“Clickey Clackey: Marshall, the Bald, Dumb Tool of Her Design”

Marshall jolted awake, his breath catching in his throat. The morning light filtered through the thin blinds of his bedroom, cutting across the rumpled sheets tangled around his legs. He stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, his mind grappling with the disjointed images still lingering from what he thought had been a dream — or maybe something else.

He ran a hand over his bald head, the faint tremor in his fingers more pronounced than usual. There was a dull ache in his knees, a strange tightness in his shoulders, as though he’d spent hours in an unfamiliar position. His sweater, that ugly thing he wore to the park, lay crumpled on the floor near his bed. It was filthy, the elbows worn down to the point of fraying.

“What the hell…” he muttered, his voice raspy with sleep.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his belly pressing against the waistband of his pajamas. He rubbed his face, his palms dragging across the uneven stubble of his jaw. The details of the dream — or memory? — flooded back to him in jagged flashes. The park. The blonde woman. The trench coat opening to reveal… He swallowed hard. The scent of perfume, the cold cloth against his face. The darkness.

Marshall shook his head, dismissing it. It had to have been a dream. Just some weird, twisted product of a lonely old man’s imagination. And yet… his hands drifted to his thighs, brushing against the faint soreness there. There was something about the sensations, the heat, the tension in his muscles, that felt far too real to be imagined.

His gaze fell on his writing desk across the room, covered in clutter — an untouched notebook, stacks of bills, a mug with coffee stains older than he’d care to admit. Writing was supposed to be his escape, his purpose, but the words hadn’t come in years. Now he wondered if his mind had crafted this bizarre scenario in place of the creativity he’d lost.

But as he stood and shuffled toward the bathroom, his knees still aching, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. There was something on his skin — a faint, barely visible sheen, as though he’d been oiled. The realization sent a cold shiver down his spine.

He leaned closer to the mirror, staring at the gap between his teeth as though it might hold answers. “You’re losing it, Marshall,” he whispered, but even as he said the words, he wasn’t sure he believed them.

The sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand made him jump. He turned back to the bed, hesitating before picking it up. A text message glowed on the screen, from an unknown number.

“Good morning, Marshall. Has your imagination shriveled up like that useless old dick of yours?”

His stomach dropped, the words blurring as he read them again and again. The trembling in his hands worsened as he slowly lowered the phone. The memory of her icy blue eyes flashed through his mind, followed by the weight of her words, the smirk that seemed to pierce through every shred of dignity he had left.

Marshall sank back, his mind racing. Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all.

The memory of that night clawing its way back into his consciousness. It wasn’t just the words she had spoken that lingered — it was the raw, visceral sensation of it, the way his body had betrayed him in the most humiliating, overwhelming way.

He remembered the warmth of her feet, the softness of her painted toes pressed against him cock, the way the oil from her skin slicked against his trembling flesh. His breath had been ragged, his body a storm of conflicting sensations: shame, arousal, and an unbearable tension that built with every subtle shift of her legs, every brush of her smooth skin against his own. She had leaned back in her chair, her icy blue eyes locked onto him with that smirk, that infuriating smirk that told him she knew exactly how helpless he was in that moment.

“Look at you,” she had murmured, her tone dripping with mockery. “Sixty years old and trembling like a schoolboy. Pathetic.”

Her words only heightened the intensity, making the ache inside him unbearable. He could feel it — every pulse, every nerve in his body pushing him closer, harder, until the moment hit. It wasn’t a gradual climb but an explosion of cum from his tight balls, a rush so powerful it left him drooling. His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and his hands gripped the carpet beneath him as he released against her feet, the warmth of his release spreading like a final, damning confession.

Her laughter cut through the haze, sharp and cruel. She pressed her toes against him, smearing his shame into his skin, and leaned forward just enough for her voice to pierce through his fogged mind.

“Clickey clackey, clickey clackey,” she sang, her voice as smooth and cutting as a blade. “Anytime you even think about those filthy little videos, pictures, anytime your mind drifts to this moment, your hands will go clickey clackey on a keyboard. You’ll write, Marshall. You’ll write until your fingers ache, and it’ll be the only way to quiet the need. Clickey clackey. That’s your new purpose now.”

The memory gripped him as he sat there now, his trembling hands running over his bald head. The words haunted him, the sensation of her feet against his skin still searing in his mind. No matter how much he wanted to forget, the memory was burned into him, body and soul. And as his gaze flickered to the keyboard on his desk, the compulsion began to build once again. Her voice echoed in his head, her laughter taunting him.

Clickey clackey. Clickey clackey. His hands twitched. There was no escape.

“Marshall, every time your mind drifts to sex, you’ll feel that itch in your fingertips — growing stronger and stronger. You can either try to ignore it and let it consume you, or you can pick up a pen and let the words pour out, easing the need with every stroke of the page.”

Dare you. You know we all dream at night. Even if we do not remember those dreams now.