"Are you fucking kidding me?" The words burst out louder than I meant, echoing off the graffiti-scarred brick wall of the alley like I was yelling at God himself.
The homeless guy huddled on the splintered bench nearby—old coat patched with duct tape, beard like a bird's nest—lifted his head slow, eyes bleary under the streetlight's glow. "You good, man?" His voice was gravel and smoke, concerned in that way strangers get when they think you're about to snap.
I doubled over, hands on my knees, laughing so hard my abs hurt and tears stung my eyes.
Five hundred real, spendable dollars. Crisp twenties, smelling like fresh ink and possibility, stuffed in my hoodie pocket like I'd robbed a bank or hit the lotto. For jerking off on camera. One time. Alone in my shitty apartment.
What in the actual, mind-bending fuck was happening?
I straightened up, wiped my face with my sleeve, still chuckling like an idiot. The guy shrugged and went back to his cardboard pillow. I wheeled away, the chair's tires humming over uneven pavement, the city suddenly alive around me in ways it hadn't been for months.
Back at the apartment building, the elevator groaned and shuddered like it was hungover, spitting me out on my floor with a ding that felt mocking. I rolled down the dim hallway—peeling paint, flickering bulb overhead—keyed into my door, and slumped straight onto the bed. The mattress sagged under me, springs protesting, as I yanked the cash out again. Counted it twice, three times, fanning the bills like a poker hand. Green and real and mine.
This wasn't some elaborate lucid dream, right? I'd had those before—finding buried treasure, hooking up with celebrities—only to wake up to my empty wallet and the same leaky ceiling stain staring down like a judgmental eye. But no, this was solid. The paper crinkled under my fingers, the ink smudged a little where I'd gripped too hard. Hella real.
My brain kicked into overdrive then, questions piling up like unpaid bills. What the hell did all this mean? Why me? Was there some algorithm out there that scanned for desperate losers and thought, Yeah, this guy's perfect for our creepy sex game? And the camcorder—how'd it even get to me? Slipped in with the mail like junk from a catalog? Was I chosen for something specific, or was I just Host #7 because I answered something first?
And the big one: Was this gonna land me in FBI crosshairs? Deepfake porn rings, trafficking stings, whatever—the whole setup screamed illegal. But everything felt so… polished. Secure. The watch, the laptop, the seamless sync between them. Like black-market tech from a Bond villain who specialized in orgasms instead of nukes. I was scared, yeah—heart doing that fluttery thing—but excited too. The kind of thrill that makes your skin tingle.
Just as I was spiraling, the watch buzzed against my wrist, sharp and insistent like a text from a needy ex.
[New Quests Received!]
"Are you serious?" I muttered, pulse spiking again. Tapped the face.
The hologram bloomed, crisp and glowing, casting blue shadows across my rumpled sheets.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
ACTIVE QUEST (2)
Task: Film a complete handjob performed on you by a female partner until you climax.
Partner's face may be blurred.
Time Limit: 10:00:00 remaining
Base Reward on upload: $1,000 + 2,500 Orgasm Points
Bonuses (stackable):
Partner swallows or takes facial → +$2,000 + 3,000 OP
Performed in a public or semi-public location (risk of being caught) → +$5,000 + 5,000 OP
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Task: Take and post a set of at least 4 high-resolution nude photographs of one woman to your linked Pornstagram account.
Full nudity required.
Face may be blurred.
Photos must be uploaded directly through the laptop.
Time Limit: 24:00:00 remaining
Base Reward on upload: $1,500 + 2,000 Orgasm Points
Bonus:
Without face blurring → +$2,000 + 3,000 OP
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
I gulped so loud it echoed in my throat. Two new quests, and these weren't solo acts anymore. Needed a woman. A real, live woman to touch me, or strip for me. The numbers danced in my head—over ten grand if I nailed both with bonuses. Ten grand. That could fix my chair, stock the fridge, maybe even move out of this roach motel.
But how? The first one: Convince some chick to jerk me off on film? I'm not exactly Casanova. Last date was a disaster—spilled coffee all over her lap, and she ghosted before dessert. And the second: Snap nudes of a woman, post 'em to this Pornstagram thing linked to my channel? Walk up to a stranger like, "Hey, babe, mind getting naked for my creepy side hustle?"
The quest window had a glaring note at the top: NO PROSTITUTES, ESCORTS, OR PAID SERVICES ALLOWED. Logical, I guess. Otherwise, it'd be too easy—shell out cash, film the transaction, boom. But this? This was social engineering on steroids.
I flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling cracks that looked like lightning bolts. The room smelled like stale pizza and my earlier desperation. Heart still racing, mind whirling. Ten hours for the handjob? That's barely enough time to find someone, let alone convince them. And public? Risk of getting busted mid-stroke in a park or something? Insane.
But the money… God, the money. And those Orgasm Points—what the hell were they for? Some shop? Upgrades? I tapped around the watch interface, found a menu for "Seraph Wish Shop."
I flicked over to the Seraph Wish Shop just to see what the hell 1,000 Orgasm Points could actually get me.
The hologram unfolded like a devilish Amazon, page after page of glowing icons and prices that made my eyeballs sweat.
- 500 OP → Ever-Wet Nectar (single-use vial; makes your cum taste like whatever the girl secretly craves most: strawberry milkshake, cinnamon rolls, that one ex's cologne, whatever)
- 1000 OP → Zero-Friction Sheaths (box of condoms so thin they might as well be wishful thinking)
Cute. Useless for tonight. I scrolled deeper. Shit got wild fast: temporary dick enlargements, pheromone mists, a "Consent Whisper" charm that raised highly the chances of making any "maybe turn into a hell-yes (price: 45,000 OP). There was even something called a Succubus Sigil that cost six figures and had a warning label longer than my student-loan terms.
Everything cool was locked behind five- or six-digit point walls. The cheap stuff was fun, but none of it wouldn't magically conjure a willing woman into my lap in the next nine hours.
Later. I'd window-shop this insanity later.
I snapped the hologram shut and glanced out the window. Night had swallowed the city whole; streetlights smeared orange across wet pavement, bars starting to thump bass into the cold air. Perfect cover of darkness felt like armor. Less chance of getting slapped in front of a crowd when I inevitably said something catastrophically stupid to a stranger.
First stop: the bathroom. I stripped, rolled into the shower, and let the hot water blast away the smell of cheap lotion and bad decisions. Steam fogged the cracked mirror. I scrubbed like I could wash off the broke, the lonely, the years of feeling invisible. Didn't work, but at least I smelled like cedar and citrus body wash now instead of regret.
Out of the shower, I dug through the closet for the least depressing clothes I owned: dark jeans that actually fit, a charcoal button-up I'd bought for a job interview two years ago and never worn, and my one decent leather jacket (scuffed at the elbows but still badass in dim light). I even found semi-clean socks. Miracle.
Stood in front of the mirror, ran a brush through my black hair, pushing it back until it looked intentionally messy instead of homeless messy. Couple spritzes of the good cologne I kept for special occasions.
I gave myself a once-over. Not Casanova, sure, but not a troll either. Sharp jaw when I don't smile like a serial killer, shoulders broad shoulders from all the wheelchair track workouts I do to keep from going completely soft. Blue eyes that girls have, on rare occasions, called "pretty" before ghosting me anyway.
I looked… doable. Hopefully.
"Alright," I said to my reflection, voice only shaking a little. "Let's not end the night in handcuffs. Well. The bad kind, anyway."
I grabbed the camcorder, slipped it into the inside pocket of the jacket like it was a loaded gun, and rolled out into the night. The timer on the watch glowed soft and relentless:
09:47:12 remaining.
Game on.