in his face, her legs pressing against his, the Plum Blossom technique blazing in her lower dantian with a heat that had nothing to do with meditation and everything to do with his mouth on her nipple and his cock pressed against the silver-haired mound of her pussy.
"You did not know," he said, against her tit, "because he never found it."
He bit her nipple. Gently. A careful, deliberate pressure that made her gasp and arch and press harder into his mouth.
"HNGH~!! ANCESTOR~!!"
"Say it again," he said.
"An — ancestor~! Hnn~! This body — my body — it is —"
"Yours," he said. "It has always been yours. Not his technique resource."
He pulled back from her tit.
Her nipple left his mouth with a soft, wet sound, standing stiff and red and thoroughly attended-to, the large pink areola flushed dark. Her other nipple matched it, his handwork visible in the swollen, worked state of both peaks.
He looked at her face.
The tears had stopped. Her cheeks were flushed deep rose, her silver hair disordered, her massive tits heaving against his chest with each rapid breath. Her gold-silver eyes were wide and wet and present in a way that four-hundred-year eyes did not always manage to be.
She looked at him.
At the gold-crimson gaze looking back at her from six inches, patient and warm and entirely, completely capable of looking at a four-hundred-year sect master and seeing the sixty-year-old woman who had cried in candlelight and the full distance between then and now.
"I called you loose," he said.
"Yes," she said.
"I was wrong."
Her breath caught.
"You were not loose. You were improperly used." He tilted his head. "There is a difference."
The bath hall was very quiet.
Elder Mengsha, floating in the water with her enormous tits and her seed-leaking womb and her Transcendence Threshold glow, was looking at the sect master with the expression of a woman who had known Yaolan for two hundred years and was watching her be seen by someone in a way that she herself had not managed.
Elder Fanxue, still soft and pink-gold and glowing, had her hands pressed over her own heart.
Yaolan stood in the warm, pink-gold water with the ancestor’s hands on her enormous tits and the ancestor’s cock against her belly and four hundred years of carefully filed, carefully managed, carefully mislabeled experience dissolving in the bath hall steam.
"Then," she said. Her voice had come back from wherever it had gone — lower than before, warmer, the authority still present but carrying something underneath it now that had not been there an hour ago. "If the ancestor would be willing to demonstrate the correction."