Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 165- Wild Woman

Her warrior’s body had its own objection to depth and she made no attempt to suppress the sound of it, the raw, involuntary ’gkk’ of someone pushed past their practiced range—but his other hand had come to the back of her head and the grip was complete now, both hands, the specific cradle of palms against the back of a skull that knew exactly what it was doing.

He did not relent.

He held.

She made the sound again—’Gkk~! Gkk~!!’—and her hands flew to his thighs, pressing, the flat-palmed ’stop’ signal that her combat instincts had defaulted to, and he let the depth hold for three full seconds before drawing back to the manageable range.

She gasped against him.

"—’hah’—’hah’—tribe—"

"Tribe," he confirmed.

She looked up at him with the eyes of a woman who had just conceded the opening of a negotiation under conditions she had not agreed to and was conducting her next response from inside the negotiation rather than outside it.

Her mouth worked him again. The reluctance had a different character now — less war, more the specific, furious competence of a woman who had decided that if she was going to do something she was going to do it correctly, and ’correctly’ meant the stroke was full and the tongue was present and the suction was genuine, not the performance of it.

She was—

The physician’s assessment noted several things simultaneously. The warmth of her. The specific thick softness of a woman whose mouth had never been trained for this and had instincts that were not cultivated-grade-refined but were entirely natural, entirely unmanaged, the raw genuine quality of something performing without a script.

Her breasts swayed with the motion.

Even through the leather strap, the weight of them moved — each bob of her head carrying a corresponding swing at the chest, the heavy, full arc of something that had been held compressed all morning and was expressing its mass now with the unstudied honesty of physics.

"Your tribe," he said. "Are you the only ones here?"

She pulled back to answering depth—’Mmph’—and her brow furrowed. The furrow of a woman conducting two simultaneous operations and having opinions about both of them.

"—’women’—" she got out. Around him. The word coming through imperfectly, the specific phonetic deformation of language trying to clear a significant obstacle. "—’tribe—mmph—only—women—’"

He pushed her forward.

’Gkk~!’ Her hands gripped his thighs harder.

"Keep talking," he said.

"—’mhn’—’ghk’—’ancestor’—"

He drew back.

She gasped—the warrior’s gasp, the controlled intake that had no concession in it—and looked up with her eyes wet at the corners from the depth, not from distress, the specific involuntary tearing of eyes that had been pushed past the comfortable range and were reporting it through the available biological channel.

"Ancestor," he said.

"—’our’—’founder’—’she’—"

The leather strap across her chest had shifted. Not fallen—shifted, the specific micro-displacement of a binding that had been under increasing movement for thirty seconds and was conducting a structural reassessment.

He wound his hand tighter in her hair.

He began to move in earnest.

’Gkk~! Gkk~! GKK~!!’—

Her warrior’s body had no trained response for this particular assault and it produced its honest, unfiltered soundtrack—the wet, broken sounds of a woman being used as a fuckhole, her throat making room or making its objection, the line between the two becoming academic somewhere around the fourth stroke.

Her hands were still on his thighs.

Not pushing now.

Gripping.

The specific grip of something looking for an anchor.

’Gkk~!—ahn—gkk~!—mmph—GKK~!!’—

He pulled her off.

The sound of release—wet and abrupt and utterly honest—filled the morning air for a brief, comprehensive moment before she was gasping again, her chest heaving, the leather strap now substantially displaced, the full weight of her left breast having convinced the lower edge of the binding to renegotiate its position.

"Your ancestor," he said, as though the previous thirty seconds had been a brief administrative pause.

She looked up at him. Her dark eyes were running—just the corners, the biological involuntary—her mouth was swollen at the lip, her hair was a disaster, her warrior’s posture was doing its best under the circumstances.

She had the expression of a woman who had been disassembled and was furiously conducting the reassembly.

"—she—" Her voice was raw. She cleared it, and the clearing was the specific sound of someone who had been introduced to new depths of their own anatomy and was working around the introduction. "—she transcended. Past the peak. Nascent Soul—she broke through—went—beyond—"

He looked at her.

’Beyond Nascent Soul Peak Stage.’

The physician’s archive opened. The Heavenly Demon’s memory reached backward—ten thousand years, the history of a cultivation world where Nascent Soul Peak was not the ceiling but the floor of a staircase that very few people had the architecture to climb.

Void Return.

This woman’s ancestor had broken into the Void Return realm.

And had planted herself and her bloodline here, in the southern wastelands, where the energy concentration of a Void Return Stage cultivator’s prolonged residence would have saturated the territory the way Tian Long’s death had saturated the cave.

’Interesting,’ the dry part of his mind noted.

’Very interesting,’ said the other part.

He had her by the hair and was looking down at her and she was looking up at him with the dark wet eyes and the swollen mouth and the heaving chest and something in his expression shifted — not warmth, not exactly, but the specific attention of a physician who has received a result that reorganizes the context of the examination.

"How many women in your tribe," he said.

"—’many’—"

"A number."

"—’forty’—’perhaps’—’fifty’—"

He pressed her forward again.

This time she opened for it.

Not willingly—the warrior pride was still conducting its operations—but her mouth took him at the first contact with something that was not the earlier reluctance, was something subsequent to reluctance that didn’t have a clean category yet.

He used her thoroughly.

The sounds she made were comprehensive. Not performance — a warrior didn’t perform submission in private, had no mechanism for it, and what came from her was the honest, raw soundtrack of a woman being used in a forest at depth, her throat making room through pure necessity, the wet and guttural sounds mixing with the occasional fragment of breath she managed to keep.

’Gkk~! Mmph~! Gkk~!! Gkk~!! GKK~!!!’

His fingers tightened.

The Shadow Devourer pulsed once at his waist — the darkness field registering the ambient energy output of the territory, the old Void Return Stage residual in the soil breathing upward through the wet earth, the specific frequency of a domain-claim that had been pressed into this land by a cultivator who had gone somewhere above his current ceiling.

’Useful,’ he noted.

He pushed.

Deep.

’GKKHH~!!!’—

Held.

Her body responded to the depth the way bodies did—involuntary, absolute, the fighting of something that had gone too far against its will and was producing evidence of that fight through every available channel.

He drew back.

Drove forward again.

And again.

And again.

The forest absorbed the sounds with the patient, comprehensive indifference of old growth that had been absorbing sounds for centuries and had long since stopped making distinctions.

Her hands on his thighs were shaking.

He filled her throat.

Not gradually—the specific, complete event of a man who had been fighting through void-walks and boundary-walls and a grandmother’s three-hundred-year plan since dawn, and whose body had spent the last several minutes communicating its opinion of the Amazon woman’s mouth with considerable clarity.

She tried to pull off.

He held her through it.

’GKKHH~!!!—mmph—GKK~!!’—