Dual Cultivation: Gathering SSS-Rank Wives in the Cultivation World Chapter 499- Yuna

His voice was so ’even’.

Like a man asking whether she wanted tea.

His hands kept their slow, unrelenting weight.

"’Yes — yes — yes, I accept, I accept—’"

PAAH!!!

"’AANGHH—!! HHIIEEKK~!!’"

Her body slamd down onto him — or he pulled her down, she couldn’t tell, the distinction had dissolved — and her anal walls parted around his cock the way sothing tears rather than stretches, a sudden, breathtaking give that pushed the air from her lungs in a single broken shriek.

Her head dropped back.

Her tongue ca out.

Her eyes — wide, shocked, brimming — pointed at the stars.

Her breasts swung forward with the impact and smacked his chest, the nipples dragging against him as she convulsed around the intrusion, her body trying and failing to reject sothing too thick, too deep, too ’there’.

’What—what is that—it’s splitting—it’s—’

She couldn’t form a complete thought.

Her internal world had reduced to texture and pressure and the burning stretch of sothing far too large being welcod sowhere far too small.

He leaned down.

Found her breast with his mouth.

And sucked — hard, drawing her nipple between his teeth, pulling the whole soft weight of her upward as his hands kept her hips pinned against him — milk flooding his tongue as she wailed and shook.

"Th—en let’s go."

The portal opened without sound.

One mont: the festival, the grass, the moonlight, the puddle of their making.

The next: a corridor of warm amber light, wide as a hall, the air scented with incense and sothing else — sothing floral and female and specific to bodies kept well and kept ’busy’.

She didn’t notice.

She was still impaled.

Her legs had locked around his waist instinctively, her arms white-knuckled around his neck, her whole weight held only by his hands on her hips and his cock through her — and with every step he took, gravity shifted her body, bouncing her in slow, agonizing incrents.

Down.

Then up.

Then down again.

"’Hngh~! Mnh — nnh — nnh—’"

Not quite moans. Not quite sobs. Sothing between — a continuous, involuntary leak of sound from a woman whose body had stopped asking her permission for anything.

Each step through the corridor.

Each micro-movent.

’Down. Up. Down.’

She beca aware of the won slowly.

First the warmth — too many bodies radiating heat from either side.

Then the sound — dozens of soft intakes of breath, the rustle of very little clothing, the swishing of a tail she could hear but not explain.

Then, when she finally turned her tear-streaked face sideways—

’Oh.’

’Oh no.’

They lined the corridor.

Tall won — all of them tall, built like weapons, curved like architecture — in skirts so short the hem ended where the thigh began.

Two catkin won nearest her, their tails swaying slow, ears flattened in what she would later learn was deep reverence, their bodies wrapped in silk that gaped at the chest to show the soft inner curve of their breasts, and below — she looked away, looked back, couldn’t help it — their lower halves barely covered, the dark fur at their pussies visible where the cloth failed.

They bowed.

All of them.

As one.

The motion rippled down the corridor like wind across tall grass — heads dropping, bodies folding forward, arms extended in offering, the catkins’ tails dropping low in submission.

Tianlong walked through them without breaking stride.

And with every step, the woman on his cock bounced.

’Down. Hngh~. Up. Mnh—. Down. Nnh—.’

The tribal woman three paces ahead heard her moans and turned to look — a tall, brown-skinned warrior with biceps that could crush river stones, her top barely a strip of hide across her chest, her eyes going imdiately to the woman impaled and shaking on the immortal’s cock.

She did not look sympathetic.

She looked ’envious’.

Through the garden doors at the corridor’s end, the palace opened into sky.

Not inside anymore — an interior garden, enormous, walls of pale stone holding a space where actual trees grew from cultivated beds, paper lanterns hanging from branches in amber rows, a stone pathway leading to a raised platform where—

’That’ bed.

King-sized barely described it. It was a territory. A landscape. Wide enough to sleep ten, with silken sheets pulled back to reveal layers of cushion and cover in deep red and ivory, pushed to the center of the garden floor by the three who had apparently won.

Two catkin won, their tails curled high in pride, their silk barely a suggestion of modesty.

One tribal warrior woman, her hide skirt riding up as she bent to adjust the final corner of the sheet, her broad ass catching the lantern light.

All three turned when Tianlong entered.

All three dropped.

Full kowtow. Foreheads to stone.

"Master." The tribal woman’s voice was rough with want. "We won. We — the tournant—" A breath. "Please."

One of the catkin let out a sound that was mostly purr.

Tianlong looked at them.

Then he looked at the bed.

And he simply ’threw’ the woman he’d carried through the portal.

She hit the silk with a sound — a surprised ’oof’ followed imdiately by the deep, shaless ’bounce’ of heavy breasts against the sheets, her body still slick from the grass, still flushed from everything, her thighs falling open as she bounced twice and ca to rest on her back staring at lantern-lit branches above her.

The emptiness hit her like cold water.

’He’d pulled out when he threw her.’

Her body registered the absence the way a bell registers silence — loudly, insistently, the ring of nothing where there had been everything.

She pressed her thighs together.

Her hand moved to cover herself.

Her eyes — wide, still processing — swept the garden.

Won everywhere.

Not a few. Not a handful.

’Everywhere.’

So standing, so seated on stone benches nursing bandaged arms or split lips — the injured ones, the tournant losers, their faces still flushed with effort and sothing that wasn’t quite disappointnt because it hadn’t fully resolved yet.

All of them in variations of the sa barely-there dress — the ass visible, the chest visible, the intent of the garnt entirely clear.

All of them looking at ’her’.

"Wh—where—" She sat up. The silk shifted under her, cold against her bare skin. Her breasts swung with the motion and she grabbed them on instinct, one arm across both, eyes still skipping frantically around the garden. "Where am I?"

A catkin appeared at her side.

Soft-pawed, tail swaying low, amber eyes warm with sothing between kindness and hunger.

She reached for the woman’s wrist.

Her other hand landed on the woman’s ankle.

From the other side, the second catkin mirrored it.

The tribal woman’s hands arrived at her shoulders from behind.

’Warm. Strong.’

The woman froze.

Three sets of hands, gentle but absolute, arranging her back against the sheets, pushing her thighs open with quiet efficiency, one of the catkin leaning forward to close her lips around the woman’s nipple while the other pressed her palm flat to the inside of her thigh—

"P-please—" The tribal woman’s voice ca over her shoulder. "Master. Take this woman first. And afterward—"

"—have rcy," the catkin at her breast finished, pulling off with a wet sound, her expression as close to prayer as a catkin face could manage, "to enjoy our bodies too."

Tianlong stopped walking.

He was standing at the edge of the bed.

His cock, still thick, still glistening, twitched.

And began to harden again.

The three won holding the new arrival felt it in the air — the way the temperature changed when his attention shifted — and their grips loosened.

Released.

Like offerings placed and stepped away from.

He climbed onto the bed.

But not toward her.

"Yuna."