Chapter 575 - Checking Pussy of a MILF
She kept her eyes down.
"You are trying to understand what this room is for," he said. "This is reasonable. I will explain."
Wanchun looked up.
Tianlong was looking at her with the even, patient gaze that he applied to everyone, which was to say the gaze that carried no condescension and no manipulation and simply the straightforward attention of a being who had decided to look at you.
"Your son passed the tournament," he said.
"Yes," she said.
"What I intend to give him will change the nature of his cultivation permanently. The depth of the power will affect his foundational meridians, his cultivation core, his technique base." He tilted his head. "The womb that produced him carries the origin of his meridian architecture. If the origin is impure — blocked, stagnated, carrying old cultivation damage — then what I give him will meet resistance at the root and the transfer will fail." He paused. "This is the Purity Examination. To verify that the source is clean."
Wanchun looked at him.
"The source," she said carefully.
"Your womb," he said. "I need to examine it."
The room was very quiet.
Lin Suya had pressed herself against the wall to Wanchun’s left with her hands flat against the stone and her lower lip between her teeth and her cultivation base running the specific, white-hot frequency of a young woman who was simultaneously processing fear and the involuntary response that the Horny God Physique’s proximity produced in a Plum Blossom technique practitioner.
Wanchun looked at the bed.
She looked at the ancestor.
She looked at the bed again.
"I am," she started, and then stopped, and then started again. "I am not a cultivator, ancestor. I am a seamstress. This — what you are describing —"
"Is simple," he said. "A cultivation examination. It takes a few minutes."
"I am forty-four years old."
"Yes."
"I have — I have never — in a formal cultivation context —"
"Your son’s selection depends on it," he said. His voice was gentle. Not manipulative — it did not need to be. It was simply the voice of a man stating a fact that happened to weigh heavily. "If I cannot verify the source meridians, I cannot safely transfer the power. If I cannot safely transfer it, he cannot be selected. His training opportunity ends today."
Wanchun’s hands clenched against her midsection.
’His dream,’ some part of her was saying. ’Six years of training. The inner sect. The tournament. Today. His face when he won.’
"He told me," she said, "that he would come back after proving himself."
"He will," Tianlong said. "Whether he comes back to selection or to disappointment depends on this examination."
The silence stretched for ten seconds.
’[Wanchun — Internal]’
’He is very large.’
’I should not be noticing that. I am noticing that. His — the — there is something in the air in this room that is making my head feel like I stood up too quickly, and I have not stood up, I have been standing since I entered and I am still standing and my head feels —’
’His eyes.’
’He is looking at me the way people look at things they have decided. Not cruelly. Not like the merchants who look at fabric and decide what it is worth and then argue the price down. Just — decided. As if he looked and he knew.’
’Wufei.’
’His face on the platform when his sword came up. The set of his jaw. Six years of mornings I packed his cultivation rations and watched him go up the mountain path.’
She breathed.
"What," she said. "Do I need to do."
"Remove your clothes," Tianlong said. "Show me your natural state. I will examine your lower meridians."
Wanchun’s face moved through several expressions in rapid sequence.
"Here," she said.
"Yes."
"In this room."
"Yes."
She looked at Lin Suya.
The young woman was still against the wall. Her clear, dark eyes moved from Wanchun to Tianlong and back with the wide, focused attention of someone who was processing significant information and had decided that stillness was her best available strategy.
"She is also here for examination," Tianlong said. He looked at Lin Suya. "The same applies to you. The purity of your cultivation base determines your eligibility for training."
Lin Suya’s throat moved.
She nodded.
One short, committed nod, the nod of a young woman who has wanted something for a long time and has decided that the pathway to it, whatever the pathway turns out to be, is the pathway she is taking.
Wanchun looked at her.
’She is eighteen years old,’ Wanchun thought. ’She is barely a woman. And she nodded like that without hesitation. And I am forty-four and I have been standing here calculating for three minutes.’
She breathed out.
Her hands moved to her outer robe.
She undressed with the methodical, unhurried movement of a woman who had made a decision and was executing it before the decision could be revisited. The outer robe first — village quality, dark blue, carefully maintained, folding it with the automatic neatness of someone who treats their belongings with respect. Then the inner layer. Then the quilted vest she wore for the mountain cold.
Each layer that came off revealed more of a body that cultivation had not touched.
She was forty-four and she was a seamstress and her body had the honest, unrefined reality of a woman whose physical life had been about work rather than spiritual refinement. Her belly carried the softness of a woman who had carried a child and not cultivated it away. Her hips were wide, her thighs full. Her tits, when the inner robe came away, were large and heavy in the way of a woman whose body had developed fully and time had pressed downward, her nipples dark pink and wide against the pale flesh, the large mounds hanging against her chest with the weight of genuine, uncultivated femininity.
She was wearing a simple breast wrap beneath the inner robe, and below it, a pair of plain linen underpants. She stopped there.
Her arms came around herself — not the theatrical modesty of someone performing reluctance, but the automatic, genuine self-protective instinct of a woman who had never been looked at this way and whose body understood the situation faster than her mind was prepared to.
"The panties," he said. "Remove them and sit on the bed. Spread your legs."
Wanchun closed her eyes.
One breath.
She reached down and pulled the linen underpants down her legs. The dark patch of hair at her mound came into view — dense, natural, unmaintained, the dark thatch of a woman who had not cultivated the Plum Blossom technique and had not spent any part of her life shaping her body for examination.
She sat on the bed.
The silk was warm against the backs of her thighs. She put her hands on her knees.
"Spread," he said.
She spread her knees.
Her pussy was visible between her full thighs — dark-haired lips, flushed slightly at their edges from the pheromone-thick air she had been breathing for the last ten minutes, the soft inner pink beginning to show at the center where the lips parted with the motion of her thighs opening.
Tianlong walked toward her.
She kept her eyes forward. Her hands gripped her own knees.
"Spread yourself open," he said. "With your fingers."