Dual Cultivation: Gathering SSS-Rank Wives in the Cultivation World Chapter 497 - She Deserves to Be a Woman

Her legs stopped working.

Tianlong caught her.

Both arms around her, he lowered them both — smooth, controlled — until she was on the ground on her side, the cool grass pressing against her sweat-soaked cheek, the distant festival lanterns painting everything amber and gold through the dark trees.

He curved behind her.

Spooning.

One thick thigh pushed between hers from behind, and his cock — still hard, still rcilessly unsatisfied — found her entrance from this new angle and slid ho.

She gasped at the ceiling of leaves.

’Different angle. Deeper sohow. How is it deeper—’

PAH PAH PAH PAH!

"Hnggh~! Mnh—! ’Oungh~!!’"

Her body rocked forward with every thrust, her loose breast dragging against the damp grass, her hair a dark tangle fanned around her head.

She brought both hands up to cover her face.

Not from Tianlong.

From the silhouette she could still see through the gap in her fingers.

Her husband, robe retied now, standing with his arms folded, watching with the sa idle expression he brought to watching other n’s horses race at the market.

Already depleted.

Already a spectator at his own wife’s undoing.

Tianlong reached around her, his wide palm finding her breast, squeezing with a grip that said ’mine’, his fingers rolling her nipple until a thin stream of milk drew a white line on the grass and she made a sound that had no word attached to it.

"Imagine," he said against the back of her neck, his voice barely above the festival drums, "he thinks he’s watching another man’s wife."

She shook her head again.

"Don’t—"

"He’s spent himself looking at you and doesn’t even know it."

PAH! PAH!

"HIEKK~!! S—stop saying—Oungh~!!"

"He got more pleasure from watching a stranger get fucked than from four years in your bed."

Her hands dropped from her face.

She stared at the ground.

At the small puddle spreading beneath them — her own release, his previous seed half-pushed out and mixing with it, catching the moonlight that filtered through the branches above in a thin silver sheen.

And in that moonlit slick on the ground, perfectly, cruelly — the reflection of the lantern hanging from the distant tree, and the blurred shape of her husband’s silhouette.

Watching.

Still watching.

As if this woman on the ground wasn’t his responsibility, wasn’t his wife, wasn’t the person who’d ward his bed and cooked his als and smiled at his family and wanted, just once, to be touched like she mattered.

Tianlong ground into her deep and held there, pressing his cock’s head flush against her cervix, applying slow, circling pressure that made her thighs lock and her toes point.

"You deserve this," he said.

Not cruel. Sothing else entirely.

’Matter of fact.’

"Not as punishnt. Not as sha." His hand spread flat on her belly where she was softest, where the slight roundness of a woman who’d carried life sat. "Because you are a woman. And a woman deserves to be filled until she can’t think."

She trembled so hard her teeth clicked together.

’I am a woman.’

The thought arrived like sunlight through a shutter cracked open for the first ti in years.

’I am a woman and I have been’—

PAH PAH PAAAH!!!

"AANGHH~!! AHH—!! M—mmph—HNGH~!!"

He stopped holding back.

His thrusts ca harder, the ground rocking her with every impact, her top bunched useless around her armpits, her skirt nonexistent, bare and grass-stained and glistening under open sky while the festival celebrated twenty paces away in total ignorance.

She covered her face — not for sha this ti.

Because she was ’crying’.

Actual tears, streaming hot from the corners of her eyes into her hair, and between the sobs her mouth kept making sounds she’d never made in four years of marriage.

PAH PAH PAH PAH!

"Oungh~!! Nnh~!! Ahh — ’ah’ — ’AAANGHH~!!’"

Her whole body seized.

The orgasm hit like a wave breaks — not crashing but ’collapsing’, everything at once, her back arching until only her heels and her shoulders touched the ground, her pussy clamping Tianlong’s cock in a rhythmic, desperate squeeze that she felt from her navel down to the backs of her knees.

Milk sprayed from both nipples in two thin arcs.

Her voice split into a sound that had no performance in it at all — just a woman, coming apart.

Through the gap in her fingers, her streaming eyes found her husband one last ti.

He’d turned away.

He was walking back toward the festival lights, hands in his sleeves, utterly done, utterly oblivious — never knowing he’d spent himself watching his own wife beco soone else’s entirely.

Sothing settled in her chest.

Quiet.

Final.

Like a door closing gently rather than slamming.

Tianlong pressed his lips to her shoulder blade.

Then her spine.

Then the side of her neck.

His hips never stopped — slower now, grinding, deep rolling strokes that weren’t about his pleasure anymore, just about being inside her, keeping her full, not letting the warmth go.

She felt him swell.

Thicker. Harder at the base.

"I’m going to—" she started.

"I know," he said.

PAH. PAH.

"Nhh—Tianlong—"

His na.

First ti she’d said it like that.

Not ’sir’. Not a protest. Just his na, falling out of her like she’d been holding it.

He drove in once — full depth, no hesitation, the blunt head of him punching through the soft resistance of her cervix—

’PAAH!!’

"AANGHH—!!"

She scread into her own arm.

And he ca.

Not like her husband.

Not quick. Not over.

He ca in long, hot pulses — she felt every single one, felt the pressure of each surge as he delivered it directly into her womb, felt herself filling in a way that made her lower belly feel weighted and warm and completely, irrevocably claid.

Her own orgasm crested again on top of his release, her walls rippling around his still-pumping cock, milking every last drop out of him while her own body shook and squirted one final ti, her slick joining his seed on the grass below.

Silence.

The festival drums kept going.

Soone in the distance laughed.

She lay there, chest heaving, face turned up to the black sky and the moon watching everything with that sa calm, full-faced expression it always had.

Judging nothing.

Illuminating everything.

She was covered in grass and bark dust and her own milk and his seed slowly warming her womb from the inside.

Her skirt was gone.

Her dignity, she supposed, was sowhere around here too.

She couldn’t find it and found, to her own distant surprise, that she wasn’t looking very hard.

Tianlong shifted.

Turned her — easy, like she weighed nothing — until she was facing him.

She didn’t cover herself this ti.

She let him look at her: the tear-streaked face, the raw lips, the breast marked with his handprint still fading from pink to ivory, the belly soft against his, the eyes that were done pretending.

He bit her shoulder.

Not hard. But enough.

Enough to leave a mark that would still be there tomorrow morning when she made breakfast.

"Let first make you a woman."

She stared at him.

"I already am," she said.

He smiled then — real, not mocking, not the smirk of a man who’d won sothing.

Sothing else.

Like recognition.

He leaned close, his breath warm against her swollen lips, and said — ’quietly, like it was only for her:’

"You really have a very nice pussy for a mortal."

She should have laughed.

She cried instead — a single, tired, relieved sound — and said, voice barely sound:

"No one ever said that."

"I will say it every ti I fuck you."

’Every ti.’

Her eyes found his.

She saw no lie there. No cruelty. Just a cultivator who looked at a mortal woman against a tree at a festival and saw sothing worth returning to.

She turned toward him.

His mouth found hers.

Slow. Her lips were swollen and tasted of salt and her own bitten-down sounds, and his tongue was unhurried, thorough — the sa way he’d been thorough with everything else — and her hand, without quite deciding to, rose and pressed flat against his jaw.

Holding him there.

PAH. PAH.

He was still moving inside her.

Slow.

Still coming.

His seed being pushed and pulled by his lazy, final thrusts, the obscene slick ’squelch’ of it filling the small space between them, her womb impossibly full, still accepting him, still clenching softly around every retreat.

She kissed him back.

With her eyes open.

And through the trees, the last lantern-glow of her husband’s retreating back disappeared into the festival crowd.

Gone.

Never knowing.

Her eyes closed.

The kiss deepened.

The moon watched.

And the only thought left in the woman — the ’mother’, the ’wife’, the ’mortal’, the ’slut’, the ’woman’ — was sothing she hadn’t thought in so long she’d forgotten the shape of it:

’Yes.’

’This.’

’I also deserve to be a woman.’