Just Looking for a Shower

He looked inside and saw a dozen people in crumpled yellow jumpsuits, hunched over cluttered steel tables. The air was thick with the stench of ammonia and burnt plastic. Glassware clinked constantly, with tubes snaking between murky beakers and bubbling flasks—some glowing faintly blue under the flicker of harsh fluorescent lights.

A tall man wearing fogged-up goggles barked orders over the whirring of industrial fans, his voice half-lost in the mechanical hum. Others scribbled frantically on stained clipboards, their gloved hands shaking slightly. The whole place buzzed like a machine—erratic, tense, and volatile. It felt like one wrong move would make everything explode.

Chad wasn't sure what he was looking at as he stood in the doorway with a huge erection.

The men in jumpsuits stared at him like he was some kind of mental patient.
Maybe this was some bizarre artsy university theatre project?

But damn, that smell... they all seriously needed a good shower.

"Sorry, wrong room," he said. "My waifu tattoo boobies aren't in here."

As he shut the door, a voice drifted from somewhere in the distance: "Try another castle."
What was that supposed to mean? This was a mansion—or maybe just a big, fancy house or a bubble tea palace. There was no way it was a castle.

These people must've been sniffing far too many farts... they'd completely lost their minds.

The sisters might be just ahead, he thought, as he speed-ran through the remaining doors.

The next room held a circle of men in rumpled black suits, faces sharp and pale under a flickering light. Their eyes were cold and hard, flicking between cards and each other like predators. Cards snapped sharply on the worn wooden table, mixed with low grumbles and cruel laughs.

One tall man gripped his chips tightly, staring down his opponent with a fierce glare. The air reeked of sweat, smoke, and something metallic—maybe blood.

He figured they were probably just playing Balatro, Hearthstone, or maybe strip poker—whatever kept them entertained— as he shut the door.

So many weird people and strange rooms in this place, he thought, rubbing his erection absently as his mind wandered back to his waifu pillow and anime.

Onto the next room. Still… It wasn't a shower, and no sisters were in sight… Just a load of sweaty people, hunched over sewing machines, stitching like their lives depended on it. Threads flew, needles jabbed, and the occasional sigh of despair added to the ambience. Pretty innocent room, he thought—except, y'know, why was this happening in the Mini Skirt Mafia's mansion? But whatever. The way they toiled away, sweaty and stressed, reminded him a lot of those poor contracted web novel authors he'd seen online—glassy-eyed, oddly shiny, and always one coffee away from collapsing.

Grabbing his cock, he peeked into the next room—and immediately wished he hadn't. There were cocks everywhere. Not ones like his, of course. These were the feathered kind, flapping and screeching as they fought in a messy, squawking brawl. A circle of sweaty men stood around the chaos, waving money, shouting odds, and guffawing like it was the sport of kings. Above them, a sagging banner read: "Illegal cockfight going on... please don't tell anyone."

So that was what this was? Well, at least they were honest about it. Chad wasn't a big fan of cock—feathered or otherwise—so he quietly shut the door before they spotted him.

After witnessing the chaos in that room, Chad froze mid-step. A bizarre thought flickered through his mind—did gay people settle arguments with cock fights? Not the feathery kind, but full-on duels… with erections. Did they dramatically shout "En garde!" before charging at each other, erections blazing, skin slapping together in a ridiculous, over-the-top clash straight out of a Guilty Gear-type duel?

But these were the other kind of cocks—the feathered, squawking kind. Chad often had nightmares about those chickens. In Zelda, if you hit one too many times, the giant angry hen would suddenly go berserk, chasing you non-stop, flapping wildly, and pecking at your ankles like a tiny, furious demon. That nightmare still stuck with him.

At the very end of the corridor-like walkway, perfectly centred, stood a single door that immediately drew the eye. A small, slightly crooked framed sign hung beside it, the words scrawled in bold letters: "Falling in love is so lame. Death by masturbation is the only way."

Chad's eyes widened slightly.

This had to be the place. Its prime location made it clear this wasn't just some forgotten side room hidden away—it was the focal point of the entire corridor, the room that demanded attention.

People who said love was lame clearly never owned a waifu pillow like his. They didn't know what true love was—at least, not until they'd got one of their own.

And death by masturbating? Yeah, he'd passed out more times than he could count from masturbating to his waifu intensely but never once thought he was actually going to die.

Maybe those words weren't meant literally—just some edgy metaphor or whatever. But whatever they meant, he was still damn curious to see what was inside.

He pushed open the door into a room of opulent elegance. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined every wall, their gilded frames catching the warm glow of crystal chandeliers. In the centre sat a grand, circular marble bathtub filled with steaming water, inviting indulgence. Off to one side stood an ornate golden shower head, dripping softly in the hushed space.

Chad's breath hitched, heart pounding as his eyes locked onto the sight he'd been craving. Vee and Bibi stood just ahead, towels wrapped snug around them, skin bare and smooth where it counted. The soft scent of jasmine hung in the air, mixing with the faint heat of rising steam.