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It has been 74 trials since I've been able to masturbate.
The bottle of lube located at my run-down house is getting colder. My hand—missing my size's familiar warmth—clenches around the handle of my blood-stained cleaver. Staring down at the bulge through my clothed overalls puts my twisted filthy mind into a powerful state of horniness. The urge to nut has been overpowering lately and has only worsened. Suddenly, a creaking sound interrupts me from my state of mind, for I had forgotten I was in a trial. As I put the two together, I finally understood that the sound was NOT the creaking of a bedframe; but instead a locker.
As my hands swing open the rusty metal doors at 35.096 miles per hour, the survivor stares back at me through their spectacles. I grumbled, one half sexually, the other disappointed, for they were not the one I was looking for. The Claudette screams, sending a few shock waves to my pelvis as I stab my weapon besides her head. The lust throbs as I get her neck, hoisting the survivor onto my broad shoulder. For I was in control, my libido crumbled like a wall as I had the perfect chance to slam the woman onto the dirt and fill both of her fallopian tubes.
...No. I mustn't. For my burning syrupy load had to be saved for someone else. Someone special.
The shack now became visibly close, and the woman began to struggle harder. Yet, there was no point as the sharp hooks were right around the corner. Just before I hooked her, I lost all control of my hand as it slapped her buttock, barely grazing her back.
As I exited my shack to find another survivor, I immediately caught the scent of a male in heat 73.35 meters upwind. Because of the fog, I couldn't see him yet but judging from the smell, he was in his twenties and healthy. My ultra-attuned hearing was able to pick up his gait, which put him at about 5'11". My mind—free of the constraints of masturbation and foul deeds—was able to calculate his weight based on the ripple in the testosterone continuum produced by his footsteps as he wandered away from me.
My lips curl into a grin, identifying the being a rare species; Dwight Fairfield.
Disregarding the hooked survivor in the basement, I made chase and followed him through the fog, still without visual contact. I was like a pilot navigating the white abyss by instrument alone. I was trailing him about 130ft behind when he entered the storehouse, work shoes attempting to sneak onto the pavement quietly. Holding my ear to the ground, I could faintly pick up on the distinct rumble of a generator. Based on the clicks and metal banging against each other, I knew that now was the time to strike.
Quietly dropping my bloodied weapon, I readied my legs and concentrated all of my Testo-chakras into my Vastus Medialus muscles as I assumed a sprinter's starting stance. I exploded forward in a cataclysm of sex hormone-fueled rage. Exactly 2.54 nanoseconds later, I began to phase through time and space as I meshed with the testosterone continuum. My consequential length rams onto his prostate like an expeditious train, ready to release my intermittent steam. As I phased through the vulnerable male target, I nutted directly into his unclaimed rectum—destroying it—causing him to orgasm INSTANTLY. As I began to slow down 33.6 light years later, I realized that while he would have wanted to thank me for giving him the gift of my superior seed. But, to my disappointment, he was already dead and gone—having my CHAD progeny swimming all the way up into his ascending colon.
As I subsequently depart from the Entity's realm and float into the celestial abyss of the greater Crab Nebula, I regret having left my one and only soulmate.
THE END.