Sex is the Best Way to Learn About Other Cultures. - Chapter 2.5 Female Perspective

Patrolling the streets of Paris is my daily routine.

That said, I’m not a police officer or part of any local patrol team. I’m simply a high school girl.

So why is a young woman like me patrolling the entire city alone? It’s all for one purpose: to drive every non-white person out of this country.

Every person has a country they belong to by birthright.

As someone whose parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents were all pure-blooded whites, I naturally have the right to live in France – the City of Flowers.

Don’t you agree?

France was originally a white country. This isn’t a place for outsiders who came later to walk around with their chests puffed out.

Black people naturally belong in Africa. Since we brought their ancestors here as slaves, they should return to their birthplace now that slavery is abolished.

The Chinese, who’ve been coming in droves lately, should huddle together in some remote corner of East Asia. As for the Japanese to the east, they should stay put on their tiny islands.

Half-breeds and quarter-bloods mixing with other races? Absolutely not. They should form their own independent states where they don’t interbreed with pure-blooded humans.

We Europeans are white.

The far reaches of the Eurasian continent are for yellow-skinned people.

Africa is for black people.

Everyone else, including half-breeds, can go create a republic in South America.

Of course, whites are at the top, and the rest don’t matter. But mixed-race half-whites come second. The others can all be lumped together at the bottom.

Even among whites, there are Slavs, Germans, Anglo-Saxons, and so on, but I don’t expect such distinctions to be made. Whites are whites, and if we were to declare Latin types superior to Anglo-Saxons, that would be true racism.

Whites should be equal among themselves.

Asians should be equal among themselves.

Blacks should be equal among themselves.

The races shouldn’t mix. If they have s3x and make children, I think that they should be punished with extreme severity.

We each have our own place in the world, so whites should marry whites, and Asians should marry Asians.

Yet our Paris is currently being invaded by foreigners.

The Champs-Élysées is overrun with Asian tourists strutting about as if they own the place, and black people are even being granted citizenship in the city. It’s absurd. Why doesn’t anyone try to keep Asians and blacks out?

That’s why I patrol.

To make sure these out-of-place travelers never set foot in France again.

To make them understand that Europe is our white people’s land.

Today, I’ll stride through all of Paris, searching for those foreign races that need to be expelled.

“…There he is.”

In a small square on the outskirts of the city, a crude and unrefined Asian man sat slumped on a bench.

He had black hair, typical of Asians, and was big, but not muscular, more like a gorilla or a primitive man. His facial features were also far from those of white people.

His clothes are in tatters, but he looks more like a traveler than a vagrant. The way he’s at his wits’ end at this hour, he must have been kicked out of some lodging. It’s the birthday of a famous French painter right now, so every hotel around Paris is full. Coming to France without checking such basic facts shows a fatal lack of respect for our country. Asians who come to France should at least master basic French and study our history and famous figures. Planning a trip to Paris without proper preparation is utterly absurd. As if the air in France isn’t already ours by right – the thought of it being tainted by some Asian’s breath makes me want to retch.

I’d like him to starve to death here, but the idea of Asian corpses littering Pari’s streets gives me the creeps. If he’s going to die, he should at least travel east to China first. That’s what Asians do, after all. It’s their duty.

“Good evening.”

Despite this Asian man’s appearance, I deliberately spoke to him with kindness. Whites are a race steeped in neighborly love and compassion. I don’t think they’d understand, being ignorant of Christianity, but treating others with kindness is ingrained in us from childhood education.

This spirit must be utterly incomprehensible to those barbarians who don’t even believe in God.

“K-konbanwa…” (G-Good evening…)

The man returned my greeting with truly unbearable French pronunciation. This guy hasn’t studied French. It’s only natural for Asians coming to Europe to learn the country’s language.

Well, hypothetically speaking – though it’ll never happen – if I ever had the chance to visit Japan or China, I’d at least have the decency to respect their countries by speaking English. Really, Asians should learn our languages too, but we can’t expect that much from people from uncivilized lands.

Asians who can’t even speak English should just die already.

“Are you hungry?”

I asked the Asian man in English so simply that even a kindergarten child could understand. I found it disgusting that he’d been staring at my face and body for a while now, but I knew there were no women as beautiful as me in Asia. I’d even been scouted by a small modeling agency once. To this man, I might as well be an angel, so it was inevitable that I’d stir something in him. Of course, I’d make sure he got divine retribution later.

“A-a little.”

The man answered with a laughable English pronunciation. This man doesn’t know French, let alone English. He is the kind of person who should never visit France.

“Please have some.”

I handed the man a homemade sandwich. It was filled with lettuce and ham. I had made it for lunch, but I was not hungry, so I left it.

About two weeks ago.

“Is it delicious?”

“Oh, it’s delicious!!”

This wasn’t a sandwich from a convenience store. It didn’t contain any preservatives. The ham, lettuce, and bread were probably teeming with all sorts of bacteria.

Yet the Asian man devoured the sandwich in no time. He finished it in two or three bites, like a homeless person who hadn’t eaten in a week finally getting a meal.

He’s truly a barbarian, I thought.

The sandwich still looked normal, but the taste must have been different. He’d eaten something where the main ingredient wasn’t wheat or protein, but bacteria. There’s no way the smell or taste could be normal. If I tried to eat it, my body would reject it before I even brought it to my lips.

“Th-thank you!”

The man overreacted with his gratitude. I was deeply unpleasant by his failure to notice the sandwich’s abnormalities, his excessively crude behavior, and his careless pronunciation of “Merci.” When the “R” part is pronounced as “ru” instead of “ku,” it feels like I’m being made fun of.

“Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

Yet I managed another angelic smile and addressed him in English simple enough for a man to understand.

My strategy would take effect precisely when we reached our “destination.”

“Y-yes…”

As expected, the Asian man had no lodging. I wanted to ask, “Do you Asians even need roofs over your heads?” But I remained a kind Frenchwoman. I swallowed the question that every white person would naturally ask, suppressing it with my natural kindness.

“Follow me.”

With a smile like the Virgin Mary’s, I led the man to the usual spot—a small manhole located a short walk from the square.

“Just a moment.”

I retrieved a manhole opener from beneath a bench and opened the cover leading to the underground passage. Naturally, such tools aren’t kept everywhere for convenience. I’d procured this personally for situations like this and hidden it away.

“This way.”

I descended the ladder into the pitch-black manhole. Most people would never set foot in this space during normal life, but for me, it’s as familiar as my own backyard.

“Watch your step—it’s dark.”

I lit the way with a flashlight from my bag, walking through the dim underground corridor. There’s no place to sleep up ahead, of course. Just endless dark tunnels and multiple pipes stretching out, yet the Asian man followed without a shred of suspicion.

“Wouldn’t you like to take a shower?”

I murmured with a wide grin, twisting the valve on the pipe. This particular section of the system was broken—turning the valve made water flow freely.

Water.

Not hot water or anything else. Even though it’s still warm outside, the underground passage is chilly. Getting wet here would make you catch a cold.

But the travelers can’t refuse. They’re completely bound by my charm and kindness.

Soon, the man will strip off his clothes and take a cold shower.

At the same time, the sandwich he ate aboveground will unleash its fury in his stomach, plunging him into the very depths of hell.

“Kyaa!”

But I’m the one who screams first. The man has started undressing right in front of me.

“I-I’m sorry!”

The man finally seems to realize the meaning of my scream and hastily turns away. By then, I’ve already extinguished my flashlight, determined not to witness something unthinkable.

Originally, I was supposed to leave this place as soon as I turned off my flashlight.

The man lay on his stomach, shivering from the cold shower. Taking advantage of his predicament, I quietly stole his clothes and closed the manhole cover.

I didn’t know what would happen to him afterward, but I figured he probably wouldn’t want to visit France again.

That was the plan.

And I still intend to do that.

(What… just now…?)

When the man hastily stripped, I saw something I shouldn’t have.

Something hanging between his legs that defied all reason.

(What is that… Do all Asian men look like that…?)

For a split second, the flashlight illuminated the man’s p3nis – impossibly thick and long. I’d never seen anything like it before.

(Aren’t Asian men supposed to have small, circumcised penises…?)

The Asian p3nis I’d watched online out of morbid curiosity was nothing to write home about.

Compared to a white man’s, it was crude, lacking in vigor, and utterly devoid of charm – just a grotesque reproductive organ.

Yet the p3nis before me now was in no way inferior to a white man’s.

No, it might even be superior. At least compared to my fiancé Mike’s, it was one or two sizes larger.

(What’s? Size isn’t everything, you know…)

Mike and I were fiancés who’d sworn vows for our future. Before we became lovers, I checked his family tree to make sure he was pure French before engaging in physical relations.

A white man with impeccable pedigree, in other words.

There was no way Mike could be outdone by some Asian with unknown origins.

Yet,

(Why… is he shaking so violently?)

In the basement where my night vision had grown sharp, I stared at the man’s crotch as he showered.

As I stared, the outlines gradually emerged. The raw glans and thick, long rod of meat. Even the scrotum was so massive – it was obvious at a glance that this was the organ meant to impregnate women.

(Isn’t it proper etiquette to trim pubic hair?)

At the very least, Mike and I had our pubic hair professionally groomed at a salon. This was my first time witnessing such a hairy crotch.

Just plain barbaric.

That’s all I could think at first, but somehow I started seeing it as wild and strong. What am I thinking, Emily? This guy’s Asian—an inferior race.

“What’s your name? I’m Daisuke.”

He introduced himself in broken English. I didn’t want to know this guy’s name, but I couldn’t find a reason to refuse.

“E-Emily.”

Only after saying it did I realize the horror of this man calling me by name. If I hadn’t told him, my precious name—reserved for white people only—wouldn’t have been uttered by some “Daisuke” or whatever he called himself.

“Are you Chinese?”

Most Asians who come to Paris are Chinese. I suspect it’s the same everywhere in the world. So I figured this guy was probably one of those billion-plus people from the Far East.

“I am Japanese. You are Parisienne?”

Japanese. The name of an island nation located at the easternmost part of the Far East.

They were our enemy during World War II, that barbaric country that allied with Hitler. That’s all I knew about them, but now one man’s p3nis is gradually changing my impression.

“…Yes, people of Paris.”

Normally, I would hate discussing our origins like this, but I found myself answering the man’s question automatically. All the while, my gaze remained trapped on Daisuke’s crotch. With every slight movement, his vigorous member swayed, becoming nothing less than a poison to my eyes.

I wished the sandwich would take effect quickly, but the man just took a shower with ease. This man was even more of a wild child than I thought, and he might not care about a rotten sandwich. The dangling object certainly exuded a primal presence. If something like that were to pierce me, I’d probably lose all rationality in an instant.

“Are you dating anyone?”

The man’s reaction to my question was one of utter bewilderment. Even I, the one who’d asked it, felt flustered. What on earth was I saying to this guy?

“N-no way!!”

As Daisuke desperately denied it, I secretly patted my chest in relief.

I knew it was strange.

He was Japanese.

Someone I shouldn’t be interacting with at all.

I had Mike, a fiancé born and raised in Paris.

Yet somehow, when Daisuke denied her existence, I found myself strangely relieved.

This was a Parisian underground passage.

No one would ever come here.

And certainly not Mike, nor my family.

So I…

“I see.”

For some reason, I’d stripped off all my clothes, ending up just like Daisuke.

I never thought I’d be completely naked in front of an Asian man, even in the dark.

“Daisuke.”

I walked toward him. Both of us were completely naked, and I had no idea what he’d do when I got close. But I stood there in front of him, completely defenseless, and knelt.

“Give it to me.”

I murmured in French, hoping he wouldn’t understand. The moment I said those words, I felt a heat deep in my chest.

Right in front of me was that disgusting p3nis.

(So thick… And so hot.)

Ignoring Daisuke’s wariness in the darkness, I took hold of his thing and gasped at how big it was.

It was completely different from Mike’s.

The moment I took Mike’s in my hand, it didn’t feel this heavy. But with this man’s, I immediately understood its substantial weight.

“E-Emily,”

Hearing the man call my name, my chest heats up again. As I stroked Daisuke’s thick, long thing, it grew stronger and stronger.

Erection.

Even white men get erect.

But they don’t become this robust. I knew the moment I touched it – it was as hard as stone. From its shape to its size, everything about it was overwhelmingly dominant.

So without hesitation, I began licking Daisuke’s p3nis.

(What… is this…?)

One lick was enough to tell me this was completely different from a white man. The masculine essence transmitted through my tongue was on a completely different scale from Mike’s.

It wasn’t that Mike was weak.

This Japanese p3nis was simply too formidable.

The tip of my tongue, having licked the glans, spreads arousal through my entire body. As if accepting this man’s p3nis is natural, my thoughts grow feverish.

“Daisuke, come here…”

In the darkness, I present my buttocks toward the man. This connection with an Asian—something I’d never normally do.

My body desperately wanted the genitals of this inferior race.

Is it because I saw that sturdy p3nis?

No, my heart was already racing before that.

The moment we were pressed together in the cramped underground passage, I couldn’t stop thinking about his crotch.

Was it an accident that I saw his p3nis?

No, I deliberately delayed turning off the flashlight. I’d been waiting for the exact moment he exposed his groin to extinguish the light.

Pheromones?

Drugs?

I don’t know. Being near this man, I suddenly find myself aroused.

I don’t need him to be white anymore.

Black, half-race, Asian – it doesn’t matter. I just want him to pound his hardened c0ck into my pvssy.

“Ah, aahh―!!”

Without hesitation, Daisuke thrust his formidable p3nis into me.

How big is it? How hard?

A c0ck this thick, this strong, this rigid – it couldn’t belong to anyone but a savage.

My pvssy stretches wider than ever, impaled to its deepest depths.

This is a p3nis.

Is this what a real man’s c0ck looks like?

“Aah! Daisuke!”

As he begins to thrust, moans spill out of me involuntarily.

It feels good.

Even though he’s Asian.

Even though it’s a savage’s c0ck.

Why does it feel so good?

“Ahh! What kind of Japanese are you?!”

Pierced from behind while both br3asts are kneaded, I should have shaken off these dirty hands without hesitation. But the touch is too skilled, the way he pinches my n1pples too masterful. All I can do is moan.

“Ahh! I’m being defiled by a Japanese man!”

Screaming the obvious makes my whole body heat up again. A yellow race that is inferior to white people. I moan helplessly as this Asian man fucked me and inserted his p3nis without a condom.

“Ahh! Japanese c0ck feels so good!”

The words white women must never utter. We’d rather our tongues be torn out than admit a foreigner’s c0ck feels good – or even think it.

But when Daisuke quickened his thrusts, I couldn’t help but scream. His s3x was unbelievably good, after all.

“Of all the Japanese bastards! You’re just a monkey who should leave Europe! Why is your s3x so good?!”

I took out my feelings on Daisuke in the form of anger. Japanese men are supposed to have small, circumcised penises. Their s3x is supposed to be crude and unsatisfying. This kind of thing shouldn’t exist.

“Ahh! This p3nis is incredible! A Japanese p3nis is unbelievably good!”

But even my resistance was easily crushed by Daisuke’s superior thrusting.

The sturdy, erect Japanese p3nis scraped away every last shred of my pleasure.

Such hardness, such length. French men usually have average-sized, softer, and more flexible members, but this man maintains his rigidity as he effortlessly thrusts all the way in.

“Ahh! I’m cumming! Being fucked by a Japanese c0ck, I’m cumming all over my body!”

Unbelievable.

It’s on another level.

The sexual prowess between French men and this Japanese man is worlds apart.

Are all Japanese men truly sexual masters?

“Aaah! Again! I just came three seconds ago, but this Japanese c0ck makes me cum again!”

Daisuke’s relentless pistoning mercilessly drives me to consecutive climaxes. Without pause even as I’m still coming, he pounds his ideal p3nis against my cervix.

“Ahhhh!”

At that moment, he slams Asian semen into my womb.

I haven’t even taken birth control pills. Even though there was a high risk of pregnancy.

(This feels incredible…)

For the first time in my life, I was being fucked by a Japanese man, and I couldn’t care about the risks.

Having his cum poured into my womb felt unbelievably good.

But I doubt this would happen with Mike or any other French guy.

It’s because Daisuke is Japanese. He’s an Asian who excels at s3x, and I felt like I was on cloud nine.

I’ll admit this much.

You Asians may be the lowest of the low in the world, but when it comes to s3x, you’re undoubtedly the best in the world.

I say it myself, so it’s true.

If necessary, I’d lock up all Asians in the world and raise them as breeding livestock for white women like me.

You’re not good for anything else anyway, so just accept your fate as our fucking dildos.

“Ahh–it’s still coming–”

After that, he continued to fill me with thick, concentrated semen through multiple rounds of ejaculation.

Each time made me climax, until by the end, my legs had completely given out.

“Ahh… That was unbelievable s3x… I never thought a Japanese man could have such talent…”

I collapsed onto the bare ground. The ground was wet not only because of the water, but also because of the love juices overflowing from me.

It was transcendent. A climax beyond dimensions.

“You’re kidding… right?”

When I raised my head, an impossible sight greeted me.

In the darkness ahead, if I strained my eyes, I could see Daisuke’s pride p3nis standing erect mere inches from my face.

Impossible.

Don’t Japanese penises weaken after one or two ejaculations?

Or is this recovery speed truly otherworldly?

In any case, they are certainly far superior to white people in terms of reproductive ability.

Mike’s p3nis takes thirty minutes to recover after a single ejaculation.

“I have no choice. Until you’re satisfied, this pvssy belongs to you.”

As Daisuke pressed his c0ck against me, I took it into my mouth.

At this point, the woman has no chance of winning.

All she could do was obediently submit to that formidable p3nis.

“Are all Japanese men as incredible as you?”

Daisuke, who didn’t understand French, couldn’t answer that question.

But by now, it didn’t matter.

In my mind, the hierarchy towards Japanese people is certainly changing.

Our white women’s s3x-specific penises.

This would be the new standard for evaluating Japanese men in France.

From now on, Japanese men coming to France wouldn’t need to study French or French history.

All they had to do was come here with their filthy balls packed full of thick, rich semen.