BIG

City glow drips from steel and glass as two ex-lovers collide after years apart. You guide a man whose control fractures under temptation. Your selections decide who commands and who kneels.

Hyperreal art captures sweat, saliva, and shiver in impossible detail, so realism turns arousal into narrative weight. You don’t just observe - you direct. Handjobs and masturbation scenes reveal character more than dialogue.

He treats affection like a weapon and orgasm like a prize. Her laugh turns into a dare. Sometimes he takes, sometimes he begs. Each climax feels like confession.

Each route builds tension through dialogue and timing. A harsh command can break resistance or spark rebellion. You must read tone, not only options. The fall feels earned, not forced.

Lighting reacts to breathing speed. It’s voyeurism refined into art. Bodies feel weighted, responsive, human. Moans layer with breath against fabric.

Because it tells truth through filth. For players who see sex as narrative terrain. Each ending reframes desire.

Exclusive CGs unlock new domination sequences, open only while the city still hums. Claim control before it slips away.

Rain cuts sideways across the skyline, and Van Arkride leans against a flickering sign, smoke curling from his lips. He’s broke and bitter, but there’s always someone who needs a man willing to walk through filth.

Agnes thinks she’s chasing answers, until girls began returning from “internships” with empty eyes. So she looks for Van, the fixer who doesn’t give a damn about consequences. In that moment, a deal is struck: her fear for his cynicism, her innocence for his experience.

The city doesn’t sleep, it moans. Machines grind beside lovers. Agnes follows Van deeper and deeper. Their story isn’t gentle, it’s raw and grinding.

Rendered in detailed 2DCG scenes, the game captures every drop of lust, breath, and trembling touch. Bodies collide in offices, alleyways, and rain-drenched rooftops. Oral scenes melt into whispered desperation.

Van’s rough voice guides you through choices that don’t save anyone. Agnes’s growth burns slow, drawn out between curiosity and hunger. Together, they hunt something monstrous hidden beneath polite corruption.

You don’t simply watch this story - you breathe it. Multiple protagonist viewpoints keep the tension alive. It all collides in a climax that’s half revelation, half ruin.

“Pour Judgement” doesn’t reward purity - it rewards curiosity. Lose yourself in its corrupted beauty.

Half-dreaming, Naoki lies there trembling, her voice still lingering in the haze between sleep and waking. He pretends it's just a dream, but the hard truth presses against his thigh, betraying what he truly feels.

In his mind she’s there again, sweat-slick and radiant, taking another man deep inside. He tries to push it down, but the pleasure claws back.

With each night, the fantasy tightens its hold on him. Each glance at her curves stokes the forbidden images dancing behind his eyes.

Kenta’s frustration becomes a mirror, reflecting Naoki’s own hunger in ways that feel dangerously honest. It’s wrong, but the image won’t leave - it’s seductive in its cruelty.

He doesn’t know anymore if it’s a kink or madness; he only knows it consumes him. It’s a sickness he secretly cherishes, an arousal born of surrender and humiliation.

The animation makes every moan and thrust feel achingly close, as though you’re sharing his secret guilt. The question is no longer “will he stop”, but “how far can he go before nothing’s left”.

Either way, there’s no going back from the taste of forbidden pleasure.

Her eyes cling to every shift of his body, drinking him in. Each breath she takes fogs the glass, leaving proof of her desire.

He moves with the lazy confidence of someone aware of his power. The room around her disappears, swallowed by the sight of his body.

She knows it’s wrong, but guilt sharpens the pleasure. Her fingers move on their own, chasing him through sound and shadow.

She remembers how his touch once lingered, now it’s only memory. The silence between them thickens with the taste of betrayal.

He starts performing for her without admitting it to himself. Pleasure and shame blur until they’re one and the same.

Bodies become language, moans become punctuation. Their lust carries you along, slow and inevitable.

Creampies shimmer with the realism of sweat and breath. Each thrust, each gasp, feels personal and dangerously close.

Every orgasm feels earned, every release tinged with confession. The difference between observer and participant dissolves.

Each one trying to claim him, reshape him, consume him. Harem becomes trap, pleasure becomes surrender.

Walls whisper the echoes of previous nights. What begins behind glass ends in flesh, unfiltered.

The line between fantasy and confession blurs to nothing.

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