Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 265 - Deflowered a Bitch

She breathed.

He pressed the tip of himself against her entrance and she felt, with complete, undeniable, no-more-clinical-framing clarity, that she was a virgin and that this was not going to feel like a meridian flush.

The pressure built.

She gripped his thighs.

"’—Something is — something is wrong — it’s too—’"

"’—It’s the root seal,’" he said. His voice absolutely even. "’—The Foundation fracture has a physical manifestation at the base junction. The energy transfer will break through it. Breathe.’"

"’—I don’t think—’"

He pressed his palm flat against her lower belly again.

Qi flooded in.

Her meridians — the ones running clean now, the ones that had been blocked for three months — opened wider at the external pressure, and the warmth ran down and outward, and her body loosened in a way she had not authorized, and in that moment he pushed forward and she—

"’—AH—’"

The sound tore out of her.

Not a cultivation sound. Not any kind of managed sound.

He was inside her.

Barely. The first inch of him, pushing through something that was tearing and stretching in a way that burned, the white-pain quality of a barrier that had never been breached being breached, and she grabbed his arm with both hands and her nails went in and she hunched forward.

"’—Stop—’" she managed. "’—Stop — it hurts — please — I don’t—’"

His arms came around her.

Both of them.

One hand pressed against her sternum, fingers spreading. The other hand found her breast — full grip, warm palm at the underside, and he cupped it, the weight of it in his hand, and his thumb brushed the stiff nipple once.

"’—I’m transferring energy,’" he said, against her hair.

"’—I don’t—’" She was crying. She had not decided to cry. The tears were simply there, the involuntary quality of a body dealing with pain by doing whatever it wanted to do. "’—it hurts — why does it—’"

"’—The root junction resistance. It will pass.’" His hand squeezed her breast.

She made a sound into the air.

"’—Please—’" Her voice broke on the word. "’—please, I don’t understand what’s happening, it—’"

"’—Focus on your meridians,’" he said.

He pushed deeper.

The sound she made was not a word.

"Iaaanh—?!"

High and broken and helpless — the sound of something being stretched past its preparation, the virgin pain of it running up through her belly and into her spine and she pressed her nails further into his arm and he did not stop.

Inch by inch.

The fullness of it was — not describable in cultivation terms. There were no cultivation terms for the sensation of being filled by something that was too much, that her body had never been asked to accommodate, the stretched-open quality of it burning at the entry point and pressing against places inside her she had not known had pressure sensitivity.

She shook.

Physically. Full-body tremor, the involuntary quality of a body trying to manage something it had no framework for managing.

His hand pinched her nipple.

She lurched forward.

"Ah—?! Ahnn—! Stop — stop please—"

"’—Still,’" he said.

His hips pushed up and he seated himself fully — the last push, the deepest point, the base of him flush against her and his full length inside her for the first time, and she felt it at the ceiling of herself and she cried openly because there was nothing else to do.

"Aaahngh~—" A wet, miserable sound. Tears on her face. Her thighs trembling against his. "—Please — I’m begging you — please stop — I don’t know what this is I don’t—"

"’—You’re doing well,’" he said.

His thumb circled her nipple.

She made a sound that had no letter in any language.

He moved.

The first thrust — slow, full withdrawal and return — and she arched backward against his chest with the helpless animal quality of a body responding to something it hadn’t consented to respond to.

"Hngh—!"

The pain and the fullness and the friction of him moving inside her and his palm warm and present at her breast — all of it arriving simultaneously, her brain unable to separate the signals, the cultivation qi he was still pushing through his hands threading into her meridians while her body processed the brutal novelty of being used.

He moved again.

Pah.

Pah.

The sound of their bodies — wet and heavy, the slap of him against her where she was seated fully on his length, flesh on flesh on the garden stone — and she cried with each one, honest tears falling from a face that had no pride left to protect.

"Hngh~! A-Aahn—! Please—"

Pah. Pah. PAH.

"IAANGH~!! Oungh—!! Mm—please—"

"’—The root junction is clearing,’" he said. Behind her. His voice unhurried. His hips moving with a patient, thorough quality that was somehow worse than urgency would have been.

"’—It’s not — it’s not clearing it’s—’" Her voice broke into another sound.

"Aahnn~—"

His hand moved from her breast to her throat — not squeezing, just present, the warm-palm quality of an anchor — and his other hand went back to her breast and he rolled her nipple between his fingers with a precision that sent a line of sensation directly down through her chest into her meridians and she convulsed forward.

Pah. Pah. Pah.

"Hngh~! Ungh—!! Hnn—"

She was making sounds she didn’t recognize as her own voice. The pain was still there — real, present, the tearing-and-stretching quality of a body doing something for the first time — but it was braided now with the meridian qi running clean and hot through every channel, the Nascent Soul warmth of him pushing through every point of contact, and the distinction between the two had become something she could no longer manage clearly.

PAH. PAH.

"HIEKK~!! Mmph — st-stop — I can’t—Ahnn—"

"’—You can,’" he said.

The pace changed.

She felt it before she processed it — the rhythm shifting, deeper and less patient, the Pah of it becoming louder, wetter, his hands gripping her hips now with a quality that left no ambiguity about who was in control of the motion.

Pah. Pah. PAH.

"Hngh~! Aahn~!! Ha—Hah—"

She had stopped forming words. The begging had dissolved into pure sound — not voluntary, not chosen — the sound of a woman past the point of articulation, past the point of managing anything, her spine arching back against his chest as he used her with a thoroughness that was completing something.

PAAAH.

"AAAAHNGH~!!"

His hands found her breasts — both of them, full grip, the weight and softness of them filling his palms — and he squeezed as he pushed to the deepest point and she felt it at the roof of herself and screamed.

PAH. PAH. Pah.

"Mmnh~! Oungh~!! Aaah—?!"

Her thighs were shaking. Both of them. The giantess-tribe density of them pressed together and trembling against his legs, and she could feel the wet at the junction of their bodies — warm, more than warm, and she knew some of it was blood and she cried harder and he did not stop.

PAAAH. PAH. PAH.

"HIEEKK~!! M—Maas—Ahngh~—I c-can’t—Nngh~!!"

"’—Almost,’" he said.

Almost.

She didn’t know what almost meant. She didn’t know what any of this meant. The [System] had her mind in both hands and it was gentle about it and she hated it — hated the glass-wall between her and the alarm, between her and the full understanding of what was happening to her body on this plateau in this garden at dawn.

The qi surged.

His Nascent Soul cultivation flooding into her at full transfer — every point of contact, his hands at her breasts, his hips against hers, his chest against her back — a complete circuit, the energy pouring into her fractured Foundation and running through every channel simultaneously, clean and hot and so dense it burned.

Her eyes went white at the edges.

PAH. PAH. PAAAH.

"AAANGH~!! Iaaangh—!! Hnng—HIEEKK~!!"

He groaned once. Low. The only sound he had made.

And then the warmth — the real, final, absolute warmth — flooded into her at the deepest point, and she felt it filling her, seeding her, the qi and the essence and everything arriving at once with a rush that ran from the root junction up through every meridian in her entire body simultaneously.

Her eyes rolled.

Full white.

She stopped making sounds.

She felt herself go limp.

His arms caught her before she fell.

She was aware of: the dawn sky, very bright now, orange and gold above the eastern mountains. The garden smell — herbs and stone and altitude. His chest behind her. The wet at her thighs, running slow down the inside of them. The warmth still inside her. Still full. Still there.

She looked down.

At the red-and-white that ran over the pale inner skin of her thigh.

Blood and seed, tracking slow lines toward the garden stone.

She was a woman.

That was the clinical framing her mind offered.

She accepted it because she had no other framing available.

He lowered his head.

His mouth found her left breast.

The moment before it arrived she knew it was coming — and then his teeth closed over her nipple with a sharp, claiming quality that sent a line of pain-and-sensation directly from the point through her entire chest — and simultaneously his other hand pulled her right breast up and his teeth moved there too, both at once, biting both nipples together with the decisive, complete quality of a final step in a long process.

"—Aahn~!"

"Congratulation for becoming a Woman... Yuxi."