Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 166 - Quality of Women in this Wilderness

Chapter 166: Chapter 166 - Quality of Women in this Wilderness

The ropes went down.

He felt her throat working—the involuntary, desperate swallow of a woman whose options had narrowed to one—and felt her failing at it, the overflow finding other routes, the evidence of his claim on her appearing at the corner of her mouth and at the bridge of her nose and at the corner of each dark eye with the specific, thorough completeness of something that had been building for several minutes and was now expressing itself without editorial.

He released her hair.

She fell.

Not dramatically—the specific graceful collapse of a body that had been maintaining structural integrity through pure combat discipline and had received the signal that the immediate threat had resolved, and was issuing its own assessment of what the last four minutes had cost it.

She hit the wet grass on her side. Her chest heaved. One palm on the earth, the other not quite finding a position.

The leather strap had given up any pretense of geometric precision.

He stood over her.

She was—’the physician’s eye ran its inventory’—intact. Functioning. The raw throat would resolve in an hour with her cultivation base. The tears at the eye corners were already drying in the morning air. The leather strap situation was, by any reasonable standard, a secondary concern.

She was, categorically, the specific combination of physically overwhelming and completely spent that the previous four minutes produced in a woman whose body had never been introduced to this category of encounter.

He looked at her body.

The warmth was already moving in him — the Nascent Soul Mid Stage cultivation output meeting the ambient Void Return residual in the soil, the territory’s energy responding to the Dragon essence in his meridians the way all territory with a Dragon or Dragon-adjacent foundation responded, a gradual, interested recognition.

And her body.

The leather skirt, which had been short to begin with, had ridden up during the kneel-and-hold and was now making approximately no contribution to coverage. The full weight of her thighs was visible, heavy and warrior-dense and still shaking slightly with the particular fine tremor of a body that had been working at maximum effort and was cooling down. The inner surface, bare and warm in the cold morning air.

’Stop,’ she said.

The word came out raw and cracked and had the quality of a command that was aware it might not have current jurisdiction but was issuing itself on principle.

’Not more.’

She pressed her palm to the earth. Tried to push up.

He crouched.

His hands found the edge of the leather skirt.

She looked at him over her shoulder with the dark eyes, and the look had in it every remaining unit of the warrior’s authority that hadn’t been spent in the last four minutes, and it was a significant amount, the look of a woman who was not broken, who was not dissolved, who had been comprehensively used and was still looking at him with eyes that said ’I know what you are and I have not decided what to do about it yet.’

He looked back at her with the golden predator’s eyes and the three scales along his cheekbone and the expression that had been his since before this life.

"Let me," he said, "first taste the quality of the pussies your tribe has."

Her skirt tore.

The leather gave at the hip-seam with the specific, clean sound of quality material meeting force that exceeded its design tolerances, and the full warm center of her was there in the morning air — wet, as it had been for considerably longer than she had been consenting to acknowledge, the specific honest evidence of a body that had been conducting its own assessment of the previous several minutes in a register she hadn’t been consulting.

He flipped her.

Her back to the earth. Her hips tilted by his hands at her thick thighs, pressing them wide and back, the specific leverage geometry of a man who had read anatomy at enough depth to understand exactly where to position his hands to produce exactly this angle — her knees near her shoulders, the wet earth receiving her weight, the morning forest lit in grey above them.

Her eyes were very wide.

"WAIT—" she started.

He pressed against her entrance.

The first contact was heat — her heat, the specific shocking warmth of a woman who had been wet for longer than she’d acknowledged meeting the blunt, comprehensive pressure of something she had not measured against her available tolerance.

"—’IT’—"

’KYAAANGHHH~~~!!!’

The sound came from somewhere below her warrior’s register and above her human one — the specific, raw, enormous sound of a body receiving something that reorganized its entire sensory architecture in under a second, the sound bouncing off the old-growth cedar trunks and dispersing into the canopy and disappearing into the forest morning with the comprehensive honesty of something that had never been asked to be small.

Her hands flew back. Found the roots of the nearest cedar. Gripped.

Her thick thighs, held wide by his hands, were trembling at a frequency that had nothing to do with cold.

He looked at her face.

The warrior’s composure was — not gone. Still present. Present the way a structure is still present when it has received a first impact and is processing the damage assessment and has not yet made a decision about what to hold and what to release.

Her dark eyes were open and wet and very, very wide.

He began to move.

Pah. Pah. Pah.

"AAAHN~!!! AAAHN~!!! AAAHN~!!!"

Each one its own note — not the same note, the warrior’s body producing a sound spectrum that ran from the deep raw ’AAAHN’ of the first discovery to the higher, fractured quality of something arriving at the edge of its composure and finding the edge closer than expected.

He pressed her knees back further.

PAAH. PAAH. PAAH.

"HAANN~!! HANN~!! ’NNGH’~!!! STOP—’AHN’~!!!"

Her grip on the cedar roots had gone white.

The leather strip at her chest had made its final structural decision and the full, heavy weight of her was there now, bare in the morning air, swaying with each impact in the full, gorgeous arc of something that had been waiting behind engineering for too long and was no longer behind anything.

He watched it.

The physician noted the weight, the natural pendular frequency, the specific bounce-and-return of mass that had never been cultivation-refined and was operating at its full natural expression.

The rest of him noted it differently.

PAAH PAAH PAAH.

CLAP CLAP CLAP.

’NNNGH~!!! AHN~!! AHN~!!—S-STOP—AAAHN~!!!’

"The tribe," he said.

Her eyes, which had gone to the canopy, found him.

"—’AHN’—I—’HAANN’—said—’mmph’—’already’—"

PAAH. PAAH.

"—’AAAHN~!!!’—WOMEN—’HANN~!!’—ONLY—’NGH~!!!’—"

"Your bloodline," he said.

PAAH PAAH PAAH. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

’AHN~!! AHN~!! AAAHNN~!!!’

The sound of her was filling the morning forest with the comprehensive, honest acoustic output of a warrior-woman receiving something she had categorically not been anticipating, and her body’s contribution to the soundscape was unmanaged and very loud.

Her thick thighs were fighting his hands — not to close, the reflex of a body that had been told to stay open and was registering the instruction from somewhere below conscious agreement — and failing, because his hands at the inside of her thighs were the hands of a Nascent Soul Mid cultivator whose structural fortitude had absorbed fifty thousand years of Azure Dragon history.

PAH PAH PAH.

CLAP CLAP CLAP.

’NGHHH~!! STOP—AHN~!! MERCY—HAANN~!! MY INSIDES—AAAHN~!!!’