69: Itsuwari no Bishou Episode 1

Review of 69: Itsuwari no Bishou Episode 1

Right from the jump, as the screen flickers on, I’m hit square in the chest with this raw, desperate moan—“Stop! Ahh, I can’t!”—and I’m already halfway off the couch, heart thumping like I just sprinted a block. It’s not even thirty seconds in, and the visuals are pure, unadulterated chaos: a tangle of limbs, flushed skin glistening like it’s been dipped in honey, and these sharp, frantic gasps that claw their way into my ears. I’m torn between wanting to look away and needing to see every damn detail—those trembling thighs, the way her voice cracks into a high-pitched “I’m coming!” like she’s shattering glass. It’s messy, it’s overwhelming, and I’m already sweating like I’m the one in the scene, not just some perv glued to a screen at 2 a.m. with a bag of stale chips forgotten on my lap.

Opening Thrusts: Raw, Relentless, and Way Too Real

That first scene isn’t just a hook; it’s a full-on chokehold. The animation nails every bead of sweat sliding down her neck, every shudder as she arches back with this helpless, almost pained expression that’s somehow hotter than any fake pornstar grin. The sound design—Christ, those wet, sloppy noises layered under her cries of “Coming!”—it’s like they mic’d up every inch of friction and turned the dial to eleven. I’m sitting there, palms clammy, feeling like I’ve stumbled into something I shouldn’t be watching, like I’m eavesdropping on a secret I wasn’t meant to hear. And when she collapses with that drawn-out “Wooooow…” at 00:00:54, I’m half-laughing, half-aroused, because it’s so over-the-top yet so damn convincing. It reminds me of this one awkward hookup in college where neither of us knew what we were doing, but the aftermath had that same dazed, sloppy satisfaction. Yeah, I’m going there. Sue me.

Aoi Midori: The Perfect Girl with a Dirty Little Panic

Then we pivot to Aoi Midori, the self-proclaimed “well-behaved, smart, pretty, great girl overall” at 00:03:52, and I’m instantly obsessed with her spiraling inner monologue. Her voice is this sugary, confident purr, but underneath, she’s freaking out about misaligned answer sheets—three subjects, one column off, what a disaster—and I’m cackling because, holy hell, I’ve been there. Not with tests, but that gut-drop feeling of screwing up something everyone assumes you’ve got handled? Too real. But then she flips to this manipulative, adorable act to fix her grades, and the way her tone shifts—soft, pleading, with just enough edge—makes my skin prickle. When she tries to charm Sensei at 00:06:41 with “I’m begging you for my…” and straight-up offers herself, I’m floored. The animation lingers on her nervous, half-unbuttoned uniform, the way her fingers tremble just slightly as she pushes boundaries. It’s predatory in her own desperate way, and I’m both rooting for her hustle and cringing at how fast it backfires.

The Dark Turn: Sensei’s Demons and a Screaming Descent

Things get ugly—real ugly—around 00:14:01 when Sensei snaps. Aoi’s begging “No, I’m begging you… Stop!” and the animation doesn’t hold back: her wide, terrified eyes, the violent jerk of her body as she’s pinned, the raw, guttural strain in her voice as she screams “It hurts!” at 00:15:11. It’s brutal, and I’m gripping my chair, stomach twisting because this isn’t just hot anymore—it’s disturbing as hell. The close-ups on her tear-streaked face, the way her uniform’s torn just enough to show bruised skin, it’s too vivid. I’m flashing back to times I’ve felt powerless, not in this context but just… that dread. And yet, some messed-up part of me can’t look away when Sensei growls about “tearing a terrified hymen open” at 00:15:00. It’s vile, it’s wrong, and I hate that the raw intensity of the sound—her sobs mixing with his grunts—still gets under my skin in a way I can’t unpack right now. The heat of her panic, the coldness of his control, it’s a gut-punch I didn’t sign up for.

Izumi and Maho: Domestic Heat with a Side of Guilt

Switching gears to Izumi and Maho at 00:09:26, there’s this softer, almost sweet vibe that’s a weird breather after Aoi’s nightmare. Maho’s “Welcome back, Izumi-kun!” in that warm, husky tone, paired with her wearing an apron over lingerie—come on, it’s cliché but it works. The way her curves fill out every inch of that outfit, the little sway in her hips as she moves, it’s pure domestic fantasy fuel. Their sex scene at 00:09:43 is slower, messier, more intimate; the animation catches every flush on her cheeks, every gasp as she murmurs “It feels good!” with this shaky, honest edge. I’m into it, picturing lazy mornings with an older lover who knows every trick, but then Izumi’s darker side creeps in later with his “I love high school girls so much” confession at 00:18:50. It’s a slap—suddenly I’m side-eying this tender moment, wondering if Maho’s just a placeholder for his messed-up kinks. The dissonance is hot and horrifying, and I’m left fidgeting, turned on by the friction of their bodies but grossed out by the subtext.

That Final Mess: Aoi’s Trauma and My Own Damn Head

By the end, when Aoi’s whimpering “No more! Help me!” at 00:16:23 and Maho stumbles in, I’m a wreck. The animation doubles down on the chaos—sweat-slicked skin, tangled hair, the stark contrast between Aoi’s broken cries and Maho’s shocked gasp. It’s a trainwreck of lust and violation, and I’m stuck replaying that moment at 00:18:37 where Izumi admits “I just fucked a high school girl so my arousal won’t go away.” His voice is low, predatory, and it’s paired with this obscene close-up of thrusting hips, the sound of flesh slapping so loud it’s practically in my room. I’m blushing, I’m pissed, I’m weirdly into the sheer audacity of it all. It’s like eating something spicy that burns your mouth but you keep going back for more because the sting feels alive. I’m thinking about boundaries I’ve pushed in my own dumb past, late-night confessions I’ve made to friends about fantasies I shouldn’t have, and now I’m wondering if this episode just ripped open a box I wasn’t ready to deal with.

So here I am, screen off, room dark, still buzzing like I’ve had three espressos and a questionable life choice. I’m not okay, but I’m not not okay, you know? I might need to stare at a wall for an hour or text someone about that infirmary scene just to get it out of my system. Hell, I might watch it again tomorrow, and I’m not proud of that. If anyone’s got thoughts on how to process this kind of filth without losing your soul, hit me up. I’m all ears… and other things I probably shouldn’t mention right now.