FVN Chapter 518- Handling a Bitch
Chapter 518- Handling a Bitch
The mountain did not have a name anymore.
Whatever the tiger clan had called it before — ’the place where the sky bows’ — was now academic, because the sky had been replaced by something that was not sky, a churning void-dark ceiling of stolen vitality that moved in slow clockwise spirals and had been doing so since the naked woman and the broad man with the axe had established their temporary residency on its eastern ridge.
The stone was gray where it had been green.
The grass was gone.
The birds were not coming back.
The woman — Chulteka, she had a name, though she had not introduced herself to anyone on this mountain — was currently face-down on the dead stone with her cheek pressed against the cold of it and both hands spread flat for purchase because purchase was what you needed when a man of Arvij’s particular dimensions was operating at the pace he was operating at.
Her ass — full, dark, the curves of it carrying the specific density of someone built around the accumulation of stolen vitality — was in the air.
Both cheeks clapping back.
Every single time.
The sound of it echoed off the cliff face and came back to them like an approval.
’CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.’
He had her anal.
Had had it for some time.
Her pussy — hairy, wet, the arousal running freely down her inner thighs and pooling in the cracked stone beneath her — was unattended, and her own hand had found it some time ago and was managing the situation with three fingers and a methodology she had refined across several centuries.
The ground shook beneath them.
Not from them — or not entirely from them. From the vitality drain that the woman’s cultivation technique had been running since their arrival, the slow earthquake of a land being eaten from below, the soil compacting as its life force was removed.
Arvij didn’t notice.
He was busy.
’CLAP! CLAP! PAAH!’
"Oungh~!! — Haahh~!! — come on—" She turned her face into the stone, her voice carrying the specific urgency of a woman who needs something and is not getting it. "Harder — I need that man — I couldn’t — HNGH~!! — FUCK — I couldn’t have him—"
"Working on it," Arvij said.
He was not working on the man.
He was working on the ass.
These were different things, but at his current cognitive load, the distinction had collapsed.
’PAAH! PAAH! PAAH!’
His hands — broad, the hands of a man who had carried an axe for four centuries — gripped her ass cheeks with the proprietary confidence of someone who has found excellent material and intends to make full use of it.
The skin rippled under his grip. Both cheeks spread and released and spread again with every stroke, the fat and muscle of her backside in continuous motion, sweat-slick and flushed and taking the impact with the cheerful resilience of something built for exactly this.
Her pussy gushed around her own fingers.
Her face was a picture.
"Can’t — NNGH — he just — his cultivation — HAAHH~!! — even standing near him I nearly—"
"Then we kill him," Arvij said.
Helpful.
Practical.
’CLAP!’
"That’s not—" She lost the sentence. "OUNGH~!! — that is NOT the SAME—"
He didn’t follow this reasoning.
He increased his pace.
’PAAH! PAAH! CLAP! CLAP!’
The picture they made: filthy, completely, without mitigation or apology. A broad man with his pants around his thighs and his hands full of her ass, driving into it with the single-minded energy of someone who has been bored for a very long time and has found an acceptable outlet. A woman face-down on dead stone, her massive breasts flattened against the cold surface and jiggling with every impact, her fingers working her dripping pussy, the juices of her running between her thighs and soaking the stone, her mouth open, her eyes half-rolled, her hair spread in every direction.
Two powerful cultivators from outside the continent’s ceiling, rutting in the ruins of stolen earth like absolute animals.
Arvij groaned.
The groan of a man arriving.
He drove in fully, seated, his thighs against her ass, and ’came’ — a substantial load, the kind that spoke to the specific accumulation of a body cultivated past normal biological parameters, flooding her anal in a hot continuous surge as his hands gripped her ass hard enough to leave marks that would still be visible next week.
She felt it and her own fingers twisted and she hit her orgasm a moment behind his, clenching around nothing and around him simultaneously, the ground cracking under her fist as her cultivation qi vented involuntarily.
He pulled out.
Sat back.
Looked at the sky.
Breathed.
"Shit."
She was still face-down on the stone.
"We are really something else," he said, to himself, to the ruined mountain, to the assessment of what they’d just done to a cultivation site that had taken several thousand years to develop.
"Of course."
She pushed herself up.
The seed from him running freely down her thighs, her pussy still dripping, her whole lower half carrying the evidence of an extended session with the cheerful transparency of someone who doesn’t track these things.
"No man can—"
"What a shitty sight."
The voice arrived without announcement.
No portal. No cultivation pressure displacement. No signature that her senses — calibrated above this continent’s ceiling, refined for three centuries — had caught before the voice was already ’there’, already in her ears, already establishing itself in the specific register of something that has been present for longer than she noticed.
She looked down.
A boot.
One boot.
On the stone path below her, at the level of her line of sight, a single boot — the specific worn quality of something that has covered significant ground — belonging to a leg that disappeared upward into the hem of a crimson robe.
The kind of crimson that emperors used.
The kind of immortal cultivation that dyed fabric that color without dye.
She looked up.
Her jaw — which had been doing the specific loose thing that jaws do when they are recently post-orgasm — tightened.
Both hands at his back. The gold-red eyes looking downward at her from the height of someone who has not needed to hurry toward anything in a significant amount of time.
Looking at ’her.’
Her anal twitched.
She noted this with the private mortification of someone whose body has made an assessment without being asked.
Her pussy — still dripping, still warm — responded with a second unsolicited opinion.
The warmth running down her thighs and lower back was Arvij’s.
She was aware of this.
She was aware of how she looked.
She looked at Tianlong with this awareness fully present and her jaw clenched and her eyes doing the thing that eyes do when rage and want and humiliation occupy the same face simultaneously.
"You know," Tianlong said, looking down at her with the composed consideration of a man reading a situation, "the woman you just hurt once told me—"
He paused.
"—it’s easy to kill a man when he’s in a fuck session."
He wasn’t looking at Arvij when he said this.
He had been.
He wasn’t anymore.
Because Arvij was no longer in possession of his head.
The boot had moved. Once. At a velocity that the remaining observers had not tracked and the mountain had acknowledged with a single sharp crack of displaced air.
The body of the broad man — still seated, still in the position of someone who had just finished and was experiencing the particular loose peace of post-satisfaction — sat for a specific moment with the specific absence of a head, and then tilted, and then the tilting continued, and Arvij fell sideways onto the dead stone with the unhurried finality of a tree that has been cut and has processed the information.
The warmth landed on her back.
She felt it before she looked.
Warm, and wet, and running down her spine and over her ass and pooling in the hollow of her lower back in a way that was warm and not unpleasant and then she understood what it was and her stomach dropped.
She turned her head.
’!’
Red.
The stone around her red.
The back of her own hand, raised in front of her face, red.
Chulteka looked at the hand.
Then at the body.
Then at the boot.
Then at the gold-red eyes above it, regarding her with the specific calm of someone who has resolved a minor administrative matter and is now available for the next item.
"You bastard—"