Sex is the Best Way to Learn About Other Cultures. - Chapter 1

…Despertar. Despertar. (Wake up. Wake up)

A voice spoke in my mind.

It was in an unfamiliar language.

The voice belonged to a young woman – a seductive alto voice, but alas, I couldn’t understand the words, so it couldn’t stir my imagination.

What did she look like?

Her clothes? Her ethnicity?

The reason I started to worry about such things every time I met someone was because I set out on a journey across America.

Along the way, I encountered many women and was fortunate enough to sleep with most of them.

In Japan, no one would even look at me.

Yes, I’m Japanese.

Just another college student – an ordinary Japanese guy.

“Despertar!” (Wake up!)

In that instant, I jolted awake.

I was drenched from head to toe.

“It’s cold!!”

The sudden chill made me try to stand.

But I couldn’t move.

Because…

“What’s this…?!”

I was tied to a chair.

My torso was fixed to a sturdy wooden chair, and my hands were tied behind my back. My feet were also tied to the legs of the chair, so I couldn’t move at all.

A dull ache throbbed at the back of my head.

It felt like someone had struck me from behind.

Let’s put aside the fact that I was thoroughly soaked from the recent drenching. Why wasn’t I wearing pants?

My jeans, which had been my constant companion throughout this journey, were gone. Even though those back pockets held all my money.

“Huh?”

Suddenly, a woman stood before me, holding a pair of familiar jeans.

She was a tall woman.

With her black hair in a bob cut, deep-set features, and a distinct impression from American white women.

Still, there was no denying her beauty. Her dark eyes seemed to suck one in, paired with a perfectly sculpted face.

Her skin bore a healthy tan, reminiscent of a South American woman’s.

This healthy complexion complemented her figure perfectly. Her white tank top strained against the full curves of her chest, nearly bursting at the seams. Through her khaki skinny pants, her overly provocative lower body was visible.

At first glance, she reminded me of Amanda, whom I’d met on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

Black hair, Latin features, and br3asts that did not attempt to hide their prominence.

What set her apart from Amanda was simply this: she spoke a different language.

And then there’s the way she’s openly appraising me with her gaze.

“Where am I…?”

I’m in a windowless, sealed room.

A light bulb hangs from the ceiling, illuminating the dim and cramped space.

What time is it now?

Judging by the lack of sunlight, this must be a basement.

“Muchas, gracias.” (Thank you so much)

I can vaguely make out the words, but their meaning is completely lost on me.

The feeling that I’m being looked down upon is influenced by my current predicament—bound to a chair in this humiliating state with my underwear fully exposed.

“That money!

Suddenly, I realize she’s holding all my possessions.

The bundle of US dollars I borrowed from Alicia.

She’s counting my entire savings with a cool expression, as if the money were her own.

“Give it back! That’s something I borrowed from Ms. Alicia—”

“Cállate!” (Shut up!)

I tried to lunge at her (though it was futile since I was bound), but something hard stopped me.

A cold sensation pressed against my forehead.

It was—

“A shotgun…?”

It was a flashy shotgun like the ones I’d seen on the main street.

The intense chill made me shiver.

What kind of country is this? Are police officers and civilians required to carry shotguns?

“Cállate” (Shut up)

She repeated herself in a cold tone. Though we were in Central America, my skin felt cold. Even without understanding the language, I vaguely recognized it as the equivalent of “shut up” in English.

In that instant, our power dynamic—no, our master-servant relationship—was established.

My life was completely in her hands.

The moment I was bound, my fate as prey was sealed. But having just woken up, I couldn’t fully grasp the situation.

This Central American woman had kidnapped me.

Her goal: money.

She hadn’t killed me after stealing my cash, probably because she was considering whether to take me hostage for ransom.

I’d heard Central America was a dangerous place.

Not all areas might be like this, but when police carry shotguns, you can guess the rest.

It seems I’ve come to an incredibly dangerous country.

“Chino?” (Chinese?)

This time, she points the gun at my sternum as she questions me.

Whether it’s my forehead or sternum, the result is instant death either way.

With a flick of her finger, I’d be gone.

There’s no comfort in being kept alive as a hostage. After all, she’s already made nearly ten thousand dollars.

She might think killing me now would be better than risking a family ransom scheme.

“Chino!” (Chinese!)

“Ugh—”

Hurry up and answer my question.

With such a forceful tone, she pressed the gun barrel against my throat.

Even if she said that, I couldn’t answer because I don’t understand Spanish at all.

That said, this woman didn’t seem inclined to consider that.

She appeared to have a short temper, and not a trace of kindness emanated from her.

Then think, me.

Consider the phrase most commonly used by locals when encountering Japanese people overseas.

“J-Japanese!”

Right. The word I’ve heard most frequently since coming abroad.

It’s “Are you Chinese?”

From a global perspective, the majority of East Asians are Chinese. To begin with, one-fifth of the world’s population is Chinese. It must be natural to assume any East Asian of unknown origin is Chinese.

“Japonés?” (Japanese?)

Whether her irritation had subsided now that we could communicate or if she was simply basking in my terror, the woman had regained her composure.

But these types could boil over again at any moment. For someone as timid as me, it was always nerve-wracking. Though truth be told, with my hands tied and a gun pointed at me, maintaining calm was impossible from the start.

“Eres, virgen?” (Are you a virgin?)

She asked something in Spanish.

This time I couldn’t make sense of it at all. Though I might have imagined a mocking tone in her voice, understanding Spanish was beyond me when I didn’t even grasp basic grammar.

“Claramente” (Obviously)

She muttered something under her breath and pulled something from her belt.

A knife.

Not just any knife, but a combat blade sharp enough to belong in a war movie.

“Don’t kill me! I’ll do anything!”

Feeling like I’d been told “you’re already served your purpose,” I desperately pleaded while still bound.

I still had so much left to do in life. I’d come overseas and experienced s3x, but my life wasn’t shallow enough to be satisfied with just that!

“Eek!”

When she switched the knife to her other hand, I couldn’t bear it anymore and closed my eyes.

To think I’d be killed here of all places. I still haven’t had s3x with a Japanese girl yet—

But in that moment, with a snap, my body suddenly felt lighter.

Trembling, I opened my eyes to see the severed rope lying on the floor. I was freed.

“You’re saving me?!”

Overwhelmed with emotion, I tried to stand, but a powerful force pushed me back down.

Only the rope on my arm had been cut.

The ropes securing my legs and torso remained tightly bound. Even though both hands were now free, I sensed I wouldn’t be permitted to untie myself.

The reason was simple: the woman who had switched from a combat knife to a shotgun had once again pressed the muzzle against my forehead.

Don’t get any wrong ideas.

I understood what she meant. I was still a bird in a cage. The fact that I could only move my arms probably meant she wanted me to do something specific.

Like writing an SOS letter to my parents to get them to send a ransom, or writing down the PIN for a card.

“Toquespené.”

She looked down at me with a face full of mockery.

I couldn’t believe it.

I couldn’t believe it, but…

Was she telling me to jerk off right here?

I didn’t know what the Spanish words meant, but I caught the word “p3nis” and her expression of delight made me think that’s what she was demanding.

She was probably a sadist.

The type who gets pleasure from pushing others to the extreme of humiliation.

One of the most humiliating acts for a man is masturbating in public.

“Te ayudo” (I help you)

As if to prove my prediction, she forcibly tore off my trunks.

Though “tore off” might be an exaggeration—since I was bound to the chair, it merely involved lowering my trunks into a humiliating position—my p3nis was left pathetically exposed.

“Anda” (Wow)

Seeing my exposed member, she sneered again. Compared to the robust men of Central and South America, my Japanese p3nis must have seemed particularly small.

With both my appearance and manhood mocked, I felt like I might die of shame.

“Delante de mí” (In front of me)

She provoked me with a villainous expression, the very image of a sadistic mastermind.

Even facing such a beautiful woman, masturbating in public—especially in front of a criminal like this—seemed unthinkable.

Yet I had no choice.

If I didn’t want to be killed or turned into a human beehive by that shotgun, I had to obediently jerk off before this woman.

“Haha!”

Under her derisive laughter, I began shamefully stroking myself.

How many weeks had it been since I last jerked off?

Back in Japan, I used to do it ten times a day. But ever since coming to America, I’d somehow found myself having s3x with women every day, so I hadn’t masturbated in ages.

And now I was being forced to handle my c0ck with a gun pointed at me.

I had never masturbated in such a rare situation before, so my p3nis would not get hard.

Seeing my struggle, the woman started getting impatient.

She probably wanted to see me embarrass myself by coming right in front of her.

But since I couldn’t get it up, she was growing increasingly annoyed.

At this rate, she’d shoot me.

Realizing this, I resorted to my last desperate measure to make my d1ck work.

“What’s your name!”

“Huh?”

I shouted, and the woman frowned. I knew it was dangerous, but this was the only way to get my d1ck to cooperate.

“What’s your name!” 

“…Diana.”

The woman reluctantly gave her name.

Whatever she was doing, her name was as beautiful as her appearance.

When masturbating, there’s one essential thing you need:

Stimulus material.

Men masturbate because they imagine a woman they want to violate.

Whether that medium is a photo album, video, or manga varies by person, but without proper stimulus, you can’t even ejaculate.

But in this situation, I have no fantasy material to work with.

For example, even if I try to remember the women I slept with in America, the gun barrel before me keeps flickering and erasing those thoughts.

In that case, I have no choice but to use the woman before me to finish.

“Diana—”

Fortunately, the woman before me is a stunning beauty.

Her appearance brings to mind Lara Croft from a certain movie, with br3asts even more explosive than Amanda’s.

As a South American woman, her ass is incredibly plump, and I can’t help but fantasize about how much rebound I’d feel if I thrust into her from behind.

Upon closer inspection, I can see two n1pples protruding from the chest of her white tank top.

What a seductive pair of br3asts. Even in porn videos, I’ve never seen such provocative b00bs.

“Dios mío…” (Oh my God…)

As I do this, my p3nis naturally gets hard.

Come to think of it, I’d once had s3x with Amanda while she held a gun to my head.

Back then, my single-minded desire to be inside her had drowned out all fear. But now, no matter how much I might struggle, there was no path left for me to take her.

“Grande…” (Big…)

Still, facing such a sexy woman, I couldn’t help but get hard.

“Ahh… Diana. You’re incredible. The deepthroat blowjob is insane…”

In my fantasy, I made Diana perform a deepthroat blowjob. Taking advantage of the fact that she couldn’t understand Japanese, I even called her by name.

However, Diana didn’t get angry and just watched me stroke my p3nis.

To an outsider, stroking my p3nis in front of a woman probably looked ridiculous, but the only thought in my head was that I wanted to ejaculate inside Diana.

“Ahh! Diana! Don’t move your hips so much!”

In my imagination, Diana was fucking me in the cowgirl position.

My c0ck was being stroked by the deep, accepting v4g1na that only South American women have, and in front of me, her huge br3asts were shaking back and forth.

“Ahh! I’m gonna cum! Diana! I’m cumming!”

Overwhelmed by pleasure, I came with all my strength.

The intense stimulation made me throw my head back, releasing my essence toward the ceiling.

s3x is great, but masturbation is nice too.

You can cum efficiently at your own pace.

However,

“Mierda…” (Damn…)

When I looked forward again, I was speechless.

Because Diana, in front of me, was covered in my semen.

Her beautiful black hair, neatly styled, and her striking facial features were drenched in white fluid.

The valley between her br3asts had been invaded by the semen, and the smell of freshly ejaculated fluid filled the windowless basement.

“I-I’m sorry!!”

Though bound and unable to perform a proper kowtow, I apologized with such fervor that I nearly sank into the floor, as if demonstrating the deepest possible bow.

The pleasure had been so overwhelming that I forgot to adjust my angle. Truth be told, I never imagined my semen could travel that far. I’d thought the farthest it might reach was fifty centimeters at most, yet it had somehow splattered on Diana’s face.

“Hold it!”

Diana’s temples twitched and, naturally, she pointed the muzzle of the shotgun at me.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Would I be killed this way…?

(To be continued)