Geek Guy
Author
Emily Dash
Reads
562K
Chapters
38
1: Mr. Lonely
Ian Miller was that guy. You know, the one that everyone made fun of for still living in his parents’ basement even though he was twenty-four years old?
The guy wearing a comic book T-shirt, who looked like he was chronically allergic to sunlight, and was surgically attached to his computer… Yeah, that guy.
Stretching his back, Ian dunked the mop back into its bucket, wrung it out, then continued to clean his kitchen floor.
The basement was a finished space. He’d lived down here since high school. Since his therapist suggested to his father that letting him stay in a place that made him feel safe was a good thing.
Ian knew they’d expected him to grow out of it. He knew that everyone thought it was temporary. They all assumed he’d work through his issues and become the outgoing person he was before.
Well, that Ian was gone. That Ian died the day his mother…
He dunked the mop a little too hard. Why can’t I just get over it? Why can’t I just…stop being like this?
His space was spotless. As he never had any visitors and wasn’t a messy person by nature, it generally stayed that way.
Ian made enough from his streaming channel and endorsements that he could have moved out years ago. Most of the time, he was genuinely surprised that his viewers liked watching him play video games so much that they came back to watch him do it again and again.
But they did come back. Week after week, month after month. He had a huge online following. It was insane when he really sat down and thought about it.
Ian’s agoraphobia began developing when he was fifteen, shortly after his mother died.
Then his father started dating again. By the time his father proposed to Valerie, Ian hadn’t been outside his basement apartment in over six months. Valerie became his stepmother when Ian was seventeen, bringing her two young children, Carol Ann and Thaddeus, to live in the mansion above him.
Every once in a while, his father would come down and hang out. He’d ask about his life. Ian made enough that he wasn’t a financial drain on his father. That was important to him. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave the fucking basement.
He hated how sad his father looked when he walked back upstairs. He hated knowing he was probably some dirty secret that his family pretended didn’t exist.
And he was lonely. So goddamn lonely.
Ian hadn’t really noticed it before, but today he realized the “lonely” times were more frequent. Those times when he wasn’t streaming a game or organizing his card collections or painting his figurines…he was starved for contact.
He had no issues with people coming down into his space. In fact, he’d welcome it. But no one ever did. Who would want to? Only his father visited him regularly. He didn’t have local friends who would come over.
Ian was well and truly isolated. And he fucking hated it.
When he got frustrated, he cleaned. Judging by the immaculate state of the basement apartment that he liked to call “the dungeon,” he was very frustrated. Or stressed. Whichever.
Ian put the mop away and wandered around his space. He glanced at his exercise equipment. It wasn’t much, just a weight bench and a Bowflex machine.
He’d ordered the weight bench himself when he was just a teenager. He’d gone through a whole phase where he was obsessed with not being weak or scrawny.
The expectation had been that he’d hulk out and be some colossal thing no one wanted to mess with. The reality was that he was still fucking scrawny as shit and just looked muscular…kinda like an upright Gollum. The Bowflex had been a gift from his father.
Exercising gave him a physical outlet for his frustration, and for a while that worked wonders on his emotional state. But like all things, eventually it wasn’t enough. Nothing that made him feel better was ever enough after so long.
He was restless today. Maybe there’s a game I can join online right now. It’s kind of early in the evening, but—
Reaching up, he scrubbed his palm over his chin. Or, maybe he should groom himself. His face was getting scruffy.
When he flicked on the bathroom light, he saw his hair was starting to get a bit too long too. The black strands were starting to hang over his eyes, curling up at the ends.
His mother had had curly black hair. That was where he got it from. His father had light-brown hair and brown eyes. His mother had also had brown eyes, which was why she used to say he got his hazel ones from his grandmother.
Stretching his neck out, he touched his cheeks and neck. Definitely time for a shave. Ian took his time. He lathered his face in shaving cream, gave it time to soften the hair, and then methodically smoothed the razor over his face and neck.
On each pass, he rinsed the blade, rinsed the sink, and then repeated the pattern. Once his face was smooth, he wiped down the bathroom counter again, made sure not a single speck of hair was anywhere to be found, then turned off the bathroom light.
He shot a text off to Melanie, the lady who came to cut his hair. She was a traveling stylist who normally went to old people’s homes and cut hair there, but she had a soft spot for Ian and had been cutting his hair for the past four years.
She sent him back a thumbs-up, and he deflated a little. It was ridiculous for him to expect more. No one wanted to talk to him. No one wanted to be around him—a twenty-four-year-old mental case who couldn’t fucking function outside this goddamn basement.
The self-loathing was real and constant. Ian hated himself.
Flopping down in his custom-made gaming chair, Ian stared at his desktop. Leaning his head back on the high headrest, he rocked himself idly while his hand landed on the mouse.
He checked his streaming accounts, checked his social media, and then clicked around on Reddit for a while, looking at some of the paint jobs other Warhammer enthusiasts had posted.
Biting his lower lip, Ian glanced behind him at the stairs going up into the house. At his age, he shouldn’t feel shy about masturbating. He really shouldn’t.
The door to the house was locked. It was just the little tab on the doorknob, but no one ever came down here without knocking.
He never had anyone interrupt him while he was…in a delicate position. But the act of jacking off always made him feel kind of…embarrassed.
Ian turned all the lights off behind him, leaving his desk lamp on low. Grabbing a hand towel, he made his way back to his desk and sat down before taking a deep breath.
It took him a while to get into it. It always did. Even if he was feeling really pent up, he still needed a decent amount of visual and auditory stimulation to finish. He couldn’t just…jack off without it. He’d tried in the shower several times over the years, hoping the promise of absolute privacy would let him reach his peak.
No matter the amount of conditioner he slathered his fist in, he never popped off in the shower. No matter the amount of lube or lotion, he couldn’t do it in bed either.
Ian wasn’t sure if that meant he was asexual or just…had a low libido or what, but he almost had to force himself to come.
Settling in, he opened a few private browser windows and started clicking through video clips. He pushed a wireless earbud into his left ear, leaving the right open in case someone knocked on his door.
Moans and wet slapping sounds had his eyes drooping.
This is where it gets weird.
Or at least, Ian thought maybe it was weird. He had no way of knowing for sure. He was still too shy and embarrassed to bring it up with his therapist.
He was obsessed with breasts and belly buttons. As for hair color or ethnicity or anything else, he couldn’t care less.
It was the breasts and belly button that made the blood surge to his dick. He used to watch hardcore stuff a lot, thinking that all the hair pulling and ass slapping would be enough to just…get him there.
For a while, that worked. Then it was the ASMR stuff. The loud sounds of fingers and cocks squishing into soft holes. Then it was softcore porn, where women were oiled and stretched and worked slowly to their orgasm.
God, how would that feel? he wondered for the millionth time.
Ian read erotic literature. He knew how both women and men described the female orgasm.
But how does it feel? Does it really feel like being milked? Do you feel the flutters and squeezes? Is it strong? How strong is a pussy anyway?
His ultimate fantasy was having a woman come on his cock, rocking over him while her perfect breasts dangled over his eager mouth. He’d lick and suck at pointed nipples until he couldn’t not come.
Ian rubbed his palm over his cock. Still in his flannel pajama bottoms, it wasn’t fully hard yet, but it was getting there.
He pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it on the side of his desk, out of the way. His abs clenched. Running his hand down over his chest and stomach, he clicked on another link. It was okay.
Over the years, he’d found videos that worked for him, but it took time. Because he was nervous about anyone checking his browser history or his files, he never saved them. Instead, it was a search each time for the perfect girl…the perfect pace.
Forty minutes later, he’d found it. It was a 3D animation, which usually didn’t really work for him, but this one…this one did.
He looped the video, ten minutes of a beautiful girl getting slowly fucked by a faceless man. The rendered cock only filled her halfway, slowly thrusting in and out while the man lazily thrummed his thumb over her clit.
Her breasts bounced slowly in time with his thrusts, her CGI belly button flexing with the movement.
Yeah, that’s it.
Ian finally, finally pulled his dick out and started rolling his foreskin over the head of his cock. Soon it was so hard he didn’t have any more slack.
Slouching down in his chair, he grunted as he stroked. Slowly—matching the pace of the video, he turned the volume up, listening to the audio track overlay the developer had put to match the actions.
A real woman’s moans and grunts filtered through. At the end of the video she cried out, the man’s hips jerking before white cum oozed out of her. The video looped, the man’s cock back inside, pumping slowly, thumb stroking.
“You like that don’t you?” Ian murmured. “You like my cock fucking this pussy.”
A wiggle of nerves shot through him. God, I’m so pathetic. Talking to myself—to a fucking 3D woman getting railed by an equally unreal man.
His eyes narrowed on her breasts, the way the tips of her nipples swayed up and down. “Gonna come all over those tits,” he growled. “Gonna paint you in my cum.”
He jerked in the chair. This is it. I’m about to come.
Ian’s fist pumped faster, tighter around his cock. Jerking back against the chair, he gasped and then—
Cum shot up in high arcs, almost up higher than his head, then splattered on his bare stomach and thighs. Breathing harshly through clenched teeth, he let his body come down gradually.
Boneless in his chair, he reached out lazily for the towel and began wiping himself down. If he was honest with himself, and he liked to think he was, the bigger fantasy came after the imaginary sex.
Where he would cuddle and hold someone, rub his face against pillowy breasts and kiss and snuggle with an actual human being. He could rub his hands over a soft belly, watch his fingertips make indents in the plush skin…
Ian couldn’t remember the last time another human being had touched him. His father didn’t hug him… Never invaded his personal space.
That wasn’t his phobia. It was just how people treated him. Like his fear of going outside translated into a fear of touch.
A clatter from behind him had his whole body locking up. He shot up from the chair while yanking his pants up. He slammed his hands down on the keyboard, clicking the mouse frantically until the screen went black.
He whirled around, ripped the earbud free, and stared wide eyed at the bottom of the staircase. Ian was at a loss. His mouth hung open, his chest heaving as he stared… And stared.
And stared.
Because there was a girl in his dungeon.
