Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 157- Testing the Caught Onahole

The spread was—comprehensive. Both ankles held, both wrists held, the full suspension of her in the hentai-adjacent geometry that the vine’s growth pattern had produced—her legs drawn open above her, her wrists pulled out to her sides, the inversion maintaining the blouse’s honest relationship with gravity and her skirt’s continued commitment to having relocated entirely.

The full weight of her breasts, hanging free in the loosened neckline—the thick, dense swing of them, the nipple-lines visible and the full curve of the undersides catching the light as she swung slightly in the vine’s adjustment.

Her panty.

The spread of her legs had introduced the fabric to additional geometric responsibilities it had not originally been designed for. The thin dark material pulled taut between both the points it was anchored to and expressed its contents with the specific comprehensive legibility of fabric under tension—the full, clean outline of her against it, the thick press of her, the slight indent of the fabric pulled into the crease of her, the shape of her entirely visible and entirely unavoidable.

He looked at this.

The physician’s assessment—’warm, cultivation-grade, inverted, fully suppressed, genuinely angry, genuinely aroused, the body running a parallel process that the conscious will is losing ground on’—completed its inventory.

He reached up.

His hands found the neckline of her blouse.

He pulled it apart.

Not violently—the physician’s economy of motion, the specific minimum required force, the fastenings giving way in the sequential order of things that were not designed for this particular stress. The fabric parted and her breasts were—

Free.

The full, hanging weight of them, inverted and swaying with the movement his hands had introduced, the nipples dark and—his physician’s assessment noted: ’already firm, the body answering a question the mind was refusing to process.’ The skin was pale—the pale of someone who did not spend time in direct sunlight because direct sunlight was not compatible with concealment, the pale of someone who had been practicing invisibility for most of their life.

They hung.

The full, heavy, pendulous hang of them, swaying slightly, the dense weight of each one making the sway slow and substantial, the motion of real mass.

He reached up.

His hands cupped both of them.

"’—’"

She made a sound and then didn’t finish it. The jaw was so pressed together that the muscles at her temple were doing what Liang’s had done on the Trial plateau—visible, the physical evidence of something being held shut with considerable force.

"Your grandmother’s name," he said. "Start there."

"’No,’" she said. The flat, furious no of a woman who has been caught in a trap and stripped by a physician who is groping her while asking questions and who is absolutely not going to give him information.

"Then we continue," he said.

He snapped his fingers.

The vine at the base of the largest ruin wall produced a controlled length—not organic growth, the Shadow Devourer’s resonance directing it with the precision of someone who had been studying the formation architecture of these ruins since yesterday morning—and the length of it coiled around her, the gentle, warm pressure of Primordial Qi-fed growth, and drew her toward the ground.

Not all the way.

Exactly far enough.

He had calculated the geometry.

Her legs, spread above him—the specific geometry of the frog-tied arrangement, both ankles held above knee level, the spread wide, the full open display of her at the level of his chest—and his hands, which had released her breasts for the repositioning and had found the firm, warm curves of her hips instead.

He looked at her.

Upside down, spread, thoroughly suppressed, both breasts hanging free in the mountain light, the panty pressed tight by the spread of her legs and expressing its contents without reservation.

Her dark eyes met his.

The fury in them was—present. Complete. The fury of a very intelligent woman who has been outmaneuvered and is aware that she has been outmaneuvered and is aware that her body is in the process of deciding it has its own relationship to the situation that does not consult her intelligence.

"’I will—’" she started.

"Tell me," he said.

"’—have you buried—’"

"Or don’t," he said. "Either way, I’m going to fuck you. The telling is for your benefit, not mine."

He felt her—through the thin fabric, the warm press of her, the specific heat of Primordial Qi-suppressed cultivation running at mortal baseline, which meant her body was performing every process it normally performed without the cultivation’s ability to suppress the peripheral ones.

She was wet.

Through the fabric.

The warmth of it against his fingers was—warm, and specific, and completely honest about what her body was doing.

"’Don’t,’" she said.

Not no. Not stop. ’Don’t.’

The specific word of someone who is issuing a warning to something that is in the process of happening and has already registered that the warning may not be sufficient.

His fingers pressed the fabric against her—the deliberate, unhurried pressure of two fingers tracing the outlined shape of her through the thin material, finding the center of the warmth, pressing in with the specific weight of someone who is not in a hurry and is learning the geography.

"’Mh—’"

The sound arrived and was cut off at the same moment, the jaw doing the thing, the body issuing the sound and the will performing the emergency suppression.

"’Stop. Stop that right now—’"

He pressed slightly harder.

"’—Mmhn—’ stop—"

"Your grandmother’s name," he said.

"’I’m not—I won’t—you can’t—’"

He pulled the fabric aside.

The warmth of her was immediate—the full, bare press of her against his fingers, the wet heat of a body running at mortal baseline with no cultivation to redirect what it was doing, the thick warm weight of her against his palm.

"’AAHN—’" 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

She cut it off in the same moment. The sound had been too fast to suppress and she had tried anyway and had gotten approximately the first third of the control she was reaching for.

Her hips—the vine’s grip maintained them in the spread position, but within the vine’s tolerance she was moving, the small involuntary motion of a body that has received stimulus and is processing it with every available faculty except the ones she had been trying to engage.

He looked at her.

"’I hate you,’" she said.

"Tell me your name," he said.

"’—I am not—telling you my—’"

He slid one finger in.

"’AAHN—!! AHN—!!’"

The sound broke the third-way suppression she had been managing. Not loud—the specific breaking of something that had been held at considerable cost and had encountered a stimulus that exceeded the available holding force.

She was—warm, and wet, and tight in the specific way that cultivation bodies are when they are very young and very suppressed and very thoroughly not doing what they had planned when they woke up this morning.

His thumb found the position.

"’—AHN—AHN—don’t—don’t—mhn—’"

"Tell me your name," he said.

"’Zair,’" she said. The specific broken-loose quality of a word arriving because the mechanism that was holding all words back had failed in the same moment as everything else. "’My name is Zair—stop—don’t—’"

He did not stop.

He pressed deeper.

"’AAHN~—!! Pl-please... Ungh... Hiek... it’s too thick for me!! KYAAANGHH~~’"