Remarriage (1v1, H) - 2
The words snapped half the wine from his veins. Wang Chong stared down at the bride he’d just claimed (soft, fragrant, barely flowered) and felt his heart lurch.
That woman was dead. He’d worn mourning for three full years. He’d watched her coffin sink into the earth with his own eyes. The dead did not rise to wed.
Tonight was his wedding night.
This girl was his chosen bride, bl00d-niece to the woman he’d buried. Whatever ghosts haunted his heart, he had sworn to give her the honour due a duchess. He would not shame her.
He braced on his elbows and looked down their joined bodies.
His thick bush hid everything, black curls plastered to sweat.
He arched higher. There (plain as sin) her pink pvssy lips were stretched to splitting around the root of his c0ck, glossy with the crimson proof of her ruined maidenhead.
“Don’t move,” Lu Xiniang whimpered. “It hurts.”
She still didn’t understand where she was, only that every shift of his hips dragged fire through her core.
Worse (far worse) was the treacherous itch blooming beneath the pain, a hot, syrupy tingle that crawled from her stuffed pvssy up her spine. She squirmed without meaning to; the fat c0ck inside her answered with a throb so fierce she felt it in her teeth.
Two years married to Wang Zhi, and he had been too ill for the marriage bed. They had coupled only when the physicians ordered it, chasing an heir that never came.
After his death she had kept her widow’s vow. Lonely nights, yes; slick dreams, yes; but a few copied sutras and a cold cloth between her thighs had always been enough.
Until now.
Now her body remembered hunger and greeted it with shameless delight.
Only once had temptation won.
Her little maid, the one who’d trailed her since childhood, smuggled in a lacquered box. Inside lay a jade c0ck, thick as a girl’s wrist and cool as moonlight. Lu Xiniang had scolded the girl scarlet, then—shame burning—hidden the thing beneath her pillow.
She used it twice.
The second time, a half-grown Wang Chong found it.
The boy hadn’t filled out yet; the jade dwarfed the small tent in his trousers. He turned it over, puzzled. “Mama, what’s this?”
She nearly died on the spot. Mumbled something about a paperweight, then crept out at midnight and buried box and sin beneath the crab-apple tree.
Now, twenty years later, that same buried shame rose like sap.
The strange ache between her legs drowned every wrong detail—the wrong room, the wrong voice, the wrong c0ck splitting her open.
She floated in heat.
He floated too.
Wang Chong had never been inside a woman.
He owned a dozen spring-palace albums and one life-size painting rolled in the studio’s porcelain jar. Nights, he’d unroll it, fist slick, and spill to the inked smile of a courtesan who looked nothing like the girl trembling beneath him now.
Yet this pvssy—
Christ, this pvssy was alive.
Hot, wet silk clamped around his c0ck and refused to let go. Every breath she took sucked him deeper; every heartbeat fluttered against his crown. When he shifted, the walls rippled, greedy, swallowing. His scalp prickled.
He stroked damp hair from her brow. “They say the first time hurts a woman. Bear it a moment, sweetheart.”
Wang Chong, second-rank jinshi of Xiyuan 15, former magistrate of Xiangcheng, now Vice-Minister of Punishments—cold-faced terror of the capital, the man even the King of Hell stepped around—had never in his life coaxed anyone.
Until tonight.