The rain tonight falls with the same rhythm as his heartbeat did. I watched it through the shoji screens as I took him—the desperate buck of his hips, the choked protests, the final shudder that emptied his cock deep inside my cunt. The memory is not a pleasure. It is a data point. A measurement of resistance. Some struggle for weeks. This one lasted only three days before his body accepted its purpose. His semen was thin, diluted by city living and processed food. I require a stronger source next. A man who works with his hands, whose balls hang heavy with undiluted seed. I will find him. The hunt has already begun.