Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 253 - Banging First Giantess Tribe Woman

The specific, dense-jiggle quality of giantess tribe proportions receiving an impact — both of them, forward and settling, the weight of her chest moving with the momentum and coming to rest — and she was on her back looking at the ceiling with her hair around her and her heart somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.

He was standing at the foot of the bed.

Undoing his robe.

She sat up.

"'—Wait—'" Both hands forward, the specific, please-stop, both-palms-out quality of a girl who has just been thrown onto a bed by an immortal. "'—I do not — I only — I was just guiding you — please—'"

"'—Do you really think,'" he said, the robe coming off his shoulders with the specific, unhurried quality of every movement he made, "'—anything can be given for free?'"

She stared at him.

"'—The herb,'" he said. "'—The breakthrough. You thought that was a gift.'"

Her breath caught.

"'—I — you said — you didn't say—'"

"'—I never said it was free,'" he said. "'—I said eat it. You ate it.'"

He was walking toward her.

She moved backward on the bed — the instinctive, back-against-the-headboard, legs-under-her quality of a girl creating distance — and her eyes were doing the calculation of the distance between her and the door and whether the calculation resolved in her favor.

It didn't.

"'—Let's create,'" he said, arriving at the bedside, looking down at her, "'—the necessary conditions for me to be in a good mood about your mistress.'"

She didn't understand what that meant.

She was still trying to understand it when his hand found the front of her uniform — the specific collar-and-cleavage fabric that the giantess tribe staff cut low because the giantess tribe staff was built in a direction that low cuts accommodated — and his fingers closed around the fabric.

He tore it.

The sound of quality cloth separating at the seam — and then past the seam, the whole front of the uniform giving away from the collar downward, and the fabric fell to either side.

She cried out.

"'—Wait—'"

Her hands went to her chest — the specific, both-arms-crossed, protecting quality of arms going in front of the specific thing that had just been exposed — and what had been exposed was the full, uncontained, giantess-tribe weight of a nineteen-year-old with a body that the lineage had been very committed to, both of them forward and free and warm in the bedroom air, the nipples peaked from the cold and the shock.

He pounced.

The specific quality of a body covering another body from above, pinning her back with his weight, his cock against her through the remainder of her clothing — and the size of it landed against her through the fabric the way a stone lands in shallow water, present and undeniable and local, and she felt exactly what that was and exactly what it was going to do.

His mouth found her breast.

The right one — lips closing over the nipple with the full, pulling suction of someone who had no interest in gradual — and he 'pulled', drawing it in, tongue flat, and her spine arched off the mattress from the root.

"'—AAAHN~!!!—'"

His hands gathered both breasts — fingers pressing in from the sides, pushing them together, the specific warmth and weight of them between his palms — and his mouth worked between the two of them, pulling one then the other, his thumbs at both nipples in the interval.

"'—AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!! Please — it's — Immortal—'"

He used his teeth.

The specific, drawing-tight, pulling quality of teeth at a nipple — and her arm went across her own face, pressing against her mouth from the inside of the elbow, the specific gesture of a girl trying to muffle herself in a room that was not soundproof in a palace that was not empty.

He pulled both breasts together.

Squeezed — hard, deliberate, the nipples touching, and he bit down across both simultaneously.

"'—KYAAANGHHH~!!!—'"

No arm could muffle that.

He looked at them in his hands.

"'—let's bang a virgin before the pregnant lady,'" he said, the same conversational tone he used for everything, the specific warmth of his breath against the wet surface of her nipple.

She was crying.

Real crying — not the reflex tears from before, the actual tears of a girl who was frightened and overwhelmed and had a Nascent Soul cultivator's hands on her body and had just been told what was coming next.

"'—please — please I am only — please—'"

He turned her.

One hand, rolling her — and she went onto her stomach, the bed receiving her front, and his hands found her remaining clothing from behind, pulling it down past her hips with the specific efficiency of someone removing the last obstacle between the current situation and the next one.

He spread her.

Both hands at the inside of her thighs, opening the geometry — and she made the sound of someone whose body has just been arranged in a configuration they were not consulted about.

His fingers.

Finding the specific, warm, dark-haired location from behind — and pressing in, one finger, against the specific resistance of architecture that had never been breached — and she felt the pressure against the hymen directly, the specific, unmistakable, there-is-something-in-the-way quality of it.

She cried out.

"'—Aaahn~... no — please — Immortal — please it's too tight—'"

"'—I know,'" he said.

He pressed further.

"'—AAAHN~!!!—'"

His other hand at her lower back — holding her flat, keeping her still while his fingers worked the specific, deliberate, this-is-what-comes-next preparation — and she gripped the sheets with both hands, fingers closing around the fabric the way you close around the only available anchor.

He removed his fingers.

Placed himself.

"'—NO — please — Immortal please that is too—'"

PAAH!

"'—AAAHNNNN~~~~~!!!!—'"

He drove halfway in one stroke, and the hymenwas something that had been the day before and wasn't anymore, and the girl felt the specific, first-time, irreversible quality of the breach at its full register — the pain that runs up through the stomach and into the chest and out the mouth as a sound that isn't a word.

He gripped her hair.

Both hands — gathering the dark fall of it at the base of her skull, the specific, full-fisted grip — and pulled her head back, her chin going up, her throat bared to the ceiling while he drove the second half.

PAAH!

"'—KYAAANGHHH~!!!—'"

Full depth.

He was at her cervix.

She felt it — the specific, impossible pressure of being full end-to-end, the thick blunt arrival at the furthest wall of her — and her legs were shaking, both of them, the muscle trembling of a body receiving something it has no prior experience for and is managing in real time.

He began.

PAH PAH PAH!

"'—AAAHN~!!! AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!!—'"

Her ass took every drive — the dense, giantess-tribe proportion of her, taking the rhythm with the specific sound of skin against skin in the enclosed bedroom air, the percussion of his pelvis against her sitting high and flat and continuous.

CLAP CLAP CLAP!

"'—AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!! AHN~!!!—'"

The sheets were in her fists.

Both hands, white-knuckled, her face pressing sideways into the mattress between her own arms, her hair tangled around everything, and the sounds coming from her were the sounds of a body that had crossed the threshold of pain and was being pushed past it toward something else, something it hadn't known existed on the other side.

'It was enormous.'

That was the only thought she had that was complete — her internal vocabulary for what was inside her had not developed far enough to produce specific description, only the raw impressionistic sense of something thick and long and very deep pressing repeatedly against the place that sent signals in every direction simultaneously.

'And somehow, underneath the pain, it was—'

PAH PAH PAAH!

"'—AAAHN~!!! AAAHNN~!!! AAAHNNNN~!!!—'"