They burned the tapes at dawn.
A hundred thousand reels—some vintage, some digital, all contraband—crackled beneath the steel-toed boots of the Purity Enforcers. Their black uniforms reflected the flames, mirrored sunglasses blank and merciless as they watched decades of sweat-stained history dissolve into smoke. The old man beside me didn't cry. He just lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and muttered something about the "Fall of the Moist Empire."
I didn't cry either. Not because I wasn't sad, but because I didn't want to give the bastards the satisfaction.
They called it a cleansing. A "Smut Purge." A quarterly public spectacle where the government's most devoted virgins gathered to rid society of what they called "spiritual filth." I called it Tuesday.
God forbid someone enjoy a pair of digitally enhanced honkers in peace.
My name's Ben. Ben Dover. Yeah, I know. I didn't choose the name. My parents thought they were clever. Now I'm stuck carrying it through a world where people are getting executed for keeping old hentai USB drives under their floorboards. Great.
The Purity Act passed three years ago. No more porn, no more erotica, no more suggestive anime figurines. Not even elbows. Literally, the government banned elbows. I'm not joking. Women wear full-arm sleeves now, like we're in a post-apocalyptic Mormon fanfic.
But my dad didn't care about any of that.
No, he was an archivist. A collector of lost treasures. Tapes, discs, drives, pages from pre-war Playboys, rare doujinshi that hadn't been scanned in decades. He ran a small noodle shop on the surface. Beneath it? A vault. A sanctum of sin.
It was the only place in the world where you could still hear the sacred sound of a VHS rewinding.
Some kids grew up learning how to fish. I learned to categorize amateur content by lighting quality.
He always told me: "One day, Ben, this world's gonna remember pleasure. And when they do, they'll need librarians."
He died last winter. They said it was a heart attack. But the Gooner Mark was carved into the wall in blood.
That's how I knew it wasn't natural. And that's when the dreams started.
I'd wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a tribal drum, with one word echoing in my head:
Edge.
Grandpa Dover lived alone at the edge of Zone 9, right outside the main city surveillance net. His shack smelled like incense, burnt plastic, and something darker—shame, maybe. He didn't talk much, not since the Nutquake. But when I told him what happened to Dad, his eyes got real quiet.
Then he took me out back and made me dig up the garden.
Under the soil, wrapped in a blanket of waterproof cellophane and trauma, was the Manual of the Gooning Fist.
Nothing says "family heirloom" like a crusty book with a warning label written in Latin and lube stains on the corner.
"You're sure about this?" he asked, voice hoarse like he hadn't spoken in years.
"No," I said. "But they killed him. And someone's gotta do something."
He looked at me for a long time. Then he nodded once and handed me a roll of tissues like it was a sacred blade.
Thus began my descent into absolute degeneracy. For justice, of course.
Training started the next day.
Turns out cultivating Gooner Energy isn't as simple as just cranking it in your room like a desperate raccoon. It's a spiritual practice. A form of internal alchemy. According to Grandpa, true Gooners had to refine their Nut Qi through cycles of stimulation and denial, culminating in an explosive release that forged the soul.
There were stages, too. Nine of them, each more dangerous and powerful than the last. I was still at the base level—the First Stroke Realm—but I had potential. Apparently, I had high Shame Resistance. Go figure.
"Close your eyes," Grandpa said. "Now picture her. The one you shouldn't be thinking about."
Oh, easy. Step-sisters. Instant forbidden technique.
"Now stop," he growled. "Hold it there. Do not release. That feeling? That tension? That's your core. That's your power."
I could feel it. Like pressure building in my lower gut. A coiling dragon made of desire and indignation.
So this is edging. I always thought it was just poor time management.
Three weeks in, I almost gave up.
My arms ached. My soul itched. My shame meter hit critical. Every time I closed my eyes, the temptation gnawed at me like a horny gremlin. My body screamed for release, but Grandpa forbade it. "You must condense the energy," he said. "Only then can you break through."
This was worse than high school sex ed with Sister Petunia.
Then one night, something changed.
I was meditating—well, jerking off with extreme spiritual focus—in the moonlight. The incense was lit. The pages of the manual rustled in the wind. I had been edging for seven hours straight. I felt the threshold approaching.
And then I… passed it.
Something snapped, but not physically. My whole body entered a trance. The sensation hovered on a razor's edge, a perpetual brink. I wasn't just resisting release—I was beyond it.
I had entered the Infinite Edging State.
This must be what monks feel like when they become one with the mountain. Except my mountain was the tip of my d—
Power flooded me. Not just libido, but will. My limbs buzzed with energy. My vision sharpened. For a moment, I could hear birds chirping… even though it was midnight and we lived in a smog-filled ruin.
I had achieved something sacred. Something eternal. I had unlocked the Forbidden Nut.
Grandpa watched me emerge from the shack, drenched in sweat, glowing faintly like an overclocked toaster.
"You feel it, don't you?" he whispered.
I nodded. "I could take on a Purity Squad right now."
He grunted. "You're still weak. But you've stepped on the Path. And the Path remembers."
We started sparring after that.
He taught me the Palm of Denial, the Slap of Shame, and the most important form—Silent Strokes in the Night Wind. Every technique relied on fluid motion, breath control, and brutal concentration. Distraction meant death. Release meant spiritual collapse.
Imagine shadowboxing your demons while also trying not to nut. That's Gooner Martial Arts in a nutshell. No pun intended.
But I wasn't just training to beat meat.
I was training to beat them.
The ones who killed my dad. The ones who wear silk robes with censor bars stitched into the fabric. The ones who hide in the Pleasureless Palace and preach purity while secretly collecting legendary tapes for themselves.
The High Goon Council.
Word spread fast.
Whispers of a New Gooner—a kid who could edge for hours, maybe days. They called me the Edgelord behind my back. I didn't correct them. Kinda liked it, honestly.
One day, a recruiter showed up at the noodle shop. He wore glasses, no lenses. Had the smirk of someone who'd memorized every frame of "Two Girls, One Dungeon" and lived to tell the tale.
He dropped a card on the counter. Black, no text. Just a symbol—a hand gripping a phallus wrapped in bandages.
"The Gooner Trials begin next month," he said. "We're watching you."
Then he vanished.
Cool. I love ominous invitations from secret wank clans. Really puts the cream in my coffee.
Later that night, I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror above Dad's old shrine.
I wasn't the same anymore. My eyes were clearer. My muscles tighter. My soul somehow more… disappointed in itself.
"I'm gonna make them pay," I whispered. "For him. For every tape they burned. For every sock that died in vain."
The candle flickered.
Somewhere beneath the city, someone moaned through a muffled gag.
The war had already begun.
And I was going to finish it.
One stroke at a time.