Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World

Chapter 314: Chapter 314- Taking the Cum Dump

’Phack. Phack. PHACK.’

"AAAAHNGHH~!! MASTER — CANG — I’M — AGAIN — MY SKIN — EVERY INCH — HAAIIYAANGHH~!!"

Yan Shu’s body arched off the cave floor like a drawn bow.

Her tits — heavy, flushed, nipples swollen to dark peaks — slammed upward toward her collarbones as her back curved, the Fairy Skin Art converting her full-body orgasm into a sensory event so complete that her spiritual sense briefly registered the entire surface of her skin as a single, continuous erogenous zone. Her pussy clamped around Cang’s twelve inches in crushing, rhythmic waves, her cervix spasming against his cockhead, her thighs shaking in the small, rapid pulses of muscles that had exceeded their operational capacity.

’Pah. Pah. PAAAHH.’

"HIEEKK~!! AAAAHNGHHT~!! MASTER — I CAN FEEL — YOUR COCK — PULSING — IT’S — SOMETHING IS — HOT — INSIDE — HAAAANGHHT~!!"

He came.

Not with announcement. Not with performance. His hips drove deep — once, twice — and held, and the thick, hot rush of his cum flooded her womb in long, pulsing waves that the Fairy Skin Art reported to her in real-time with the same excruciating resolution as everything else. She felt every pulse. Every strand. The heat of it spreading through her cervix, filling the space, bloating the walls of her pussy outward around his girth.

"’Mnghh~... haangh~... h-he’s... cumming inside... I can feel it... every... pulse...’"

Her voice had gone somewhere past words — just breath and sound, the vocalization of a body processing more data than its architecture was designed for. Her tongue pressed past her lower lip. Her pale eyes, aimed at the cave ceiling, saw nothing and registered everything. Milk — not nursing milk, just the residual response of a body pushed past every threshold it had — beaded at both nipples and ran in thin streams down the sides of her tits.

He pulled out.

The withdrawal was slow, deliberate, and the Fairy Skin Art made sure Yan Shu felt every inch of the removal — the walls of her pussy dragging after him, reluctant, the suction of his girth against her swollen inner tissues producing a thick, wet sound that echoed off the cave walls. His cock emerged glistening, still half-hard, trailing a thin string of cum that stretched and broke.

She lay where she was.

Her pussy gaped. The lips, parted and swollen, leaked his cum in a slow, thick pour that pooled beneath her ass on the stone floor. Her thighs trembled in independent, arrhythmic pulses. Her chest heaved.

"’Haangh~... mnghh~...’" Just breathing. Just the sound of a woman who had been comprehensively disassembled.

Cang stood.

His cock hung heavy between his thighs, still thick, still flushed, cum and her arousal glistening along the shaft. He hadn’t softened. He never fully softened around women he hadn’t finished with yet.

He turned.

Hua lay where he’d placed her — on her back, beside Yan Shu, her paralyzed body exactly as it had been since the needle. Her eyes were open. Fully aware. She had watched the entire thing.

Her face was a wreck of confusion and terror.

’What just happened.’ Her mind was running the footage back in fragments that didn’t connect. ’He was... inside her... she was screaming... she called him Master... she came... she came while I watched and I couldn’t close my eyes and I couldn’t look away and—’

He was looking at her.

Not at her face. Not at her eyes. At her chest.

Hua’s robes had been torn by the three dead men — the outer layer gone, the inner white silk pulled open to expose her small, firm breasts. They were bare to the cave’s warm air. Her nipples — pink, small, tight from the cold and the terror — were hard.

Cang knelt beside her.

His hand found her blouse — what remained of it — and pulled. The fabric tore with a clean sound, the last of the white silk parting, exposing her torso fully. Her stomach was flat and lean, the muscle visible beneath skin that was flushed with the particular warmth of a body running on adrenaline and fear.

He pressed his palm over her left breast.

’Mash.’

His hand was enormous. It covered her entirely — the small mound of flesh disappearing under his grip, his fingers sinking into the soft tissue, his palm grinding against her nipple. The pressure was not gentle. Not cruel. Just ’thorough’ — the mashing, possessive grip of a man handling something he has decided belongs to him.

’What is he doing.’ Hua’s mind raced, her body frozen. ’He’s... touching me... his hand is... so big... my whole breast fits in his palm... it’s warm... his hand is so warm...’

He brought his cock to her chest.

The shaft — still slick, still carrying the evidence of Yan Shu — pressed against her sternum. His cockhead, flushed dark, rested against her chin. The heat of it radiated against her jaw. She could smell it — musk and salt and cum and another woman’s arousal, the combined scent of what he’d just done arriving at her nose with complete, unavoidable clarity.

’It’s... on my chin... his cock is... resting on my chin... it’s so thick... how can something be this big... it’s warm... it’s pulsing... I can feel the heartbeat in it through my jaw...’

"Pink," Cang said, looking down at her breast in his hand. His thumb pressed her nipple, rolling it. "Good."

’Good? What does he mean good? My breasts are... he’s evaluating them... like... like produce at a market...’

His cockhead lifted from her chin.

He moved it downward, trailing the fat, wet head along her throat, along her collarbone, across the upper curve of her right breast. The precum beading at the tip left a thin, glistening trail on her skin — warm, viscous, marking a path that her paralyzed body could feel with the heightened sensitivity of a woman whose every nerve was firing at full capacity because her brain had nothing else to process.

’It’s... leaving a trail... on my skin... I can feel it... warm and wet... like a finger drawing on me... but it’s not a finger... it’s his cock... he’s drawing on my body with his cock...’

"You need to open your mouth," he said.

Hua’s jaw didn’t respond.

He reached down with his free hand. His thumb and forefinger found her jaw — the same jaw that the poison had locked — and pressed at the joint with a precise, surgical application of qi that she felt as a warm pulse traveling through the muscle.

Her jaw loosened.

Not fully. Just enough.

’No — what is he — my mouth — I can’t close it — he opened my—’

His cockhead pressed against her lips.

The taste arrived first. Before the heat, before the pressure — ’taste.’ Salt and musk and the bitter-sweet trace of cum that was not hers, the flavor of another woman’s pussy coating the surface of his cock, and her tongue — behind her teeth, unable to retreat — received it with the full, helpless honesty of a sense that doesn’t know how to lie.

’It tastes like... like... iron and salt and something sweet... that’s... that’s her... that’s the blind woman on him... I can taste her... on his cock... oh gods... oh gods no...’

He pushed in.

Not deep. Just the head — past her lips, past her teeth, resting on her tongue. The girth of it stretched her jaw open further, the shaft too thick for her to close around even if she’d had control of the muscles.

Her tongue, pressed flat under the weight of him, reported the texture — the smooth, taut skin, the faint ridge of the frenulum, the pulse of blood running through the surface veins.

’Mnghh...’