Reverend Obscenity

Chapter 21 - A hole is a hole

Yesterday's debauchery with Mingzhu still lingered in Lin Fengyang's mind like a fading perfume—rich, intoxicating, and impossible to forget.

The memory of her dusky skin beneath his palms, the sultry way she whispered his name, left him with a lingering sense of satisfaction.

She had ridden him with all the passion of a woman unbound by restraint, and he had responded in kind.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he recalled the way she looked beneath the moonlight, slick with sweat and utterly wanton.

Though his body still buzzed from their carnal exchange, Fengyang knew he couldn't afford to drown in pleasure alone.

As enticing as Mingzhu was—and he very much looked forward to another entanglement—his path to power demanded discipline.

The stronger he grew, the more he could indulge without consequence. That was his justification, at least.

His training progressed steadily. So far, he had mastered the basic strikes, blocks, and stances that formed the foundation of martial arts.

Grappling and footwork were the next steps, the final pieces before he could truly begin to call himself a martial artist.

More importantly, he was integrating qi into his forms—learning to channel it into every punch, every parry, every shift of his stance.

This adaptation made him feel each movement more deeply, the flow of energy gradually becoming second nature. It was no longer just physical repetition; it was cultivation in motion.

Earlier that morning, he had also performed his breathing technique, Nine Sparks of Yang Ignition, seated cross-legged in silent meditation.

Each breath kindled the fire within, fanning the yang qi that coursed through his meridians. When he opened his eyes, sweat already beaded his brow.

He had then moved to the training hall, where his routine resumed in earnest. He repeated the martial forms he'd learned so far, going through them again and again until his muscles burned.

Beyond that, he pushed his body through rigorous physical drills—pushups, planks, squats, weight lifting—all designed to harden his frame and improve endurance.

By the time the afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, he was drenched in sweat, muscles trembling with exhaustion.

After his bath, he returned to his chambers, toweling off as he viewed the ancient scroll in his mind.

The Yin Drain Codex once more drew his attention. He spent a few hours deciphering it, eyes narrowed in thought as he pieced together the cryptic passages. It was a sinister text, but layered with powerful insight. He could feel it—like a coiled serpent whispering secrets.

Then came more meditation, another cycle of Nine Sparks of Yang Ignition.

As twilight approached, he opened his eyes and exhaled, a thin mist of qi dispersing from his lips.

Only three hours remained until Su Meiyin's arrival. Fengyang considered taking another bath, but the mere thought of dragging himself to the tub felt like a punishment.

Laziness triumphed. With a sigh, he opted once again for his unorthodox solution—circulating the Chrysanthemum Purifying Sutra across his whole body. The technique, intended only for cleansing the rear, had become his shortcut to full-body purification.

Warm, flowing qi surged across his body as the water element washed through his pores, stripping away sweat and grime in a smooth, cleansing tide. A gentle steam rose from his skin.

Then came the fire.

Purifying flames ignited across his flesh, coaxing out the last of the filth with a searing heat.

As the flames reached his lower half, a sharp sting lanced through his groin. He winced. His body tensed, remembering the unbearable sensation from before, but he bore it—barely.

Finally, the impurities, now turned into foul vapor, were swept away by the Sutra's spatial ripple, vanishing far beyond the manor walls.

Fengyang exhaled, his skin left gleaming and fresh. Painful as it was, it still beat drawing a second bath.

A low growl from his stomach broke the silence. He blinked, amused. It was easy to forget meals when consumed by cultivation.

Setting his robe in order, he decided to explore the manor in search of the kitchen.

Despite living here for some time, he had never once ventured into kitchen. Today, that changed.

The manor sprawled like a small palace, with high halls, quiet corridors, and faint floral scents lingering in the air.

He passed several rooms he hadn't entered before—storage chambers, linen rooms, even a secluded garden court hidden behind sliding doors.

Each space had its own air of refinement, reflective of Meiyin's standards.

He even passed two maids whispering in a corner who fell into nervous silence as he approached.

Finally, after a dozen turns, he reached a modest, steam-filled chamber tucked behind a pair of swinging wooden doors. The scent of boiled herbs, dumplings, and fried garlic wafted out.

This was the kitchen.

Inside, a woman turned at his entrance, wiping her hands on a cloth.

Rong Yulian.

She wasn't a beauty in the usual sense—not like Mingzhu or Meiyin—but she possessed an allure that was harder to define.

Her figure, soft and ripened with age, bore the hallmarks of a life well lived.

A thin, semi-translucent robe clung to her body, made damp by the steam of the kitchen. It traced the shape of her ample bust and full hips, her silhouette blurred only slightly by the swirling heat.

A turquoise sash hugged her waist, accentuating the contrast between her middle and the generous curves below.

One side of her robe was slit high, revealing a thick, flushed thigh as she moved.

Her face was warm, heart-shaped, framed by loose strands of black hair tucked behind her ears.

Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, carried the softness of a woman content in her life.

She smiled.

"Master Lin? I didn't expect you here," she said, voice calm with a gentle melody.

Fengyang offered a nod. "I felt hungry. Decided to find the kitchen myself."

"I see. It's rare for you to come all this way," she replied, clearly surprised but not displeased. "Would you like something light?"

He nodded. "Please."

She turned to her work, rolling up her sleeves. The enthusiasm she showed while preparing the meal was obvious—each movement carried a rhythm, a practiced ease born of passion.

She began preparing dumplings with quick, sure fingers, stuffing them with minced meat and herbs before sealing them with a practiced twist.

Fengyang watched quietly. The kitchen smelled divine, and despite the heat, it felt oddly soothing.

He wasn't drawn to her like he was to Mingzhu or Meiyin. No lust surged unbidden, no hunger stirred his loins.

She was older, clearly married—he noticed the bangle on her wrist, a type only worn by married women in the region—and possibly a mother.

Still, there was something undeniably captivating about her presence. The kind of woman who didn't seek attention yet drew it naturally.

And then, just as he reached for a cup of water, a low, lecherous chuckle echoed inside his mind.

"Brat..." Huo Yan lewdly commented."You've wasted all this time with such ripened beauty around in this manor? What a waste you are."

Fengyang's brow twitched. "Did you lose your mind, perverted geezer? She's older than me."

"So what? A hole is a hole."

"You—you!" He stifled his voice, glancing at Madam Rong, who was humming softly as she worked. "She's a married woman. Might even have kids."

"That's even better," Huo Yan said with relish. "The taste of a ripened woman who aged fine like wine is something no man should miss. Wouldn't it be exciting to steal another man's peach?"

Fengyang frowned, heart beginning to stir against his will. "No way."

"Come on. Just once. Have I ever lied to you?" Huo Yan's tone grew more insistent, his lewd grin practically audible.

"A passionate woman deserves a reward for toiling in a hot kitchen all day. Look at those hips. Look at how that plump ass sways. And those melons—can that robe even hold them anymore?"

Fengyang's gaze flickered—unbidden—just as she bent down to retrieve a tray. The fabric strained, and her full chest swayed visibly beneath the thin robe. A sudden heat flushed through him.

A flicker of doubt crossed Fengyang's mind, but it was quickly drowned by a darker, more tempting thought.

Maybe the old bastard's not entirely wrong.

I shouldn't be thinking like this... and yet the thought lingers. Just once—what harm would there be? No promises, no entanglements. Just a taste.

She's married. So what? That's not my problem. I didn't tie her to anyone. If anything, the thought of something so forbidden—it stirs something primal.

I've taken risks for power. For survival. Why hesitate here?

He said she'd be fine wine. A flavor wasted on others. Am I really going to walk away without even a sip?

Dammit. This isn't even my style. I don't chase women like this. But now the idea's there, coiled like smoke in my mind.

Maybe it's wrong. Maybe it's exactly the kind of wrong I'll regret.

Or maybe it's exactly what I need.

Finally he made his decision and not going to waver.

After a few more minutes, Rong Yulian placed a small tray before him, steam rising gently from a shallow bowl of freshly cooked dumplings.

The scent of garlic, chive, and seasoned pork filled the space between them, rich and mouthwatering.

She had arranged them with care, garnished lightly with sesame seeds and a drizzle of fragrant oil.

"Here you go, Master Lin," she said, her voice laced with a quiet pride. "They're still hot."

Fengyang picked one up with his chopsticks and took a bite. The skin was soft, delicate, but held firm—perfectly folded.

Inside, the filling burst with flavor, savory and spiced just right. He chewed slowly, savoring the warmth that spread through his mouth and down to his belly.

"Delicious," he said simply, but his tone carried weight. He meant it.

She turned her gaze to him, eyes lighting up with a smile that reached all the way to the corners. "You really think so?"

"I do. These are some of the best dumplings

I've ever had," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. "Crisp where they need to be, soft where it counts. You have a gift."

Her cheeks warmed. "Thank you, Master Lin. I've always loved to cook... Nothing brings me more joy than seeing someone enjoy what I make."

She had once been just a simple mortal, living in a quiet village. Four years ago, when Meiyin had come on a mission to her village, she had sold dumplings from a humble street stall.

It was then that Meiyin, after tasting one of her delicacies, had decided to take her—along with her husband and two children—away from the life she knew.

Meiyin, recognizing the woman's talent, brought her to the manor, wanting her to serve as her personal cook.

At first, she resented Meiyin deeply for stripping her of her peaceful life. But over time, that resentment had faded as she saw her children thrive in the wealth and comfort of the manor.

Her family, once struggling, now lived a life of luxury. Meiyin had even taken the time to teach her the basics of cultivation, though she had little aptitude for it.

Now, she stood at the third stage of Qi Condensation, but her passion for cooking kept her from devoting more time to her training, and her cultivation remained stagnant.

After eating five dumplings, Fengyang felt content, his hunger satiated. He set his chopsticks down, a satisfied sigh escaping him.

Despite her low cultivation, she had come to appreciate the life she now led—one of stability and purpose, even if it had come at the cost of her past.

She stepped aside briefly, returning with a pair of linen napkins folded neatly over her arm.

With practiced grace, she offered them to Fengyang to wipe his mouth, then stood nearby, hands lightly clasped before her waist, ready to serve should he ask for more.

Fengyang wiped his mouth with the napkin she'd handed him, the warmth of the meal still lingering on his tongue.

The taste of seasoned pork and chives faded slowly, but another hunger had begun to stir in its place.

Rong Yulian stood patiently beside him, hands folded modestly in front of her waist, awaiting his next request.

She leaned slightly forward, her voice soft. "Is there anything else you would like, Master Lin?"

Fengyang looked up at her with an unreadable smile. "There is... something else I'd like to try."

Before she could inquire further, his hand reached out and pulled her gently but firmly into his lap.

Her breath hitched as her soft body met his chest, her robe pressing against him.

The move had caught her completely off-guard.

"Ah—Master Lin?" she gasped, flustered.

His hand slid up her side and boldly cupped one of her heavy breasts through her robe. His fingers sank into the warm softness, savoring the weight and fullness with a squeeze.

"Master Lin, no!" she said in a trembling voice, cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "What are you doing? This is... it's inappropriate."

He silenced her with a firmer squeeze, eyes never leaving hers. His voice dropped low.

"Shh... Madam Rong, you're quite the vision. It'd be a shame not to savor you properly. I've had my appetizer," he murmured, thumb brushing over her now-stiffening nipple through the thin fabric, "shouldn't I enjoy the main course now?"

She squirmed in his lap, heat rushing to her face. "Please, Master Lin... This is wrong. I—I'm a married woman. I have children. A husband. I can't do this. Please understand..."

"But your body says otherwise," he said, giving a slow, deliberate press against her nipple.

She inhaled sharply as it stiffened further under his touch.

"Why restrain yourself to one man, beautiful? A flower as ripe as you deserves more fitting reward. Wouldn't it be more appropriate for a man who can truly appreciate your body... to do so?"

Her breath came in shorter bursts, panic and arousal mixing in her eyes.

"I can't," she whispered. "Master, I can't betray my husband like this..."

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning in close.

"Just indulging in a bit of pleasure doesn't make you any less loyal. You've toiled all these years for your family. You're the reason they're blessed with comfort and safety. Isn't it only fair you're allowed a taste of reward, now and then?"

"But... isn't it morally wrong?" she asked, still trying to reason her way through the haze of guilt and temptation.

"It's not wrong to seek warmth when the world grows cold," Fengyang replied softly. "A thirsty woman reaching for a cup of wine isn't a sinner—she's just human."

Her breathing faltered. The resistance in her eyes trembled.

"I'm old, Master Lin... probably unattractive to someone like you," she murmured, as if saying it aloud would shield her from shame.

Fengyang gave a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. "Old? Yuilian, you don't even know the power of your own charm."

"My charm?" she echoed, voice faint.

"My husband hasn't touched me in six years," she confessed, shame flooding her voice. "Even he no longer finds me desirable..."

"What? Was he dropped on his head as a child?" Fengyang scoffed. "If he doesn't appreciate what he has, why not let me? Let me show you what he forgot."

He fondled her breast again, slower now, reverently. Her body tensed... then gradually melted.

"Master Lin..." she whispered, her voice cracking beneath the weight of want and guilt. "If you... if you really think so..."

He pressed his lips lightly to her neck. "I know so."

Her breath caught once more.

And then, the last of her resistance crumbled.

She turned her face slightly away, not in rejection—but in surrender.

"...Then please... be gentle with me."

Fengyang's lips curled into a knowing smile, a low chuckle escaping his chest as he trailed his lips up her neck, his breath feathering across her ear.

He nipped at her earlobe lightly, sending a shiver down her spine. "Don't worry, Yuilian," he whispered, his voice a velvet promise.

"I'll be gentle with you. I'll make sure you love every moment."

He was right—hadn't she earned a little reward for all her quiet sacrifices? Day after day in the kitchen, her fingers smelled of ginger and garlic, never of perfume.

Her husband hadn't looked at her like this in years, not with hunger, not with awe. And yet here stood a man—young, virile, unbearably handsome—who wanted to devour her with his gaze. It would be rude to refuse such sincere appreciation. So, for once, she chose herself.

Today, the kitchen would overflow not just with the aroma of spice and oil, but with the thick, heady scent of lust fulfilled.