Chapter 768 - A Tight Pussy Left Dusted for Years
The question, the outraged, moral, indignant question of a woman who felt violated, was there.
He stood her in the water. Her dress, the dark fabric, soaked. The water, cool and clear, rose to her thighs. Her thick legs, the pale flesh, were visible through the wet cloth. Her panty, the cotton, was soaked.
"You need cleaning," he said. His voice was calm. The justification, the hygienic justification, was there.
He splashed. His hand, cupping water, threw it. Against her pussy. The water, cool, hit her soaked panty. The fabric, already wet, pressed against her lips. The impact, the splash, the cold water on her warm, recently-urinated pussy, made her gasp.
"Ah!" she cried. Her body, the thick frame, jolted.
He splashed again. And again. The water, against her pussy, against her thighs, against her ass. The cleaning, the methodical, deliberate, ceremonial cleaning, was there. But the method, the hand-splashing, the touching, was not purely hygienic.
His hand, the middle finger, found her pussy. Through the soaked panty, his finger pressed. The fabric, wet, was thin. His finger, the tip, found her slit. The lips, the thick, fleshy lips, parted. His finger, pushing the fabric between them, entered. Slightly. Not deep. Just the tip.
"I am cleaning inside," he said. His voice was calm. The excuse, the transparent, absurd, transparent excuse of a man fingering a woman under the guise of hygiene, was there.
She trembled. Her hand, on his shoulder, gripped. Her fingers, the small, soft digits, dug into his golden skin. Her face, the mature, composed face, was flushed. Her mouth, her coral lips, quivered.
"Sir," she whispered. Her voice was shaking. The sensation, the divine qi flowing through his finger, through her pussy, through her meridians, was hitting her. The stimulation, the warm, wet, overwhelming stimulation of a divine being touching her most sensitive flesh, was there. "This is... this is not cleaning. This is..."
"Does it feel strange?" he asked. His voice was conversational.
Her mouth opened. The words, the protest, the denial, were forming.
"It feels..." she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. "Strange. It feels strange. I... I feel... warm. I feel..."
His finger, deeper now, the middle finger pushing the soaked fabric further into her slit, found her clit. The nub, the stiff, sensitive peak, was pressed. Through the panty, through the fabric, the divine qi flowed.
Her hand, on his shoulder, tightened. Her nails, the short, trimmed nails of a noblewoman, dug into his skin. Her mouth, open, gasped. Her body, the thick frame, trembled.
"I feel..." she whispered. Her voice was cracking. "I feel something... building. Immortal Master. Please. I..."
She arched. Her back, the curved spine, bent. Her hips, the thick hips, thrust forward. Her ass, the heavy cheeks, clenched. Her pussy, the hairy mound, the swollen lips, convulsed. The orgasm, the sudden, overwhelming, forced orgasm of a woman whose clit had been stimulated by divine qi, hit.
"AH~!" she cried. The sound, the short, sharp, involuntary cry of a woman climaxing, was there. Her body, the thick frame, shook. Her legs, the pale thighs, trembled. Her pussy, through the panty, gushed. The fluid, thin and clear, mixed with the lake water.
She stood, trembling, gasping. Her hand on his shoulder. Her face, the crimson flush, the sweat, the dazed expression of a woman who had just orgasmed against her will, was there.
He removed his finger. The digit, wet, was there.
"It is still not clean," he said. His voice was calm. The observation, the assessment, was clinical. "My finger can only enter just that depth."
She trembled. Her dark eyes, beneath the bandage, were wide. Her mouth, quivering, tried to speak.
"I... I will make sure to clean it," she whispered. Her voice was broken. The promise, the desperate, mortified promise of a woman trying to regain control, was there.
He chuckled. The sound, the low, warm, amused sound, was there.
"No, you don’t," he said. His voice carried the warmth of a man correcting a misconception. "I have another way."
He lifted her leg. One leg, the thick, pale limb, was raised. Her foot, off the lake bed, dangled. Her pussy, the hairy mound, the swollen, wet lips, was spread. The opening, the pink interior, the glistening entrance, was visible. The position, the one-legged spread, was shocking.
She trembled. Her body, standing on one leg in the water, was unsteady. Her hands, reaching for his shoulders, gripped.
"What... what are you doing?" she whispered. Her voice was panicked. "Immortal Master. Please. This is—"
He snapped his finger.
Instantly, his clothes vanished. The dark robe, the silk, the fabric, dissolved. His body, golden, muscular, naked, was there. His cock, twelve inches, hard, the head crimson, the shaft pale, veined, massive, was against her thigh. The heat, the weight, the divine qi radiating from the organ, was there.
She felt it. The cock, the hot, hard, thick shaft, against her skin. Her body, the thick frame, went rigid. Her hands, on his shoulders, gripped. Her mouth opened.
"What..." she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. "What is..."
He placed his cock against her pussy. The head, the crimson, the broad, flat surface, pressed against her lips. Through the soaked panty, the fabric was there. But the pressure, the heat, the divine qi, was there.
She trembled. Her whole body, the thick, mature, maternal body, shook.
"Immortal Master," she whispered. Her voice was desperate. "Please. I am a married woman. I am a mother. My husband is in the house. My daughter is in the house. Please. This is not... this is not proper. This is not right. I... I cannot..."
He pushed. His cock head, the crimson, pressed harder. The panty, the soaked fabric, was in the way. The cotton, the thin barrier, was there. But the pressure, the divine strength, was increasing. The fabric, stretched, was thinning.
"Immortal Master, please!" she cried. Her voice was louder. The panic, the genuine, rising panic of a woman about to be penetrated, was there. "I am not... I have not... my husband and I... we have not... since the poisoning... it has been years... please..."
He pulled her panty aside. The fabric, the soaked cotton, was moved. Her pussy, the hairy mound, the bare, swollen, wet lips, was there. The entrance, the pink, glistening, tight opening, was exposed. The cunt, the married, maternal, faithful cunt that had not been touched in years, was there.
He pushed. His cock head, the crimson, the broad, flat surface, entered. The lips, the thick, fleshy lips, parted. The entrance, the tight, unused, years-dry entrance, stretched. The hymen was not there — she was a mother, she had given birth — but the tightness, the atrophy, the years of disuse, made it nearly as resistant.
She screamed. The sound, the raw, primal, shocked scream of a woman being penetrated without consent, filled the garden.
"NO! AH! It... it hurts! Immortal Master! PLEASE!"
His cock, the head, the shaft, drove in. Three inches. Four. The walls, the tight, unused, atrophied walls, stretched. The friction, the dry friction despite the water, despite the orgasm, was there. The pain, the searing, tearing, burning pain of a cunt that had not been fucked in years being forced open by a divine cock, was there.
PAAAH!
"AAANGH~!!"