The Surge in Favorability
The next morning dawned over Beilu Street, this rundown dump without even a rooster's crow to mark it. Liu Zichu woke to blinding sunlight forcing his eyes shut; he threw up a hand against the glare.
"Fuck, overslept?"
His head felt foggy, body strangely drained. He smacked his forehead, memories flooding back: last night with his aunt, her face buried between his legs, his cock thrusting into her mouth.
She'd knelt on all fours, ass high, while he gripped her cheeks and pounded from behind. He'd draped himself over her back, kneading her swaying tits, fucking her so deep and hard that he'd flooded her pussy with load after load.
Finally, he'd pinned her voluptuous body beneath him, spread her legs wide in the classic missionary, making her moan endlessly, climax over and over until she begged for mercy. She'd sworn she'd marry him, craved only his cock, vowed her pussy and ass to no other man—wanted him fucking her forever, her holes filled solely with his cum. And he'd obliged, slamming into her relentlessly, pumping her full until every orifice overflowed.
Liu Zichu blinked in a daze. Had he really done all that with his aunt last night?
No, something's off...
Then it hit him: he'd had a wet dream.
He sat up, wincing at the ache in his back and waist, teeth gritted. This soreness was no joke—fucking hell.
What had he done yesterday?
Day stuff, evening stuff, hugging his aunt, groping her tits... then back to jerk off...
Fell asleep mid-stroke?
Shaking off the haze, he pieced it together, then glanced urgently between his legs.
He usually cleaned up after jerking off before crashing, but last night he'd passed out inexplicably. Cum everywhere—and way too much.
The bed was a mess of dried and sticky white splotches, especially the sheets between his thighs: thick, yellowish stains, still fresh, covering a huge area. No way one load did that.
Liu Zichu's mouth twitched. Shot all that during the dream?
Jerking off while dreaming of railing his aunt, blasting load after load— no wonder he felt wrecked, like he'd nearly drained himself dry in his sleep.
On impulse, he pulled up his aunt's panel. No change in sexual encounters or creampies—getting fucked in someone else's dream didn't count.
Wild thought process, that.
He froze, rubbing his eyes—pointless for a mental panel, but shock was real. Her favorability had jumped to 10.
Liu Zichu: "???"
Still "dispensable," but why the jump from 6 to 10?
He shot to his feet, stunned. What had he done yesterday to spike her favorability like that?
Biggest thing: hugging her, fondling those huge tits?
He frowned. Or... she'd been sex-starved for days since arriving—no men—and his groping felt good, boosting favor?
He slapped himself. Dumbass, that's bullshit.
Eyes lighting up: the market analysis he'd given her!
Had to be. Put yourself in her shoes: the worthless playboy Liu Zichu suddenly analyzing clientele seriously? She'd felt relieved, proud—favor up.
He grinned like an idiot. If so, her favor was easy to farm.
But joy couldn't fix his post-dream exhaustion or the oversleep. Or the vast wet patches on the bed—such a waste. Imagine shooting all that inside her... No, flooding her insides. Sheets were trash now.
His thighs were sticky too, so he took a cold shower to wake up.
Toweling off naked from the bath partition, he spotted his aunt in rose-red robes, poised elegantly at the round table.
Liu Zichu: "..."
Ling Ru's expression remained icy. She eyed his naked form: defined muscles glistening with droplets, thick bush, cock dangling impressively even soft.
"Auntie?"
He jolted—how was she in his room?
Before he could cover up, her gaze met his, flicked to his cock, then to the cum-stained bed.
She said nothing, but he crumbled. That mess from jerking to her—in a dream-fuck no less. His cock twitched, swelling, hardening straight at her. She turned back just in time to see it.
From limp to full mast that fast.
She frowned slightly. He clamped his thighs, towel over his erection, face contorting.
"No, Auntie, it's not— that's not what you think! I didn't..."
Stammering, mortified.
But she showed no disgust. After a pause, she rose: "Clean it up. Then come find me."
She left, leaving him dumbfounded.
"Shit."
Image ruined. What had she imagined? Nonstop jerking since yesterday? That much cum—not one session. And who was he thinking of? Obvious.
He sneaked another panel peek: favorability now 11.
Liu Zichu: "..."
He checked her panel again.
"System, what's going on? Data glitch?"
"System scanning..."
"Scan complete."
"Data normal."
Silence.
So... she knew he jerked to her, multiple loads, and her favor went up?
Even if she was a masochist, that reasoning stretched.
Morning wake-up to 10 already shocked him. Then she sees him naked, hard for her, cum everywhere—no anger, +1 to 11? Wild.
Why? Sex experience limited—one passive fling with a hooker senior—how could he grasp Ling Ru's mind?
To her, the old Liu Zichu—lusting after even his own sisters, kidnapping street girls for gangbangs—now preferred solo marathon sessions over whoring or worse. Bizarre.
It reinforced his claim: he'd died once, reborn.
His fantasies? Sect brothers jerked to her daily, some drew hentai portraits—enforcement hall busted them.
She'd even let him hug and grope yesterday—natural he'd blow off steam.
Back in her room, she sat on her bed, slender hand tracing her full breasts, then lower, pausing over her skirt at her thighs.
Rare flush softened her icy cheeks.
Fingers pressed lightly through fabric, pussy tingling pleasurably.
Day six off-mountain. Normally, gangbanged by them today: held, cocks ravaging pussy, ass, mouth, creampied, then stumbling back cum-drenched to recover.
Less a woman, more a fucktoy—worse than a whore.
She closed her eyes in bliss. They'd never guess: virgin again.
Checked yesterday: pussy pristine, no wear, Yin Yuan Qi restored—like untouched. Ass too: post-fast, wildly fucked thousands of times, loosened—now fingertip-tight.
Body purified: Pure Yin intact, maiden form.
This gangbanged shell, now virgin? Laughable.
All from his pill—worth more than imagined.
She teased her clit through cloth, careful not to finger-fuck and break the new hymen.
But what good? Nine days, back to sect—kneeling, recucked.
Cherish her virginity? They'd deflowered 14-year-old her brutally—who pitied then?
Fingers sped, cheeks rosy, lips parting in soft moans.
Footsteps at her door—she jolted, smoothed her skirt, sat cross-legged. Pussy ached, juices soaking the sheets.
Knock knock. "Auntie, it's me."
Deep breath, calm: "Enter."
He'd bundled the sheets, dumped them in trash. Straight to third floor, anxious—what'd she want? Hopefully naughty.
Door open: rose-red aunt cross-legged on bed, eyes shut, faint blush like a painting fairy.
He stared, lewd visions bubbling.
"Table has a jade slip. Speak your message to your mother into it, then go."
"Huh?"
Table: plum bag, emerald jade slip—finger-long, two wide, jade pendant thick.
Sound transmission jade slip? Legendary!
Thrilled—phones existed back home, but this? First magic tool.
Was it one?
Perplexed glance: "Auntie, how do I...?"
She opened eyes, cold: "Hold and speak. Your mother wants your status. Thirty words max."
"Oh."
Warm jade in hand—valuable even sans magic.
Mother? Original owner's memories only; zero personal bond.
Memory-Ling: doting, oral scolds, helpless sighs.
To scum: indulgence. Even when father wielded house law, she'd beg mercy.
Outsider view: kind, gentle—cared for servants, maids, donated to poor.
But useless educator—warnings, light whips? Scum laughed.
Mother bore huge blame for his ruin.
Yet... pity parents worldwide. Blame her?
After thought: head bowed to slip, "Mother, sorry for worrying you."
For the scum. His words.
Set down—no glow, no text. Success? Turned to aunt, reluctant to leave.
Her gaze pinned him, unnerving. Softly: "Out."
Disappointed, he left.
She beckoned; slip glowed green, flew to her. Infused qi—cracked, message sent.
Staring at door: "He... apologized?"
She'd imagined lines, even apology if reformed—but dismissed as absurd.
Yet sincere tone, steady pulse on slip—not her presence.
He wanted to fuck her—she knew. Always had. Cock hard for her.
Claims reformed, still craves her...
Sigh. Eyes shut, ignoring pussy's leak soaking sheets. Qi cycled for daily cultivation.
Downstairs, Liu Zichu punched air, sighing. Tough road.
Brothel crew tomorrow or next—hurry.
Skipped scouting—analysis showed: other brothels served poor cloth-wearers, petty traders—cheap service.
At counter, paper-pen, sank into thought—gnawing pen, head-scratching like thesis crunch. Scribbles when ideas hit.
Brush fine— no issue.
Dusk fell, vision dimmed—he surfaced, belly rumbling at messy papers.
"That much?"
Proud exhale—dreamed of hotels.
Xianxia detour to brothel, but overlaps.
Hungry, out for food—ink still wet, left as-is.
Post-meal, pre-full dark: back, saw lobby lit. "Fuck!"
Manuscripts exposed— aunt saw?
Yup: her rose-red figure at front table, reading them. Stunning, heart-racing—but guilty. Inappropriate for era.
"Auntie, why down here?" Grinning awkwardly—thought she'd stay up.
No glance: "Your own ideas?"
Scratch head: "Yeah."
"'Welcoming slogan'?"
"Uh... guest pitch."
"'Quality/service, roster list, clientele zones...' Where'd you learn?" Eyes up, piercing.
"Auntie, problem?"
Shake: "No. Just... odd you wrote this."
Sheepish grin: "Heard managers yap, tinkered."
Last page: flat, "'Prostitute services/playstyles'—tinkered too?"
Liu Zichu: "..."
Silent.
Front: hotel-management terms—awkward read, but gist clear.
But brothel: sex core. Inspiration? AVs, smut tales' kinks.
Memory-brothels: tunes, pick girl, room-fuck. Madam greet, girls host, booze/music/dance, pick for sleep. Courtesans: tea circles for elites.
Scum skipped low-end—knew fancy only.
Low-end: strip-fuck raw.
His scale: neither fancy (no backing) nor cheap (stagnant, fixed image).
Solution: Novel kinks! Modern biz + weird plays = win.
Her silence chilled: "Gangbanging whores in halls—you."
Shiver. "Auntie, crossed out! Means scrapped!"
True—line through.
She set papers down, silent. He stood like scolded kid.
Long pause, exhale: "Whores are people, with dignity. Sell smiles, arts, bodies, flesh—but lines exist. Change? Respect them. Else, no qualification."
Nod—employee psych key in management. He'd axed raunchiest.
Her seeing strikes? No punch.
Done, rose—glanced, turned.
"Auntie..."
Paused, looked: hesitant. Flat: "Hug again?"
"Ah? No—" Wave, then eyes lit, nod: "Yes—"
Her icy beauty: shrink, shake: "No no."
Slap-worthy word-vomit.
She stared.
Shake head: "No, Auntie... reliable?"
Anxious—theory solid, practice nil; era gap.
Softened: "'Wild fantasies, nonsense.'"
Mouth twitch—harsh.
Upstairs alone. He watched back, recalled hug-softness, tit-mush—heart raced, cock twitched.
Regret: bolder, another hug?
First step pause: cold voice, "Evening jerks: less. Cock too much? Find me. I'll handle."
Gone.
Mouth agape—misheard?
"Fuck?"
Unbearable nights over? She'd relieve him?
Excited visions. Ass-up? Blowjob redux? Handjob?
Swallow—fine either way.
Panel: favorability 15.
Thrilled, analyzed:
Start: 6.
Analysis + hug/grope → morning 10. Scum trying? Impression shift.
Aunt sees nude/hard/cum mess—no rage, +1 to 11. Horny from drought, sight-triggered? Stretched, but fits.
Now: papers → +4 to 15. Leap! She'd use him for her needs too—drought + his changes = acceptance.
Evidence-based. Bliss.
Time left—not bedtime. Too eager now.
Perfected plan till watchman's call. Stretched, nodded approval.
Tore to shreds—modern terms risky; aunt spotting? Disaster.
Burned at door, ashes gone.
Two bowls water—cock raged, tenting pants.
Antsy: aunt's room, her handling his dick. Mouth? Hands? Tits? Pussy... Shiiit.
Lantern-lit, knocked third floor: "...Auntie... may I?"
"Enter."
Cool voice—fist pump! Yes! Touching incoming!!!
Room lit, rose-red cross-legged, eyes shut.
Swallow—gawked at face, tits; parched despite water.
Proactive? Earn it.
She opened eyes, noted tension, hunched cover. Flat: "Strip. Come."
Heat surged, breaths heavy—fumbled clothes till naked, cock proud. Shy?
Approached, eyes/cock locked on her—raw desire.
Her gaze on cock: decent size, build—for scum, many takers.
Up to face: "Closer."
Nod, near—reach-away.
"Sit."
"Huh? Where?"
Footjob dream? Ass? BJ? HJ? Sit?
"Floor."
Strange floor—not wood. Sat, cock high.
Footjob! Legs level, skirt-bound.
"Cross-legged."
Obeyed.
"Eyes shut, palms back on knees."
Off? But complied.
"I'll teach meditation."
"Pfft—what?" Footjob where?!
Bubble burst. Whole night: meditation.
To her: his lust/dream-loads exceeded mortal limits. Meditation suppresses.
Tragedy. Agony, but obeyed—why meditate sans qi sense?
Unseen: her qi enveloped him, forcing calm, syncing breath.
Cock wilted; face serene. Right or wrong?
No qi sense, no real cultivation—but stronger body possible.
Mortal scum's crimes: dire. Cultivator? Worse.
Yet... changes moved her.
"Don't disappoint me—or sister. Or..."
Final thought. She meditated too, qi sustaining him.