The moment I enter the room, the smell tells me that person is there. Their conditioner is overpowering—not quite perfume, but a thick, honey-sticky artificial scent that barges deep into the nose. It is nothing like the fresh lilac fragrance I love and feels strong enough to split my head open from within. Nobody can stop it or even say anything. Post about it on a social platform and the replies are always, “That’s diversity,” followed by childish threats about studying law or having my identity disclosed whenever they are challenged. I only want this hopelessly compromised state of affairs to improve, even a little. Magazine editor, 34: caught defenseless around Shirokane-Takanawa at 1:43 p.m., with secretly gorgeous huge tits and a thick dark bush. Instructor, 24: a flawless 172 cm body, repeatedly impaled while her wildly tight pussy clamps down like a vacuum. Convenience-store worker, 20: an adult college student used like a fuck toy in her sleep by a deadbeat upperclassman, her smooth pussy pounded until she completely submits. Bookstore clerk, 20: an innocent adult MARCH student whose womb is exposed for me alone, brought down by TOP GUN and hammered with crazed piston thrusts. This is the only love nest. The less charming the woman, the harder she bucks on this older man’s goddamn superior cock. She cannot admit how much she loves fucking, so a formula now said to be 39% safer rapidly awakens that buried instinct. One thrust pumps a heavy load from his balls deep inside her until her womb feels ready to burst.