Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 107- Father and Son

The servants had brought them back dressed.

That was the first thing the merchant’s son noticed when Cang opened the guest chamber doors and gestured inside—not with a word, not with a threat, simply a tilt of his chin that carried the weight of an imperial summons.

Meiling and Xiao Hua sat within, re-draped in their respective garments. Meiling in the layered blue silk of a merchant’s respected wife, Xiao Hua still half-sewn into the red of a bridal dress that had not seen a wedding bed so much as a battlefield.

They were dressed.

They were also ruined.

Meiling sat with the particular stillness of a woman whose body had made peace with catastrophe before her mind had.

Her thick frame, the kind of mature weight that came from decades of good eating and two children and a comfortable station, had settled into a posture of absolute defeat—shoulders curved inward, heavy chest rising in small controlled breaths, hands folded in her lap with white-knuckled precision.

Her hair had been pinned back by some servant’s mercy. The bruising at her inner thighs was hidden. Her face was neutral. Her eyes were somewhere else entirely.

Xiao Hua sat beside her. Nineteen years old, three feet of red silk and wedding gold, and an expression that had never learned to lie.

Every ache in her small body showed itself openly on her face—the tender set of her jaw, the way she held herself slightly forward because sitting fully back pressed fabric against places that screamed. She kept blinking like the morning light was too much. Perhaps it was.

The merchant entered first.

His son followed.

Cang sat in the center of the room’s wide padded sofa, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, dark robes settling with the unhurried perfection of a man who had never once in his life arranged himself for anyone else’s comfort.

His expression was the same as it always was. Faint. Dry. Tipped with amusement he didn’t particularly bother to mask.

He patted his left thigh.

Then his right.

Neither woman moved for a full two seconds. That was the length of their resistance.

Meiling rose on legs that still trembled at the knees, and the merchant felt the floor shift beneath his feet as he watched her cross those three steps and lower herself onto the cultivator’s left thigh. Her wide hips settled against him. Her thick frame—the same warm weight he had slept beside for fourteen years—arranged itself against a stranger’s lap with the docility of a woman who had already measured the cost of refusing and found it too high.

His jaw tightened. His hands, behind his back, curled into fists so rigid his ring finger ached.

Xiao Hua moved next. Slower. Her bridal dress whispered against the floor as she settled onto his right thigh, hands coming to rest in her own lap, fingers lacing together as though bracing for prayer. She stared at nothing. Her lower lip was pressed between her teeth.

Cang’s hands moved.

Not aggressively. Not with the violence of the previous night. Lazily, the way a man might reach to adjust a fur collar on a winter morning. His right hand lifted the edge of Xiao Hua’s red outer robe and simply... slid inside. His left followed at the same pace, finding the collar fold of Meiling’s silk.

Neither woman stopped him.

The merchant’s son made a sound. Low. Guttural. It died in his throat because his lungs stopped working properly—because in the same moment, Meiling’s face changed.

Her jaw dropped a fraction. Her neck arched the smallest degree. And from behind her sealed lips came a sound that no man should ever hear from his own mother—a soft, unwilling exhalation, thin as thread, the kind of noise that arrived before thought and left before shame could catch it.

"—Nnh~..."

Inside the silk, his fingers had found what they were looking for.

Meiling’s nipple was still oversensitized from twelve hours of uninterrupted attention. When his thumb and forefinger closed around it—not hard, barely more than a grip—her entire body flinched with the electric shock of it. She pressed her lips together. Her back straightened. The heavy curves of her chest pushed forward slightly with the motion, and she breathed very carefully through her nose like a woman defusing ordinance.

Don’t make a sound. The thought was furious, desperate. They’re watching. Your husband is watching. Your son-in-law is—

PINCH.

"Hn—!" Her teeth snapped together. The sound that escaped was still audible. Still mortifying. Still far too much like pleasure.

On his other thigh, Xiao Hua had gone rigid the moment his hand found her breast through the inner lining of her dress. The thin fabric was no real barrier—his fingers read her body through it with complete fluency—and her small, full chest, younger and firmer than Meiling’s, jumped at the first contact of his palm like a startled animal.

He’s touching me again. The thought arrived with a helpless kind of resignation. In front of—oh no. Oh no, they can see my face. They can see—

His thumb rolled over her nipple in a slow, deliberate circle.

"Mmm—!" She caught it behind her hand, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her thighs pressed together with the instinctive cramping of a body that remembered the previous night and was already betraying her with warmth.

The merchant’s son stood in the center of the room.

He could not move.

This was not a metaphor. The cultivator’s aura pressed against the air of the guest chamber the way deep water presses against the ears of someone who has gone too far below the surface—a constant, diffuse, implacable weight that made his cultivation feel like a candle flame cupped in wet hands. Foundation Establishment. He had been proud of that. He had trained for six years to reach it. He stood here with his Foundation Establishment and felt exactly nothing he could do about the man who sat across the room with his hands inside the dresses of two women who belonged to this family.

His father had not moved from the doorway.

Cang glanced at them both without turning his head. A sideways flicker of dark eyes that registered them the way a man registers furniture he has already decided to rearrange.

Then he returned his attention to the two women shivering on his thighs, and did nothing so dramatic as increase pressure. Simply maintained it. Held both nipples in a light, rolling grip that gave neither woman enough stimulation to overcome nor enough release to settle. The cruelty of it was in the patience.

Meiling’s breathing was audible now. Controlled, but audible. Her thick shoulders had developed a very slight tremor. She was staring at the far wall with fixed, glassy determination—the expression of a woman who had decided that if she simply didn’t acknowledge what her body was doing, it was not technically happening.

Her husband watched the tremble in her shoulders. Fourteen years of marriage. He knew that tremor. He knew exactly what it meant, and the knowledge turned inside his chest like something with a blade.

"Sit closer," Cang said, not to the men, and Meiling and Xiao Hua both leaned inward toward him simultaneously—bodies obeying before the instruction fully registered. The motion pressed their sides against his chest. He made a small sound of approval that was worse than anything he could have said.

"Your ears," he said next.

Both women turned their heads. Their mouths found his ears at the same moment—Meiling on the left, Xiao Hua on the right—lips parting against the shell of each with the obedience of women who had learned, over the course of a very long night, that hesitation only made things worse.

Meiling’s tongue touched his earlobe.

I am a wife, she thought. I am someone’s wife. I have a husband standing eight feet behind me and I am—

She licked again. The cultivator’s fingers pinched.

"Ahn—!" Her hips shifted. She couldn’t stop them. "P-please—don’t—Nnh~—people are—watching—"

"I know," Cang said calmly.

Xiao Hua had pressed her lips around his right earlobe with the focused concentration of a student at an exam. Her small hands had come up to brace against his shoulder. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

She breathed in short careful sips.

With every exhale her breath tickled his neck, and every time his thumb rolled over her captive nipple she made a sound like a muffled flute note—

"Mmph~—! Nnnh~..."

—and pressed her lips together harder over it, which made her whole face hot with the effort and the shame both.

The merchant’s son’s knuckles had gone white.

"Father," he said, voice very carefully level. "Father, we should—"

His father said nothing. The older man stood in the doorway with his hands at his sides, and the expression on his face was the expression of a man watching a building collapse that he had no hope of catching.

[Evil Points: +23]