Six inches. The head pressing against her cervix.
"AH—MASTER—I—HAANGHH~—"
He pressed 'through.'
The cervix stretched. Opened. And the Queen's scream went from words to pure, unfiltered sound — "HAAAANGHHT~!!" — her whole body seizing, back caving off the mattress, the enormous pregnant belly lifting with the arch as every muscle locked simultaneously.
The physician checked her pulse. Made a note. Did not look up.
'Phack.'
"AAAAHNGHH~!!"
'Phack. Phack.'
"HNGH~!! PLEASE — MASTER — BE GENTLE — MY BABY — HAAANGHH~—"
His hands pressed flat against her belly — both of them, broad and warm, the cultivator's hands that could crush a Core Formation elder like paper now pressing down with deliberate, steady pressure. Not violent. Purposeful. Like a man who knows exactly how much force is required and applies precisely that.
