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

Chapter 319: Chapter 319- Fight and Pound

She freed her fist. Not by overpowering his grip — by going limp. Her entire body relaxed simultaneously. The sudden deadweight shifted her center of gravity downward, his hand on her hip lost its leveraged grip for one second, and she dropped — sliding off his cock, her feet hitting the floor, her legs buckling, her body rolling sideways.

She came up swinging.

Her qi blazed. Early Nascent Soul — full output, every meridian open, her cultivation base pouring through her channels in a raw, unfiltered torrent. Her fist connected with his jaw. Her foot followed — a spinning kick that carried her entire rotational momentum. Her palm strike came third — the same technique, the same discharge point, aimed this time at his throat.

Three hits. All landed. All three dispersed against his body like rain against a mountain.

He stood there.

His cock, wet with her arousal and his cum, hung between his thighs. Twelve inches, still erect, twitching slightly with his heartbeat.

She stood in her combat stance — feet apart, weight centered, hands raised, her naked body flushed and sweating, her tits heaving with each breath, her thighs trembling from the orgasm she’d just had and the combat she was now attempting. Her pussy, swollen and red, leaked cum down her inner legs. Her eyes — dark, wet, furious — blazed.

"Fight me," she said. "Like a cultivator. Not a — not a—"

"Rapist?" he said.

She flinched. The word landed. Not because it was inaccurate — because it was, and she was standing in a combat stance with cum running down her thighs and her nipples hard and her pussy still clenching around nothing and the word sat on her like a brand.

"I’ll kill you," she said. "I’ll—"

He moved.

Not fast. Not slow. At the pace he did everything — the pace that made it clearest who was doing it. His hand found her throat. Not squeezing. Just there. The weight of his grip closing around her neck with the same casual authority with which he did everything.

She grabbed his wrist. Both hands. Pulled. Her cultivation flared — her meridians burning with output — and the pull accomplished nothing.

He lifted her off the ground by her throat.

Her legs kicked. Her hands clawed at his grip. Her airway wasn’t blocked — he was precise about that — but her body reacted to the suspension with the full, panicked thrashing of a person whose feet have left the floor.

He walked her backward. Three steps. Four. Her back hit the opposite wall of the cave — the one without the boulder. He pinned her there. One hand on her throat. The other guiding his cock between her thighs.

"No — NOT — HAANGHH~!!"

Phack.

He entered her. Standing. Her back against the wall, her legs wrapped around his hips — not voluntarily, just because her body had run out of other options and the instinct to grip was the last available response.

Phack. Phack.

"LET — GO — OF — MY — HAANGHH~!! — THROAT — MNNGH~!!"

She punched him. Her free hand — the one not clawing at his wrist — drove qi-charged knuckles into his ribs. She felt the impact land. She felt the qi discharge. She felt his ribs not move.

Her hand came back sore.

Phack. PHACK.

"AAAAHNGHHT~!! — YOU — BASTARD — I — HATE — HIEEKK~!! — YOU — MY BODY — IS — HAANGHH~!!"

She came again.

The orgasm arrived mid-combat — her body convulsing around his cock while her hands were still in combat position, while her qi was still blazing, while her teeth were bared and her eyes were furious. The contradiction of a body orgasming while a mind is trying to kill was absolute and unresolved and she produced sounds that belonged to both simultaneously — the groan of combat effort and the moan of climax merging into a single, broken output.

"HAAANGHHT~!! — NO — I WASN’T — I WAS FIGHTING — WHY DID I — MNNGH~!!"

Phack. Phack. PHACK.

He drove through her orgasm. Her walls clenched around him in rhythmic, milking waves. Her pussy, swollen and overworked, gripped him with the desperate, involuntary suction of a body that had learned his shape and was now attempting to hold it.

She bit his shoulder.

Her teeth sank into the muscle above his collarbone. Not a love bite. A combat bite — the bite of a woman who had run out of techniques and was using the last weapon available to her jaw.

He didn’t react.

Her teeth left marks. She tasted blood — his, this time. Copper and salt. Her jaw ached from the pressure.

"YOU — HAANGHH~!! — DON’T — EVEN — FEEL — IT — DO — YOU — HIEEKK~!!"

"No," he said.

She screamed. Not from orgasm. Not from pain. From the sheer, annihilating frustration of a woman who was giving everything she had — cultivation, combat, teeth, nails, rage — and it was registering as nothing.

PHACK. PAAAHH.

Her body was giving up. Her cultivation flickered — the meridians straining, her qi reserves draining from the sustained output of continuous combat-while-being-fucked. Her legs tightened around his hips. Her hands dropped from his wrist. Her head fell back against the wall.

"Haah~... mngh~... I can’t... my qi is... it’s running out... why is it running out so fast..."

The sustained output of Early Nascent Soul cultivation while simultaneously experiencing continuous full-depth penetration was — she was discovering — not sustainable. Her meridians were draining. Her core was dimming. The qi that should have powered her combat techniques was being rerouted by her own body toward the more urgent task of processing the twelve inches currently rearranging her womb.

Phack. Phack.

"Mngh~... no... my cultivation... I’m... it’s all going to... HAANGHH~!!"

Her body arched. Another orgasm — smaller, weaker, the aftershock of a system that had already discharged its main load. Her pussy clenching around him in thin, tired waves.

She hung on him. Legs around his hips. Arms at her sides. Head back. Mouth open. Tears and sweat and cum and saliva covering every inch of her face. Her tits — full, heavy, the nipples raw — rose and fell with each ragged breath.

"I hate you," she whispered. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate—"

PHACK.

"HIEEKK~!!"

He came.

The rush of his cum — hot, thick, abundant — flooded her womb in long, pulsing waves that she felt in her stomach. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. The scream that came out was not a word and not a moan — it was the sound of a body receiving something at the exact moment its last defensive capacity failed.

"AAAAAHNGHHT~!!!!"

Her final orgasm hit simultaneously with his. Her pussy clamped around his cock in crushing, rhythmic contractions that milked every pulse of his cum, her walls working with the desperate, involuntary thoroughness of a body that had stopped distinguishing between pleasure and survival. Her back arched off the wall. Her legs locked around his hips. Her hands flew to his shoulders and gripped — nails drawing blood — and her entire body shook in one long, sustained, full-body convulsion.

"HAAIIYAANGHHT~!! — I’M — CUMMING — AGAIN — I CAN’T — IT WON’T — STOP — MASTER — CANG — I — HAAAAANGHHT~!!"

Her pussy squirted. Not urine this time — the thin, clear fluid of a Skene’s gland discharge under extreme pressure, spraying against his cock and running down both their thighs. Her tits heaved. Her nipples leaked. Her eyes rolled upward and stayed there, the whites showing, her tongue hanging past her lower lip.

The ahegao was complete. Absolute. The face of a woman whose body had won the war against her mind and was now celebrating.

She slumped.

Her legs released his hips. Her arms fell. Her head dropped forward against his chest. She hung there — impaled on his cock, held upright only by his hand on her throat and the shaft inside her — and breathed in small, broken gasps.

"Mngh~... haah~... haangh~..."