Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 196- Evil Points Farming
The geometry changed.
Cang lifted her off him — the flat, single-motion dismount, her legs still wrapped, his arms holding, the pond water streaming off both of them as he stepped toward the bank — and she made the specific, involuntary, air-hissing sound of something being removed that her body had filed as a loss.
"—Aaah~—no—AHN~—don"t—"
He placed her on the bank.
Not gently — efficiently. The flat, specific, forward placement of both her palms on the grass, the weight on her hands, the geometry of forward-leaning and braced, Cang"s position behind her establishing the specific, comprehensive architecture of what was happening next.
She looked at the water.
She was looking at her reflection.
The mortal man, from twelve meters, could see her reflection looking back at her — the face of a woman who was in a state that her reflection was faithfully, honestly reporting.
Her mouth was open.
She was not closing it.
PAAH.
"—AAAHN~!!!—"
He had entered her from behind with the flat, complete, full-depth entry of someone who had decided on the architecture and was communicating it directly, and his wife"s arms went tight on the grass and her back curved and her head came up and the sound she made was the largest sound she had made yet.
"—Senior— HAANN~!!!—so deep—AHN~!!!—it keeps going—it keeps—AAAHN~!!!—"
PAAH PAAH PAAH.
The rhythm.
The flat, physician’s rhythm — the specific, measured, authoritative, uninterrupted pace of someone who had been doing this for hours and had not reduced in pace or depth for any of it.
The mortal man watched his wife’s body.
From behind, in this position, with Cang above her and the cultivation light beginning to build again at her skin and the water streaming off both of them and the pond luminescence throwing everything in perfect, unambiguous detail—
He saw things he had not been prepared to see.
The specific, visible, external evidence of what was happening. The stretch — the undeniable, present, clearly-visible stretch of his wife’s body at the point of entry — visible, unmistakable, the honest physiological announcement of a size differential he was experiencing indirectly and she was experiencing directly and he had just heard her describe in terms he would not be able to un-hear.
His body made a sound.
Not his voice. The specific, involuntary, mortal biological response of a forty-three-year-old man whose nervous system had been running at maximum for three hours and was now receiving input it had no framework for.
He felt it.
He felt himself responding.
To this. To the sounds and the light and the image and the specific, humiliating, awful, involuntary fact that the male nervous system did not check source before responding to type.
He felt sick and wrong and burning and he could not close his eyes and he could not move and his body was doing what it was doing and he hated all of it with the full, specific, burning, particular hatred of a man who was discovering the distance between who he thought he was and what he was.
PAAH PAAH PAAH PAAAH!
"—AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!! AHN~!!! AAAHNN~!!!—"
"—Senior—AAAHN~!!!—do you know—HAANN~!!!—my husband has never—AHN~!!!—not once in eleven years—AAAHNN~!!!—not like this—KYAAANGHHH~!!!—"
He grabbed the bark tighter.
The bark was coming apart under his hands. He felt it. The specific, small, mortal evidence of his own grip as the outer bark of the tree gave incrementally under sustained pressure — the only physical outlet available to him, which he was using completely.
"—He was so gentle—AHN~!!!—always so careful—HAANN~!!!—I thought that was how it was supposed to—AAAHN~!!!—but it is not—AHN~!!!—it was never—AAAHNN~!!!—this is what it—KYAAANGHHH~!!!—"
He was crying.
He had not registered when this started.
The tears were on his face and he could not wipe them because his hands were on the bark, and he tasted copper beneath the salt, and somewhere in the middle of watching his wife’s body jiggling forward and back with each impact — the full, heavy, real, pendular arc of her chest swinging with each PAAH and her thighs spread on the bank and her voice at full, honest, completely unmanaged output — somewhere in the middle of that he had begun to cry and had not noticed.
"Does your husband," Cang said.
PAAH.
"—HAANN~!!!—"
"Ever make you feel like this."
She looked at the water.
At her reflection.
At the face of a woman having an honest conversation with herself while something honest was happening to her.
"No," she said.
No.
"Never," she said.
CLAP CLAP CLAP.
"—AAAHN~!!! HAANN~!!!—"
He watched his wife’s body — the thick, full, heavy descent of each motion, the forward-swing of her chest catching the luminescence, the arc of everything she had rising and falling with a rhythm that was not his — and the wrong response and the right grief and both of them simultaneously, running without coordination, both at full intensity.
Cang’s hands moved.
Both of them — the flat, warm, comprehensive grip of both palms coming forward to find her from the front, one hand pulling at the dark, wet, natural hair of her lower region with the specific, possessive pull of someone who had claimed territory, and the other finding her chest, and both of them doing their separate work while the pace continued.
She made a sound that was not a word and contained more information than most words.
"—AAAHNN~!!!—pull it—AHN~!!!—pull—HAANN~!!!—harder—AAAHN~!!!—"
The mortal man heard his wife ask for harder.
He heard the specific word.
He had never — in eleven years of knowing that voice in every register — he had never heard her ask for harder.
PAAAH!
"—AAAHNNNN~~~~~!!!—"
The breakthrough light again.
The second one. The full, bright, comprehensive, sky-reaching light of a cultivation base crossing another boundary — Core Formation Late, the meridians reorganizing for the second time tonight, the specific, permanent, irreversible advancement of a woman whose cultivation path was being revised at speed.
The light went up.
It lit the underside of the leaves above him.
It lit the dark sky above the leaves.
His wife’s body, in that light, was the most clearly visible it had been all night — the warm, gold-white of breakthrough illuminating everything, the specific, honest, unambiguous image of a woman mid-advancement in the arms of a man who was not her husband.
The mortal watched the light.
He had always been proud of the light.
The blood arrived at his upper lip.
"You are going to bear my child."
Cang said it the way he said everything — the flat, assessor’s register, the unhurried, completely unperformed tone of someone conveying information they had already confirmed.
The mortal’s hands went white on the bark.
He watched his wife.
The amber eyes. The grass. The breathing.
"Yes," she said.
One word.
The specific, small, honest, completely un-Chief word.
"I will."
I will.
The two words arrived in the mortal man’s chest and remained there with the specific, permanent, irreversible quality of things that cannot be un-heard.
He felt the blood.
The warmth of it on his upper lip. The copper on his tongue. The specific, physiological, pressure-related event of a body that had been at maximum for too long finding the mechanism that released pressure.
[Evil Points: +89]
[Evil Points: +103]
