Chapter 767 - Manipulating the Thick MILF
She hesitated. The protest, the modesty, the aristocratic propriety of a woman who did not wish to burden a guest with such needs, was there.
"Does the Immortal too?" she asked. The question, the curious, natural, conversational question, was there.
"Of course," he said. His voice was casual. "But we can control it. The spiritual energy processes what the body does not need. If you don’t have anything to empty, how would you empty?"
She laughed again. The sound, the warm, genuine, amused laugh of a woman finding humor in the absurdity of immortal physiology, was there.
"You are right," she said. Her voice was warm.
He stood. His hand, extended, was offered.
"Come," he said. "I will guide you."
She hesitated. Then took his hand. Her small, soft fingers, in his large, golden palm, were warm.
They walked. Through the garden, along the path. He guided her, his hand steady, his pace matching hers. The conversation, the small talk, continued. She commented on the flowers they passed. The chrysanthemums. The orchids. The spirit-bloom that only opened at night.
He responded. Briefly. Politely. His gold-crimson eyes, however, were not on the garden. They were on her. On her body. On the thick hips, the heavy ass, the enormous boobs, the mature frame. The assessment, the evaluation, the planning, was running.
They walked. Past the chrysanthemums. Past the orchids. Past the spirit-blooms. Past the lake. Past the stone bench. Past the carved pavilion. Past the herb garden.
Back to the pavilion. Where they had started.
"We have arrived," he said.
She tilted her head. Her hand, reaching out, felt the familiar surface. The stone table. The stone bench. The tea set.
"Really?" she said. Her voice was confused. "This is... the pavilion."
"Yes," he said. His voice was calm.
Her hand, feeling the wall behind the pavilion, found something. Not the familiar stone. Something else. A surface, smooth, cool, curved. A wall that had not been there before. The formation, the divine formation, the domain control he had woven, had created the illusion. The space, the enclosed, private space, was there. She felt the wall. It was real. To her senses, to her touch, the wall was there.
"Ah," she said. Her voice was relieved. "I see. You... made a private space?"
"For your comfort," he said. His voice was courteous.
She smiled. The expression, grateful, trusting, was there.
"Thank you, Immortal Master," she said. "You are too considerate."
She turned. Her back to him. Her hands, finding the hem of her dress, lifted. The dark fabric, the heavy cloth, rose. Her thick legs, the pale, full thighs, were revealed. Her ass, the thick, heavy, round cheeks, were there. The panty, the simple cotton undergarment, was stuck. Vanished, swallowed, embedded in the deep crack of her thick ass. The fabric, stretched thin, was barely visible between the heavy cheeks.
She pulled. Her thumbs, hooking the waistband, tugged. The panty, the cotton, peeled from her flesh. The release, the wet, sticky release of fabric from skin, was there. Her ass, freed, was bare. The cheeks, the thick, heavy, round mounds, were there. The pale skin, the full, soft flesh, was beautiful.
Her hairy pussy, the dark, natural, full bush, was visible. The mound, the thick, fleshy lips, the pink interior barely visible through the hair, was there. She was a natural woman. A mother. A wife. Untouched by modern grooming. Hairy. Thick. Real.
She sat. On the stone bench, her legs spread, her pussy exposed. She was bare before him. Not naked — her dress was still on, hiked up to her waist. But her lower body, her ass, her pussy, was bare. Before him. Before a god.
She pissed.
The yellow fluid, thin and warm, came. The stream, the arc, the trickling, flowing stream of urine, emerged from her pussy. The liquid, golden, ran over her hairy lips, over her thick thighs, onto the stone. The sound, the hissing, trickling, unmistakable sound of a woman urinating, filled the pavilion.
She sighed. The exhale, the relieved, relaxed sigh of a woman emptying her bladder, was there. Her face, the composed face, softened. The tension, the discomfort, released.
The stream slowed. Stopped. The last drops, the yellow, fell. Her pussy, the hairy mound, was wet. The urine, the residue, was on her lips, on her thighs, on the stone.
She stood. Her hands, finding the panty, pulled it up. The cotton, the fabric, slid over her thick thighs, over her hairy pussy, over her wide hips. The panty, the simple undergarment, was back in place.
He moved. Two fingers. His hand, large and pale, reached. His fingers, the middle and index, directly placed over her pussy. Through the panty. The cotton, the fabric, pressed against her lips. The pressure, the divine qi, the warmth, the contact on her most private part, was there.
Her whole body jolted. The shock, the electric, divine, overwhelming shock of a god touching her pussy, hit.
"What—" she gasped. Her voice, the musical, composed voice, cracked. Her body, the thick frame, went rigid.
"After urinating, it is bad manners to not clean," he said. His voice was calm. Conversational. The tone of a man offering hygiene advice.
She trembled. Her face, the mature, composed face, flushed crimson. The blush, the deep, visible, burning blush of a woman whose private moment had been witnessed, whose body had been touched, whose propriety had been violated, was there.
"Sir," she whispered. Her voice was shaking. "Immortal... it is... it is unsightly."
Her face was red. The flush, the burning, mortified flush, covered her cheeks, her neck, her chest. She fell backward. Her body, the thick frame, lost balance. Her arms, reaching, found nothing.
He grabbed. His hand, on her wrist, caught her. His strength, the divine, absolute strength, held her. He lifted. The princess carry, the effortless lift of a woman in his arms, was there. Her body, the thick, full, heavy frame, was in his arms. Her legs, dangling. Her ass, the thick cheeks, bare beneath the hiked dress, was against his arm.
She trembled. Her body, in his arms, was rigid. Her hands, her small, soft hands, were against his chest. Pushing. Weakly. The resistance, the token, instinctive resistance of a woman whose world had just shifted, was there.
"Wait," she said. Her voice was shaking. "Wait, Immortal Master. Please. What are you—"
"No," he said. His voice was calm. "Let’s take a bath. You should have cleaned your pussy after pissing."
The words, the crude, direct, vulgar words, delivered in his calm, courteous tone, hit her like a slap. The contrast, the gentleman’s voice and the whore’s vocabulary, was jarring.
She trembled. Her face, the crimson flush, deepened. Her body, the thick frame, shook.
"No," she whispered. "Wait. Please. This is... this is not proper. Immortal Master, please—"
He walked. Through the garden, toward the artificial lake. Her protests, the continuous, whispered, trembling protests of a woman being carried to water, were there.
"Please, Immortal Master. I am a married woman. I am a mother. This is... this is not... please put me down."
He didn’t respond. His stride, measured, was the stride of a man who had decided.
They arrived at the lake. The water, clear and still, reflected the sky. The spirit-spring, the natural source, kept the water clean.
He stepped in. The water, cool, rose to his ankles, his calves, his knees. Her body, in his arms, was lowered. Her feet, touching the water, gasped.
"Wait!" she cried. Her voice was louder now. The panic, the genuine, rising panic of a woman losing control, was there. "Is this how you treat the one who saved your husband?"