Chapter Eight: The Newlyweds

Night had fallen completely. Even the last vestiges of twilight had been swallowed by the bamboo forest atop Qingya Peak, leaving only the flickering candlelight in the bedroom, casting a warm glow on the small patch of space before the bronze mirror. Occasionally, the mountain breeze outside the window would rustle through the gaps in the bamboo, like someone whispering secrets in the darkness. In the distance, the faint calls of night birds echoed, their drawn-out notes lingering in the valley before fading away, and all was silent once more.

Lu Qinghan stood before the bronze mirror, her crimson wedding dress shimmering in the candlelight. The gossamer-thin outer garment swayed gently with her soft breaths, the gold-embroidered mimosa flowers flickering in the candlelight, like silent fireworks lighting up this special night. The inner garment beneath the outer garment was slightly disheveled from their earlier commotion, the collar slightly open, revealing a small patch of fair skin below her collarbone, still bearing the faint blush of their recent lovemaking, like the first snow touched by the sunset.

The lingering warmth of the nuptial wine still coursed through her body, a warm sensation spreading from her stomach upwards to her cheeks and downwards to her limbs. A warm, tingling sensation flowed through her meridians, causing ripples to spread across the cool undertones of the Ice Heart Jade Technique—not overwhelmed, but gently and soothingly enveloped, like warm honey being poured into a bowl of ice water. Two distinctly different temperatures mingled, swirled, and permeated each other within her body.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The face was still hers, yet not entirely. The small mole at the end of her eyebrow was still in its original place, the curve of her nose was as always, but the look in her eyes had changed. Those eyes, usually so clear and cold, now reflected the flickering candlelight and a gleam she had never seen on her own face before—not the shyness of a young girl in love, nor the trepidation of a newlywed, but a triumphant, almost eager, joy. She had plenty of time to play tonight.

The night of reunion is still long.

"Shen Du," she said in her heart, her tone light as a nightingale tentatively singing the first note of the night, "were you satisfied with the nuptial ceremony just now?"

Shen Du stiffened slightly inside her. He had just released, still basking in the afterglow of satisfaction and exhaustion, languid yet sensitive sensation, as if he were soaking in a pool of warm water, his muscles all relaxed. But the moment his master uttered that question, a certain instinct within him immediately snapped back to attention. He knew his master too well—when his master spoke in this tone, it usually meant that what she was about to do was something he could never predict.

“…Satisfied.” He tried to make his voice sound calm, but the slight tremor at the end of the word betrayed him. “Master, you don’t need to ask this every time…this matter doesn’t need to be asked.”

"Can't you ask every time?" Lu Qinghan raised an eyebrow slightly at her reflection in the mirror, a hint of mischievousness hidden in the curve of her brow that only she knew. She raised her right hand, her fingers spread open to the candlelight, watching the warm orange candlelight flow through her slender, white fingers, casting a pale golden halo on the skin of her palm—this hand was also for Shen Du to see, she knew he was watching. "Then Master won't ask anymore. But... tonight is our wedding night, it has to be different."

Before Shen Du could even process the meaning of "different," he sensed a strange change. He had previously possessed complete control over his master's body—he could control her limbs, her hips, and even her actions in front of the mirror. But now, that control was being reclaimed with extreme precision. Control over his arms was gone; he could sense their presence, but could no longer move them an inch. Control over his head was also gone; he could no longer decide the direction of his gaze, only passively receiving the images transmitted through his master's senses—the bronze mirror, the crimson wedding dress, and the fairy's flushed, tipsy face in the mirror. Control over his legs was also gone; he tried to move his toes, but there was no response. His chest and throat were also out of his control—meaning he could no longer use his master's throat to make any sound. But instead, it was his waist. Only his waist. He discovered that he could still control the movement of his waist and hips, but the range of control was limited to the area below the abdomen and above the hip bones—forward thrust, backward pull, left and right rotation, and the contraction and relaxation of the abdominal muscles. The master had retained control over these movements and handed them back to him. Control over all other parts of his body had been taken back.

This means that at this moment, he can only do one thing—support his back. He can't care about anything else.

Shen Du's mind went blank for a moment. He tentatively moved his waist, feeling his pelvis push forward slightly by half an inch, and the part of him still buried deep inside her body, not yet fully softened, also moved forward by half an inch, the head of his penis lightly touching his master's soft cervix. He quickly stopped moving, afraid to move any further. He didn't know why his master had only left him this one control, but he instinctively felt that this could not be a good thing.

"Master... what are you doing?" His voice carried a hint of unease. "You took everything else back? Why did you leave only the waist area for me?"

"Guess." Lu Qinghan's voice floated down, like a feather drifting from a very high and distant place, gently swaying into the depths of his consciousness. Then, while Shen Du was still pondering the meaning of those two words, she moved on her own.

It wasn't a transfer of control; rather, she herself was controlling her own body, starting to twist her hips.

Her waist twisting motion was slow, almost like a graceful stretch. As her waist rotated to the left, her hips followed, causing the hem of her gauze skirt to sway and shimmer with a flowing light on the golden mimosa flowers. She could clearly feel Shen Du shifting laterally within her body—his pelvis was pulled to the left by her hips, and his penis also deflected at an angle against the vaginal wall, the sharp edges of the glans scraping against a cluster of sensitive nerve endings.

Then she rotated to the right. The movement was still very slow, so slow that Shen Du could clearly perceive every detail—how her abdominal muscles contracted and exerted force, how her hip bones pushed backward, how her inner walls slid across the surface of his penis as her pelvis rotated. As her cervix slid from the left side of his glans to the right, passing through half a circumference of the mucous membrane in between, those moist and soft folds were like a miniature silk carpet, slowly dragging from the tip of his glans to the coronal sulcus, and then to the frenulum. The texture of each fold was magnified several times and imprinted on his senses.

Shen Du's breathing suddenly quickened. He wanted to say something, but his master had taken back control of his voice, and he couldn't utter a sound. He was merely a passenger locked inside this woman's body, passively swaying to his master's rhythm.

Then Lu Qinghan began a series of movements. It wasn't the natural, unconscious swaying of her hips as she walked before, but a conscious, rhythmic, and much larger twisting motion. Forward—backward—left—right—circling. Her pelvis was like a precisely controlled spinning top, rotating back and forth in all directions within a small range. When she thrust forward, her vagina would naturally tighten, her cervix deeply enveloping his glans, like giving him a deep kiss with the softest lips; when she pulled back, the inner walls would create a slight suction due to negative pressure, as if countless tiny threads were simultaneously pulling on every inch of his foreskin; when she rotated left and right, her cervix would move in circles against the surface of his glans, as if tracing his outline with the finest pen tip; when she circled, the entire vaginal wall would move in unison, from the entrance to the depths, each peristalsis of the inner wall like a pair of gentle hands carefully caressing every inch of his corpus cavernosum.

Her movements grew faster and more exaggerated. In the bronze mirror, the woman in the crimson wedding dress swayed her hips—her waist was slender and supple, its curve outlined in a smooth and alluring S-shape under the candlelight. The bright red gauze skirt billowed and swayed with the movement of her hips, the acacia flower pattern on the hem drawing swirling circles in the air. Her long, slender legs, encased in flesh-colored stockings, were slightly parted, her knees slightly bent, and the bows at the slits of her skirts were faintly visible, swaying gently with her movements like two butterflies about to take flight. Her face was still that exquisitely elegant face, but her expression was completely different from usual—her eyebrows were slightly raised, her eyes were sparkling, her red lips were slightly parted, and her breathing carried a faint, almost imperceptible panting. Those panting breaths escaped from her throat, fine and continuous, exceptionally clear in the quiet bedroom, drifting into the depths of Shen Du's remaining consciousness.

Shen Du had never seen his master like this before. His master always calmly and unhurriedly circulated the Ice Heart Jade Technique, like the white jade Guanyin enshrined at the highest position in a temple. But the woman in the mirror at this moment—the woman in the wedding dress, swaying her waist, with a dazed look in her eyes—she was not Guanyin; she was a woman blooming freely on her wedding night. And her blooming was centered on his penis, accompanied by his pleasure.

But this is just the beginning.

Lu Qinghan took a deep breath during the twisting motion, adjusting her facial expression—her self-control was exceptional; even in such vigorous movements, she maintained facial muscle stability, preventing excessive display of pleasure. Then, she activated the last remaining power of the demonic sword within her body—the soul-connection ability activated after her physical body merged with Shen Du's—she could project her sensations into Shen Du's consciousness. Not a complete projection, but a controlled, selective sharing. What she chose to share was pleasure. She was currently experiencing the female pleasure from the repeated stretching, rubbing, and impact of the glans penis against her vaginal walls; the tingling, aching sensation as her cervix was teased; the ultimate satisfaction of going from emptiness to fullness as her vaginal canal was filled by the penis; and the increasingly intense, dense aching sensation deep in her lower abdomen before orgasm. She copied all these sensations verbatim, directly infusing them into Shen Du's soul.

Shen Du's world exploded in an instant. Two pleasures existed simultaneously in his brain—his own, the male pleasure of penile penetration, the stimulation of the glans being enveloped, rubbed, and sucked; and his master's, the female pleasure of vaginal penetration, the tingling sensation of the inner walls being stretched, ground, and impacted. These two pleasures came from different genders, different organs, and different neural pathways, but at this moment they were activated simultaneously in his consciousness, superimposed into a complex pleasure he had never experienced or imagined before. The feeling was like two lightning bolts striking the same place at the same time—one from his penis all the way to his lower abdomen, and the other from his genitals all the way to his brain. The two lightning bolts collided inside his body, exploding into a scorching white light. At the same time, he also "heard" all the sounds—the soft, shallow breaths escaping from his master's throat, the slight sound of air passing through his moist lips with each breath, the subtle rustling sound of his skirt rubbing against his stockings as it twisted, and the increasingly rapid and loud sounds of water inside his master's body. He was forced to absorb it all, with no option to close his eyes or cover his ears; it was simply poured directly into his consciousness in a purely sensory form.

"Are you feeling alright, my husband—" Lu Qinghan drew out the last syllable, her voice as gentle and charming as a pool of melting spring water, but then she paused on the word "husband," as if savoring a sweet and sticky cake, "No, I think I called you the wrong thing. Not just anyone can be a husband."

She stopped twisting her waist, straightened her body, and smiled slightly at her reflection in the mirror. Then she raised her hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing against the camellia petals with a gentle and elegant movement, completely different from the woman who had been twisting her waist wildly just moments before. She walked to the bronze mirror in her embroidered shoes, each step swaying gracefully—the hem of her gauze skirt trailing behind her in a flowing crimson trail. She stopped in front of the bronze mirror, the mirror less than a foot away from her face, the candlelight shining from the side, illuminating her face with exceptional clarity and definition. This face—delicate features, soft contours, the small mole at the end of her eyebrow, the curve of her nose, the peak of her thin lips—every detail resembled Lu Qinghan, not Shen Du. But at this moment, behind this face, within her skin, was a twenty-year-old man. He was her disciple, and also her husband. But at this moment, he seemed more like a little wife stuffed into her body, at her mercy.

“Look,” she whispered to the mirror, her tone carrying a morbid, possessive tenderness, each word as if soaked in honey and then laid out to dry in the moonlight, “You look like this, your skin is fair and rosy, your eyes are glistening with moisture, your lips are red from being kissed, and you’re still wearing your wedding dress. Tell me, who is the husband and who is the wife?”

As she spoke, she began to twist her hips again. This time, the twisting was more cunning than before—she didn't rotate evenly, but instead deliberately ground against the most sensitive angles. Her pelvis drew a small circle forward, allowing the glans penis to rotate three times in the indentation of her cervix; then it pulled back, letting the coronal sulcus scrape against the most sensitive sphincter muscle at the entrance of the vagina; then it swayed to the left, squeezing the veins on the side of the penis against the most congested sensitive spot between her pubic bone and the anterior vaginal wall; finally, it thrust to the right, letting the entire glans penis grind over her G-spot directly above it.

Meanwhile, she didn't stop sharing. The channels of pleasure remained wide open, and everything she felt was continuously pouring into Shen Du's consciousness. Every contraction of the vagina, every sucking of the cervix, every premonition of spasms in the inner walls was replicated verbatim in Shen Du's senses. His own pleasure was also simultaneously amplified—the warmth of the glans being enveloped, the pressure of the shaft being tightly gripped, the restraint of the base being locked—all these male pleasures and the female pleasures he was receiving overlapped, churning in his consciousness into a boiling lava.

And she hadn't forgotten her backup plan. Before starting to twist her waist, she subtly relinquished control of her face. Shen Du himself probably didn't even realize that his consciousness had taken over his master's facial muscles—from forehead to chin, from eyelids to lips, control of every facial expression was now in his hands. Every emotional fluctuation he felt would faithfully be reflected on her face. Under the onslaught of pleasure, Shen Du's defenses had long since crumbled, and under the lash of tingling currents, he let out a suppressed groan. On her exquisite face in the mirror, now reflected in his dazed state, her red lips were slightly parted, and her eyes were glazed over with a seductive allure.

Lu Qinghan watched all this, her sense of satisfaction almost overflowing. The woman's face in the bronze mirror—her face—was now completely dominated by Shen Du's emotions. As she watched him use her face to make those alluring, dreamy, lust-driven expressions, the secret, morbid desire within her that had possessed her disciple was greatly satisfied.

"My wife." Lu Qinghan suddenly changed her address, her voice soft and alluring, carrying a deliberate, flirtatious ambiguity. At the same time, she thrust her hips forward, causing his penis to slam heavily against her cervix, lingering there for a moment, letting the soft flesh of the cervix completely envelop the glans, feeling the subtle contractions and sucking of that soft flesh on the surface of the glans.

“My lady,” she called again, tightening her abdomen as she said “my lady,” making the inner walls grip his penis even tighter; as she said “my lady,” she suddenly released her abdomen, making the inner walls perform a rapid relaxation-contraction cycle on the surface of his penis, like a wet, warm mouth sucking on his glans, “You look so beautiful in this wedding dress. When the master chose this dress, he was thinking that my lady would look very beautiful in it.”

Shen Du trembled at the sound of that "wife." He wasn't a wife; he was a man, the barefoot lad who had run barefoot on mountain paths for twelve years. But now, his penis was locked inside a woman's vagina, being relentlessly ground by that soft passage, while he was forced to bear the sight of his master's exquisite face. All the pleasure—male and female, penetration and being penetrated—was simultaneously assaulting his consciousness, like two torrents rushing in from opposite directions, colliding head-on deep within his brain, exploding into a shower of spray. His remaining rationality, stemming from his identity as a disciple, lasted for about two seconds. Then those two seconds of perseverance were crushed by the master's tricky waist rotation—her pelvis made a sharp turn to the right and back, causing the penis to grind from the G-spot all the way to the cervix. The inner wall of the entire passage felt like a warm tongue licking from the base to the tip. When the tip of the glans ground over the slightly rough soft flesh at the deepest point, a strong electric current exploded from that point of contact, cutting all the way down his genitals to his lower abdomen and lumbar spine.

His back arched suddenly, causing his master's lower back to heave, and a series of sobs, almost like crying, escaped his throat uncontrollably. It was his master's voice, but the tone was full of his own, completely out-of-control pleas for mercy, like the last bubbles exhaled by a drowning person.

"Husband... Husband... I am your wife... Your wife is so useless..." He squeezed out these words from his out-of-control throat, his tone full of self-abandonment and infatuation. Through his blurred vision, he saw the face in the mirror—his master's face, his own face—lips opening and closing, uttering such lewd words in that noble voice he had heard for twelve years. But he couldn't stop, he couldn't stop. The pleasure had been building up for too long, accumulating since he started practicing swordsmanship that morning, slowly and deliberately simmered by his master all day, and now it was finally ignited by a sudden burst of intense heat. The torment of alternating numbness, soreness, fullness, and emptiness made him unable to think, only wanting more.

"Husband... harder... harder..." he heard himself pleading in his master's voice, "My wife wants... wants my husband to penetrate deeper... please love me more, husband..."

Lu Qinghan gasped. She had thought that calling him "husband" was already the limit. She hadn't expected that this little disciple, who trembled with shame even at the slightest provocation in front of the strict master-disciple boundaries, would utter such soft, seductive, and wanton words after his defenses were completely shattered. He used her voice—her vocal cords, her throat, her lips—all the vocal organs were hers, yet the words he spoke carried his own essence. It was a plea made without reservation after being utterly conquered. These words pierced the depths of her soul, turning her heart into a lump of melted, soft spring mud.

Since that's the case, she naturally had to satisfy him.

Lu Qinghan began to move her waist, the range of motion doubling, and the frequency increasing threefold. Her pelvis seemed to be undergoing a high-intensity swordsmanship training—each forward thrust felt like it was swallowing his entire penis, each backward pull felt like it was emptying him completely, and each rotation felt like it was wringing him dry with its inner walls. The muscles in her abdomen heaved violently beneath her gauze skirt, the twisting of her waist so large that the hem of her skirt billowed into a crimson vortex, the candlelight flickering erratically from her movements, and the image in the bronze mirror swaying and trembling with her actions. She pressed him against the deepest, softest wall of her body, beginning a relentless assault.

The channels of pleasure were completely open. She held nothing back, sharing with Shen Du the sensation of every fold of her vaginal walls being smoothed, the tingling, numbing feeling from each impact to her cervix, the near-death excitement before each spasm deep within her passage—simultaneously experiencing both her own and Shen Du's. Her pleasure, in turn, superimposed on Shen Du, creating a third layer of stimulation. Her hip movements became increasingly unrestrained, her vaginal walls beginning to spasm violently with the frenzied thrusting. The previously rhythmic peristalsis turned into chaotic, violent contractions, and the temperature of the passage walls suddenly rose several degrees, as if warm magma was gushing from deep within her abdomen. Her orgasm had arrived.

She groaned softly, her back arching as she braced herself against the frame of the bronze mirror. Her legs trembled slightly, the silk stockings on her inner thighs soaked with her own sweat and other fluids, shimmering in the candlelight with wavy, shimmering streaks. Her vaginal fluid poured onto Shen Du's glans, the warm liquid delivering a wave of intense stimulation; she felt his glans swell one last time inside her. Then, under the combined pressure of her vaginal spasms and the swelling of his glans, his semen gushed out. Wave after wave, scalding hot and violent, poured onto the most sensitive flesh of her cervix. The force of the impact caused her already spasming inner walls to convulse even more violently—she could even feel her cervix slightly open for a moment from the surge of heat.

Shen Du's waist trembled violently five or six times inside her before slowly stopping. At the same time, he felt a double climax—his climax and hers exploded simultaneously in his consciousness. He saw a white light, in which his master's face, the red camellia, and the trembling body of the woman in the mirror, being filled with his semen. All his senses were pushed to their limits in that instant, and then snapped simultaneously as if a string had been cut.

A moment later, consciousness resurfaced. Shen Du found he could still see the bronze mirror—his master's hands were still on the mirror's edge, her forehead pressed against the surface, her breathing rapid and heavy, the mirror veiled in a white mist. Behind the mist, his master's face remained alluring and soft, her eyes brimming with tears, tiny teardrops clinging to her eyelashes, her lips bitten red with faint teeth marks. He had bitten them himself—he remembered biting something soft during his climax, and now it seemed to be his master's lower lip.

Lu Qinghan breathed softly, taking a full cup of tea's time to catch her breath before slowly straightening up. The front of her crimson wedding dress was damp, indistinguishable between sweat and something else. She raised her hand to touch her lower abdomen, feeling a warm sensation inside her skin—the sensation of his semen slowly flowing through her, filling every inch of her vaginal canal from her cervix to its depths. She looked down at herself in the mirror, at her disheveled wedding dress and her still-blushing cheeks, and chuckled softly.

"Shen Du," she began, her voice regaining seven-tenths of its normal coolness, yet still retaining a lingering softness, "now, are you my husband or my wife?"

Shen Du remained silent for a long time. He was still trembling from the afterglow of the previous pleasure, his consciousness not yet fully returning, but when he heard his master's question, a certain part of his body involuntarily twitched again inside her vagina.

“…You decide,” he finally spoke, his voice a full tone lower than before, hoarse and submissive. “Whatever Master says goes.”

Lu Qinghan's smile deepened. She raised her hand to gather her loose hair, straightening the crooked camellia at her temple. She re-inserted the silver hairpin into her hair. Wiping away the white mist formed by her breath on the mirror, she studied herself in the mirror for a moment, her fingers lightly tracing the faint tooth mark on her lips, a hint of satisfaction flashing in her eyes.

"The wedding night has only just begun; we still have time."

She didn't say anything more, but Shen Du dared not think any further. He lay in his master's warm body, his body trembling slightly. Countless lingering pleasures and even more unforeseen premonitions intertwined and entangled in the depths of his consciousness, trapping him in a warm and bottomless vortex.