I was once pure.

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I slept with my first woman when I was in kindergarten, only six or seven years old, but I already knew the principle of male and female complementarity. My parents' moans were my first lesson, unforgettable. It was just playing house, but we were already having group sex. There was no dad, mom, baby, no cooking, no injections, no feeding the pigs, just different positions of intercourse. Now I realize that I already knew how to doggy style back then. In kindergarten, I went into the girls' restroom for the first time and had sex with my girlfriend there. Actually, my penis never got hard, and I never penetrated, but I was always proud of it because I had sex back then.

I'm pretty handsome, both in body and face, hairstyle and clothes are all very individualistic. In the second year of junior high, a girl started pursuing me, and she was crazy about it. Looking back now, I regret it so much. Why did I give my first love to such a lousy girl? Big face, short hair, short, almost no good points except for being sexy. I was young and inexperienced then, so I accepted her. We often did things that seemed lewd back then and are now considered old-fashioned. For example, in class, she sat in front of me, next to the window, and she would rub her hand against the wall, and I would grab it. Her hands were so small and soft, smooth and plump, like a waterlogged condom—it felt amazing. Her cuffs were buttoned up, so I would stare at the blackboard, copying notes with my right hand while unbuttoning them with my left. It was a lot of work, but I managed to do it. I would stroke her soft, supple hand upwards. What beautiful arms! Dry, smooth, soft, and fragrant. I couldn't help but get an erection. After fully enjoying the caresses of the person she loved, she would turn back and give me a sweet smile, then, in the instant my bones melted, she would pull her hand and arm away. I even asked her what color her underwear was. She smiled and pinched me, then said, "Yellow." That year, I was 14 years old.

She kissed me first, and she tricked me into it. We went to junior high school in the same county town. In winter, there was no heating, so we had to light a stove. I remember I was some kind of cadre at the time, so the night before winter break, she came to my house. Very politely, she said to my mother, "Auntie, school starts tomorrow, and I've come to ask the class monitor to light the stove." We were both incredibly clumsy, and the room was filled with smoke. We sat side by side in a seat in the middle of the wall by the door. It was a perfect spot; whether you were at the front or back door, as long as no one came in, no one would notice we were there—unless they looked out the window, but we were on the second floor. School hadn't started, and there was no electricity, so it was pitch black outside, and even darker inside. The only sound in the classroom was our heartbeats, and wisps of smoke drifted out the window. Suddenly, she hugged me tightly and gently kissed me on the cheek. I was stunned. I sat there blankly for a moment, then slowly turned my head to look at her, and suddenly pulled her into my arms, covering her lips with mine. A woman's lips are God's finest creation—soft, moist, and it even seemed to change shape with the movement of my lips, like a freshly baked hot egg tart. And so, we held each other tightly, lips pressed together, eyes closed. She pressed her breasts firmly against my chest, leaving no gap. I was almost suffocating, but she still tried to hold me tighter. The pleasure from this pressure rose with the warmth of our lips, like making love. We moved our heads and bodies passionately until we were panting and drenched in sweat. I leaned against her shoulder, sweetly closing my eyes. That night, I had insomnia for the first time.

We were both so young then, we didn't understand that kissing involved sucking each other's tongues; just lips touching was enough, at least that's how it was on TV. That time, she had nothing to do during extracurricular activities, so she came home with me. Her parents wouldn't be home from get off work for an hour, and it hadn't even been a week since our first kiss. I was excited, and before she could even speak, I roughly pushed her onto the sofa. She struggled beneath me, and I remember it vividly—at that moment, I was erect. My hard, burning penis pressed fiercely against her vulva through my pants, and my lips were pressed frantically against hers. She was scared, afraid I would rape her, and screamed, "No!" Somehow, perhaps due to gravity, as she cried out "Yes," my tongue slipped into her mouth, gently brushing against hers. I felt an electric shock. Her tongue wriggled, like a slippery jelly pudding, constantly changing shapes, almost like a snake, swimming up and down my tongue, rubbing its little barbs against mine, like rubbing her own clitoris—it was a dreamlike experience. Suddenly, she pushed me off her and rushed out the door. I sat there, stunned, on the sofa. Junior high ended.

I was once innocent…

High school life was more boring than I imagined. For my parents' sake, I dared not slack off. Fighting, stealing, and dating were the three red lines of our "key high school." Without women, I could only pass the time by masturbating all day, two or three times a day was normal. By my senior year, my body had reached a state of apathy. The girl across the hall, a pretty girl with a flat chest, would make eye contact with me every day. At that time, she was considered quite attractive, but I didn't like her; at most, she was just an object of my sexual fantasies. High school was like a eunuch on aphrodisiacs locked in a cage, while outside the cage were naked, sexy women performing extremely lewd acts. I was that eunuch. High school graduated.

I was once innocent…

Now I'm a junior in college, just started school. In the past two years, as if in revenge for high school, I've had nine girlfriends. They were my everything. All my wicked, human and non-human thoughts were unleashed upon them. I wanted to abuse her, I would pity her, and of course, I would still love her! Hahaha, my drool.

The first one I called Zeng was as if she gave me my first real feeling of love. Military training, tough yet wonderful. That day was the mobilization meeting. I was sitting in a chair, and next to me, on the ground, a little girl sitting on a small stool caught my eye. She was pretty and delicate, with a touch of wildness (later I realized it wasn't just a little). Her eyes were large and bright, full of life. I couldn't take my eyes off hers. Finally, her eyes met mine, and she gave me a small, natural, bold, and flamboyant smile, without showing her teeth. She was very fair-skinned; thinking back now, she looked a bit like Zhao Wei. At that time, I was a contradictory person, shy yet arrogant. I was stunned. "The feeling of love I've kept buried deep in my heart for three years was so easily dragged out by a little girl? Is it her? Am I going to fall in love again? Is she suitable?...???" I re-examined her. Beautiful, kind, wild, unrestrained—maybe it was her. "Hey, what department are you in?" She turned her head to look at me, her mouth forming an "O" shape, her eyes full of questions, but still smiling. "Yes, you." Another hearty laugh, this time revealing her teeth—so white. My heart skipped a beat, and my skin tightened. She held out a hand, pouting. I understood—fifth department. The offensive began. Shamefully, in the end, it was their platoon leader who helped me find her. Under the platoon leader's arrangement, we went on our first date.

The sky was overcast, and the three of us rode our bikes towards the center of the ancient city, which I was still turning away from. That night, I felt embarrassed. Blue jeans, a blue plaid shirt—I looked like a farmer trying to appear respectable. I ordered two Sprites and a bottle of beer. She glanced at me, her face mature, her eyes unfamiliar, devoid of any smile, only displaying arrogance. "Miss, a beer, please," she said, her eyes cold. "I don't drink soft drinks." "I can't drink beer. I promised my mom before I left that I wouldn't drink or have a girlfriend." "The platoon leader's here, and you won't even give him this much face? Is that appropriate?" Her disdainful and mocking gaze sliced across my face, piercing my heart. "No, that won't do," I refused blankly, utterly dazed. "Let's drink," she ignored me. The platoon leader was trying to lighten the mood by ordering as much food as possible—very expensive dishes—but at the time, I knew nothing of it.

It started to rain, and the rain grew heavier and heavier. My hair, my blue plaid shirt, and my blue jeans were soaked. The headlights of distant cars illuminated the intensity of the rain. Slashes of water, sharp as knives, shot up from the sides of the wheels, pouring into my sneakers. These were a pair of Anta sneakers my simple mother had bought at a specialty store for 75 yuan—less than the cost of dinner that evening—so my son could walk presentably on the streets of the big city. I'm such a spendthrift. Rain streamed down my hair and into my mouth. My clothes clung tightly to my back, and my socks and insoles swayed and squeaked with the water.

The rain awakened my true nature, which had been dormant at the bottom of my life: rebellious, arrogant, unconventional, hateful, lewd, and unrestrained.

A comical side emerged. When I returned, it was late. The platoon leader, without a word, climbed onto the platform and then, with great effort, inching his way up the doorway between the first and second floors, his hips swaying as he reached up inch by inch with his knees—much like Zhu Ziqing's father. As he climbed into the stairwell, I pushed open the front door and calmly walked in through the main entrance. "Idiot," I muttered to myself.

At that moment, I realized the failure of my first love, but I was happy because I had finally found my true self. Thus began my decadent and dissolute university life. I started shamelessly chasing girls, sometimes several at once.

Soon, a month of boring military training ended. I find it hard to understand why Chinese university students complete their military service in just one month? And they're still only reserve lieutenants? So, are all the college students who now engage in prostitution, drug use, cohabitation, cheating on exams, bribing teachers, watching porn, and even attempting to subvert the socialist regime former soldiers? Are they all worthless now? Go to hell.

I'm a positive and motivated person. A month later, I'm practically a city dweller—in my speech, my clothing, and so on. I've signed up for numerous clubs; I want to improve myself. At the third interview with the freshman department, I met her. I called her Fang.

Fang was an extremely beautiful girl; simply saying "pretty" wouldn't do justice to her beauty. She had a tall figure, a beautiful face, bright eyes, a full bust, and long legs. One day after we met, she came to my classroom and gave me a photo. A radiant smile, like a lotus emerging from water, bloomed on her rosy, round face with a pointed chin. Her large eyes were like pools of autumn water, and her long eyelashes naturally curled upwards. Her smile was so gentle, without the slightest affectation, as if she was born to smile. I was stunned, completely captivated by her charm. "Isn't that you?" I asked, feigning composure. "Hehe," she laughed happily, so brightly. "What?" "Turn over and look." "Noriko Sakai!" Only then did I realize how much she resembled Sakai.

Our first meeting was during the job interview. Despite feeling I'd answered terribly, I didn't give up on the last chance. Before ending, the teacher asked, "If you're accepted, who would you choose as your partner?" I thought that was the only non-nonsense he'd uttered during the entire meeting; without it, the whole thing would have been a complete waste of time—at least for me. "I'd choose this lady," I said with a smile, standing up first and gently pointing at her. "Ooh..." Everyone laughed. I looked at her confidently and sincerely; her face turned bright red, a very shy blush. She lowered her head in embarrassment. My intuition told me she was a fool. I was a con artist, a social outcast. Afterwards, I rightfully became the beast in the hearts of the boys in her class, simply because she was beautiful. We talked on the phone until dawn; she would sing me songs like "Will I still be your woman after dawn?" and "You're fast, so I'm happy" on speakerphone when no one was home. Gradually, I learned she was admitted to a top-tier department through a special admission program, she was a national second-level volleyball referee, her father was a National People's Congress representative, she was in the school choir, she was the vice class monitor, her family was very wealthy, she received first-class scholarships every year, and she was a top-tier swimmer. Her many strengths made me feel inferior.

Stephen Chow said, "Once, a sincere love was placed before me, but I didn't cherish it. Only when I lost it did I regret it. If God gave me another chance, I would say three words to that girl: 'I love you.' If I had to put a time limit on this love, I hope it would be—ten thousand years!" This is what I said to myself. That girl was Fang. At that time, I was torn between Zeng and Fang; I couldn't let go of either of them. Finally, I fell into the water. That day, Zeng asked me to play ping-pong. I took my paddle and waited for her in front of the girls' dormitory, but Fang came out instead. "Hi, hello!" "Oh, you...hello." "I...I...what a coincidence." She lowered her head shyly, a blush creeping onto her face. Now, even a fool could tell they were a newlywed couple. Her pure beauty and shy smile drew glares from countless other men. Just as I was basking in this blissful moment, about to drool, the energetic Zeng skipped and hopped between us. Dressed in sportswear, her hair casually clipped behind her ears with cartoon clips, her bright, sparkling eyes fixed on me, a sly smile playing on her lips, as if she knew everything. Looking at the paddles in our hands, Fang forced a very unnatural smile. "You two chat first, I have to go." "Hey...she's not..." I pinched Zeng's neck hard. I knew I was dead, drowned.

Later, winter came, and Zeng apologized to me, saying, "We're not right for each other, you're too immature." I slammed my hand, gloved in brown leather, against the wall; now I wear black. During winter break, on Valentine's Day, I sent Fang a bear. I sprayed perfume my mother's friend had brought back from France into the bag, mixing it with the bear's fur—it smelled like Lin Biao's fart, quite stinky. After that, Fang and I never saw each other again. "Once, a sincere love was placed before me, but I didn't cherish it. Only when I lost it did I regret it deeply. If God gave me another chance, I would say three words to that girl, 'I—love—you.' If I had to put a time limit on this love, I hope it would be—ten—thousands—years!" I closed my eyes, tears slowly falling down the side of my nose, salty.

I was once pure…

Men all have needs. In college, I masturbated more frequently, mainly because of boredom. My little brother first got an erection from a living woman because of her, a girl older than me named Hong. She was my classmate, and I forget how we met, but we were very close. She called me "little brother," and I called her "little sister." We had an agreement that no man was allowed to touch her before our junior year. By the second semester of our freshman year, I guessed she wasn't a virgin anymore; that girl from the sixth department, damn it.

We went to a rock concert together. It was winter, and I was wearing my worn-out brown leather gloves. She was dressed tacky, like a silly girl. A room full of lunatics were screaming hysterically. I hugged her from behind, and she took off my suit jacket and draped it in her arm like a wife. I held her hand and clapped along with the lunatics. It was hot in the room, but I didn't want to let go; it was the first time I'd ever hugged a virgin. Gradually, a sense of fear crept into my brain. It got hard.

I was such a fucking idiot back then.

My chest was pressed tightly against her back, while my buttocks slowly jutted out, my penis firmly pointing to twelve o'clock. That was the most embarrassing moment of my life, in my opinion. Like a shrimp, I straightened my back, straining to stick my buttocks out, using my toes to keep my balance while frantically patting her hand. Finally, I think it was because I was too tired that my penis went limp. After the party, I held her tightly in the garden, and that's how we made the promise above. That's how it ended. I didn't kiss her.

The first girl I kissed in college was a girl named Ping, a gentle and lovely girl. She was pretty, petite, and spoke softly, even when she was angry, she had a smile on her face. She never argued with anyone, like a water lily, quietly floating on a pond, silently, yet always smiling, and smiling so purely. She was very caring; being her boyfriend would spoil you rotten sooner or later. In her presence, everyone seemed like a fool, needing to remain motionless and let her serve them to be happy. This gentle and considerate little girl had fallen into my clutches. I'm a good-for-nothing, with poor grades, slovenly appearance, and irresponsible behavior that leads to the seduction of naive girls. I truly don't understand how someone as pure as an angel could fall in love with trash like me.

The first time I was truly moved was during that eventful winter. It was actually a very insignificant little thing. The cuff of my sweater was torn, and she ran back to her dorm to get a needle and thread, then came back and sewed it up for me. That was it. What can I do? I'm such a thoughtful and sentimental person. It all feels like it happened yesterday, so vivid in my memory. The classroom was on the fifth floor. She ran down five floors, then across the campus, back to her dorm, carefully choosing a small needle and red thread that fit my sweater, then ran back, climbed back up to the fifth floor (damn, that building in Suzhou is seven stories high), and under the dim light at the stairwell, sewed it up for me stitch by stitch, without me even taking the sweater off. Today, I took out that sweater again, gently rubbing that small, inconspicuous knot in the thread, and that delicate face reappeared in my blurry vision.

That was the first time I went to the hospital alone for an IV drip, and only the second time in my life I'd ever had one. The doctor was a devil. I stood alone in the empty corridor for an hour and a half, my body burning with fever. It was 11:30 at night. Damn it. That night, there was no moon, no stars. The ward was eerie and terrifying. Outside the window, it was pitch black. The pale light shone on the cheap glass, and after diffused reflection, it seemed as if the glass was filled with the resentful eyes of wandering ghosts—large, but lifeless, just holes. Every bed had a dead body; the hateful ghosts, reeking of strong, pungent liquid, groped my chest and buttocks, eagerly dissolving into the cool glucose and bupleurum solution. My blood was cooling, my heart was stopping. Fear and loneliness instantly overwhelmed me. "A stranger in a strange land." Strangers, strange place, a strange self, everything strange. I hate loneliness! I hate it! I hate it! "Damn it!" I screamed hysterically.

"Are you alright?" Like an angel sent by God, she gently floated before me, instantly dispelling all the loneliness and solitude in my heart. The angel smiled, radiating maternal love and care, holding a white and blue towel and a water glass. I was too moved to speak.

At three in the morning, I wrapped her tightly in my trench coat. Her petite body trembled slightly, her slender arms hanging limply at her chest. I lovingly embraced her and led her into my club office. Like in any romantic story, I gently kissed her dry, autumn lips.

I had once been pure…

Before her, perhaps I had never understood what love was. It was tiring, bitter, and above all, painful.

Her name was Shuang.

I had read "Love Will Carry On," which featured a boy named Yusen. Wen Hui loved Yang Zheng, but the insecure Yang Zheng didn't accept her. To escape and vent, Wen Hui threw herself into the arms of Yusen, who loved her but whom she didn't love in return. After her childish temper subsided, Wen Hui returned to Yang Zheng's side without hesitation. Later, Yu Sen died; his death was the only way the plot would unfold. He was merely a pathetic substitute. In Shuang's eyes, I was Yu Sen, and Shuang was Wen Hui; "Yang Zheng" was a Muslim. However, I didn't die.

She was my immediate superior. At the first student council meeting, as my department head, she was very revealing: a white tank top, a strapless bra, perfectly developed breasts, denim shorts that couldn't be shorter, long, slender legs, small, fair feet, pink toenails—not beautiful, but very alluring. Her short, shiny black hair exuded a faint fragrance; her round face was bright and charming; her pink lips naturally turned outwards—mature yet adorable. Since she was the department head, it was only natural to respect her. I didn't dare to think too deeply about it.

Soon, we met for the second time. By the way, I had just started my sophomore year then, a year ago now. Now I'm the department head, and I'm about to hold my first meeting. "The flowers bloom the same year after year, but the people change year after year." At that time, she, dressed in pure white, was as elegant and youthful as a saint. For the first time, my heart raced uncontrollably in front of a girl who paid no attention to me. My intuition told me that I had truly fallen in love. But what happened later cruelly told me that I had fallen hopelessly in love with a girl who didn't love me back.

She was my senior, and naturally, I called her Sister Shuang'er. Girls are very perceptive, and my bewilderment was quickly answered. Having just broken up with her boyfriend, she accepted me in a daze, but like Wen Hui accepting Yu Sen.

"The rain keeps falling."

It was a drizzly noon, the eighth day of the eighth lunar month last year, my birthday. She promised to tell me her real age on this day. Today is the eighth day of the eighth lunar month in 2000. The autumn rain is drizzling outside the window. I took a deep drag on my cigarette, and ten seconds later, I exhaled a thin wisp of smoke. I was back to that drizzly noon a year ago. The sky was misty, everything seemed like a dream, the leaves washed by the rain shone brightly. I rode quickly to the southwest gate, and there she was, in that white jacket, jeans, white shoes and socks, holding a delicate floral umbrella—elegant, noble, youthful and charming. We shared an umbrella, strolling in the misty rain, silent, just listening intently to the crisp sound of raindrops hitting the umbrella, "drip...drip..." That noon, she treated me to cake, ice cream, and mooncakes. I ate greedily, and she watched happily, her eyes filled with the joy of being an older sister. At that moment, my only thought was for her; I would do anything for her.

On the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, I went to her dormitory. She started treating me like "family," tugging at my hair, tickling me, patting my back—she was always busy. From that night on, I could hold her hand, pinch her neck; we grew closer. Then I took her to the train station. It was almost October. I joked and teased her as usual, but there was one more thing to do: carry a very heavy suitcase. On the train, I became her "safety pillar." As she swayed, she held me tightly around the waist. When we went up the escalator, she hugged me from behind. In that instant, I felt a happiness I had never experienced before. It was this feeling that accompanied me day and night, supporting me through the continuous rain, walking from the Bell Tower to the Stele Forest and back to school, a full five hours—all for a peach wood bracelet that would ward off evil and keep my wrist warm. I did it willingly. The night I gave her the bracelet, in the dormitory, she leaned on me and looked at photos with me, even though some of them included her boyfriend. In front of the main building's east section, the two of us, a sophomore and a junior, folded paper airplanes together, competing to see whose flew the farthest… That night, she poured out so much to me. I gently told her to cherish the relationship between her and him. Perhaps only then did I understand what it meant to love someone. As long as she's happy—no matter who she's with, as long as he loves her. I think love is selfless.

It was time for Yusen to learn the story between Wenhui and Yang Zheng.

It was another rainy night, the rain like silk threads, ethereal and hazy. I gently held her hand; it was cold, smooth, like ice. The orange streetlights cast a dull glow on the rain-soaked asphalt, reflecting a hazy, dreamlike world—a nightmare. In the quiet night, occasionally a car would whiz by, its fading sound slowly blending into the silence, making the already quiet night even quieter.

She finally threw herself into my arms and cried. Tightly, she hugged my waist, her forehead resting on my shoulder, her tear-streaked face buried against my chest. She cried so bitterly, yet so freely.

She told me everything. Xiao Ma was her childhood sweetheart and boyfriend; they loved each other deeply. For eight long years, starting from the first year of junior high school, Xiao Ma had never dated any other girls for her sake. They were inseparable; she would make him ugly but adorable little dolls, and she always cared for him, cherished him, and loved him like a wife. He, in turn, protected her unwaveringly, like a husband. She had a deep Oedipus complex; in his presence, she was both a virtuous wife and a sweet, dependent daughter. It seemed destined that they were a perfect couple in each other's hearts. But fate played a cruel trick on them; heaven wouldn't allow the two lovers to be together. Xiao Ma was a Muslim, and according to Hui customs, intermarriage with Han Chinese was forbidden unless the other party was a Muslim. This seemed easy enough, but fate continued to play cruel jokes on them. Xiao Ma's father was the local Hui leader, and according to Hui custom, the children of leaders were strictly forbidden from marrying Han Chinese, even if the other party was a Muslim.

Shuang cried even harder then, clinging to me tightly, biting my sweater and shoulders with her teeth. I was in pain, feeling suffocated, but numb. I stood there blankly, my eyes staring straight ahead, not even knowing what I was looking at. My arms hung limply at my sides. I didn't hug her. I felt like a telephone pole with warmth, but that warmth was slowly fading away.

It was Shuang's birthday in December. I bought a cake, candles, candied hawthorns, and roses, and treated her to hot pot. In a small restaurant where it was just the two of us, we lit twenty candles, their gentle flames dancing playfully. Through the warm candlelight, we gazed at each other silently, smiling softly but sweetly. It was so warm. Neither of us could bear to blow them out until the flames reached the cake, then we happily plucked the little ends of the candles. She didn't make a wish. She said that if she had to choose again, I would be her first choice, although later events proved me wrong, but I'm still content.

In college, I made an irreparable and irreparable mistake—a man's mistake. I've said it before, I'm lewd and pornographic. Like other male college students, I watched porn day and night when I was bored.

Of course, I was different; I never just watched for entertainment, I always put it into practice.

The victim was a girl named Yu, a very talented but unattractive girl.

To be honest, I never liked her at all.

She was my colleague and friend, and apart from her face, she was alright in every way. But her large, round, flat face covered in acne was truly disgusting. Given this, I won't describe it further; you can all imagine it while squatting in the latrine. Quite by chance, on my way back from dinner, I ran into Yu and two other colleagues/friends. One of them was Yu's current boyfriend. He would never guess that I had done such a shameful thing with his girlfriend, hahaha. Anyway, since we hadn't seen each other in a while, we went out for "mala tang" (a spicy hot pot

restaurant) again. During the meal, we agreed to go roller skating together the next night. But then everyone had something to do, so it was a lucky break for Yu and me—oh, no, for me, the lecherous guy, hehe. As I expected, the roller skating rink was packed up by midnight. With nowhere to go, we "very helplessly" went into a small private room at a roadside video arcade. The arcade was pitch black except for a few beams of dusty light from two TVs. The side walls were covered in bizarre colors, like erotic versions of Picasso's works. Gunshots and women's moans of pleasure blared from the cheap speakers with excessively amplified echoes. From next door came the indistinct, male-like panting. My hand slowly moved to her thigh, gently caressing it. She sat ramrod straight, like a soldier in training, her eyes fixed on the screen, her chest heaving at almost twice the normal rate. Unconsciously, I increased the frequency of my rubbing, occasionally giving her a sharp squeeze. Finally, she began to bite her lower lip. So, I slowly and gently rubbed my way to the inside of her thigh. Suddenly, I pressed myself against her, my lips hard against hers. She struggled, but it was futile, only increasing my sense of conquest and my burning desire.

She cried.

Men aren't afraid of women's resistance, but they are terrified of women's tears. I silently sat up and gently kissed her earlobe. She didn't flinch, nor did she show any expression. “I love you. Just now, I fell deeply in love with you. Maybe tomorrow I'll like other girls, but at least tonight I belong to you, from head to toe. You are my goddess.” My hand remained between her legs. I carefully pressed her vulva through her jeans. “Mmm…” She gently closed her eyes and slowly parted her legs. I knew this was her first kiss, and the first time she had been touched by a man. She liked me, I knew.

With my index finger, I gently pressed her vulva, slowly and rhythmically. She slowly opened her mouth and moaned softly. I quietly loosened my belt and guided her hand slowly into my underwear. Unconsciously, she grasped my hard, burning penis and gently stroked it up and down. “Oh…shit…” I grabbed her breast and squeezed it hard. “Ah…” She finally couldn't help but cry out loudly. I suddenly pulled her into my arms and kissed her fiercely. My tongue danced in and out of her mouth, and she, like a beggar finally meeting a generous tycoon, eagerly followed my tongue. She scraped the base of my tongue with the tip of her tongue, while her hand slipped inside my clothes and gripped my pectoral muscles tightly; her nails were sharp. The pain further fueled my desire. I violently withdrew my hand and thrust it deep into her panties. "No, don't..." "I know my limits," I said, panting heavily. Her vagina was already soaking wet, and my index finger probed restlessly, the sticky "squirting" sounds clearly audible. She began to scream unrestrainedly, but thankfully my tongue was still inside her mouth, so her moans didn't carry too far. Finally, I released my hand that had been gripping her breast and plunged it into my own panties, grasping her hand that was holding my penis and frantically stroking it. "Oh..." A milky, viscous liquid covered both our hands.

I leaned weakly against her shoulder. She gently stroked my face, affectionately stroking my eyebrows with her index finger. I sneered inwardly.

In the morning, we walked back to school side-by-side, but a meter apart.

I took no responsibility, nor did I ever intend to.

It was as if I'd hired a pretty pure prostitute.

I'm a fucking bastard.

I was once pure…

Maruko… Hui (Maruko left quietly, and Hui appeared when I was bored).

I was once pure…

Jing… (Perhaps fate had played enough jokes on me, or perhaps I truly withstood the test, and God gave me Jing.)

We were a perfectly matched couple. She was my wife, and I was her husband—a match made in heaven. Our complementarity was evident in every aspect. She was mine, and I was hers. But we weren't as happy as other couples.

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