Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 193- Banging Her to Sanity

Her voice was the small, processing, present voice of a woman who had arrived at the end of her inventory of previous experiences and was standing at the edge of a category she had not been in.

"Tonight," he said.

He reached around her.

Both her hands — the flat, single, comprehensive grip of one hand collecting both her wrists and holding them together against the grass bank, her hands pinned at her front, her body forward-leaning against the edge.

"—you said you were mine," he said.

She breathed.

The pond water was cool and the night air was cool and he was warm and the specific, present, immediate warmth of him against her back was the only warm thing in the current inventory.

She looked at the grass.

At her own hands, held.

"Senior—" Very small. "Not—not there—I have never—you cannot—the size is—"

"Slowly," he said.

"—Please—don’t—"

PAH.

’—HAANN~!!!—’

The flat, sharp, clean strike across her left cheek — not hard, the specific, present, attention-collecting strike of someone who needed her present and was collecting her.

She made the sound of someone who has been addressed.

Her hands gripped the grass.

He positioned.

The specific, patient, completely unhurried positioning of someone who was going to take all the time that this required and was not going to take any less time than that, because the physician’s assessment was running and the physician was very clear about the requirements.

The contact.

The specific, first, unfamiliar contact of something at a location she had never had contact at — the warm, blunt, present pressure against the specific, tight, untouched architecture of an entrance that had been nineteen years of a woman’s life reserved for exactly nothing.

"—No—" Very small. "No, Senior—please—it won’t—it can’t—"

"Slowly," he said.

He pressed.

She felt the pressure.

The specific, singular, first-time, unfamiliar pressure of something patient and warm pressing against something that had never been asked to accommodate anything.

She breathed.

"—Senior—WAIT—please—I—"

He pressed further.

The first increment.

’—HAANN~!—’

Her hands drove into the grass.

White-knuckled.

"—I can’t—it’s too—" Her voice. "It won’t—" 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

He reached around her.

His hand. Found her. The specific, flat, simultaneous, dual-addressing of both locations at once.

She made a sound that was not a word.

’—Aaahn~!—’

He pressed again.

Further.

’—AHN~! AAAHN~!—’

His hand moved.

The thumb.

’—AAAHN~!!!—’

"Be—" He pressed. "—a good—"

PAAH!

The strike across her left cheek, full, flat, comprehensive.

"—bitch."

He drove.

’—IAAANGGGH~~!!!—’

The sound.

The enormous, non-Chief, non-cultivator, non-anything-that-had-preceded-tonight sound of a woman at the specific, absolute, complete first-time event of a body receiving something it had never received at a location it had never been asked, the pond water splashing with the motion of it, the night air receiving the sound and giving it to the trees and the trees giving it to the forest and the forest holding it with the patient, comprehensive indifference of trees that had been holding things for a very long time.

Her hands gripped the grass.

Her back arched.

Her face pressed forward into the bank.

The cultivation light at her skin went from the settled, steady amber of advancement to the full, bright, warm, gold-white of a body that had just received more than it could process quietly and was processing it loudly.

"AAGH... S-SENIOR—!!"

PHACKK!

"Hieeek.... mmmhnggg... W-wa—HIAANGHH...!!"

PAH PAH PAH PAAAH

"ANGHH~!!! SLOW—MMNGHH~~!!! ANHHHNGGGHHHHH~~!!!"

It was as if the whole night was filled with the sound of her moans and cries, with the flesh-slapping sound echoing as if telling her that tonight she was going to be banged so hard that she might never be able to turn back or even feel her own ass.

’Shit...’ Cang who was driving, plunging his cock in and out of her ass, clearly felt how tight her anal was.

If he had to give her a rating, then she was the tightest among the women he had already fucked.

Due to cultivation, strength of these women, their ass grip against his cock was phenomenal.

He could feel the softness of her inner lining within the anal wall, her pussy that he had already tasted, sucking the water in and out, and the pleasure that motivated him to go all night, as he simply ordered the system.

’System, keep feeding her herbs... I need a strong breeding tonight with this one.’

PHAAALPPP

"HNNNGGHHHHAAAA~~~!!!"

[ Inititaing Curruption Route to Farm Evil Points. ]

[ Remamining hours before total curruption 5 hours. ]

[ Recommendadtion: Keep stimulating the body and numbing the mind of target with rapid sensational overload. ]

’Five hours... hah?’

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The door had been qi-sealed.

He had known this within the first twenty minutes — had felt the cultivation barrier at the frame with the flat, methodical certainty of a man who had spent eleven years living beside a cultivator and had learned, through proximity rather than practice, the specific feeling of spiritual energy doing structural work on physical architecture.

He had no qi of his own.

He had his hands.

And two hours.

And the specific, single-minded, burning focus of a man who had watched a stranger follow his wife into the dark and had been sitting in a sealed room for two hours with the image of it.

The interior latch mechanism was mortal construction. Standard cedar post-and-pin. He had built three of these himself, on the compound"s eastern wing, six years ago. He knew exactly where the pin was. He knew exactly what the pin was made of.

He had worked in silence.

His fingernails were bleeding by the first hour.

He did not stop.

The pin gave at the second hour and twenty minutes, with the specific, small, unpinning sound of a physical mechanism that had met a physical argument conducted over sufficient time with sufficient conviction.

The door opened.

The qi-seal had been on the frame. Not the pin. Sora, for all her cultivation, had sealed the door she expected him to exit through, not the mechanism she expected a mortal to find.

He stepped out.

The compound was quiet.

Not sleeping-quiet — the middle-dark-before-dawn quiet of a settlement that had its night rhythms and was in them. Patrol women at their posts. Low fires. The cedar structures throwing their shadows in the specific, flat dark of a sky two hours before the first light.

He ran.

Not the sprint — the gasping, forward-lean, everything-committed run of a man who had been sitting still for two hours with a burning thing inside his chest and was now moving with the full, unmanaged output of someone for whom moving was the only available response to the burning.

His legs were not a cultivator"s legs.

They felt it.

The grass, the paths, the compound"s geometry — all of it passing under him with the specific, mortal, un-enhanced pace of a man running on what he had, which was forty-three years of being human and six years of watching his wife advance past him on every measurable axis, and whatever this specific, burning, particular thing in his chest was that was not going to let him stop.

He was thinking.

He was thinking in the fragmented, forward-moving way of a man in motion under duress. She went toward the pond. He said terrain assessment. The pond is west. She has not come back. The cultivation event light—

He had seen it.

Not in the compound. From above the compound — the specific, gold-amber light that breakthrough events threw upward, visible from a distance, visible from the compound"s upper structures, the light that cultivation territory residents learned to recognize the way other people learned to recognize lightning.

He had seen it from the window of the sealed room.

Two times.

Two separate breakthrough events.

And he knew that whenever that visitor or immortal came inside a woman, they broke through.

’Did she break through twice in a single night?’