The clock on Jake Harlan's monitor read 2:47 AM, but time had stopped mattering hours ago. Friday night in Coral Springs, Florida, meant the same thing it always did: lights off, AC cranked to arctic levels because the humidity outside made everything feel like a wet sock, and the sacred ritual of the goon session in full swing.
His apartment was a shrine to optimized degeneracy. Empty Monster cans formed precarious ziggurats on the desk. Used tissues overflowed from a wastebasket that hadn't seen the bottom in weeks. The glow from three monitors bathed the room in an unholy palette of blues, purples, and the occasional flash of animated pink. One screen looped a 4K compilation titled "Elf Harem Overload Vol. 7 – Subbed." Another ran a Discord chat where anonymous users egged each other on with timestamps and edge challenges. The third displayed the control app for his pride and joy: the Milkmaster 3000.
Jake had saved for six months to buy it. Top-of-the-line, app-controlled, with seven vibration patterns, adaptive suction calibrated by AI, internal heating coils that mimicked body temperature, and—his favorite feature—an audio personality module that could cycle through voices from popular hentai dubs. Tonight's selection: "Yandere Succubus-chan," who purred encouragements like, "Master, you're doing so well... don't stop now, or I'll get jealous~"
He was deep in it. Shirt off, sweat beading on his chest despite the cold air. Headphones clamped tight. VR headset perched on his forehead like a crown, ready to drop if he wanted full immersion. The Milkmaster had him enveloped in its warm, silicone grip, pulsing in slow, deliberate waves that built pressure like a tectonic plate shifting. Every few minutes he eased off the throttle—hand hovering over the app slider—whispering to himself the gooner's mantra: "Just one more edge. Just one more."
His heart hammered in perfect sync with the machine's rhythm. Dehydration had set in hours ago; his mouth tasted like copper and Red Bull residue. The smartwatch on his wrist had buzzed warnings thirty minutes back—"Hydrate. Heart rate elevated."—but warnings were for normies. Jake was chasing the mythical "Super-O," the transcendent state where time dissolved and the universe became nothing but throbbing bliss.
The machine's AI voice cooed in his ear: "You're so close, Master. Let me take you all the way..."
He groaned, hips twitching involuntarily. The suction tightened just right. Heat built. Pressure mounted. The edge approached like a freight train.
Then the app chimed.
Low Battery – 8% remaining. Connect charger to continue session.
Jake's eyes snapped open. "No. No no no no."
The Milkmaster didn't stop. It never did during low-battery mode; instead, it ramped up one final, desperate pattern designed to "finish the user before shutdown." The suction became erratic—hard pulls followed by teasing releases. Vibrations stuttered like a car running out of gas.
"Come on, you piece of overpriced silicone," he muttered, fumbling for the charger cable on the nightstand. His hand brushed empty cans; one clattered to the floor. The cable was there, somewhere, buried under a pile of doujin printouts and lube bottles.
The AI voice shifted tone, now edged with artificial concern: "Master... I'm getting sleepy. Plug me in or... I'll have to stop."
Jake panicked. The machine was locked around him in its "safety clamp" mode—supposedly to prevent injury during convulsions, but right now it felt like a bear trap made of pleasure. He tried to reach the charger without dislodging himself. Arm stretched. Fingers grazed plastic.
Missed.
The battery hit 5%. The vibrations surged wildly.
"Oh fuck—fuck fuck fuck—"
He yanked harder than he should have. The clamp resisted for a glorious, terrifying second—then released with a wet pop that echoed in the quiet room. Momentum carried him backward. His foot caught on the jungle of extension cords snaking across the carpet. Legs tangled. Body pitched.
Time slowed.
He saw the coffee table rushing up—glass top, sharp corner, littered with remotes, half-eaten pizza crusts, another empty can. His temple connected first.
Crack.
Not loud. Not cinematic. Just a dull, wet thud followed by the metallic ring of glass vibrating.
Pain bloomed instant and blinding. Warmth trickled down the side of his face. The room tilted. Monitors flickered like dying stars.
His last coherent thought wasn't profound. It wasn't regret for a wasted life, or a plea to whatever god might listen.
It was: Of all the fucking ways... mid-goon? With the Milkmaster 3000 still humming on the bed like nothing happened? This is peak irony. This is...
Darkness swallowed the rest.
...
He floated.
No pain. No sound. Just an endless gray nothing, like staring into static.
Then a voice—female, amused, dripping with condescension.
"Well. That was pathetic."
A figure materialized in front of him. Or maybe he materialized in front of her. Hard to tell in the void.
She lounged on what looked like a cloud shaped into a throne, legs crossed, one manicured finger tapping her chin. Long platinum hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid moonlight. Golden eyes glowed with predatory amusement. Her "clothing"—if you could call it that—was translucent divine fabric that clung in all the wrong-right places, leaving very little to imagination. Small, elegant horns curved from her forehead, and faint bat-like wings flexed behind her.
Jake blinked. Or thought he did. "Who...?"
"Lustara," she said, rolling the name like expensive wine. "Goddess of desire, karma, and occasionally hilarious demises. Congrats, mortal. You just speedran the Darwin Award."
He tried to look down at himself. Naked. Floating. No blood. No pain. Just... embarrassment.
"I... died?"
"Quite spectacularly." She waved a hand. A holographic screen appeared between them, replaying the last thirty seconds in crisp 4K slow-motion: the frantic yank, the stumble, the fatal corner of the table. The Milkmaster sat innocently on the bed, battery icon blinking red.
Jake groaned. "Kill me again. Please."
"Too late for that." Lustara leaned forward, cleavage defying physics. "But lucky you, I was in the neighborhood. Bored. Scrolling mortal deaths for entertainment. Yours? Top-tier comedy. The machine. The cables. The pizza crust. Chef's kiss."
"So... what now? Heaven? Hell? Reincarnation as a slug?"
She laughed—a sound like wind chimes mixed with sin. "None of the above. I have a better idea. A little project. A rehabilitation program, if you will."
Jake narrowed his eyes. "If this is some 'second chance at life' bullshit—"
"It is. But with a twist." She snapped her fingers. The void shifted, colors bleeding in—green forests, towering castles, fantasy tropes galore. "You're going to my world. Isekai style. The works: overpowered stats, adoring harem, world-saving destiny. The whole package."
His heart—if he still had one—leapt. "Wait. Seriously? Like, Truck-kun but goddess edition?"
"Exactly. But here's the fun part." Her smile turned wicked. "You spent your entire adult life chasing pixels and plastic. Wasting potential. Edging toward nothing. So I'm going to teach you appreciation. Real appreciation."
A golden chain appeared around his... well, everything below the belt. It shimmered, then sank into his skin like a tattoo.
"Wait—what the fuck is that?"
"Call it a curse. Or a blessing. Depending on your perspective." She circled him slowly, trailing a finger along his shoulder. "You'll be irresistible. Pheromones that make women weak at the knees. Infinite stamina. Super strength. Magic. The works. But..." She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "You will never, ever finish. Not with them. Not alone. Not ever. Until you earn it."
Jake stared. "You're shitting me."
"Nope." She pulled back, grinning. "Blue-balled for eternity. Or until you complete my little quest. Save the world. Prove you're more than a walking goon session. Grow. Connect. Feel something real. Then maybe—maybe—I'll unlock the goods."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened again. "This is the most sadistic isekai premise I've ever heard."
"I know, right? Delicious." She clapped her hands. "Any last words before I yeet you?"
Jake looked at the fantasy world shimmering below. Hot elf archers. Foxgirl assassins. Demon queens. All looking at him like he was the main character.
And none of them would ever get the payoff.
He sighed. Long. Defeated.
"Fine. Send me in, you sadistic waifu."
Lustara's laughter echoed as reality folded.
"Time to level up... or down?"
The void collapsed.
Jake Harlan—soon to be Jax the Eternal Edger—fell screaming into a new world.