At 1 a.m. in a Shibuya club, I was on the hunt for young women. I kept approaching them, but every single one ignored me, and all I ended up with was a growing bar tab. It was past 4 a.m., the venue thick with smoke, at the peak of the night's energy. Sweating from frustration and heat, I leaned against the wall at the edge of the stage when I noticed a woman standing nearby. Pushing through the crowd, I approached her and tapped her shoulder. When she turned around, I was instantly drawn in—petite, dressed in this season's trendy fashion. Exactly my type. The cleavage peeking from her camisole swayed slightly with her unsteady, tipsy steps. Suddenly, she lost her balance and collapsed against my chest. When she lifted her face, something deep inside me stirred. Without hesitation, we locked into a deep kiss. She met my tongue with hers—skilled, practiced. Emboldened, I licked the sweat trailing down her neck, then trailed my tongue over her ears, cheeks, nose, and eyelids. For a young girl, she was surprisingly good. Kissing again, I flipped up her tight mini skirt and groped her big ass. It lacked some firmness, but the shape was deliciously slutty. She fought back, rubbing my hard cock through my jeans. Her technique was impressive. Convinced we'd have sex, I invited her to a hotel—but she said no. I pressed her several times, but she refused each time. With no choice, I settled for exchanging LINE contacts to meet up for drinks later. One thing caught my attention—her LINE ID. Just a string of numbers, probably her birthday. Wait… she’s over thirty? I prefer younger women. No—women don’t have an age. Repeating that to myself, I headed to our meetup spot.