Tianlong stood at the edge of the waterfall garden, his gold-crimson eyes scanning the two women slumped against the stone. Both mothers — Cai Ruolan and Liu Wanying — lay where he had left them, their thick bodies bare and glistening, their cunts and anals gaping and leaking his seed in thick, slow rivulets that pooled on the cold stone beneath their raised asses.
Their sons sat ten feet away, still locked in meditation, their cultivation auras burning bright and steady within the qi dome he had woven around their senses.
He pulled his robe closed. The silk settled over his massive frame, the fabric unable to fully conceal the outline of his cock, still half-hard, resting against his thigh like a sleeping serpent.
He turned from the scene — from the ruined mothers, the meditating sons, the seed-soaked rock — and walked toward the garden entrance.
