Prologue: The Fate of the Serial Masturbator!
"Yes, that's it, Granny! Open that ancient, toothless cavern and receive my divine nectar like a drought-stricken village welcoming the monsoon!!!"
In a dimly lit room, Alex screamed like a banshee in mating season—if banshees had the libido of a caffeinated rabbit—while he flogged his meat with the dedication of a blacksmith trying to reshape reality itself.
His poor, overworked soldier was long past retirement age, looking less like a mighty Excalibur and more like a deflated party balloon that someone refused to throw away out of sheer stubbornness.
It had given up. Gone limp like an overcooked noodle left in the sun.
The once-proud tower of masculinity now sagged in defeat, bruised black and red like a banana that lost a bar fight.
Alex, in his infinite wisdom, assumed it was just some natural color evolution—like a Pokémon evolving, except in reverse, and much, much sadder.
Seventeen times. Seventeen. And it wasn't even lunchtime.
At this point, his banana wasn't just dead—it had been resurrected, crucified, and sent back to the afterlife so many times that even necromancers would be impressed.
If it could talk, it would've wheezed out, "Please… no more…" in a voice raspier than a chain-smoking grandpa on his deathbed.
The young, twig-limbed man was going at it like a one-man orchestra, his VR headset strapped on like a knight's helmet, shielding his eyes from the harsh reality of his own degeneracy.
His right arm—his glorious, overdeveloped right arm—was in a league of its own, a muscular titan compared to the sad, malnourished noodle that was his left.
It was a tragic sight, like watching a man who only trained one leg at the gym and now had to live life looking like a biological typo.
From dawn till dusk, without rest, without mercy, his right arm endured a workout that would make professional athletes weep.
A brutal, merciless training regimen—except instead of a personal trainer, he had lust, and instead of protein shakes, he fueled himself on sheer, unhinged horniness.
His poor muscles were crying for a break, but Alex? Oh no, Alex was watching something… something less than mainstream, shall we say.
Something so off the beaten path that even the algorithm refused to recommend it.
Then, like the wrath of God itself, the door to his room exploded open.
"Alex! How many times do I have to scream your goddamn name before you decide to come out for fucking lunch—OH. MY. GOOOOOD!"
July, who had reached the absolute peak of her patience, stormed in, fully intending to drag this cave-dwelling degenerate out by the ear.
But nothing—NOTHING—in her wildest nightmares could have prepared her for the visual abomination before her.
The room reeked. Not just a little stink. Not just a mild funk. No, this was an olfactory crime scene.
The first thing that hit her like a sledgehammer to the sinuses was the unmistakable stench of cum.
Not the sterile, barely-there scent you pretend not to notice. No. This was cheesy, musky, sweaty, fermented cum.
The kind of smell that seeps into walls, the kind that makes candles give up, the kind that could probably knock a grown man unconscious if left in a sealed room for too long.
The windows weren't open. They hadn't been open in ages. This room had a dark aura, the kind of oppressive energy that screamed, Something unholy has happened here.
But more than that—more than the unsettling atmosphere—there were tissues.
So many crumpled tissues littering the floor that July felt like she had just stepped into a snowstorm made entirely of sorrow and bodily fluids.
If she took a single step forward, she wouldn't be stepping on the floor anymore.
No, she'd be stepping on history—on a graveyard of sins, on paper so saturated with regret that even forensic scientists wouldn't want to touch it.
And then there were the stains.
Stains everywhere. On the table, on the floor, on the windows. The windows.
On the bed, and—dear sweet merciful gods—on the ceiling. How? How in the name of physics and human anatomy had this man managed to hit the ceiling?
Was he defying gravity? Was he taking shots at the moon? July felt like she had walked onto the set of a crime scene where the only victim was common decency.
And then, the voice.
"Oh yes, Granny! Toothless, you say? I say MAXIMUM SUCTION POWER!"
"Open that black hole and just swallow my whole existence!!!"
"Ahhh yes, you've been a bad girl, huh? All through this century, huh?"
"What, you met Abraham Lincoln?! You naughty, naughty woman!!"
In the middle of this den of depravity, Alex sat leaned back in his gaming chair, his things fully out for the universe to witness. And what a pitiful sight it was.
July clamped her mouth shut, struggling not to gag—partly from the stench, but mostly from the horrific words pouring out of Alex's mouth.
In all her forty years, never had she heard filth of this magnitude. A granny?
A fucking granny?! Of all the fetishes in the world, this man had chosen to roleplay with a woman who possibly invented knitting?!
July didn't hesitate. She leaned down, yanked off her sandal, and—with the precision of a seasoned assassin—launched it straight at Alex's face.
The trajectory was perfect, as if guided by the divine wrath of every disappointed ancestor watching from above.
WHACK!
The impact was glorious, knocking the VR headset clean off his head and finally dragging his soul back to the mortal realm.
His dazed eyes blinked in confusion, adjusting to the horror of reality. And then he saw her.
"M-Mo—"
"What the hell is wrong with you?! Wh—what is this?! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?!"
July was screaming now, waving her arms like an exorcist who had just walked in on Satan himself committing unspeakable acts.
"Look at yourself! Look at your hands! Your right arm looks like it's been lifting for eight years, while your left looks like it was born yesterday!"
Alex panicked, scrambling for an excuse, but his instincts betrayed him.
With a single tragic mistake, he wiped his face with his right hand—yes, the right hand—smearing sweat (and possibly other things) across his face like a man who had truly abandoned all dignity.
"This isn't what it looks like?" he croaked out.
The audacity.
And then…
Plop.
A single, sorrowful drop of cum fell from the ceiling. Right there. Right between them.
July followed its descent with the wide-eyed horror of someone watching a meteor crash straight into their front yard.
She took a deep breath.
And then her eyes darted around the room, taking in the nightmare in its full, disgusting glory.
The bed. Stained.
The papers. Stained.
The table. Stained.
The dress. Stained.
The floor. Stained.
The ceiling. STAINED.
The fan. HOW?!
The chair. WHY?!
Everything. Soaked, defiled, absolutely ruined.
This wasn't just a mess. This was a crime scene. If a forensic team ever walked in here with a blacklight, the whole place would glow like a radioactive disaster zone.
July had seen a lot of things in her life. But this? This was a level of depravity that needed holy water and a priest—no, several priests.
July shook her head. This was it. She was done. Finished. Game over.
The boy needed serious help. Not just a cold shower, not just a deep cleanse with industrial-grade disinfectant—no, this was a full-on intervention.
"I'm calling your dad. Get ready to see a psychiatrist."
She declared, her voice steeled with the exhaustion of someone who had truly, utterly, completely had enough.
Alex's soul left his body. Panic hit him like a lightning bolt to the nipples.
"Wait, no! No psychiatrist! Just send me to my grandma's house! I swear I'll be a good boy!"
.
.
.
Lads, gentlemen, and fellow mentally compromised individuals, toss your last two brain cells into the bin, because you won't be needing them anymore.
Welcome to another degenerate adventure😈
Read. Laugh. Wank. Sleep.