To divert my attention, I continued flipping through my romance novel, thinking he probably couldn’t read Chinese, and periodically sensing his eager gaze flickering back and forth between the pages. Soon, a vivid scene caught my eye, and I became completely absorbed in reading it—so focused that I entirely forgot about the tall black man beside me. As I reached for a bottle of water, I glanced up to see that his screen was now playing an A-level film: four strong Black men were supporting a slender Japanese woman. The woman had both her vagina and anus inserted with penile shafts—each hand grasping one—and she was simultaneously giving two Black men alternating lip-to-lip kisses on the sides of their faces. Beside her, one of the men held his mouse in one hand while gently rubbing himself with the other. I looked down in surprise to find that he wasn't wearing any underpants; instead, his erect penis was proudly lifting his sandal pants off the ground. He stroked his shaft with the fabric of his pants and, noticing me watching him, deliberately squeezed it tighter so that the outline of his shaft clearly emerged against the fabric—a true third leg, measuring twenty-five centimeters long, broader than my forearm. His legs spread wide, and he began to gently press and knead. I moved his penis up and down with one hand, yet I didn’t listen—instead, I pushed firmly on his large hand to touch me, humming, “Don’t touch me… don’t… I can’t handle it… stop!” But he stepped forward and reached into the hem of my skirt, lightly touching my slender thighs. With his arms around my entire height—1.72 meters—he cradled me gently, casually kneading my buttocks and inner thighs; as a result, my vagina released an abundant flow of lubrication with barely any effort on my part. I used my right hand to push hard against his chest, but felt increasingly helpless, yearning instead to touch the thick, muscular contours of his chest—while my left hand kept gripping him tighter and faster. The hand caressing my buttocks pressed gently on my breasts through my blouse, shaping them into various forms; meanwhile, the hand touching my thighs moved steadily upward. I clutched my legs tightly together, afraid that whenever he touched me, I would lose control—or even worse, afraid he might notice how completely soaked I had become. In his arms, I twisted and struggled—yet it felt more like being gently manipulated by him than actively participating. He murmured softly into my ear: “You’ll soon overwhelm me—you’re so excited. But the real pleasure has just begun!”