It was 2025, and Chad was still playing Pokémon Go… for whatever reason.
He was out in the wild, trying to catch himself a Snorlax Pokémon.
For the layman—lameman—lameperson: Pokémon Go was a mobile game built on augmented reality. You wandered through the real world, staring at your phone, while virtual Pokémon popped up as if they were actually there with you.
They perched on streetlamps, right next to the bird poop, hovered over garden hedges—sometimes above topless girls sunbathing—or loitered awkwardly on someone's driveway, often ending up like digital roadkill.
Anyway, this particular Snorlax had spawned in a place not even listed on Chad's Google Maps: a mysterious location called Brothel.
At first, he assumed it was just a quirky furniture store. It did have a lot of beds. But the beds weren't even that good—definitely not IKEA level—and for some reason, half the customers were lying in them... and wearing little to no clothes.
Chad couldn't wrap his head around why the furniture store allowed this. It felt wrong—downright unhygienic. Imagine strolling into a bakery, taking a big chomp out of a cake to "test" it, then sliding it back onto the display. That was the vibe he got from the writhing sea of half-naked and fully nude bodies tangled in the sheets around him.
A germophobic dread crept up his spine, but nothing—not even the couple enthusiastically going at it on a nearby mattress—could stop him from capturing that Snorlax.
He clambered over the pair, phone in hand, furiously tapping to hurl Poké Balls in their general direction. His focus was laser-sharp, unbreakable. That was, until he accidentally planted his shoe—caked in something suspiciously brown—right on a woman's face. Her makeup, slathered on so thick she could've doubled for Pennywise or Art's clown cousin, smeared under his sole like a grotesque abstract painting.
She glared up at him. "Hey! Threesomes cost extra, and this foot fetish nonsense? Not my thing. Kindly get your nasty shoe off my face!"
Chad, oblivious to the dog muck he'd tracked in, wobbled but pressed on. Snorlax was so close. With a dramatic flourish, he lobbed his Master Ball—nailed the catch—and promptly crashed through a glass table nearby, foot first.
The guy, mid-hump with the clown-faced woman, shouted, "Dude! Why'd you break that? We were going to use that glass table later!"
The woman, her makeup a garish mask of cracked white and red, slapped him hard, the sound ricocheting like shattered porcelain. "Eww, hell no! We weren't going to use that glass table! What do you think I am, some cheap, desperate whore?!" She sneered, her eyes narrowing as she glared at him. "Don't mistake me for a gutter slut, buddy. I've got standards, even in this place."
The guy mumbled, "I just meant… the glass table was for… a tea party with you. Nothing else!"
"Yeah, right," she scoffed, rolling her eyes before slapping him again. The crack echoed sharply.
Glass table? Chad blinked, dazed in the wreckage. Was this some kind of sex thing?
He made a mental note to Google it later and maybe try it with his waifu—whatever it was.
And the glass table: Luckily, he was wearing his jizz-soaked socks under his flip-flops; otherwise, his ankles and feet would've been shredded by the glass. The extra layer of cum-drenched fabric really saved his feet from harm.
He didn't usually wear his "love socks"—or "cum socks"—but he'd run out of clean ones, and these were the only ones left.
The couple kept bickering, slapping each other as if it were some kind of sport.
Slapping wasn't a sport… unless you counted Power Slap, which was just a whole lot of suck. No female butt slapping involved at all.
None of the workers or clientele at the brothel seemed to notice Chad's face, buried in his phone the entire time. If they had seen his face, they'd probably hire him on the spot to work there—or ask him to have sex with all the workers there. But for now, Snorlax was the only thing giving him a boner, though just a semi.
He left the brothel, swiping a few packets of chewing gum from the reception area—"Blue Chew," they were called—and grabbed a handful. Chad had always loved freebies: tissues, little packets of salt, milk, or pens that leaked all over your hand and pocket. If it was free, Chad took it.
He popped a few pieces of Blue Chew into his mouth and thought, Is this supposed to taste like blueberry? It tastes like chalk... Oh well. Food started tasting like rubbish when they stopped using real sugar and started using corn syrup to cut costs.
Chad admired the Snorlax he'd just snagged, awestruck by how far technology had come. Pokémon Go was practically teleporting Pokémon into the real world. His mind raced to the future of augmented reality—what if they could beam a digital version of his waifu into his shower? He pictured steamy, wild sex, humping her with abandon, climaxing in a glorious mess all over her. Pure bliss.
They could create a digital version of his waifu for his shower, where he could hump her, have wild sex, and shoot his load all over her. That would be amazing. But in reality, it would just be him humping water molecules, his load splattering on the walls and floor instead of her.
He couldn't bring his waifu pillow into the shower to hump—it would get completely wet. This kind of made her like a real girl, just like every real-life girl he hooked up with.
One look at his dick, and they're drenched between their legs for the rest of the day. But unlike the pillow, their wetness wasn't a whole-body thing.
He'd been thinking about touching himself—his waifu had that effect on him, and weirdly… so did Snorlax. In honour of the sleeping Pokémon, he was seriously considering giving himself a sleeping beauty—that thing where you sat on your hand until it went numb, so it felt like someone else was giving you a handjob.
He wasn't sure if that was a move Snorlax actually used, but hey, it felt on-brand.
Still, he was in public right now. Not exactly the best place for a cheeky wank. He clenched his fists, trying to mentally file it away for later. The urge could wait.
And just as he tried to regain composure—
A text message popped up on his phone screen.
From... her.
Speak of the devil—or rather, the demon girl herself—it was a picture of his waifu.
The sender was listed under the name "♥️Infernal Sex Princess♥️," complete with a black heart emoji and a flame. It was her. His waifu.
Chad blinked.
Wait—how? Could she read his thoughts telepathically? Was this some kind of new Bluetooth voodoo? Had AI gone that far?
He tapped the notification, and up came a photo. A selfie.
She was smiling—no, smirking—at him with those big, glittery anime eyes. Her pink hair looked even fluffier than usual, framing her face like it had just come out of a shampoo commercial for succubus queens. Her fangs were visible this time too, playfully biting down on a heart-shaped lollipop. The whole thing had that sickly-sweet filter, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
He froze.
This wasn't one of the pre-printed images on his pillow. No. This was new. Fresh. This was a selfie she had just taken.
But how?
She was a pillow. A mass-produced huggable rectangle with suggestive curves. She didn't have fingers. She didn't have a phone.
So how had she sent this? Through the power of horny? Through pure delusion? Was this some government experiment in parasocial relationships gone too far?
He stared at the image, his mouth slightly open. There she was, looking like she wanted to pull him into another dimension and do unspeakable things to him—things he definitely would not refuse.
Somehow, she'd sexted him, the message accompanying the photo reading:
"Look what's waiting for you... I was disappointed when you didn't shoot your load over me or inside me. But now? It's time for round two…
I want you to cum… all over my tit… on my tits... my face... and even on the face on my tits.
The bets are off now. You're free to do whatever you want to me... I'm waiting for you... in the shower... cum now!!"
Underneath the message was an address.
This didn't seem the least bit suspicious to Chad—just a perfectly normal message from his sentient anime pillow waifu inviting him to a mysterious address for some shower-time fun. Not shady. Not dangerous. Definitely not the beginning of a horror film.
He snorted with laughter, eyes still glued to the screen. "Pfft, I'm certainly not going to 'cum now'... I'll cum when I see my waifu in that shower… then it's game on!"
With his phone clutched tightly in one hand and his imagination running wild, Chad set off for the mysterious address, convinced that whatever—or whoever—was waiting for him there was worth the risk. The streets blurred past as he marched on, eyes gleaming with anticipation, thoughts of his waifu in the shower fuelling his every step.