Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 175- Banging her Harder than Her

Dark, warm, present — the specific soft warmth of a young woman at full natural expression, the Void Return bloodline saturation visible in the density and health of everything, the soft, dark hair that had never been trimmed for anyone’s aesthetic because Wren had never expected anyone to be looking.

She looked at him with the amber eyes and the expression of someone who is beyond the vocabulary she arrived with and is waiting for new vocabulary to develop.

He sat back.

He pulled them both to him — one smooth, dual-handed motion, the qi at his palms carrying the guiding force that brought Sora to his left and Wren to his right with the same unhurried, royal geometry of a man arranging things at his own pace in his own room.

Sora arrived against his left side with the compressed, warrior-tense quality of someone seated somewhere they did not choose to sit.

Wren arrived against his right side with the soft, slightly trembling quality of someone whose body was running a different set of responses than her brain was trying to maintain.

His left hand found Sora.

His right hand found Wren.

Both at once. The specific, patient, flat-palmed contact of someone who had located the relevant mechanism on both sides and was beginning at the same moment.

Sora’s inhale was sharp. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

’"—Hnn—"’

Wren’s was full.

’"—Aaah~—"’

He did not rush.

He was, in the specific terms of the physician’s approach to everything, conducting an examination. The particular pace of someone for whom the process and the outcome were equally relevant, and who was in no specific hurry to arrive at the outcome when the process was providing this quality of information.

He rubbed.

Sora’s hands came to his forearm.

The grip was — tight. The warrior’s grip, the full, fighting-tight grip of someone trying to get traction on something that was not going to be moved, meeting the Dragon-scale structural fortitude and producing no result other than the specific, futile compression of hands that had nowhere to go.

Wren’s hands went to his thigh.

Not pushing. Gripping. The specific, instinctive anchor-grip of someone who had found a fixed surface and was using it because her body was providing signals she did not have an existing response to and ’hold on to something’ was the only protocol that applied.

He continued.

’—Hnn—hn—hn—’ (Sora, through teeth)

’—Aah~—aah~—aaahn~—’ (Wren, through nothing)

The specific two-note morning — one contained, one not — filling the cedar room with the honest, unfiltered dual output of two young women discovering the same thing at slightly different speeds.

He increased the pace.

’—HNGH~!’

’—Aaahn~!!’

Sora’s hips had moved.

She looked down at them with the expression of someone who had received a report from a department she hadn’t known she’d delegated to, and the report was describing activities she hadn’t authorized.

He cupped her chin and turned her face back to his.

"Look at me," he said.

She looked at him with the amber eyes — furious, wide, the warrior’s composure doing its work with narrowing resources — and he held her gaze and continued what his hand was doing.

’—HNN~!! HNGH~!!—’

Her hips moved again.

She stopped fighting the movement.

Not because she had decided to stop. Because the part of her that had been doing the fighting had received the qi passive for forty-five uninterrupted minutes at point-blank range and had used up everything that category of fighting required.

Wren had dropped her head back.

The full, unconscious, backward tilt of a young woman whose neck had stopped supporting the weight of a head that was no longer relevant to the process her body was engaged in, her amber eyes half-closed at the ceiling, the full, warm weight of her chest rising and falling in the morning light.

PAH.

He landed a single, flat strike to the outside of her thigh — not hard, the specific, sharp contact that redirected attention rather than caused pain.

Wren’s head came forward.

’"—Aaah~!—"’

Her amber eyes found him. Surprised. Then — something else. The specific expression of a young woman who has been redirected and is now here, present, in this moment, with his eyes on hers and his hand still doing what it was doing.

’—Aaahn~!—aaahn~!—AAAHN~!!!—’

He pressed.

Wren convulsed.

The specific, first-time event of a young woman’s body arriving at a destination it had not been to before — the full, rolling, absolute convulsion of the first orgasm, her thighs pressing together, his hand held in place by the grip of them, her entire body curving forward and her hands flying to his wrist and her amber eyes going completely white for the single, extended moment of the thing itself.

’—AAAHNNNN~~~~~!!!—’

The cedar room received it.

He held his hand still through the full event — not moving, not withdrawing, the flat, patient presence of something that was staying while everything resolved — and he watched her face with the specific attention of a physician noting the data and the specific attention of everything else he was also noting simultaneously.

Wren went limp.

Sora’s ’—HNGH~!!!’—arrived four seconds later.

Different from Wren’s — not the rolling, full-body dissolution but the specific, controlled explosion of a warrior’s body that had been containing something for twenty minutes and had reached the wall of what containment could hold, and had exceeded it. Her body went tight first — the full-body clench of a cultivator whose muscle density had been fighting this and was losing — and then released, all at once, the specific, athletic, comprehensive event of a trained body receiving something it could not train against.

’—HNN~!!! HNGH~!! HNNN~!!!!—’

Her grip on his forearm had gone white.

She was breathing.

Both of them were breathing.

He let them breathe for exactly the time it took.

Then he positioned Sora.

Not with the qi — with his hands, the flat, guiding authority of palms that knew where they wanted her and were moving her there with the patient, comprehensive efficiency of someone who had a next step and was taking it. He spread her legs — the specific, outward pressure of a hand at the inner thigh, opening her the way a book is opened, with the unhurried certainty of someone who already knows what’s inside.

Sora’s eyes opened.

She had been in the aftermath — the specific, boneless aftermath of a first orgasm at the hands of someone who knew what they were doing — and the movement of being positioned pulled her back to the present moment with the abrupt, full-system notification of something significant incoming.

"Senior—" she said.

Low. Not the warrior’s command register. The specific, small voice of a nineteen-year-old girl looking up at a man between her open thighs and understanding, with the comprehensive clarity of this exact moment, what was going to happen.

"Senior, I’m— I haven’t—" She swallowed. "I’ve never—"

"I know," he said.

He kissed her.

The same slow, full kiss as before — not the management-of-protest kiss, this one, but the specific, deliberate kiss of someone who was giving her something to be in while the other thing happened. His mouth on hers, his hand at her jaw, and the first contact below happening simultaneously.

The contact.

The specific, blunt, warm, first contact of bare against bare, the heat of him against the wet entrance of her, the particular geometry of something larger than she had measured pressing against a threshold she had not opened before.

She made a sound into his mouth.

’—Nmh—’