The Pain Of One Minute Men

The original owner of this body was… also named Xavier. "So his name is Xavier too, huh? What are the odds…"

But his life? Pitiful.

Xavier's eyes darkened slightly as he absorbed the backstory.

The original had an incompetent father, a milf of a stepmother, and an incredibly attractive stepsister—both of whom surpassed most women back on Earth in terms of beauty.

But none of that mattered now.

Because the father—trash as he was—sold them all into slavery to pay off some vague, hidden debt that even the former Xavier hadn't uncovered.

The mother and sister? Gone. Sold.

And Xavier himself?

Bought by a noble milf.

As a gigolo.

Tch. He lost contact with the only family he had, and now he was property—nothing more than eye candy for some powerful woman.

He clenched his fists.

This world… it wasn't advanced. Still medieval. Sword and magic were real. Mages, swordsmen, magical beasts… and slavery ran rampant.

It made sense. With so many races—elves, demons, beastkin—it was only natural that power dictated ownership.

But what truly shocked Xavier... was the gender dynamic.

Here, women held the upper hand.

In this world, females had greater talent in magic, superior combat affinity, and more frequently awakened high-tier classes. While men weren't useless, the gap in talent distribution meant women led more often than not. And over time… that influence cemented itself into cultural control.

They were the top.

The dominant.

The rulers.

Xavier sighed, lips curling into a complicated smile.

Being a reputable porn actor in his past life, he'd always played the dominant one. Seeing women on top of society? It didn't sit right with him.

But that's what made it fun.

If everything was perfect from the beginning, things would get boring real quick. At least now… the stakes were real. The imbalance made the game more exciting.

The stage was set.

All that remained was for him to dominate it.

He sighed again, stepping toward the mirror on the far wall.

His reflection stared back.

Younger. Stronger. Leaner than he was at earth. But what caught his attention was the hair—a near-white silver that shimmered faintly under the room's dim light.

"Silver hair… Not bad."

He still looked somewhat like his Earth self, but handsomer. Sharper jawline. Perfect skin. And eyes that held a strange charm—like something ancient had awakened in him.

Looking at himself, he understood why that woman had bought him.

Not that he liked it. Some men might like being a gigolo, but not him, he has his pride.

In fact, his first goal in this world? Flip the script.

He wasn't going to be hers.

She'd become his.

Instead of being her obedient gigolo, she'd be his mistress—his plaything.

He grinned.

Everything he needed had already been handed to him.

The system. The body. The world.

Now all that was left…

Was to conquer it.

His mind drifted again… Back to her. To Lily.

That moment… when he first laid eyes on her—

Those bountiful breasts that defied logic and gravity, squeezed tight in that silk-thin dress... The way her nipples teased through the fabric, practically begging for his tongue… Her wide, curvy hips swaying with every seductive step… The way she looked at him—not with contempt or arrogance, but playful hunger.

Even now, just the memory of her pressed tight against him during that kiss made his heart race. His cock twitched again.

He wanted to devour her.

Not just fuck her. Not just touch her.

He wanted to strip her bare… suck on those massive tits till she screamed his name… bury his face between her thighs and taste her divine nectar…

He wanted to hear her moan, whimper, beg.

He wanted to make that goddess break apart under his touch and cry out for more.

It took everything—everything—he had not to ravage her right then and there.

And what made it worse?

Her words.

"You'll barely last three seconds inside me."

They echoed like a slap to the face. He clenched his fists. The pain, the shame, it was still there.

Back on Earth, looks had never been his strongest point. He wasn't ugly, but he wasn't that typical model-type either.

But his endurance? His libido? That was where he shined.

No drugs. No boosters. He could fuck for hours straight—raw stamina, skill, and control.

Multiple women? Easy. Orgies? Casual. Long shoots? He thrived on them.

In fact, the day he died… The very morning Truck-kun sent him flying into Lily's arms, he had just finished breaking his own damn record—five absolute monsters of women. Thick, curvy, insatiable sluts. It was a 1 v 5 from daybreak deep into midnight. He wrecked them.

When he left, they were still twitching on the bed, shaking, drooling, unable to walk.

And him? He still had enough strength to clean up, throw on some clothes, and walk home.

Didn't even drive — his place was close to the shoot, and he figured the walk would help him cool down.

That power, that stamina… That's what made him famous. That's what made him top-tier. That's what fed him. It made him rise to the peak of the adult industry, booked back-to-back, paid premium just to fuck women senseless.

He was proud of it.

It was his identity.

And yet…

"You'll barely last three seconds inside me."

Those words stung deeper than he cared to admit.

So what if she was a goddess? So what if her body was so divine it could probably make kings cum just from a kiss?

Still, being told he was worse than a one-minute man? That he wouldn't even enter her properly before losing it? That he didn't even qualify to fuck her right now?

That shit hurt.

Only now did he know the pain of one minute men when they're mocked by their sexual partners. On Earth, he'd mocked men like that too. He called them females, said no man should ever bust that quick.

And now…?

He was a three-second man.