"Ah… hard…"
"The angle isn't deep."
Heavy breathing and moans echoed from the screen.
"You're not wet enough."
Rusty Coke moved the cursor, frame by frame, slicing through the porn clip he got today.
He stared, hollow-eyed. Same blankness. Same numb grind. Just another day—editing sex tapes to keep the money coming.
"This shit's just boring." He exhaled through his teeth, hitting send as the export bar hit a hundred.
He didn't get it. Who even got off on this stuff? Or maybe he just couldn't anymore. Not when this was all he did.
But being an orphan left him with one option that paid—this.
And now, he needed the money more than ever.
Testicular cancer. Of course it had to be that.
Life hadn't just screwed him—it went for his balls, literally.
He slumped in his chair, eyes stuck on the frozen video frame. Tomorrow, chemo would begin. The doctor had told him, clear and cold: no jerking off, no wasting his babies.
Maybe that's why he felt like snapping today.
"Today I can jerk, right?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Of course he could.
As if anything would stop him. Life was already shit. There was no way he'd let this chance slide—not even if he had to force himself to get hard.
His fingers slipped under his shorts. He pulled his dick out, eyes locked on the screen—some chick with fat, bouncing tits mid-ride.
He hit play and stared. Moans, slaps, fake gasps—loud as hell, empty as ever.
His dick didn't move.
He squeezed the base anyway, stroking once, slow. Still nothing.
The girl on screen threw her head back, riding like she meant it. Or maybe pretending to. Hard to tell these days.
"Come on," he muttered, hand still working. "Just this once."
Nothing. Just dead weight in his grip.
His jaw clenched.
He tightened his fist, trying again. Faster this time. Still no stir, no pulse, no fucking point.
"Fucking hell."
He slammed the spacebar. The screen froze mid-thrust. Her face pixelated, frozen in fake pleasure.
He sat back, breathing hard for no reason at all.
Just bone-deep rage simmering in his chest. Not even at his body—at the pathetic joke of trying. At himself for still needing it. At life for ripping the one thing that made him feel anything.
He wiped his hand on his shirt and slumped forward, elbows on the desk, face buried in his palms.
Tomorrow they'd pump him full of poison. Call it hope. Call it survival.
He called it a countdown.
"God, just once—let me jerk off."
He snapped, voice sharp, chest heaving. His dick still lay there, limp. Useless.
Why did it have to be him? What the hell was he paying for? Wasn't being orphaned and left to scrape through life punishment enough?
Now even his dick had given up. Just a damn thing to piss from—nothing else.
And tomorrow….only he knew how scared he was.
He dragged his gaze back to the screen and started skimming. Old clips he'd edited. Unwatched footage he'd dumped and never opened. Maybe something—anything—would spark.
Click. Scroll. Fast-forward.
Nothing.
Click. Scroll. Moans. Fakes. Nothing.
Twenty videos later—maybe more—his other hand still holding his dick out, cold air brushing skin, he felt it.
A faint throb. Low. Deep in his balls.
It wasn't much. Just a pulse. A warning, maybe. A whisper from a body that still hadn't given up—though he had.
He gripped tighter. Slower this time. Careful. Like if he moved too fast, the moment would vanish.
One of the clips on screen played in a loop. A girl riding, tits bouncing, her face blurred just enough to make her forgettable. Her moans came on beat—loud, robotic, edited to hell. He'd cut this one last week. She never even blinked in the raw footage.
But his body didn't care.
Another slow stroke. He closed his eyes. Let the screen blur. Let her voice dissolve.
He wasn't thinking of her. Not really.
Maybe that girl from the clinic. The one behind the reception desk. The only one who looked at him like he was more than a walking diagnosis. Her voice had been soft. Not fake-soft. Just… steady. Real.
He'd imagined her hands once. Not in a dirty way. Not back then. Just—holding his chart. Holding his blood reports. Holding something of his like it mattered.
He knew it was wrong to think about a woman he didn't even know. But what was wrong with a moment of pleasure?
He wasn't doing anything wrong. At least, that's what he told himself.
His fingers traced the veins pulsing beneath his skin. He picked up the pace. His other hand squeezed his balls, wishing—if only—he could squeeze the cancer out.
He closed his eyes, chasing the flicker of sensation. The ache deepened, sharp and unfamiliar.
But then the fear stabbed through—like a needle twisting in muscle.
Tomorrow, they poison me. Tear me down. And this— this desperate grasp at feeling—could be the last time.
His breath caught. His body trembled.
The screen blurred again, the girl's face melting into shadow.
Is this even living? he wondered, the thought raw, unbidden.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the moment back under control.
Just once, he whispered. Just once.
A man needed his share of relief. He wasn't asking for much.
It wasn't like he ever got pussy to wet his dick. But if this kept up, why should he die with blue balls?
His whole twenty-one years of life had slipped away—still a virgin
All the fun these porn stars had—yeah, he got his cut, but no yum for him. And it had to be him alone.
He rubbed his thumb over his tip. Today, he was going to cum no matter what. Even if it killed him, he'd do it.
At least he'd die with empty balls.
Yeah, this was the motivation. He didn't know how long he'd have to hold back starting tomorrow. So today? No exceptions.
No pussy. Then he'd empty his balls with his own damn hand.
"Fuck, I am cumming."
.
.
.
{SSS - Beast Taming System loading}
.
.
.
.
{Loading}
.
.
.