HLnovel Chapter 500 - Is He Not Looking at Me?
Chapter 500 - Is He Not Looking at Me?
The voice came from beside the bed post.
She had been there the whole time — the woman in red, the one who had walked behind him through the portal like a shadow that had learned to have opinions.
Tall. Young. Body poured into a latex suit the color of arterial blood, zipped high at the throat, the material so tight across the chest that her nipples were visible through it like accusations.
Wide hips. An ass that the suit had no hope of fully containing, the fabric riding up between the cheeks, the rounded lower curves exposed.
Thick thighs.
A face that was trying very hard to be neutral and failing.
She had been watching.
The whole walk through the corridor. The whole throw. The whole business with the three tournament winners and their hands.
Watching with her arms folded and her jaw set and her tail — ’there was a tail, very still’ — pressed flat.
Tianlong reached her.
His hand went to the zipper at her chest.
She sucked in a breath.
He pulled.
The suit split open from sternum to navel and her breasts swung free — heavy, full, the nipples stiff already, the pale skin marked in two places with faint, fading fingerprint bruises from what was clearly not the first time this suit had been opened this way.
She grabbed his wrist.
Not to stop him.
Just to hold something.
"Thank you," she said. Voice low. Thick with something she was clearly not going to admit to. "For — you didn’t forget—"
"I knew you were jealous."
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
He kissed her.
Deep. Immediate. His hands cradling her jaw the way he had not cradled the festival woman’s jaw — something slightly different here, in the pressure, in the angle — and she went up on her toes and kissed him back with the fervor of a woman who had been watching him ruin someone else for the entire walk home.
His cock had grown.
It was still growing.
The women around the bed noticed first — the catkin’s ears went flat, the tribal warrior’s breath hitched, someone behind made a sound that was not quite a word.
Twelve inches.
Thick as his wrist.
The head of it angry and dark and pressing against the back of Yuna’s thigh as she stood in his arms.
The three tournament women dissolved from the new arrival’s side.
Drawn across the bed like tide answering a moon.
They reached him.
One catkin’s face found the side of his cock first, her cheek pressing against the shaft, her mouth opening, burying into the small gap between his hips and Yuna’s ass where the suit still clung to the lower curve.
The second catkin followed, the two of them working together, faces pressed into the crease of Yuna’s exposed ass cheeks, their mouths finding his cock and sharing it — her latex-framed ass acting as a frame, the sight of two patterned catkin faces buried between those thick pale cheeks, eyes closed, working him with their tongues—
The tribal woman came from behind Tianlong.
Pressed her full height against his back. Her arms wrapped around his chest. Her lips found the back of his neck.
And others — from the garden’s edges, drawn by the scene or by something older than decision — arrived, hands and mouths and warm bodies pressing against every available surface of him.
A moan from somewhere.
His or theirs or all of them at once.
Yuna, still kissing him, made a sound against his mouth that was half-sob and half-laugh.
And across the vast silk landscape of the bed, alone in the center of all of it:
The festival woman.
Sitting up.
One arm across her breasts.
Eyes moving across the scene — the man at the bedpost, the women around him, the sight of multiple bodies devoted entirely to serving him, the sheer ’volume’ of it, the casual abundance, the way none of this was chaos, it was ’order’, this was simply how this place ran—
Her breathing slowed.
The panic didn’t go. But something underneath it changed shape.
Her eyes settled on Tianlong’s face.
His eyes were closed. Yuna was still kissing him. Two catkin women were still worshipping his cock between the cheeks of a latex suit that no longer contained anything it was supposed to contain.
He looked—
’Content.’
Not triumphant. Not performing. Just content. The way a river looks content when it’s full after rain.
She watched.
For the first time since she’d been thrown on the bed, she sat still and simply watched.
His hands moved to Yuna’s hips.
Yuna’s suit vanished — dissolved rather than removed, leaving her standing in nothing but the lantern light and the marks of a woman who had been thoroughly used and thoroughly kept.
The ass that the suit had barely contained was — she swallowed — ’real’. Wide hips. Full, rounded cheeks still carrying the faint geometric map of his fingers from before.
A young woman’s body reshaped by repeated occupation.
The festival woman brought her knees to her chest.
Wrapped her arms around them.
Looked at the puddle still drying on the inside of her own thighs.
Looked at the women pressing themselves against the immortal like plants growing toward the only sun in the room.
Looked at the bed she was sitting on — which was apparently ’his’ — which apparently had a ’tournament’ for the right to be on it—
’What is he.’
The question formed genuinely.
Not fear anymore. Not even confusion, exactly.
Just — a clean, honest question.
’What kind of man is this.’
Then, quieter, arriving from somewhere lower than thought:
’He isn’t looking at me.’
She blinked.
It landed strangely.
Not like relief.
Like something else.
Something she didn’t quite have a name for yet.
She watched him tip Yuna’s head back and kiss her throat, watched two catkin girls finally take his cock fully between them, watched the tribal woman’s wide hands spread across his back, watched the whole warm tangle of bodies that revolved around him like a system with its own gravity—
And felt, for the first time in the whole of this ruined impossible night, something she was not prepared for.
’Curiosity.’
Not about where she was.
Not about what would happen to her.
About ’him’.
About what a person ’was’ who walked through the world this way, who said ’you are a woman’ like it was a reminder rather than a compliment, who whispered ’I will say it every time I fuck you’ in the dark against a tree at a festival and apparently ’meant it—’
Her nipple hardened.
Traitor.
She pressed her arm tighter across her chest and stared at the lanterns in the branches and told herself it was the night air.
Somewhere below, Yuna made a sound that was not pain.
His cock had found its home.
The catkin women pulled their faces back and watched with the reverence of students observing a master.
Yuna’s hands gripped the bedpost.
The festival woman watched.
And did not look away.
And held her knees tighter.
And tried, very hard, not to notice how much wetter she was getting just from ’watching’.
’He is not looking at me,’ she thought again.
And somewhere in that thought, like a seed in winter soil that hasn’t decided yet whether to grow:
’Not yet.’