Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 271- Lactating Cow

The thought arrived with perfect, crystalline clarity.

Not dramatically. Not as a metaphor. Just as simple, flat, genuine conviction — that the human body was not built for this, that something was going to give way, that she was going to simply ’stop’ being a person and become something else entirely.

’I am going to die.’

PAH. PAH. PAH.

His hand pressed flat over her pregnant belly — warm, heavy, completely possessive — and pushed down gently, applying counter-pressure against the deep, brutal strokes of his cock, and the sensation of being simultaneously pressed from outside and filled to impossible completion from inside was the last coherent thing her nervous system was capable of processing.

She didn’t scream this time.

She simply ’convulsed.’

Every muscle in her body firing at once — her spine a rigid, trembling arch, her belly lifting, her thighs locking, her toes curling until they cramped, her hands seizing into claws against the cave grass. A gush of fluid left her — again, her body entirely unable to sort between squirt and release, the distinction meaningless at this depth of sensation — splashing hot and uncontrolled across the cave floor beneath her hips.

’Throb. Throb. Throb.’

His cock convulsed inside her.

The first rope of seed hit her walls like scalding pressure — thick, flooding, ’enormous’, painting her already-ruined insides with fresh heat that pressed against the pierced clit from the inside and sent the convulsions doubling back on themselves. He emptied into her with complete, unhurried thoroughness, pump after pump, his hand still pressing her belly, his hips still moving in slow, grinding strokes that worked every drop deeper.

"Hmm." A low, satisfied sound in his chest.

She felt it through her entire body.

"As expected."

Her arms fell open.

Wide. Flat. Surrendered to the cave floor with a finality that had nothing performative about it — pure, complete, exhausted ’surrender’.

Her eyes were still open, just barely — thin slits through which the dripping cave ceiling moved in slow, distant circles, the light catching the water droplets, the golden chain across her chest gleaming in the dimness.

’I am going to die’, she thought one last time.

And somewhere beneath the agony and the heat and the flooding seed still pulsing into her womb — somewhere very small and very buried and completely against her will —

She thought: ’not yet.’

’Drip. Drip. Drip.’

His hand moved slowly across the swell of her pregnant belly.

Rubbing. Back and forth. Unhurried.

The chain connecting both hooks lay across her chest in loose, gleaming loops, rising and falling with each ragged breath she drew, the pierced nipples raw and aching around seated gold. Between her thick, trembling thighs, blood and seed ran together in a slow, dark, mixed thread, pooling in the wet grass below.

Cang looked down at all of it.

"You look like a virgin," he said again, quietly, almost to himself. His thumb traced the underside of her belly — slow, almost thoughtful. "Getting deflowered. Over a tight little bitch."

She had stopped counting the orgasms.

At some point — somewhere between the second piercing and the third forced release — the Queen’s mind had quietly, mercifully detached itself from the business of keeping score. There was only the cave. The cold. The chains. The impossible, continuous weight of him existing in her space like a permanent fixture of the universe, as patient and as inevitable as the water dripping from the ceiling above her head.

She lay exactly as she had been left — spread, seed-filled, the golden chains rising and falling with each labored breath, the hooks seated in her pierced nipples sending a low, constant throb of awareness through her chest with every tiny movement.

His hand still moved across her belly.

Slow. Back and forth. Unhurried.

She felt it through the taut skin — that warm, heavy palm pressing, tracing, learning the geography of her pregnancy with the same quiet possessiveness with which a man might handle something he has decided belongs to him. She was too exhausted to flinch away from it. Too hollowed out to do anything except breathe and feel the dripping water count the seconds above her.

Then she felt something else.

A warmth. Different from his hand — deeper, more ’interior’, threading its way through her body from some central point outward, moving through tissue and gland and duct with the deliberate, systematic precision of something guided rather than natural. It moved like water finding channels, like light filling a room from a single source, and it settled specifically, purposefully, into her breasts — both of them simultaneously — pressing outward against the already-engorged flesh from within.

Her brow furrowed.

"What—" Her voice was barely sound. "What are you ’doing’—"

’System function,’ he said simply. "Lactation induction. Accelerated."

She didn’t understand the words. She understood the sensation.

"N-No—" Her hands flew to her breasts, pressing against them — and immediately recoiled from the contact because the flesh beneath her palms had changed. Was ’changing.’ Swelling further, filling beyond the already-obscene pregnancy-fullness, the skin drawing tighter, the pressure from inside building with every second in a way that walked the precise, agonizing line between sensation and pain.

"Immortal—" Her voice cracked. "Something is wrong — my chest — it’s—"

"Nothing is wrong."

"It ’hurts’—it’s too ’full’—please, something is wrong—"

"It’s supposed to hurt," he said, and there was nothing casual about his tone now. It was focused. ’Interested.’ He sat up slightly, his dark eyes moving to her chest with the focused attention of someone watching an experiment reach its expected result. "That’s the pressure of the milk coming in. Your body is producing faster than it can hold."

She looked down.

Her breasts — already massive, already swollen with the natural fullness of late pregnancy — were ’visibly’ larger. The skin had taken on a shining, drum-tight quality, the dark veins beneath becoming prominent, her areolas darkening further and puffing outward around the seated hooks. A single, white bead formed at the very tip of her right nipple, clinging there for one trembling second—

And then it ’ran.’

A thin, continuous trickle of white milk traced the curve of her breast, flowing around the golden hook, dripping from the underside of her chest to the wet cave grass below in a small, steady stream.

"Oh—" The sound that left her was pure, naked shock. "Oh — I’m — I’m ’leaking’—"

"Yes," Cang said.

"Please—" She pressed her hands against the sides of her breasts, instinctively trying to relieve the pressure, and the motion sent milk running from both nipples in simultaneous twin streams, soaking the chains, pattering against the cave floor. "Please, it’s — there’s too much — it ’aches’—"

He gathered both chains.

And pulled.

"’AAHHHNN’—!!"

The chains drew the hooks taut through her pierced nipples, and the combination of the pull and the swollen-full pressure of forced milk produced a sensation that had absolutely no precedent in her experience — white-hot, deep-seated, radiating from both pierced nipples simultaneously outward through breasts so full they ached, a compound wave of sensation that hit her directly between pain and something shamefully, horribly else.

Milk ’sprayed.’ 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

Not a trickle — an actual, forceful spray from both nipples simultaneously, arcing outward in thin white jets as the pressure behind them was violently redirected, soaking his forearms, pattering across her belly, running in white rivulets down the chains and dripping from the links in a continuous, obscene curtain.

"No—no, please—I can’t—this is—" She was crying again, fresh tears cutting clean lines through the dried salt on her cheeks. "This is humiliating—please—"

"It’s efficient," he corrected.

And drove his cock back inside her.

"’OOUUNGHH’—!!"