Chapter 789 - 788 - Teaching on Thick Jiggly Canvas

Chapter 789: Chapter 788 - Teaching on Thick Jiggly Canvas

She trembled. Removed her hands. Stood there, in her bra and panties, her body exposed, her skin pale and soft and covered in ink from my pen.

I wrote on her abdomen. The soft curve of her belly — the skin yielding beneath the nib, the flesh warm. I wrote the resonance frequency calculations across her stomach, the notation running from hip to hip, dipping into the hollow of her navel. She gasped when the pen circled her belly button.

"The distributed network requires a central anchor point," I said, writing. "In the human body, that’s the navel. The mana circuits converge there during fetal development — it’s the original connection point. If you’re building a resonance field in a corpse, you start there."

She nodded. Her eyes were on the notation. Her lips moved. She was reading — translating the symbols into concepts, processing the information, her brain running so fast that the embarrassment was being crowded out by intellectual hunger.

I wrote on her hips. The curves where thigh met pelvis. The sensitive skin at the crease. She flinched. Her thighs pressed together — and I could see it. A dark spot on her panties. Wet. Spreading.

I turned her around. Wrote on her back — the spine, the shoulder blades, the dimples above her ass. The notation continued. The formula built. She stood still, her hands at her sides, her body a living page.

I reached her lower back. The waistband of her panties blocked the next section. I pulled them down — just slightly, just enough. She flinched but didn’t resist. I wrote on the exposed skin, the formula trailing into the cleft of her ass.

I turned her again. Wrote on her collarbone. Her neck. The hollow of her throat. She swallowed — I felt the movement beneath the pen.

Then her face.

She pulled back. "Wait — if you write on my face, I will not be able to see it."

I chuckled. "You can always see it in the mirror, right?"

She paused. Considered. The logic was sound. "Indeed," she said.

I wrote on her face. Small, precise notation along her cheekbone. Her jaw. Her temple. The pen moved across her skin, and I was close — so close that I could see the individual lashes behind her glasses, the faint freckles on her nose, the way her pupils dilated when I leaned in.

Her eyes reflected my face. In the amber light, behind the fogged lenses, I could see myself — dark hair, violet eyes, sharp features, the faint smile of a predator. And behind my reflection, in her eyes, I could see what she was thinking.

’He’s handsome. He’s so handsome. Why is he so handsome? I should not be thinking about how handsome he is. I should be thinking about the formula. The formula. The formula. His jaw is so sharp. The formula. His eyes are glowing. Are his eyes glowing? The formula—’

I smiled. She blushed harder.

I moved down. Her chest. The formula continued across her collarbone, down the sternum, to the edge of her bra. The cups were full — her breasts strained against the white fabric, the tops swells visible, the skin between them creating a deep line of cleavage.

I unhooked the bra.

Her eyes widened. Her hands flew up — crossing over her chest, covering herself, her fingers pressing into the soft flesh. "Please, sir — what are you—"

"We are at a very important concept," I said. My voice was calm. Reasonable. The voice of a professor explaining why a student needed to remove their clothes for a practical demonstration. "The resonance frequency of the heart chakra. It’s located here." I pointed at her sternum — where her hands crossed. "I need to write there."

She trembled. Her arms dropped. The bra fell away.

Her breasts were big. Heavy. The kind that sagged slightly under their own weight — not perky, not defying gravity, but settled into a natural, mature shape. Her nipples were pink — soft, slightly puffed, the areolas wide and dark. They were stiff — from the air, from the exposure, from the overwhelming stimulation of the pen on her skin.

I wrote on her breast. The right one. The notation started at the outer curve, trailed across the underside, and climbed toward the nipple. She gasped. Her hand went to my shoulder — gripping, steadying herself.

The pen reached her areola. The dark, sensitive skin tightened as the nib traced across it. She twitched. Her grip on my shoulder tightened. I circled the nipple — the notation spiraling inward, tighter and tighter, the pen’s tip getting closer to the center.

I touched the nipple.

"Ow—!" She cried. Not from pain — from the sensation. The pen’s nib pressed against the stiffened peak, and the contact sent a jolt through her entire body. Her back arched. Her hand crushed my shoulder. Her thighs pressed together so hard they shook.

The pen pressed harder. I wrote — a tiny notation, a single variable — directly on her nipple. The ink pooled in the crevices of the stiffened flesh. And then — from the tip of the nipple, where the pen had pressed — a thin, clear liquid appeared.

Not ink. Milk.

She gasped. Her hand flew to her chest, covering the nipple. "What — what is—"

"It’s the resonance cascade," I said. Smoothly. Lying. "The heart chakra, when properly stimulated, triggers the body’s nurturing response. Milk production is a side effect of the mana circuits activating. It’s perfectly normal."

She stared at me. Her eyes were wide. Her scientific mind — the part that demanded evidence, that questioned assumptions — was at war with the part that wanted to believe. That needed to believe. Because if this was normal, if this was a side effect of the resonance cascade, then what she was feeling — the arousal, the wetness, the overwhelming need — wasn’t desire.

It was research.

"Indeed," she whispered.

I kept writing. On her other breast. The left one — slightly larger, the nipple already stiff, the areola darker. I wrote across the curve, beneath the swell, around the side. She was gasping now — small, sharp intakes of breath, each one coming faster than the last. Her hand was still on my shoulder. Her other hand was at her side, clenching and unclenching.

I pulled a razor from the edge of the tub — the same type Mirin had used, thin-bladed, precise. Vespera’s eyes found it. Widened.

"Your armpit," I said. "I need more space to write. The lymphatic resonance nodes are located there. The hair is interfering with the notation."

She trembled. Raised her arm. The armpit — shaved that morning, probably, but already showing fine stubble — was exposed. Pale, soft, the skin thinner than anywhere else on her body.

I shaved her. Carefully. The razor dragged across the stubble, leaving smooth, clean skin. She flinched at the cold blade. Her arm shook. I held her wrist steady.

Then I wrote on the freshly shaved skin. The notation was small, delicate, following the contour of her armpit. She gasped. The pen on the shaved skin — hypersensitive, the nerve endings firing — made her entire body shiver.

"The lymphatic system," I said, writing, "is the body’s secondary mana network. In life, it circulates slowly. In death, it stops entirely. To resurrect the dead, you need to restart this circulation before the soul can anchor."