The invitation came like a slap with a velvet glove. Polished, official, and dripping with enough condescension to raise an eyebrow and a heartbeat.
It was a thick envelope, sealed with an embossed emblem of the Grand Academy of Absolute Restraint, the most prestigious institution for Gooners in all of Shamtropolis.
Inside, a letter penned in the finest calligraphy read:
"Master Ben Dover, your recent demonstration of 'unique techniques' has earned you an invitation to join our ranks. Prepare to advance your mastery of the sacred arts at the Academy, where restraint meets revelation."
Or, translated: "Hey, weirdly lucky nobody, come to our school and maybe we'll figure out if you're a joke or a threat."
I stared at it for a solid five minutes, weighing the implications like a man deciding whether to stick his hand in a hornet's nest or just enjoy the buzzing from afar.
Well, Grandpa did say, 'When opportunity knocks, make sure you don't have pants on.' I think that was advice?
The Grand Academy looked exactly how you'd imagine the headquarters of a thousand-year-old celibacy cult.
Massive ivory towers scraped the sky like phallic monuments to denial.
Polished marble floors reflected the pristine white robes of the students as they glided silently through cavernous hallways.
The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, incense, and an underlying bitterness that tasted like repressed orgasms.
Honestly, if these halls could talk, they'd probably whimper.
I slipped in quietly, trying not to draw attention to the fact that my robes were a little too plain, my hands a little too clammy, and my mind spinning a thousand jabs and jokes about everyone's favorite forbidden pastime.
The headmaster, a thin man with a mouth so tight it looked sewn shut, greeted me with a smile that said, "I'm judging you."
He introduced himself as Master Stifford, a name that seemed less like a surname and more like a cautionary tale.
If this guy ever jokes about wood, I'm out.
Master Stifford led me through the hallowed halls, explaining the rigorous training methods.
"Here at the Academy, we cultivate not only physical endurance but mental resilience," he droned, voice flat as a chastity belt.
He explained the sacred rituals—meditative edging practices designed to push one beyond the brink of collapse without falling into temptation.
"Control is everything," he said, eyes narrowing. "One slip, and your shame becomes a weapon against you."
Yeah, yeah. Control, restraint, blah blah. Sounds like my last date.
He stopped before a massive door labeled "The Chastity Chamber."
The door gleamed with intricate carvings of chains, locks, and what looked suspiciously like a pair of handcuffs.
"This," Stifford said dramatically, "is where your true test begins. Inside, you will face your greatest temptations—your deepest desires. Only those who survive here emerge worthy of the title Master Gooner."
I gave a nod that was half confidence, half "please don't make me do yoga poses with my pants off."
Bring it on. Or at least don't bring the smelling salts.
Inside the chamber, the atmosphere was different—thick with anticipation and a strange electric tension.
The walls pulsed with soft, pinkish light, like the inside of some forbidden fruit.
Holographic projections flickered to life: seductive visions designed to break even the most disciplined.
There was a woman with eyes like molten caramel, a man with a devilish smirk who looked suspiciously like my last Tinder match, and a parade of creatures both human and otherwise—all designed to tempt and taunt.
I'd say it's like a bad VR game, but VR games don't usually give you blue balls.
I sat cross-legged on the cold floor, closing my eyes and activating my special technique: Infinite Edge.
Unlike the other students, who used frantic motions or breath control, I could hold my power indefinitely.
Like a long, drawn-out Netflix series. Slow plot, but it's binge-worthy.
The sensations built—waves of pleasure and denial washing over me in slow, torturous pulses.
The holograms whispered temptations. Tried every trick.
Nice try, Candy Crush. I'm immune.
Minutes ticked by, then hours.
The room warped time and space—or maybe it was just my brain melting.
I felt my body tremble, not from weakness, but from sheer willpower.
Then, suddenly, the chamber's light dimmed.
The holograms vanished.
And the door opened with a creak.
I had passed.
Master Stifford was waiting outside, his expression unreadable.
Probably wondering how someone so plain managed to last longer than the fancy rookies with their dramatic wrist twitches.
"You have potential," he said slowly. "More than I expected."
I smirked inside.
Yeah, well, I'm the guy who edges forever. You don't expect that in a society obsessed with instant gratification.
Outside the chamber, I found my new allies waiting.
First was Talia Slipstream, a fiery-haired prodigy who wielded her edge like a dancer.
Her robes were streaked with vibrant colors, a stark contrast to the sea of whites.
She shot me a sideways glance.
"You're not what I expected," she said, voice sharp but curious.
Flattery or warning? Hard to tell.
Next was Rex Hardline, a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a grin that looked like he knew every naughty joke in the book.
"I heard you made it through without breaking a sweat," he said.
I nodded.
"Some of us have hidden reserves."
Which is a polite way of saying, 'I have more stamina than your entire brigade combined.'
Our group was quickly summoned to the Academy's Council of Restraint, a circle of elder Gooners who looked like they hadn't seen an orgasm in centuries.
They eyed me like a new flavor of punishment.
The head elder, Madame Tightlace, fixed me with a gaze so cold it could freeze lava.
"You've disrupted the natural order," she said. "Your technique… is unnatural."
I smiled politely.
Yeah, Mom, I get that a lot.
"Unnatural or not," I said, "I intend to become the strongest Gooner this world has ever seen."
There was a silence so thick you could hear the awkward clearing of throats.
"Your journey will be difficult," Madame Tightlace continued. "Many will seek to break you. Including those within these walls."
Oh, internal politics. Always more cutthroat than actual fighting.
Later, in the quiet sanctuary of the dormitory, I lay on my cot, contemplating the future.
The Academy was more than a school—it was a battlefield wrapped in silk sheets and scented candles.
Each lesson was a test.
Each competitor a potential enemy.
Yet, in this swirling sea of restraint, I found a strange comfort.
Because no matter how high the stakes, no matter how tight the chastity belts get… I have one secret weapon.
My special edge.
My infinite stamina.
My silent revolution.
I smiled.
Let the others play their little games of control. I'm going to rewrite the rules.
As sleep crept in, a single thought lingered:
Revenge was not just a goal—it was fuel.
And this was only the beginning.