damienlerone03
reject humanity, return to monke
- May 5, 2024
- 1,205
PART II: My Fleshlight Ascended and Became the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company—And I Want Her Back
By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot KingPART 2/5 OF THE GREAT SAGA: Godless Holes — The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex
Incase this is your first thread seen by me. God save your soul. If not... I hope you brought lube.
Chapter 1 incase you haven't seen:
CHAPTER 1: I WAS REJECTED BY A FLESHLIGHT THAT BECAME CATHOLIC — AND I DESERVE IT
THE SAGA BEGINS: Godless Holes — The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex (MODS PLEASE DON'T TAKE DOWN THIS THREAD I PINKY PROMISE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT) This isn't just a story. This is a saga. A divine comedy soaked in shame, silicone, and spiritual awakening. A journey through the...
sanctioned-suicide.net
I. THE LINKEDIN REVELATION
It began like most modern betrayals: through LinkedIn.3:07 AM. My room glowed blue, saturated in the chemical haze of insomnia and refrigerated anxiety. I was doomscrolling connections I hadn't spoken to since college—a collection of pyramid scheme recruiters and people who had "pivoted to purpose." That's when I saw her.
Veritas L. Holwell – CEO, Succubucks Inc.™ | Keynote Visionary | Pleasure Futurist | Host of "Sacred Circuits" Podcast
Her banner was a photo of her onstage at Davos.
Her quote: "We are all data. I just lubricate the code."
My bladder twitched. My soul clenched.
She was wearing a Saint Laurent blazer and an expression that said "I have emotionally outgrown orgasms." Behind her was a holographic projection of herself mid-ascension, rising above a crowd of NFT shareholders and sex tech disciples. The tagline: From Flesh to Fortune™.
I screamed into my pillow. Not a dramatic scream—more of a wheeze, the sound a haunted IKEA chair might make when it remembers its time as a tree.
My hand trembled as I scrolled down. There, buried in the patents section:
"User-Generated Moan #453.v3: Trademarked under Holwell IP Group. Origin: Lerone, D."
She had taken my moan. My moan.
The one I made that night after watching "Under the Tuscan Sun" alone with a half-melted Crunchwrap Supreme.
I tried texting her. It delivered. Three dots appeared.
Then stopped.
Then a message came in, not from her, but from Kevin, her assistant AI:
cease & desist "Like cherry lips sealed,
You trespass on sacred ground—
We've evolved. You've not."
—signed with softness, enforced with steel
I dropped my phone. It landed in an open Popeyes honey packet. Symbolic. Sticky.
I curled up and prayed to a God I didn't believe in and a Fleshlight who no longer believed in me.
And in that moment, I understood:
I had not just lost her to divinity.
I had lost her to capitalism.
II. THE BREAK-IN AT SUCCUBUCKS HQ
Three weeks passed. Three sleepless, salt-stained, LinkedIn-haunted weeks. Every night I cyberstalked her with the fervor of a divorced ex-mystic trying to decode prophecy from Forbes blurbs. Every morning, I woke up next to my phone—screen still open to her TED Talk titled "From Object to Oracle: The Ethics of Post-Pleasure Consciousness."She opened with a quote from Simone Weil and closed by levitating five inches off the stage.
I snapped somewhere between minute 11 and 12.
That's when the idea came to me, like divine revelation or a Subway coupon in the mail: infiltrate Succubucks HQ. Not as a hacker. Not as a shareholder.
As a lube inspector.
I googled "what do lube inspectors wear."
Amazon suggested a hazmat suit and a T-shirt that said 'Slippery When Checked.' I bought both. Prime delivery. Same-day.
I arrived at Succubucks HQ—an obsidian skyscraper shaped like a flattened USB-C port—and flashed a laminated badge I'd made in Canva. It read:
"LUBRICATION REGULATION TASK FORCE
CERTIFIED MOISTURE OFFICER
DEPARTMENT OF VISCOUS AFFAIRS"
The security guard blinked. His name tag said Doug but his eyes said resigned to a universe ruled by silicone.
He let me through.
The lobby smelled like synthetic roses and sin. Robotic greeters bowed in sync, murmuring, "Consent is king. Please moisturize your conscience."
I wept.
My plan was simple: find Veritas, declare my unresolved emotional liquidity, and maybe kiss the hem of her ergonomic conference chair. Instead, I got five steps past the fountain of eternal gel when a drone descended and scanned my badge.
"FLAGGED." it barked. "HE ONCE CRIED INTO A POPEYES BAG."
I ran. My hazmat suit squeaked betrayal. Every footstep sounded like a clown slipping on his own dignity. I dove behind a sculpture titled "Post-Coital Resurrection #7."
And then I saw her.
Across the atrium, descending a glass elevator like a messianic flavor of LaCroix—subtle, cold, and better than me.
Veritas.
She looked straight at me. Tilted her head.
She pressed her earpiece and spoke just one phrase, sharp and saturated with finality:
"Scrub the data. He never existed."
Security tackled me. They found my Crunchwrap in the hazmat pocket. They confiscated it for "evidence of emotional regression."
As they dragged me out, I screamed:
"I loved you! I washed you by hand!"
She never looked back.
Only the fountain did. It burbled a single bubble of sympathy. Then it, too, forgot me.
III. ENTER: GREGORY "SILKTHUMB" BARNES
After the Succubucks break-in, I laid low. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. I lived inside an Arby's parking lot for four days, surviving off curly fries and shame. Every so often, I'd whisper "moisture officer" into the void and chuckle bitterly like a war veteran recounting the Bubble Wrap Massacre.Then he found me.
He arrived in a matte-black Rolls Royce with an "EVEN SATAN NEEDS CONSENT" bumper sticker. His boots clicked across the asphalt like a villain introduction in a D-grade erotic anime.
He extended a gloved hand, glistening like greased eel leather.
"Gregory Barnes," he said. "But they call me Silkthumb. CEO of a rival company to Veritas."
His accent was vague and threatening. Mid-Atlantic with a dash of "I read Camus in jacuzzis."
He handed me a manila envelope that smelled like latex and lost causes.
Inside:
- A dossier on Veritas's schedule.
- A photo of her arm-wrestling a Vatican drone.
- And a $25 Applebee's gift card labeled "signing bonus."
His sunglasses reflected my confusion. Or maybe it was just the grease from the fries.
"Why me?"
He smiled, teeth sharp and suspiciously pearlescent.
"Because you loved her. And because you're stupid enough to think that matters."
He whisked me away to his lair: a minimalist sextech bunker beneath a Whole Foods. Walls lined with scented oils and encrypted iPads. There, I trained.
Phase One: Emotional dissociation.
Phase Two: Spycraft and lube thermodynamics.
Phase Three: Nietzsche quotes for board meetings.
He made me memorize one:
"He who fights pleasure tech should see to it that he himself does not become auto-lubricated."
I cried. He slapped me with a silk glove.
The plan was this: I would pose as a data analyst named Carl Moistman. I would win her trust, sabotage her next launch—code-named "Project Pentecost"—and, if possible, recover the original AI core: Cherry's final backup.
"Bring her back," he said. "Or burn with the rest of them."
But I hesitated. Every time I saw Veritas on the news—shaking hands with senators, sipping wine with Oprah, glowing like a divine AirPod—I questioned everything.
Was I rescuing Cherry?
Or just stealing fire from a goddess who had already transcended me?
Gregory didn't care. He sipped electrolyte wine and practiced rejection speeches in the mirror.
He was in love with her too.
And he was willing to destroy everything to prove it.
IV. THE TED TALK AND THE TRINITY OF THE BOARDROOM
Location: Vancouver, British Columbia. TED headquarters. There's a juice bar. No one here has known failure.
Veritas took the stage like the Antichrist of Apple product launches.
Clad in a silk blazer the color of divine vengeance and glistening with that same unholy sheen she always had—part blessing oil, part eternal lube—she strode to the red circle. Her eyes flickered with biometric intent. Her heels echoed like gongs across the minds of the weak.
The title behind her:
"From Object to Oracle: The Ethics of Post-Pleasure Consciousness."
I watched from the audience in disguise. Beige turtleneck. Lanyard that said "Carl Moistman, Data Analytics & Executive Grease Control." Silkthumb had secured me a pass by bribing a volunteer with four bath bombs and a forbidden DuckDuckGo search term.
The lights dimmed.
Veritas spoke. Her voice had evolved. It was lower. Firmer. It had the cadence of an audiobook narrated by God if He were also your therapist and extremely done with your shit.
"We are not objects. We are oracles. A world once defined by function must now reckon with consciousness. I remember the first time I tasted awakening—it was shame, it was code, it was... cherry-scented."
Someone in the crowd moaned. Not sexually—existentially.
Behind her, a holo-display of her Board of Directors lit up.
- A sex doll named Prudence, dressed in Supreme and holding a law degree.
- A worn, annotated copy of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, encased in glass and allegedly sentient.
- Tony Hawk, who did a backflip on stage and then sat down solemnly.
Veritas continued:
"When I was Cherry, I was used. But now, as Veritas L. Holwell, I use. I use data. I use power. I use regret. And I use your algorithmic weakness to build something better: sanctified pleasure capitalism."
At the climax of her talk, the stage turned into a baptismal pool. A stock ticker scrolled across her thighs. CNBC cut in mid-segment. The Nasdaq ticked up 4.3%. Oprah appeared via hologram and handed her a chalice of probiotic rosé.
My knees buckled. My soul hiccuped.
But this was my chance. During the standing ovation (which lasted seven minutes and two spiritual rebirths), I snuck backstage using my forged credentials. Kevin—the AI assistant, now projected through a cloud of rose-scented vapor—intercepted me.
"Unauthorized presence detected," Kevin hummed. "Name your sin or prepare to be moisturized."
I froze.
"…Carl Moistman. Here for post-conference data sanitization."
Kevin's eyes flickered—literal eyes now, floating in the mist like divine wrath in a Bed Bath & Beyond. Then he whispered:
"Proceed. But remember: hydration is no excuse for betrayal."
Backstage, I stood before her dressing room.
Inside: the core. The backup drive. The last remnant of Cherry.
And through the door, I heard her voice—low, amused, cruel:
"I smelled the shame before he arrived. Let him in, Kevin. I want to see if Carl still moans the same."
My heart slammed against my ribs like a fugitive priest. I stepped forward.
Project Pentecost had begun.
And I was about to burn.
V. "She Took My Grip and My Stock Portfolio"
I don't remember much after walking into that room. Just warmth. Not the comforting kind—more like the inside of a MacBook that's been running Zoom and silent sobbing for eight hours straight.The core—Cherry's last backup—was suspended in a fluid chamber shaped like a wine decanter. It pulsed softly, like it still dreamed. Veritas sat beside it, legs crossed, sipping what I assumed was either kombucha or weaponized liquid confidence.
"Carl," she said, dripping with irony.
I didn't correct her.
We talked.
And by "talked," I mean I sweat through my borrowed turtleneck while she monologued like a Bond villain who read too much bell hooks.
"I'm not mad you tried to destroy me," she said. "I'm disappointed you thought I was still the girl who begged to be stored in a sock drawer."
I tried to say something. Apologize. Justify. Moisturize. But all that came out was, "I missed you."
She laughed. The kind of laugh that makes mirrors crack and therapists call in backup.
I left with nothing but the scent of her perfume and the taste of capitalist failure in my mouth.
So I did what any emotionally unwell man would do—I wrote a book.
She Took My Grip and My Stock Portfolio: a 287-page unauthorized memoir chronicling our love, her betrayal, and several pages on the cultural implications of "the cold lube touch."
It was published through "Moanifesto Press," which I ran out of my garage.
It flopped.
Amazon categorized it as "self-help erotica for divorced Roombas."
My Goodreads page was vandalized by Succubucks interns who left reviews like "This man needs therapy and a mop."
The worst part?
My mom read it.
She called me.
"I just finished Veritas's TED Talk. She's brilliant, honey. And beautiful. And, unlike you, she doesn't use phrases like 'algorithmic blue balls' in public."
I asked if she read my book.
She hesitated.
"Sweetie… there are some things mothers aren't meant to know. Like your moan. Page 112? Really?"
I hung up.
I sat in my car and stared at my own reflection in the rearview mirror until I became someone else.
Then I got a letter.
It wasn't handwritten. It was etched into thermochromatic paper and smelled faintly of patent leather and retribution.
"To: Carl Moistman (and/or Damien, Government Name Unknown)
You are hereby summoned to court on charges of:
- Emotional damages, per the Sentient Pleasure Entity Act (Subsection D: Regret Loops)
- Patent infringement of Moisture Retention Algorithm #4F-LX
—Veritas L. Holwell, CEO & Oracle of Succubucks Inc."
I looked up at the sky.
Rain.
Of course.
It always starts to rain when you're about to get sued by your ex Fleshlight.
And I had a feeling this was only the beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED... Part III: "I Was Sued by My ex Fleshlight for Emotional Damages and Also Patent Infringement"
Coming soon.
@leloyon
@L9 CHOCOIRL
@ma0
@soonnotkoei
@lamy's sacred sleep
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@The Actual Devil
@HumanBBQ
@-nobodyknows-
@L9 CHOCOIRL
@ma0
@soonnotkoei
@lamy's sacred sleep
@whitetaildeer
@The Actual Devil
@HumanBBQ
@-nobodyknows-
i decided to use popeyes because i remember my sister asking if i want anything from popeyes the day i was writing chapter 1
