Villain Academy

“Lights out!”

A booming voice ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rolled through the halls, and the lights died. Soft moonlight spilled through the iron bars, casting a lattice of shadows across my body where I lay. Even the sky seemed determined to remind me of my circumstances, and the thought left me restless.

-Creak… creak… creak..!!

“Hngh! Olivia!! You, fucking bitch!!… Hhh… you like that? You like it, huh!!”

My gaze had been lingering on the scrap of night sky beyond the tiny barred window, soft and sentimental for a moment—until the noise and the shaking dragged it upward.

I wanted nothing more than to drag that idiot on the top bunk back into cold reality. He was thrashing around up there with zero consideration for the guy below, jerking off to some fantasy. What was actually stimulating his junk wasn’t Olivia’s imaginary pussy. It was his own thick fingers. And thanks to the mode I’d set, that pathetic little stub limited to about two knuckles of a pinky couldn’t satisfy any woman alive.

Mode.

I rolled the word around in my mouth. That was the root of all of this.

It had been Christmas of my twenty-ninth year.

None of us had girlfriends, so a drinking session with my ball-and-chain buddies got thrown together. After so long apart, all their talk about New Year’s resolutions and whatever else sounded so fucking stupid I just kept pouring booze down my throat.

Because I hated who I was right now.

Because I wanted to become something better.

Because everyone else was setting goals for the new year, and it felt like I was the only one getting left behind.

They were full of shit.

Why did the present me have to be denied? Why did they automatically decide that some changed future version was superior to the man sitting here now? If you were already years behind everyone else, you should have started yesterday and started catching up—what was this half-assed “starting from the New Year” resolve even supposed to mean?

I wasn’t going to change. Next Christmas would look exactly the same. It always had.

For them.

For me.

“Cut the crap and let’s hit a cushion house.”

The alcohol hit and my lower half grew heavy. Even the guys who’d been having wholesome conversations about goals and plans folded with the lame excuse that it wasn’t the New Year yet, and followed me. That was how I spent Christmas under the red lights of a cushion house.

I used silicone-stuffed tits as side dishes, chugged beer that hadn’t even gotten a proper pour, and traded the usual talk. House, job, hometown, age—the whole census. Then the conversation drifted to marriage.

Not from me. From her.

Hearing that even a working girl had a boyfriend made my own situation feel a little ridiculous. But once the table was cleared and everyone split into private rooms to “drain the water,” that ridiculous fact turned into a much bigger hunger.

I dumped an enormous load of cum. Using the excuse that I’d drunk too much to get hard, I even pulled the condom off and came inside the woman who was supposedly planning marriage. It was a pleasure I’d never felt before.

Even after I left the cushion house and stepped into the freezing wind, the excitement wouldn’t fade. My dick was still twitching and sparking. I staggered home, sat down at my desk, and turned on the computer. Still gripping that half-hard cock that insisted it wasn’t done, I hunted for jack-off material.

Videos, comics, text, photos—none of it was enough. Was it the booze? Or had something inside me broken? No medium could get me hotter than the image of my semen dripping out of a working girl’s ruined, owned pussy.

I went to the bathroom and took a shower, turning the water a little cold to cool the heat still rolling off me, then sat back down at the desk. I shelved the idea of jerking it and started digging through every site I could find, searching for something—anything—that would unclog whatever was stuck inside me.

That was when something snagged my eyes.

An open-world game I’d played not long ago. An adult mode for that game?

Maybe games would hit different. I clicked in just to look. Patch notes scrolled past one after another. Tentacles, insect-breeding—stuff that made me automatically scowl. I was scrolling down in disappointment when my finger stopped halfway.

The second I finished reading the text, I hit download. The urge to trample someone else’s love boiled up. Petty jealousy. The helplessness of only ever being able to watch. The fantasy of making ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the impossible happen. That was what I wanted.

I wanted to watch claimed bitches get wrecked by a monster cock until they were gasping and their faces twisted into ahegao. I wanted to paint those whores whispering passionate love in white. I wanted to rub my dick against the same lips that kissed their husbands goodbye at the front door every morning. Even if it was nothing but a pile of polygons.

Just for today, I wanted that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grand emotion called love to melt away under pure lust and pleasure.

Ding!

I launched the finished download and started picking which modes to apply.

I applied the mods and hit start. The computer tower let out a long, screaming whine. The screen jerked and stuttered like an old man with frozen shoulders. Even moving the mouse felt like fighting the will of some higher being.

Mode conflict? Or were the mods just so heavy the system couldn’t stabilize?

“Fuck. Nothing ever works!”

I tried to shut the game down. Close window. Close window. Task Manager. No matter how hard I thrashed, nothing responded. I hammered the mouse and slammed the keyboard in pure irritation—and suddenly the lights flared bright.

For a second I thought the game had finally won. Then I saw the monitor was solid blue.

God fucking dammit. Blue screen!

Only one fix for that. I put my hand on the power button of the tower. The moment I pressed it, a strange noise hit and everything went dark.

Not the monitor. My consciousness.

I couldn’t forget the working girl’s owned, ruined pussy, so I tried to play a little porn game, piled on a mountain of mods, and woke up inside the game.

I had zero attachment left to my original life, so I actually thought it was a win. This place was better suited to satisfying the sexual hunger I’d only fully discovered at twenty-nine.

But for fuck’s sake—why was I in Villain Academy instead of Hero Academy?

And that name itself was hilarious. They slap power-restricting restraints on you, lock you in a prison, and say the graduation requirement is successfully escaping. How the hell is that an academy?

Nothing here made sense.

“Oooooohhh!! Fuck!! Get pregnant!!!”

Ah, fuck. This is the worst.

Thanks to the bunk bed transmitting every shock, I got to feel the full body-tremble of the guy above me climaxing in real time. I was so pissed I couldn’t take it anymore.

It was a game anyway. And it was Villain Academy, right? Someone murdering someone else during dorm life was pretty fucking villainous.

I grabbed my pillow and climbed the ladder. The guy still seemed lost in the afterglow; his back was fully exposed as he faced the wall, twitching. Perfect chance. I launched myself at him, smothered his face with the pillow before the idiot could figure out what was happening.

“Mmph! Mmmph!!”

His hands shoved at me, fighting. But I had my full body weight driving down, and the restraints had sealed his powers. How was this bastard supposed to lift me off? I pressed my upper body even tighter against him so his flailing hands wouldn’t catch an eye, and kept the choke going.

“This is for the Olivia you raped in your head, you piece of shit!”

I don’t know how long it took. The wild thrashing of his arms slowed, then finally dropped limp onto the mattress.

“Hoo…”

I had just killed the inter-floor noise pollution specialist who’d been imaginary-raping Olivia. Yeah. Something inside me was definitely broken. The sensation of his last resisting breath cutting off still lingered clearly in my fingertips. But that was all. No guilt. No regret. Nothing.

If anything, I went back to my own bunk still idly fantasizing about Olivia’s face and body the way I preferred them, feeling a quiet fondness for her. The second I lay down, I savored the perfect silence—no noise, no vibration—and drifted off.

“Wake up!”

Once we were up, roll call started immediately. The iron bars (doors) of the dormitory (prison) opened, and we stood in front of our cells facing forward. Guards in warden uniforms prowled the line, counting heads. Standard procedure—checking whether anyone had pulled a Shawshank overnight and become Andy.

A guard crossing the second-floor central catwalk called out to me.

“Number 5874! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Where’s the bastard who shares your cell?”

“Dead, sir.”

At my answer the guard strode straight over to my room. After checking inside, he asked,

“What happened?”

“He was wheezing and choking before lights-out. When I woke up, he looked like that.”

The guard’s suspicious gaze settled on me.