Chapter Eight

The moment the door closed behind him, Lin Jingxuan's legs went weak, and he knelt down beside the bed. His hands gripped the wooden frame tightly, his knuckles turning white from the effort—the woman's slender, fair hands, with their pinkish pearly tips, could only leave a few faint scratches on the wooden frame despite her best efforts. The silk skirt cascaded around her ankles like a pool of melting peach blossom juice. The tips of her embroidered shoes trembled slightly against the ground, and the muscles in her calves twitched faintly beneath the skirt.

His panting was exceptionally clear in the quiet room. Each breath was that woman's voice—low, soft, hoarse, with a suppressed urgency, like the tremolo of a string stretched to its limit before snapping. He listened to his own panting escape from his throat, feeling the slight vibration of his two soft vocal cords with each exhale, the vibration traveling through his laryngeal cartilage and deep into his eardrums. He wanted to cover his mouth, but he no longer had the strength.

The bed in the inn was right in front of him, with coarse cloth sheets, a hard wooden board, and a buckwheat pillow placed neatly at the head of the bed. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the oiled paper window, casting blurry shadows on the sheets. Indistinct voices and the snorting of horses came from downstairs; someone in the next room was snoring; and occasional footsteps echoed in the corridor. Everything was normal, so normal that he felt he was the only abnormal thing in this normal world.

He knelt there, panting heavily, trying to regain his composure and reclaim complete control of his body. But the more he tried, the clearer the persistent sensation of penetration from his lower body became—the feeling of being pried open, filled, and continuously supported lingered, like a wedge driven into the core of his body, sliding slightly with each breath. He gritted his teeth, subconsciously directing his attention to his lower body. Just as this thought surfaced, the inner walls of her skin suddenly tightened slightly, not a large movement, but the kind of imperceptible contraction she made when she was happy. His genitals twitched involuntarily with this contraction, followed by an undeniable stimulation that spread from the base to the tip.

"Ugh—!"

His body shuddered violently, almost slipping off the edge of the bed. He was all too familiar with this stimulation—he had experienced it countless times in the past few days, each time being forcibly dragged into the abyss of pleasure by her, each time being forced to climax under her control. But this time was different. This time, he was in control of his body. How his body, his nerves, his brain would react was entirely up to him.

The thought, like a tiny crack, suddenly appeared on the layers of barriers deep within his consciousness. He began to realize—she had truly relinquished control. From the street until now, she hadn't interfered with any of his actions. He was walking on his own, breathing on his own, kneeling by the bed with trembling hands. And that persistent, tormenting sensation of penetration truly stemmed from the spontaneous reaction of his own nerves and muscles. If he chose not to do something now, she wouldn't force him.

The problem was—the persistent friction emanating from her lower body didn't disappear when she let go. His inner skin continued to meticulously reflect the friction from every muscle movement, and his genitals faithfully reported the sensation of being enveloped each time. Walking for a short distance, each step was an insertion; falling into the room and kneeling, his thighs opening and closing again, another insertion. This friction and tension, like a taut string, had accumulated to a point where he could no longer endure it.

Lin Jingxuan closed his eyes, his forehead pressed against the wooden board on the edge of the bed, his whole body curled up in a ball. He could feel a throbbing pain in his groin—a throbbing, aching pain from the continuous flow of blood that couldn't be released, mixed with the warm, moist sensation from the inside of her vagina, making every part of his body tremble. It wasn't that he hadn't masturbated before. As a young sword cultivator in his early twenties, he would occasionally take care of himself in the quiet room late at night during the monotonous training in the sect. But that time he used his own hands, his own body; it was normal, clean, and even carried a sense of relief and release. But now, the tool he used to solve his problem was a woman's body. One hand was a woman's hand, delicate and white, with pink fingertips and pearly nails; the other hand explored a soft, warm, moist place that only a woman possessed.

He tried pressing his thighs together, forcing himself to focus on the sword incantation. But each time he silently recited the incantation, his inner thighs would contract slightly with the movement of his breath, and his thoughts would involuntarily slip back to his genitals. He tried standing up and walking around the room, but with each step, the friction between his legs only tightened the tension. He even tried washing his face with cold water—the water in the copper basin was still a bit cool—but when he bent over, the pressure on his lower abdomen pressed against the most sensitive fold of the inner wall of his skin. The cold water on his face didn't calm him down; instead, it made him feel more clearly the tightness of the pink membrane beneath his cheek skin, and how hot that membrane extended deep into his lower abdomen, enveloping the soft flesh around his genitals.

He couldn't hold on any longer.

His hands trembled, his legs trembled, and even the soft flesh beneath his skin convulsed slightly. He was like a man who had walked for three days and three nights in the desert and finally saw water, knowing full well it might be a mirage, a poison to quench his thirst, a drug that amplified the weaknesses of human nature, yet he still couldn't help but crawl towards it. He closed his eyes, turned to his side, and slowly fell onto the bed. Under the coarse cloth sheet was a hard wooden board, and the buckwheat pillow softly supported the back of his head, which was styled in a beautiful bun. He lay on his side, his legs slightly drawn inward, gently pushing the hem of his skirt above his thighs. He could feel the silk lining of the peach-colored robe clinging to his hips and the back of his thighs, like soft water.

His right hand—the woman's right hand, which didn't belong to him but obeyed his every command—hesitated for a moment, then slowly slipped between her legs. The instant his fingertips touched that spot, a long, suppressed groan escaped his throat.

"Mmm—ah..."

The voice was soft and cloying, escaping from between her lips, carrying a helplessness he had never heard from himself before. His fingers touched an extremely soft, slightly raised patch of skin covered in a fine fluid. The temperature there was higher than the rest of his body, as if a tiny flame was quietly burning beneath the skin. He pressed down gently with his fingertips, and the inner walls of her skin reacted immediately—layers of soft flesh surged up from all sides, wrapping his genitals even tighter, while simultaneously relaying the sensation of his own fingers to him. Thus, he became two people again: his fingers were touching her vagina, and her vagina was wrapping his genitals.

These two sensations were like two mirrors reflecting each other, trapping him in an endless loop of stimulation. Every time his finger pressed the outer wall, the inner wall contracted; every contraction of the inner wall squeezed his genitals; every squeeze of his genitals made his finger press again—and each time triggered a new round of feedback. Once this cycle started, there was no way to stop it.

His fingers began to move. Through a thin layer of soft flesh, he pressed on an extremely sensitive protrusion—the spot where she had previously circled with her finger. The touch caused his hips to involuntarily thrust forward, and deep within his consciousness, he felt the walls of her vagina pressing against the tip of his penis. The dual sensations left his mind blank.

"Haa... Ah... Mmm—"

He buried his face in the pillow, the buckwheat husks rustling beneath the rough cloth cover. Intermittent groans continued to escape his throat, sounds no longer forced back by his earlier actions at the street corner. With his head buried, his groans became low and indistinct, yet still clearly audible in the quiet room, the airflow brushing against the fabric of the pillow and bouncing back into his ears. His legs unconsciously tightened around his hands, pressing his fingertips more firmly against the tip of that soft flesh. Each press felt as if his genitals were being forced into a warm, tight entrance, sending a dizzying, tingling sensation through him.

Just then, his waist suddenly moved on its own.

It wasn't his hands that moved, but his waist. The muscles around his pelvis contracted spasmodically, causing his entire lower body to thrust upwards gently. This thrust pushed his genitals, encased in human skin, deeper into her body, and also made his fingers press harder on her sensitive spots. He was struck by this sudden surge of pleasure, causing his body to arch violently, his lips to part from the pillow, and he let out a high-pitched groan.

Just then, the nine-tailed fox's tongue suddenly moved inside his mouth. It wasn't the previous proactive, aggressive entanglement, but an extremely subtle movement—the tip of her tongue gently swept across the base of his tongue, as light as a cat yawning, its tail tip inadvertently brushing against its owner's wrist. But this subtle movement, coupled with his earlier high-pitched groan, was as if she were telling him in the gentlest way, "I'm here too."

Lin Jingxuan froze, his fingers also stiffening in that spot, his entire movement interrupted by the gentle touch that swept across the back of his tongue. A surge of shame and anger welled up inside him, and he clenched his teeth.

"You...you let go...since things have come to this, why don't you continue to take control?" His voice was hoarse and angry, but because he was using a woman's voice, his anger sounded like a coquettish complaint.

The nine-tailed fox's voice echoed from the depths of her consciousness, carrying a genuine sense of confusion—or at least it sounded genuine: "Hasn't my husband always wanted his body back? I've given it to him now. My legs, my hands, my tongue, and my waist. I didn't stop him in the slightest, I didn't use a single trace of my demonic power. Why is he still not satisfied?"

"I don't want this body! I want my own body! Not yours—not this skin—it's my original one!"

“It was right here.” Her voice softened further, carrying a subtle tenderness. As she spoke, the inner walls of his human skin gently contracted, not by squeezing, but by softly and slowly enveloping him, as if confirming a complete form. “It’s just that I’m wrapped around it. You see, your hands can still move, your feet can still walk. Didn’t you just walk back from the street by yourself? Your body has always been fine; it’s yours. It’s just that you’re wearing an extra layer of clothing. And I can’t bear to take it off.”

Lin Jingxuan opened his mouth, but found that no sound came out. He didn't know how to refute her, because he knew she was telling the truth. His body was indeed still there, every inch of sensation was real, every movement was his own doing, and he couldn't say that she had taken away his body—she had simply wrapped it up.

This overwhelming sense of powerlessness was more devastating than any direct humiliation. He clenched his teeth in anger, no longer arguing with her, deciding to give up all restraint. He didn't care whether she was watching, feeling, or secretly laughing. His fingers resumed their movements, this time faster and more forcefully, pressing against the protrusion in rapid circles. His hips thrust in rhythm, repeatedly pushing himself into the warm, soft depths of her body.

He was panting heavily, and the sounds escaping his throat changed from suppressed groans to rapid, undisguised moans, his soft voice echoing slightly against the wooden walls of the inn. His legs rubbed against the bed, the sheets beneath him crumpled and revealing the rough edges of the wooden planks. His hair was disheveled from rubbing against the sheets, a strand of black hair falling from his forehead and spreading across the buckwheat pillow, its blackness contrasting against the gray-white coarse cloth like a piece of black silk torn by a storm.

The nine-tailed fox wasn't entirely silent either. Whenever his thrusts quickened and his breathing deepened, she would let out a long, satisfied sigh. Only occasionally, infrequently, precisely at the moments when he least wanted to be reminded that "she was there too." When she consciously projected that sigh deep into his eardrums, her voice was filled with languid contentment, a stark contrast to the more urgent groan escaping from his own throat. Hearing her sigh, he couldn't help but quicken the movement of his hand on her genitals, as if trying to drown out her sound with an even faster orgasm.

The atmosphere in the room grew increasingly sensual. The fluids secreted from his body had soaked through his skin, seeping from between his fingers, dampening the hem of his skirt at the base of his legs, leaving a small, dark watermark on the silk fabric. His hips moved faster and more forcefully, his entire body arching in a curve on the bed, his embroidered shoes still hanging on his toes, swaying slightly with his movements. His lips parted, emitting a series of low, indistinct breaths.

Then, the peak arrived.

His waist arched upwards to its limit, his entire body taut on the bed like a fully drawn bow, his spine curved in an arc, his head thrown back, his topknot completely undone, his long, dark hair cascading down the pillow in waves. He felt his genitals throbbing violently deep within his skin, gushing out wave after wave of semen. At the same time, the walls of his vagina were contracting fiercely, the progressive, inward spasms crashing against every nerve ending like a tidal wave. Male and female orgasms overlapped in the same instant, like two bolts of lightning of different colors striking his crown simultaneously.

"ah--!"

He heard his own voice—a high-pitched, melodious, drawn-out female moan, released unrestrained from his lips. There was a sense of utter surrender in that sound, completely different from the humiliation he had felt when forced to cry out before. This orgasm was his own. His fingers moved on their own, his hips thrust on their own, his breathing regulated on its own. He hadn't been forced.

His body went limp on the bed, like a crumpled ball of silk, his limbs scattered across the disheveled sheets. His long hair covered the pillow, a damp strand clinging to the corner of his mouth, rising and falling gently with his rapid breathing. His legs remained in the same position, his skirt rolled up above his thighs, revealing his inner thighs glistening with bodily fluids. The neckline of his peach-colored dress was askew, revealing a glimpse of his fair shoulder and the faint pink blush below his collarbone. He lay there, panting heavily, his eyes fixed on the mottled wood grain of the ceiling, his mind blank. She could feel his consciousness trembling slightly—not from the cold, but from his inability to control himself. A mixture of bewilderment, shame, unease, and lingering pleasure mingled together, like a spilled bottle of mixed emotions.

"My lord, you were much faster this time than before," her voice whispered in his mind. "I didn't do anything; you came on your own. How does it feel?"

His consciousness trembled even more violently. He didn't speak, nor dared he recall the feeling. The only thing he knew was that he had indeed reached orgasm faster than before. Her lips and tongue didn't forcefully entwine him, her fingers didn't forcefully knead him; she had voluntarily released control. And he himself sank down even faster.

Just then, a burst of noisy voices and the clanging of metal outside the window broke his brief silence.

The sounds came from below his inn room. First came a woman's shout, then the clanging of metal against metal, followed by several crude laughs and the shattering of a clay pot. These sounds carried a rhythm that Lin Jingxuan was very familiar with—the sounds of sword strikes and counters, the reverberations of clashing magical weapons, and the cold laughter unique to those of the demonic path, which would emanate at every pause.

He buried his head in the pillow, trying to ignore it. He was utterly exhausted, every part of his body ached, and his consciousness was still lingering in the afterglow of his recent climax. He had no mind to care about anything else. But then the woman's shout rang out again, this time clearer—she was shouting, "My Qingyun Sword Sect is not to be trifled with!" Her voice carried a forced bravado, but her underlying strength trembled, and anyone could tell she was at her breaking point.

Lin Jingxuan was startled.

Qingyun Sword Sect. Su Wan'er—he had seen her on the street earlier. He sat up abruptly from the bed, the movement so forceful that his unbuttoned clothes slipped off his shoulders, but he didn't bother to straighten them. He staggered to the window, pushed open the window frame, and leaned out.

Downstairs was a secluded back alley, where four people stood. On one side were two people: one was Su Wan'er, whom he had just seen on the street. Now, her blue sword robe was stained with blood, her hair was disheveled, her left arm was clearly injured, and blood dripped from her fingers. Leaning against her back was an even weaker female cultivator, who appeared to be half-conscious. Several demonic cultivator corpses lay around them, presumably killed by Su Wan'er in the brief exchange just now. On the other side stood three demonic cultivators. Lin Jingxuan recognized the leader—this man was called Han Kui, an inner disciple of the Bone-Eating Hall, with an early Golden Core cultivation level, known for abducting and killing lone female cultivators of the righteous path. He had also been present during the battle that destroyed the Azure Sky Sword Sect, and Lin Jingxuan had personally witnessed him tear open the dantian of two senior sisters with a bone claw magic weapon.

Han Kui held a dripping bone claw in his hand, a mocking expression on his face like a hunter looking at a trapped beast. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to attack, but slowly adjusted his position, forcing Su Wan'er deeper into the dead end. His two Foundation Establishment stage subordinates also tightened the encirclement. The three of them cooperated very well, clearly not for the first time.

“Miss Su, why bother?” Han Kui slowly toyed with the bone claw in his hand, his voice carrying a hypocritical regret. “Come back to the Bone-Eating Hall with me, and maybe I can spare your life.”

"Don't even think about it!" Su Wan'er gritted her teeth and raised her sword, the tip of the sword trembling, but her posture remained firm.

Lin Jingxuan's heart clenched. Without thinking, he instinctively reached for the sword at his waist—but he grasped nothing. There was no sword at his waist, only a peach-colored silk belt tied in an elegant single-ring clasp. His fingers tugged at his side again and again, each time only grasping the soft silk, which slid away in his palm. The Ruyi Sword was gone; his sword pellet had been shattered by Yin Wujiu's palm strike when he fell into the Burial Sword Abyss. He was now unarmed, even the swordsman's body he had once been so proud of was gone.

He looked down at his hands—a pair of slender, fair hands with pale pink fingertips, gently supporting himself on the windowsill. These hands couldn't even grip a sword hilt properly; how could he possibly fight against a demonic cultivator at the Golden Core stage?

"How could this happen..." he murmured to himself, gazing out the window, the woman's voice drifting softly through the air. A sense of powerlessness he had never experienced before surged up from all directions.

"What's wrong, my love?" she asked softly in his mind, her tone unusually gentle, as if she were genuinely concerned for a troubled husband. "What happened outside?"

Lin Jingxuan gritted his teeth and quickly recounted the events to her. He tried to be concise, not wanting to reveal his anxiety and panic, but his speech was noticeably faster than usual, and his voice trembled. As he spoke, his gaze was fixed on the bloodstained tip of Su Wan'er's sword downstairs, his heart pounding faster and faster in his chest. Su Wan'er was an ally he had fought alongside during the joint training exercise between the two sects; if she died here too, he would never forgive himself for the rest of his life.

"Oh, Han Kui," the nine-tailed fox said casually, even letting out a small yawn in her mind. "I saw this person when I was confirming the list before. Oh dear, your little childhood sweetheart seems to be about to give up—did you see that the sword energy on the tip of her sword has dissipated? It will slip from her grasp in three breaths at most."

Lin Jingxuan saw it, of course. His chest felt like it was blocked by a ball of fire, burning and suffocating. "I want to save her. But I have no body, no cultivation, no sword..."

“Isn’t this simple?” The nine-tailed fox’s voice suddenly became cheerful, as if she had thought of a brilliant idea. “Husband, go down and drain him dry with this body—sacrificing yourself to save someone is worthwhile, right? There are no outsiders down there, so you can suck him dry in one go.”

"No." The two words were spat out through his teeth, cold and resolute. He had finally managed to pull himself out of that state, finally regained some control over himself, how could he possibly go back?

“Husband and wife should be in sync. But if you don’t go to save her, she will die. Are you sure it’s not too late to rush back to Qingyun Sword Sect to report this?” Her voice was still gentle, but every word pierced his most vulnerable nerve.

In the alley downstairs, Su Wan'er's sword was violently knocked away by the bone claw, hitting the wall and bouncing to the ground with a crisp metallic clang. Su Wan'er gritted her teeth, shielding her unconscious junior sister with her bare hands, her eyes filled with determination and resentment. Han Kui grinned maliciously, reaching out his hand with his five fingers spread, grabbing towards her neck.

Lin Jingxuan's blood rushed to his head. He saw the expression on Su Wan'er's face—a resolute determination to face death, exactly the same as the expression on his master's face when he shielded him before his death.

"Let her go!"

A sharp shout rang out from the back window on the second floor of the inn, shaking the window frame three times. It wasn't the nine-tailed fox spirit shouting for him; it was his own voice. Almost instinctively, he pushed open the window, his body reacting before his mind. He leaped from the windowsill, his peach-pink skirt unfurling in mid-air like a suddenly blooming peach blossom, his moon-white cloak fluttering in the wind. The vibration of his embroidered shoes on the bluestone slabs when he landed sent a jolt up his spine; his legs nearly gave way from the sudden shift in his weight, but he braced himself against the wall, managing to regain his balance.

Everyone in the alley turned to look. Han Kui's bone claws froze in mid-air as his gaze fell on the suddenly appearing peach-colored figure. A meaningful smile slowly curved his lips, first showing surprise, then turning into a sticky, nauseating admiration.

Standing before him were not any of the cultivators he recognized, but a young woman. She wore a peach-colored dress, her hair styled in an elegant updo, her features alluring and mature, her skin as white as snow—she looked like a pampered, wealthy woman raised in seclusion. But now she stood panting in the shadows of the back alley, moss clinging to her embroidered shoes, the hem of her cloak still swaying slightly from the impact of her fall. She looked somewhat disheveled, yet all the more pitiful.

Han Kui smiled. He sized up the beautiful woman before him, his gaze sliding from her face to her neckline, from her neckline to her waist, and then from her waist to the faint curve of her calves beneath her skirt. He stared with extreme audacity, his eyes practically glued to her. He had seen many women, but a beauty with this kind of aura was truly rare—she possessed the charm of a mature woman, yet her brows held a youthful, innocent nervousness, these two contrasting qualities combined to create a powerful and alluring contrast.

"Oh," he licked his lips, "whose lady is this? She's quite beautiful. Are you also from the Qingyun Sword Sect?"

Lin Jingxuan clenched his fists. These hands were so soft and delicate; even with the knuckles closed, they held no power. He hated his own body—hated the man's eyes, hated that he had no sword, and hated having to stand before his enemy in this manner. His peripheral vision swept over Su Wan'er, seeing her leaning against the wall, clutching her injured arm, her expression shifting from despair to bewilderment and confusion. She clearly didn't recognize him, but seeing the lady jump down from the second floor to stop Han Kui, a hint of gratitude and worry flickered in her eyes.

“I’m not some lady,” he gritted his teeth, trying to make his voice sound as strong as possible with that woman’s tone, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how he was supposed to act—he didn’t know how, he had no idea how a “woman” should handle this situation. He stood there blankly, neither speaking softly nor striking a seductive pose, looking like an iron sword stuck in a vase as a decoration, completely out of place.

But Han Kui was completely swayed by this. He saw the beautiful woman jump down with a fierce air, but after regaining her footing, she clenched her fists and couldn't speak. That bluffing stubbornness combined with her inherently delicate demeanor created a tension that intrigued him. He had seen too many cookie-cutter, vulgar women, and found this clumsy, blustering appearance rather charming.

"Not anyone's family?" He clicked his tongue. "That's even better. I'll do a good deed today and take all three of you in." He gestured to his two subordinates, "Take those two younger ones aside for now, don't kill them. As for this lady—I'll personally entertain her."

Two Foundation Establishment stage subordinates immediately responded, bypassing Lin Jingxuan to drag Su Wan'er and her junior sister, roughly pulling them up from the corner and unceremoniously binding their hands and feet.

Lin Jingxuan opened his lips, as if to say something, but Han Kui had already stood in front of him. The intense stench of blood and demonic energy assaulted his senses, making the hairs on his body stand on end. He instinctively took a step back, his back slamming against the alleyway wall, the cold blue bricks clinging to his shoulder blades through his clothes. Han Kui braced one hand against the wall beside Lin Jingxuan's ear, trapping him between the wall and his own chest, looking down at him with a viscous, playful gaze.

“Madam, you have quite the courage,” Han Kui said, looking down at her. He extended a finger and gently lifted her chin. The calloused skin on his fingertip made Lin Jingxuan’s stomach churn. “In all my years of cultivation, this is the first time I’ve encountered a widow who has offered herself up to me. But judging from your appearance, your husband must be gone, right? Don’t worry, I’m much more useful than your short-lived husband.”

As he spoke, his hand slid down the wall to his neck, his knuckles slowly lifting a strand of her hair and gently inhaling it. He could smell the extremely subtle, sweet fragrance, a blend of peach blossoms and animal fur.

Lin Jingxuan was trembling all over. He wanted to throw a punch, but his hand was held down by the nine-tailed fox demon—not completely suppressed, but enveloped in a gentle force that prevented him from throwing a punch or completely stiffening his muscles. He could only be forced to look up and meet Han Kui's gaze, staring at him with his alluring peach blossom eyes. However, when those eyes glared, they appeared even more shimmering and endearing.

“You’d better let me go,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse and low, coming from his own throat, “or else—”

"Otherwise what?" Han Kui lowered his head, his lips close to the edge of her ear, and whispered in a voice only the two of them could hear, "Otherwise you would shout? This is a back alley, with high walls on both sides. No one outside should have seen you when you jumped down. Go ahead and shout."

His fingers slowly moved down her neck to her collarbone, then down to the slightly open collar of her dress, gently hooking the edge and pulling it open a little. A faint red mark remained on her delicate, white collarbone—a mark Lin Jingxuan had unconsciously made during her orgasm on the bed. Han Kui's gaze fell on the red mark, his breathing noticeably heavier.

"Madam has quite a sense of humor," he chuckled.

Lin Jingxuan's chest heaved violently. Confined in the narrow space between Han Kui and the wall, his senses were completely overwhelmed by dual signals from inside and outside the human skin—one was the instinctive reaction of the female body's skin trembling slightly when enveloped by the man's aura, and the other was the stimulation of his own genitals, which were wrapped up, pressing even tighter against the inner wall of the human skin as his body temperature rose.

In a corner nearby, Su Wan'er was powerless to resist her bound state. She leaned against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with her bound junior sister, her lips pale from blood loss, but her eyes clearly reflected everything happening in the alley—the unfamiliar woman was being pressed against the wall by Han Kui, her collar pulled open, her whole body like a petal about to be crushed. A look of pity and guilt appeared on Su Wan'er's delicate face. She called out in a hoarse voice, "Han Kui! She's not a cultivator! Let her go! If you have a problem, come at me!"

Han Kui didn't even turn his head. His entire attention was now focused on the beautiful woman in front of him. The more she trembled, the more excited he became; the more she tried to push him away, the more he wanted to hold her down tightly. He waved to his two subordinates behind him, signaling them to drag Su Wan'er and the other woman to a slightly farther place so as not to disturb his enjoyment.

Su Wan'er was unwilling to leave. She struggled to rush over, but her injured arm was powerless. She was easily dragged to the corner of the alley by the two Foundation Establishment stage demonic cultivators. From the side, one could only vaguely see the pink hem of her dress being dragged on the ground.

Then, the door closed. Han Kui kicked open the dilapidated wooden door leading to the inn's kitchen and dragged Lin Jingxuan into a storage room filled with firewood and old furniture. The wooden door creaked shut behind them, cutting off Su Wan'er's voice. Dim light streamed in through a small vent above the wall, illuminating the dusty pile of firewood; the space was so cramped it was almost impossible to turn around.

Lin Jingxuan's back bumped against a pile of dry firewood, the rough bark pricking his back through his silk robe. Han Kui leaned down, pressing one hand against his waist while the other untied his outer robe.

His lips covered Lin Jingxuan's neck. Not a kiss, but a nibble. Rough stubble grazed the delicate skin above his collarbone, the human skin faithfully transmitting this nauseatingly itchy sensation to Lin Jingxuan, sending shivers down his spine. He clenched his teeth and turned his head away, but in that instant, he sensed a slight movement of the human skin tongue inside his mouth—the nine-tailed fox, in a way only he could perceive, uttered a silent word from the back of his throat.

"Tolerate."

Then her tongue retreated, relinquishing full control of her body to him. He didn't respond; his throat was red from Han Kui's stubble. Han Kui's hand slipped under her skirt from her waist, slowly sliding up her inner thigh. When his fingertips touched the spot where the wetness from her earlier masturbation still lingered, he paused for a moment, then let out a low, hoarse chuckle.

"Madam, you seem even more impatient than I expected. Did you already have your fun on the way here?"

Lin Jingxuan turned her face away, refusing to answer him. Her teeth were clenched tightly, every facial muscle resisting, but to onlookers, she simply appeared as a woman blushing and turning her head away after her secret had been exposed, her demeanor only fueling further speculation. Han Kui wasted no more time, loosening the sash around her waist and pressing his entire body against hers.

The moment he entered, Lin Jingxuan's nails dug deep into Han Kui's collar, a muffled groan escaping his throat, though forcibly suppressed. His genitals and her vagina simultaneously felt the forceful intrusion, two contrasting sensations like two branding irons pressing against his skin, exploding in his mind. He desperately tried to focus his attention on hatred—to kill him, this man was his enemy, he had to kill him—but his body's instincts were completely beyond his control. The spontaneous contractions of her vaginal walls as they were forcibly stretched open, and the sensation of being crushed by rough fingers, relentlessly assaulted his senses. As Han Kui's movements quickened, each thrust pushed his encased organs further inside, leaving them nowhere to escape.

He bit his lower lip hard, trying not to make a sound. But at that moment, the nine-tailed fox loosened its pressure on his vocal cords, preventing his groan from being completely stifled. A small, barely suppressed "ooh—" escaped from between his teeth, a short, abrupt version of the high-pitched groan he had made while masturbating earlier.

Hearing the sound, Han Kui became even more excited. He increased his strength and speed, pressing the beautiful woman's body against the pile of firewood and thrusting in and out violently. Each impact made the wall tremble. Lin Jingxuan's waist arched uncontrollably upward beneath him, her knees passively clamping his waist, her head being gently bumped against the firewood with each thrust, her hair falling loose, her black hair spreading across the ground.

“Husband, relax,” her voice suddenly rang in my mind, carrying a languid and satisfied sigh, “The harder you resist, the stronger the feeling becomes. You’re getting even harder, you little rascal—you were almost at your limit before he even came in, weren’t you?”

Tears finally welled up in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks and into his hair, mingling with the sweat lingering on his cheeks from his earlier masturbation. But at the same time, his waist defied his will, unconsciously beginning to slightly respond to Han Kui's rhythm. It wasn't being controlled, nor was it the nine-tailed fox pushing him—it was his own waist, automatically adjusting its angle under the drive of some instinct beyond reason in his brain, allowing the pleasure within him to be released more smoothly. His body was like a violin she had repeatedly tuned, the strings already adjusted to the perfect tension, ready to play its own melody with any external force, requiring no further playing from her.

"Wan'er...don't look..." he murmured simultaneously with his consciousness and the last breath he had left, not knowing which part could be heard and which part was just in vain.

Deep within his consciousness, the nine-tailed fox lazily channeled its senses onto his sensory channels, like someone lying on the grass under a tree watching the clouds drift by. He wasn't forced; he was simply defeated by his own uncontrollable physiological reactions. And Han Kui was penetrating deeper and deeper.

Outside the storeroom, Su Wan'er was tied to a pillar at the alley entrance, trembling all over. She could faintly hear the muffled thuds of bodies hitting a pile of firewood behind the old wooden door. She couldn't see what was happening inside, only the hem of a peach-colored dress swaying gently on the ground beneath the crack in the door.