"Where the hell did I hide it…" Carl muttered, digging through the mess in his room.
Old socks, torn sketches, candy wrappers, and empty noodle cups—he tossed them aside one by one, frustration building with each second. His mattress was already flipped, his drawer half-open, the wooden floor dusty from how often he pulled it up.
It wasn't just a comic book he was looking for.
It was the comic book. The dirty one. The one with those thick pages and barely-clothed succubus characters drawn in bright, sinful detail. His secret stash. His only relief when the house was quiet and the aunts were out.
He'd hidden it somewhere after the last close call—Delores nearly caught him flipping through it in the bathroom. That night, he panicked and shoved it somewhere random.
Now he couldn't remember where.
He scratched his head, then crouched by the side of the bed and peeked behind the loose panel near the heater. Nothing.
"Damn," he whispered. "Did I put it in the vent?"
The air was still and warm, the kind of air that clings to your skin. The only sound was the whir of a cheap fan rattling in the window. Carl stood up, wiped his brow, and sat back down on the edge of the bed, sighing.
This was his life now.
Eighteen, smart enough to get into any college if someone gave him a shot. Teachers used to praise him. Top of his class in literature. Built his own PC at fifteen. Even drew full-length comic chapters just for fun. Back then, people said he'd make it big one day.
But "one day" never came.
Because his aunts decided school was a waste. College? Too expensive. "You want to read all day? You can read the label on detergent while scrubbing the toilet," Delores had said, cigarette dangling from her lips.
Now he stayed home all day.
Morning to noon was his only freedom. He watched old anime reruns, played the same two games on his broken console, read whatever comics he could find, and—when the coast was clear—he'd pull out that dirty book, shut his door, and let himself feel something other than invisible.
Afternoons were different. That's when the aunts returned. Then, he became the house boy again.
He knew the drill. Run their baths. Rub their feet. Fold their clothes. Cook their meals. Do whatever they needed. No talking back. No delays.
Sometimes they were worse than cruel. Sometimes they were just bored. And bored women with power were dangerous.
Carl leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
"I should've just bought another one," he mumbled. "Not like they'd know. They don't even check the receipts."
He stood up again, walked over to his closet, and slowly reached into the pocket of an old hoodie he hadn't worn in months.
His fingers brushed paper.
His eyes lit up.
There it was. Bent at the corners. A little dusty. But still whole.
He held it like a treasure, like something sacred. His heartbeat picked up as he glanced at the clock.
1:32 PM. They wouldn't be home till 3:15.
Plenty of time.
Carl locked the door, drew the curtains, and sat cross-legged on the bed. He wasn't proud of it. But this—this little escape—was the only thing that was his.
And in this house, where nothing belonged to him… that meant everything.
He flopped onto his bed, the springs groaning under his weight, and propped the comic open on his lap. The pages were dog-eared from countless sessions, the ink smudged in places from his eager hands. He flipped to his favorite scene: a voluptuous girl with pink hair and thigh-high stockings, her skirt hiked up as she leaned against a classroom desk, her eyes half-lidded with desire. Carl's breath hitched. His imagination was already running wild, picturing himself in that classroom, her soft voice calling his name.
His hand moved almost on instinct, slipping beneath the waistband of his loose sweatpants. He tugged them down, freeing himself. His cock was already half-hard, thick and warm in his grip, the skin smooth but pulsing with need. It wasn't massive, but it was solid, with a slight curve and a flushed tip that glistened faintly as he gave it a slow stroke. The sensation sent a shiver up his spine, and he bit his lip, eyes locked on the comic.
In his mind, the pink-haired girl wasn't just ink and paper. She was real, her body pressed against his, her breath hot against his neck. "Carl," she purred in his fantasy, her voice dripping with want as she straddled him on that desk. He could almost feel the heat of her thighs, the way her curves molded against him. His strokes quickened, his grip tightening as he imagined sinking into her, her moans filling the air. The comic's panels blurred into his vision—her arched back, her parted lips, the way her breasts bounced as he pictured himself thrusting into her.
His room faded away. The creaky bed, the cluttered floor, the distant hum of the neighbor's lawnmower—it all dissolved. He was in that anime world now, the classroom bathed in golden light, the air thick with the scent of her perfume and something sweeter, muskier. His hand moved faster, the slick sound of skin on skin mixing with his ragged breaths. He imagined her nails digging into his shoulders, her hips grinding against him, urging him deeper. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, the word slipping out like a prayer.
The fantasy shifted—another girl from the comic joined in, a fiery redhead with a devilish grin. She knelt beside him, her tongue tracing circles on his chest as the pink-haired girl rode him. Carl's strokes became frantic, his cock throbbing in his hand, slick with precum. He could almost taste the salt of their skin, feel the heat of their bodies pressed against him. The redhead's fingers trailed lower in his mind, teasing, coaxing, while the pink-haired girl whispered filthy things in his ear, her voice a mix of sweet and sinful.
His hips bucked slightly, the bed creaking louder now. The comic lay open beside him, but he barely needed it anymore—the images were burned into his brain. He pictured himself flipping the pink-haired girl onto her back, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pounded into her, the desk shaking beneath them. The redhead was there too, her lips brushing against his as she murmured, "Harder, Carl." His hand was a blur now, his cock aching with the pressure building inside him.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The room felt too small, too hot, like the walls were closing in on his fantasy. He imagined the girls' moans growing louder, their bodies trembling as they begged for more. His strokes were relentless, each one pulling him closer to the edge. He could feel it—the tight coil in his gut, the heat spreading through him like wildfire.
"Shit, I'm—" he gasped, his voice breaking. His cock pulsed hard in his hand, and he came with a shudder, thick ropes of cum spilling over his fingers, splattering onto his stomach. His vision went white for a moment, the fantasy so vivid it felt real—the girls' gasps, their bodies writhing against him, the classroom spinning around them. His chest heaved as he rode out the waves, his hand slowing but still gripping himself, milking every last drop.
For a moment, he just lay there, panting, the comic still open beside him. The pink-haired girl stared up at him from the page, her smirk unchanged, like she knew exactly what she'd done to him. Reality crept back in—the faint hum of the lawnmower, the faint ache in his wrist, the sticky mess on his skin. He grabbed a tissue from his nightstand, wiping himself clean with a grimace. The high was fading, replaced by the familiar weight of his life.
He tucked the comic back under the hoodies in his closet, his movements slow, almost reverent. His aunts would be home soon, and he'd have to slip back into his role—fetching their groceries, nodding at their complaints, pretending he was the dutiful nephew they wanted. But for now, he let himself linger in the afterglow, the memory of those girls still burning in his mind.