He pulled out slowly.

The cock coming free with the unhurried withdrawal of a man who has nowhere to be — glistening, heavy, still half-flushed from the work it had done, hanging with the comfortable authority of something that has earned its rest.

He sat.

The throne receiving him the way it always did — the stone warm from the garden’s incense, the silk beneath him carrying the ambient heat of an evening that had been thoroughly eventful.

Akane moved before he was fully seated.

Still shaking.

Her belly swaying with the aftershock of her own breathing, her nine tails dragging across the stone behind her, her milk-damp breasts catching the lantern light as she folded — carefully, one hand on the armrest, the other on her belly, lowering herself onto her knees in front of him with the composed determination of a woman who has just been destroyed and has returned to useful function ahead of schedule.

Her golden eyes found his face as she descended.

Warm.

Possessive.

The expression of a wife performing an act of ownership rather than service.

She found him with her mouth.

Not rushed — the slow, thorough approach of someone who has a task and intends to complete it properly.

His balls first, both of them, cradled on her tongue and cleaned with the patient attention of a woman who considers this her domain and keeps it in order.

"Mnh~—" 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

The sound she made was not for him.

It was simply what her body produced when doing something it had decided it enjoyed.

Her tongue moving up the shaft — tracing the underside, following the ridge, collecting what was there with the diligence of someone erasing evidence while simultaneously creating new memories of it.

Her hand at the base.

Holding him steady.

The full weight of her pregnant body settled on her knees, her belly resting slightly against his thigh, warm and round and present while her mouth worked his cockhead — the flushed tip, her pussy’s residue still warm on it — cleaning it with a thorough suction that made the muscle of her cheeks visible.

Tianlong looked at Chulteka.

She had pushed herself up on one elbow.

Three centuries of cultivator pride having reassembled itself to the degree that ’one elbow’ was available, the rest of her still splayed on the garden stone, her body carrying the full record of the evening’s work — the rope-marks fading slowly on her breasts, the bruising of inner thighs from the rod, her pussy and ass still twitching with the memory of the bamboo — but her spine attempting vertical.

She met his gaze.

The pride still in her jaw.

"So—"

He started to speak.

Then her elbow pressed into the stone. Her weight shifting. The motion of someone attempting to rise.

The bamboo arrived.

One of the Amazonian women — she had been waiting for exactly this, had been watching Chulteka’s body language with the patient attention of someone who has been assigned a task and takes it seriously — plunged it in without ceremony.

"HAAGHH—!!"

Chulteka’s elbow buckled.

Her attempt at vertical ended on the stone, her hips involuntarily lifting with the intrusion and then dropping, the bamboo seated fully in her hairy cunt with the wet sound of a body that was, despite everything, still slick enough from the evening to receive it without resistance.

Which was its own specific humiliation.

"What are you—"

"You are not going to stand," the Amazonian said.

Flat. Informational.

The catkin queen arrived from the other side.

She stepped over Chulteka’s body with the casual authority of someone whose territory this is and placed one foot — bare, the foot of a cultivator whose body refinement had made even her soles feel like shaped stone — directly on Chulteka’s left breast.

Pressed.

Not her full weight. Enough.

The soft thickness of the breast spreading under the foot, the flesh yielding and then resisting and then yielding again as the catkin’s weight settled — the nipple, caught under the ball of the foot, pinched from below by the pressure and from above by the catkin’s slow, deliberate tiptoe.

"HNNGH—!! GET YOUR FOOT—"

"Quiet," the catkin said.

Her tail lifted. Satisfied.

Chulteka glared at Tianlong.

Across the garden. The full force of three centuries of accumulated authority, currently lying on its back with a bamboo in its pussy and a foot on its breast, directed at the man seated on the throne with his pregnant wife’s mouth on his cock and the composed expression of someone who has other things on his mind.

He appeared not to notice the glare.

His thumb moved through Akane’s hair.

"So," he said.

The continuation of his earlier sentence, delayed by the interruption of Chulteka’s attempt at dignity.

"What do you mean that dwellers of the upper realm are present in the ancient realm."

A pause.

"And what is on the other continents."

Chulteka breathed.

The bamboo was present. The foot was present. The catkin’s tiptoe sent a pulse of sensation through her nipple every few seconds with the regularity of a clock.

She bit her lip.

Worked through the mathematics of cooperation versus pride.

"The continent from where I came," she said,

Her voice carrying the particular flatness of someone narrating while managing a situation they’d prefer not to be managing,

"is divided into a copy."

"A copy."

Tianlong’s hand moved through Akane’s fox ear. The ear twitched under his fingers. Akane’s suction deepened slightly in response to the touch — the involuntary cooperation of a body that has learned his hand means ’continue’ — and he felt the warmth of her throat briefly as she took more of him.

"MNNPH~—"

He looked at Chulteka.

"A copy of what."

"The immortal realm."

She shifted against the bamboo involuntarily as she spoke.

Caught herself.

"The geography. The power structure. The territorial divisions. Every feature of the upper realm — mirrored. Prepared."

Her golden eyes on his face.

"It’s a training ground. Built to familiarize warriors with the shape of the world they’re going to enter. So when they ascend, the geography isn’t foreign. The political boundaries aren’t unfamiliar."

"Everything is mimicked."