Chapter 569- A Week Later
"Same thing," he said, and pressed deeper.
By the time he bottomed out, she had stopped arguing. She had stopped doing most things that required conscious decision-making. She lay face-down with her enormous tits squashed under her and her silver-haired ass stretched around twelve inches of divine cock and made the continuous, low, involuntary sounds of a body that had run out of categories and was just responding.
PAAH! PAAH! PAAAH!
"OUNGH~!! HIEKK~!! AAANGHH~!!"
Something warm moved through her bowels.
Not pain. Not exactly. A deep, pressurized warmth that moved through her lower body in waves as he drove in and out, a sensation of being thoroughly, completely rearranged from the inside, the walls of her ass stretching and contracting around his cock with each stroke, her belly dome visible even from her position as the head pressed through her guts.
An hour later, when he finally pulled out and the rush of release that followed was both mortifying and, she noted with the clinical detachment of a cultivator observing her own physiology, the most thorough bowel movement she had experienced in a century — she lay in the sheets and stared at the carved ceiling with the expression of a woman revising her understanding of the human body for the third time this week.
"Cleansing," he had said.
She was beginning, reluctantly, to see the methodology.
"Ancestor," she said, to the ceiling.
"Yes."
"This is deeply undignified."
"Yes," he agreed. "And your lower intestinal meridians have just been cleared for the first time in forty years of accumulated stagnation." He paused. "How do you feel."
She conducted an honest internal inventory.
"Lighter," she admitted. The word came out with tone of someone admitting something they did not want to admit but couldn’t argue with. "Considerably lighter."
"I know," he said.
He bathed her again. This time she let him wash her hair without commentary. His large hands working through the silver strands, the warm water running over her body, his cock pressing against her ass in the bath with the patient presence of something that was not urgently demanding attention but was simply present and ready.
She pressed back against it. Slightly. Without deciding to.
He noticed. He said nothing.
She filed the fact that she had done it in the same room in her chest where she filed other things she intended to revisit later.
### Day Five
She stopped referring to her own body in the third person.
This was the first sign.
"Your pussy is responding," he had said, on day three, his hand between her thighs.
"This humble body’s lower — " she had started, and then caught herself, and then said, instead, "my pussy."
He had made no comment. He had simply continued what he was doing, and she had continued making sounds, and the day had continued.
By day five she had stopped using cultivation euphemisms entirely.
"Fuck me harder," she said, on day five, in the afternoon, her legs over his shoulders, her enormous tits bouncing with each impact, her silver hair spread across the pillow like a crown.
He looked at her.
"What was that," he said.
Her face went a color that had nothing to do with exertion.
"This sect master," she said, with great dignity, "requests that the ancestor increase his pace."
"That is not what you said."
"I am clarifying the request."
PAH!
"HAAIYAANGH~!! — this sect master — HIEKK~!! — requests — AAANGHH~!! — HARDER~!! ANCESTOR HARDER~!! THIS PUSSY NEEDS~!!"
"Better," he said, and obliged.
PHACCK!! PAH PAH PAH!!
"KYAAAANNNGGHHHH~~~!!!!"
Her body squirted across his abdomen in a heavy arc, her thighs shaking, her tits slapping together and apart with the frequency of his driving hips. She grabbed his arms. Both of them, her fingers digging into the dense muscle of his forearms, and she held on while he destroyed four hundred years of her understanding of herself one deep thrust at a time.
She came twice before he did.
When he filled her womb, she felt the warmth of it spread through her lower dantian like sunlight, and her cultivation base did something that made the formation arrays in the chamber walls glow briefly pink-gold and then subside.
She lay in the warm silk afterward and put her hand on her own rounded belly.
"You said pregnant," she said.
"Yes."
"This womb has not —" She paused. "I have never considered it."
"I know."
"In four hundred years of cultivation, children were not —"
"A resource," he said. "That is what he taught you to think of your body as. A resource to be managed."
She was quiet.
"What do you think of it as," she said.
He looked at her.
"A home," he said. "That has been empty too long and is currently being occupied."
She pressed her hand against her belly and said nothing.
Her dantian pulsed warm and pink-gold in the chamber’s candlelight.
### Day Seven
She began anticipating him.
This was the second sign, and more significant.
She woke before him on day seven — something that had not been possible on day one because she had been too thoroughly used to precede him in consciousness — and lay in the warm silk and found that her hand had found his cock in the dark.
He was not yet awake.
His cock was, with the unreasoning enthusiasm of divine cultivation physiology, fully erect and present.
She held it.
The full length of it, her hand wrapping as far around the girth as her fingers would manage, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat in the thick shaft, the warmth of it against her palm.
She thought, for a moment, about eight inches in candlelight and the difference between endurance and want.
She moved her hand.
A slow, deliberate stroke from root to head, her thumb pressing the thick underside vein, her palm rolling over the broad crimson head.
He opened his eyes.
She met his gaze in the pre-dawn grey, her hand still moving, and did not look away.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning," he said.
She kept moving her hand.
"I had a thought," she said.
"Tell me."
"You have been doing the work," she said. Her strokes were longer now, more deliberate, the slick warmth of him in her palm making her own cunt wet against her thighs. "For seven days. This sect master has been somewhat passive."
His cock pulsed in her hand.
"A good observation," he said.
She swung her leg over his hips.
His eyes watched her rise above him, her enormous tits hanging down, the silver hair falling forward over her face, her silver-haired mound hovering over the head of his cock. She reached down and positioned him.
And sat.
The twelve inches drove up into her at the angle of gravity and her own bodyweight, the cockhead pressing through her cervix with the familiar, catastrophic depth that she had spent seven days learning to stop being surprised by and had not yet succeeded.
"HNNGH~!!"
She sat on him. Completely. His balls against her ass. Her belly domed. Her enormous tits swaying forward and then bouncing as she began to move her hips.
She rode him.
Slowly at first. The rising and falling of a woman learning to use her own bodyweight, her tits swinging with each drop, her hands on his chest for balance, her cultivation base pushing power into her hips with the Plum Blossom technique’s lower-core warmth behind every motion.
"AAANGH~! OUNGH~! HNGH~!"