Remarriage (1v1, H) - 1

They say marriage binds two clans in bliss, yet all of Bianjing spat on the Renping Bo Lu clan for “selling their daughter for glory.”  

It began when the Lu family’s grand-aunt wed into the Duke of Anguo’s Wang house. After her husband died, the silly woman kept widow’s weeds for eighteen years, then left a farewell letter and followed him into death.  

In the twentieth year of Xiyuan, the Duke memorialised the throne. The Emperor, to praise her iron virtue, posthumously ennobled her “Lady of the First Rank.”  

Before Lady Lu, no one in the capital had ever heard of widows clinging to chastity. Everyone knew a widow could remarry tomorrow. The Lus were already a crumbling house—title without coin—until one daughter caught the Emperor’s eye.  

But the Lu family’s luck had only begun. The elder Wangs had taken a Lu bride once; now the new Duke of Anguo, Wang Chong, was wedding her own niece.  

Tonight was their wedding night.  

In the bridal chamber the red candles had not yet burned halfway. A golden censer breathed coils of dragon-spit incense; sweet smoke drifted everywhere. In the corner, a tall celadon vase—slim-waisted, long-necked—held two sprigs of winter bamboo.  

Behind a painted mountain-screen stood the great bed, veiled in emerald gauze. The curtains hung heavy, hiding everything, yet a man’s low growls leaked through.  

Wang Chong had drunk deep. No one dared toast him; he toasted himself, cup after cup. Guests egged him on, servants feared to speak, the dowager turned a blind eye. Now he was drunk past seeing. He could not tell the face of the bride beneath him; instinct alone ripped away both their robes.  

The little bride was exquisite—clothes torn to rags, skin bared to the lamplight. She lay on her back, br3asts rising and falling, eyes shut tight. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Black hair spilled across the pillow; she made no sound, as though asleep.  

He forced her thighs apart. His c0ck, swollen and aching, prodded blindly at the closed seam of her s3x. The iron-hard head jabbed tender flesh until it bloomed angry red.  

He sank his weight, ready to drive in—  

—and the girl beneath him finally opened her eyes.

She drifted in a fog, as if she’d slept a hundred years, half-drowned in dreams. Then a white-hot spike tore through her core. The man’s full weight pinned her; the brutal length of his c0ck punched through her maidenhead and slammed home in one merciless thrust.

Her pvssy wasn’t deep enough to swallow the whole shaft. The swollen head battered her cervix; she screamed, shoving at his chest, desperate to shove him out. But his strength crushed her open, forcing her womb to bloom and gulp down the invading crown.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, long and filthy.

Lu Xiniang’s body jerked like a hooked fish. That monstrous c0ck still twitched inside her, grinding against raw walls. Pain clawed her teeth together. She had forgotten how s3x hurt—she hadn’t felt a man in twenty years.

After her husband Wang Zhi died, no male shadow had crossed her door.  

Well… except for Chong-ge’er, the bastard son from the main Wang branch, adopted and raised on her knee.

But wait—  

Was this the afterlife? Did the underworld drag dead women to the altar and pair them with dead men?

She panted, sweat cooling on her skin. At last the ache dulled to a throb. Candle-glow leaked through the bed-curtains. She lifted her gaze to the man buried balls-deep in her pvssy and shrieked:

“Chong-ge’er… why is it you? Are you dead too?”