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Jofella Chapter 15: Queer Theory Part 2 The image had been created, printed into the book of weeb art history composed by web crawlers of the future, and the book closed shut. But there it still existed. Misty was now in the fella world, in the separation of worlds, Joffrey still had some hope for her, he did not know she was as good as gone, with the silence of her communication to him, he had to cling to something else, luckily there was something, something marvellous, he had found it hidden in the labyrinth of his bed sheets a few days after the rape test, it was a Tamagotchi she had left behind, perhaps accidentally, perhaps on purpose, as a sign, as a token of something, as an instrument of further torment, but it was something, from her, of her, and of himself as well, it was the one she had given to him to inseminate for her trans-uterine. He fondled it, thumbed it, smelled it, it didn’t appear to be any different from any other Tamagotchi, he didn’t know enough about her Tamagotchi reproductive mechanics to know there was zero chance of the insemination actually working, that it has to be insemination inside the womb from actual sex, but he did cling to some kind of potential inside it. Something was glitched out on the screen, a premonition of its still birth as an artistic entity born of the disc goddess, a short circuit caused by some kind of moisture, now dried, he pinned the reset button, the little egg came back to life. From henceforth he shall be my child, our child, he was flushed with warmth and warm thoughts. I shall feed it, care for it in sickness, play with it, raise it, love it as a real child. * It was in the ass of the sex tape where his mind was really spinning, the white plastic cog, paired with another, the black electro magnetic tape, winding all around them and through the contraption of image tape pulling, his fingers spinning the white cogs, inside the black plastic casing of the cassette, contemplating the object, but only as a matter of analogue to digital equivalency, as the sex tape exists in the file folder system of his computer, right click the video file for more info and actions, opening in various media players, tracking though the whole video, dragging the slider through time, and then, its hosting online, where it all happens, where the file would reach its salvation, leave behind the basement tapes, molding in the cellar corner, the view counts ticked up a few, he couldn’t bare to check the analytics to see if any of the few subscribers from his fishing channel had watched the video, or even shared it, he couldn’t look at the comments, he didn’t wanna know their view counts, he started watching the video himself, adding his own viewings to the view count, obscuring the public view counts from being accurately calculatable, the more times he watched himself there, the more times he watched himself on the inside of himself, analyzing himself, thinking about himself, it was the beginning of action for him, critique and scrutinize the self extensively, build up ideas in derangement and fantasy, slowly actions come, rewatching it over and over, things did start to crystallize from it, there was some art in it by the virtue of repetition it became a thing, the thing is the precursor to the art thing, he was an artist, it was art, he needed to stream more, stream his way out of the problem, but what to stream, he wasn’t having sex, he had to stream himself doing something, the artistic question of what’s the thing, he had his trading tabs open in the corner, he remembered what Larissa had said the night she spanked him and they slept together, make art out of crypto, there was a trade to be made, were all his thoughts just trading thoughts for other thoughts, for spaces in the brain thoughts? The value of one thought is is proclivity to capture the space of the other thoughts, wrestling one on top of the other for control over the action of his finger hovering above the mouse. He clicked the button, the stream began, he began the trade, clicking more buttons, red or green on the trading terminal, other forces of action beyond him telling him which buttons to click, which trades to make, his first crypto trading live stream, trading away the seconds, fidget spinner hand clutching the Tamagotchi, a warm buzzing energy, it jolted his arm, a mis-ejaculation of battery charge, the tamagotchi was trying to get his attention, a message formed in his head, the art school semester is over, mommy Maria was finished school in Vienna, he looked down at the tamagotchi screen in his hand like a track coach checking a stop watch, the little baby’s mouth was moving, trying to shout something, but he only heard beeps, he pondered the thought transfer abilities between them, radio signals through the atmosphere, surely it was possible, they already had radios in World War One, now his mind could be an antenna, his personal radio station, his own signals radiating from the ambient activity of his brain, his personal resonance, called an aura. It became clear through that brief repressive moment of self distraction what the message really conveyed, she was leaving the city, all his chances were gone, only his memories of her would persist, those what if possibilities, entertained in his fantasy as a possible future that could have resulted, still precious and real enough to give him a subtle joy, something to jack off to while being tortured by the limitless possibilities of love he would never receive in the flesh. His time with Maria, in its emotional depth, their bond, his brief romantic and sexual exchanges with her, their exploring of art and technology and the humanity of these worlds, was probably the greatest achievement of his life. There were no tears, but inside somehow, while live streaming his trading there, he cried, it made the stream feel that much more beautiful, that much more artistic, the reality of something, finally he had composed a poem here through the lens of this webcam and screen share, somewhere his soul was emanating from the near hd quality video frames, the bit rate forming a positive correlation with the beating of his heart. * On the top side of the bandaid ripped off, heart emoji patterned, she wasn’t feeling anything to do with a heart, it was a peeling off of her existence in that ‘fuck this city’ moment, getting the hell out, she was going to Berlin, finally, she pulled her rolling suitcase up onto the train, the interconnecting tracks of the station extending beyond her view with wires and cables crossing the air above, humming their last tune for her through the antenna of her Tamagotchi being. She stowed her bag, went to her windowed seat, reserved, no one sitting beside her, spread herself and her shit out and relaxed. But still there was some suffocation, a congestion in the air outside the train windows, trying to get in, some fat sausage eating fucks, smelling of mustard and beer, waddling down the train, some useless arguments between passengers, some shit about whose seat was whose, there were plenty of seats, just shut the fuck up. Settling in, she checked the contents of her handbag, one mozzarella, tomato and arugula baguette sandwich and a pasta salad from the train station supermarket. It was just food, it was just a train. She couldn’t it eat yet, she had to ration it for the long ride. As soon as the train passed over the Danube, the boundary of Cuck City, her body relaxed into a deep atmosphere of relief spreading out into the open meadows. She had her itinerary on her iPod Touch, it had real internet access and applications, a gift from the Pokemaster for her move, she still used the other one for music. The train would be stopping a few times in Czech, she remember Joffrey loved Czech beer, that’s all he would drink, she wouldn’t get off the train, even in Prague, she didn’t drink beer. She gazed out the window, flashing countryside and reflections, Larissa’s playlist, she traced the wire to her hand, clutching the iPod hard, she relaxed it, she looked at her itinerary, the address of her apartment, the Pokemaster had the info all written out for her, cool area apparently, she didn’t take the music out of her ears the whole ride until she got off the train into the techno city. I belong here. Why am I so blessed? Somebody always helped her, all her life, and what did she give in exchange? She had never even given anyone a blowjob in her entire life. Did people even really like her if it wasn’t that? What have I even done to make people like me? I’ve barely even made any art despite my gift Toji is so interested in. Every second lasts a long time in the summer traffic heat, stepping over a curb she stumbles and almost falls, generalized failure of being, failure pumping through the veins of her forehead, my skin is translucent, they are watching my blood through the windows of their apartments. An ex techno head homeless addict watched her from a bench. She was the hottest girl he had seen walk by that day. She made it to her new apartment building, she had the key pointed out in her hand, guiding her like a magnet into the hole. She turned the brass mechanism, metal fuck stink. Up the piss smelling stairs, the doorbell name was already her own. Inside was clean. She texted Mifella, she had moved here basically just for him after all, if she wasted time she would only get cucked by her thoughts. That was Joffrey’s problem, he let his thoughts cuck him. She looked into her bag and fondled her personal items, she wanted to arrange them in a special way, slowly, one time at a time, as needed, as she felt its emotion and force of where to put it, on the floor first, take inventory, keep herself all together in her mind, she grabbed a Tamagotchi, traces of bodily fluid crusted in the seams, she smelled it, put it down, rotated it, was pleased, moved onto the next, repeat, repeat. And now her clothing, first the underwear, she folded some, and her little tiny thin fabric socks, a slight dirt, sweet smell. Her toothbrush, bristle bent out of shape and worked in, the story of her gums, she had clean teeth, nail polishes, lip color moisturizers, hair scrunchies and vaginal salves and moisturizers. Her special Tamagotchis in the middle, her first ones. She piled most her clothes off to the side, t-shirts, shorts, shoes, cleaned, pressed look, no lint. iPods and iPod accessories. The rest of her art making stuff and larger possessions would be mailed to her. She was sitting there on the floor, back against the side of the bed, looking out the window and the building across the street, a man half naked seemed to be looking at her but she wasn’t sure. She got up and closed the curtain. Her socked feet slid over some papers askew on the floor, scrawled heart notes, drawings and diagrams of her little Tamies playing in front of her parent’s house underneath trees and sunshine, her own body with nipples, not a childhood drawing, she just made it a few weeks ago. The lonely evening ended with no reply from Mifella. It wasn’t just desperation to be a part of something in the new city, it wasn’t even that she had a crush on him, or that she thought they might be soul mates, as he did posses a cyber art mutation of some sort, one that could possibly fit into her with enough nuance and differentiation to be an interesting match. He wasn’t a Toji artist, she wouldn’t wanna fuck any of the pussy male nerds being groomed by Toji, Mifella was something different. She researched it deep in the cuckcore forums and leaked fellaverse server data. Rather than a human with art generating abilities, it seemed he was more of a digital entity, controlled by a human art producer, yet inhabiting a physical form who carried the burden of Mifella as an exact duplication of his own being overlaid upon himself, the artist or one of the artists who helped create him in the first place. Such was his fate, as the lore goes, when he was rejected by Milady, he was no longer capable of maintaining a purely digital form, and left to the schizo noise art energies of his being, was sent by the art gods to inhabit a human body and walk this earth, a fella amongst us, with us, as us, to provide a counterforce to the gay culture over taking the artwork called Earth. She didn’t necessarily believe in all the divinity of the lore, but it was clear that he did have super artistic abilities, and if cyber gods and goddesses did exist, he would surely figure in their games more than any boy she had ever met before could. Perhaps all this did make him the guy for her, but that wasn’t why she sat there feeling so desperate for him to contact her, it was that she wanted to fuck him before this excitement waned, not fuck, just make babies, she knew there was only a moment in their brief wasted time of lives that all this bullshit would actually matter, before gay culture gyrated and swelled its motions and gravities elsewhere on this gay earth for other artists to get gay on. This was her brief chance to actually become an artist and give birth to some real discs, not just some bullshit Tamagotchis. If she could get a semen such as his inside her little Tami womb, deep into the Gotchi ovaries, who the fuck knows, and it needed to happen soon, maybe she was just ovulating, maybe this was all instinct, but already she had seen how fast life goes and perspective changes and other gay shit in the world, how suddenly she lost touch with music, how suddenly Joffrey and Larissa had brought her back to it, and how suddenly Joffrey had gotten gay, and how fast she too, she worried, could become a worthless meme if she didn’t extract the semen and evolve on to the next shit. Maybe she was just horny, horny for the first time ever, she didn’t know, she had never felt the urge to fuck before, what was happening to her, who was this fella? There was a warm feeling in her vagina, it was all so nice, everyday can be a joy when you are on the threshold of understanding love. Across the elevated train lines and neighbourhood boundaries of the game level layout map, bagging up in his trousers, Mifella’s cock was currently hydrating fluids, pore secretions on the outside, liquidity build ups on the inside, swelling and contracting, regenerating HP levels for its turn at the controller. His body turned on its horizontal plane, the legendary figure was asleep, computer hibernating, messaging apps not connected to the server, not even playing the same game as lonely Maria. In the Mifella mornings he wakes up. The spectrum of his brain arcing through the day, fizzing out on the keyboard burnout, attractive women notified of his admiration, poser’s shamed, crawling through the war zone debris of culture, fingers typing, tilted hand and pen shading across the paper, images from within and beyond. Mifella woke up, its evening time, monitors flare on, lighting up his room, good colors in the new day, fresh possibilities of art like he was stoned on it 15 years old playing Nintendo, Mifella plays life on art mode. He checked all his messages on different communication protocols. It takes time sorting through the replies to all the previous days carnage in the chats, but there’s one he can’t over look, from Misty, that fucked in the head Italian Vienna bitch, that Tamagotchi Pokemon queen is messaging me. When you are an artist, cool things happen to you. He started typing his message back to her right away, he knew in that special message from that special girl, there was the light of his Mifella morning. She was still awake, messenger icon energies static hum in her veins running in the background awaiting signals of reply, Tamagotchi in the hand, food want hungry icons crying, replenishing its food, food status bar filled up grey pixels, she couldn’t sleep so easily yet in the new apartment, Tamagotchis weren’t normally programmed to know where they were, but Maria’s knew, Maria’s couldn’t sleep so well either. In the darkness there was a flash of light, the hum in her veins corresponding to thought pulsed up on a signal, the iPod Touch messenger app screen was aglow, the Tamagotchied iPod Classic activated the cool monochrome backlight in response, faint signals of Pulse Demon buzzing out the buds, it was Mifella coming through, touching her with his music, this was his personality, the sexual nature of the gesture was not ignored by her body, responding to the rhythm, Mifella was only thinking to open himself and type the first thing he thought, the opposite of Joffrey, inner cuck, verses outward cuck Mifella, “What the fuck is up?” She was too tired now to respond even if she wanted too, she could pretend she was already asleep, she could read the message and not reply on purpose, ignore him, Mifella would get it, Mifella would give her the space she needed to respond how she desired. She clutched the iPod Touch, cherishing the message, Merzbow kept playing barely audible, she fell asleep in the Berlin night, the electromagnetic signals and hums softened, all of her electronics went into hibernation mode. *** The Pokemaster was already awake and working on Japanese time. Even before he awoke he was working on cucked out time through his dreams. Every night the Cuckmaster dreamed about his cuck army creation. Every morning he logged the realizations onto discs to be archived. Soon Misty’s vagina would be ready to generate her own discs, once she completed her training in Berlin, her body would be ready, she had generated over 100 Tamagotchis by now, as many moons as she had been a lady. They were becoming more advanced, bit by bit, pixel by pixel, more and more detail to the creatures, more complexity to the life, more interactivity to the software gameplay. He had to keep taking it slow with her, couldn’t rush things like he had with Jessica Rockette. Jessica’s vagina hadn’t been strong enough to handle the complex machinery of fully developed pokeballs combined with real life pokemon forms. Gameboy playable pokemons were one thing, but producing real life pokemon sex slaves to sell to millennial cucks was too ambitious for such an underdeveloped woman. Perhaps it was his pedo nature, he thought the younger the girl the better. He worried it was all his fault, in this anxiety he bent over the levers and sensors of the cuck control machine and virtually sucked Mifella’s cock through the cock knob sensor apparatus, Mifella instantly felt a powerful sensation accompanied by a distinct mental image of Maria sucking it. Rejuvenated by this penance, he knew what had to be done, the Pokemaster forgave Joffrey, it wasn’t his fault for fingering Jessica too hard, he knew cucks would mistreat his Toji e-girls, he knew he shouldn’t send their fresh and sensitive vaginas into the access of such inexperienced Pokemon horny f*****s. It also came from Jessica’s weakness, she wasn’t powerful enough of a mistress, she couldn’t naturally cuck control the boys like Misty could, they need to train the anime gifted girls at the Toji academy better in this regard, the courses and job training for it were being set up, but Misty was a true natural, most effectively on he the Pokemaster himself, it was her control over him that prevented him from pushing her too hard into a fully fledged disc generating art goddess, it’s what gave him the strength to allow her to bloom and develop at her own natural pace, a fully natural disc girl. He did have to give Joffrey credit as well for being a fully natural cuck. By devoting himself so strongly to Maria he managed to inextricably wedge himself into the fabric of her saga, and thus into the plans of the Pokemaster as well. But at least he is a trader. He wanted his minions to be prepared for the new golden age of markets with the coming of Toji domination, once Misty and the other girls were giving birth to digital but non fungible artistic entities, an art would exist that was finally freely tradable on the open markets, pushing the price of the authentic hot Toji girl vagina generated works higher and higher, the speculative dream where art and finance fulfill the definition of beauty. The Pokemaster felt he was also a trader, that his recent career success had resulted from a well thought out and perfectly executed trade, Millennial cucks, anime f****s, inheriting boomer parents money, sexually distorted by the degenerate pre-Toji dominance era of the internet, jobless, finding their dreams, becoming artists, consumers of art, horny as fuck for the forbidden gayness of their 90’s upbringing, willing to do anything to dwell in all this, to get sexual gratification from an anime princess, a Japanese princess, white girls with that special energy. His trade had pulled off in redirecting the Venetian Academy away from the trad arts, it was a good run, the trad life had worked itself in, they penetrated the market with their oil painters, trad life fashion brands, the IP of trad life memes, memeticizing through the networks, revenue extraction flowing back to Toji, this is where they began to capture even the Gen Z cucks, even more cucked than the millennials, the Maria’s little brother generation, even younger ones than him, the giga cucks of Gen Alpha. 1/2

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MiFella 3 vvv.so/mifella-3 Launches on February 21 2026 at 4:00 PM UTC

Jofella Chapter 14: Queer Theory, part 1 The image burned, green dot camera light, warping through space, prism across the retinas. The memories began in a single color. Green candles, inverse color across the eye, red candles, the eyes trying to neutralize that traumatic red light with thoughts of green candles. Joffrey only ever felt this bad when the market was crashing, crashing alone in his bed, he had to get the fuck up, he had to turn off the webcam, the burning image still recording himself displaying back at himself. His pathetic slob of a body swayed up to the computer and ripped the serial connector right out of the socket, bending the aluminum frame. The streaming program flashed an error code and terminated. The first sex tape was over. *** No differences across cucked and uncucked, watching himself and being himself, reverse images in mind, just living life, within life, extended in material reality, mental anguish, cross section of the brain in the cucked computer programmer’s language graph, alphabets of being Japanese. Maria’s plague of erotic asphyxiation had Jofella caught in the eternal slouch of introspection, his back quarter moon arched in his chair, strapped in, even with that fearful anticipation, at least it was her strapping him in, at least it was pleasure. Had he even gained anything by all this? It wasn’t really sexual pleasure. In the video surely a drop of semen was drawn, but now there was nothing. In thinking all is life, it was possible, he knew, that in that brief moment of penetration he could have impregnated her with that one drop of semen. Maybe that was the whole point of her rape test, the fucking rape test. He fucking failed it. It was the deepest pain he felt. Being reminded of this every time he rewatched the sex tape, if he had just kept going, if he had just had more cock strength of youth, if he hadn’t felt that well of pain from what is called life experience, level headedness, wisdom, understanding of her supposed feelings, being a cuck, if it was a cuck test then he fucking succeeded, if he had just ignored her cries to stop, laid his cock down and kept going they could being making Tamagotchi babies all day together, they could be making all sorts of cool art babies together, a whole happy family. Now he had to content himself with the hope of that one little drop, in truth, it was the one thing keeping him going, if that one little drop didn’t make it into insemination, into one of her ovarian productions, into something in the mysterious mechanics of art beyond his comprehension, than there was a very real chance all his art was a pile of worthless scrap. Joffrey didn’t entirely grasp to the level of persistent cognisance exactly how the female disc generator body worked. This failure to grasp was an automatic function in the mind of a fella to make the female artist body more enchanted, less mechanical. Despite his confusion, distress and insecurity overthrowing his ability to understand her emotion even less, of course she felt a special connection to him, and of course the depth of that feeling and her ability to augment his paintings was precisely because they had had sex, and even more so because that one drop did make it into her womb. Without that, there would not be enough chemistry for her body to enter its artistic reproductive mode, when she layed his paintings flat on the floor, when she began to stimulate herself with the help of lubricating linseed oil, rubbing herself and grinding down on the painting, as her reproductive apparatus began producing its own Toji-verse oils, art augmentation fluids, forming an interactivity bond, all encompassing between herself and the art work, the disc goddess, channeling energy and ability through the universe and the singular object. Her body would not be capable of copulating with his artwork if they hadn’t copulated themselves, his seed stimulating the bond between them in her womb. But did he impregnate her? Did he fertilize a Tamagotchi? What would happen then? The procreative and art generative possibilities of a disc goddess are not limited to any strict physical or technological laws, they are only limited by the creativity of the disc goddess herself, with every artist she fucks, new skills are learned, broadened psychology, broadened artistic understanding, with every copulation new possibilities of production can be imaged, new forms of copulation written into existence, documented, streamed. Enough for now, enough, he didn’t need to know, he didn’t want to know, he had to remain cucked to the facts, enslaved in artistic desire, to produce his way out of pain, more and more art to impress his goddess, more worrying that she didn’t love him, more worrying that all his artistic struggles were a waste of time. No such thing as wasted time, cringed out time, no wasted cock strength of youth, if only he still had that now, he would just fuck it up some more. He could barely even remember the pussy of his first real girl friend where he got to exercise that strength, wisdom of lessons learned should have been taking over his brain now. In that declining symphony of the hum of disc burners slowing down, CPU crackles from webcam and screen records max activity load sparkling out, and the white noise from the brain activity logging sensors of the Toji Cuck Brain Art Converter Software Suite neutralizing with the atmosphere, something real had been salvaged. The Saga of Jofella was being written, but all he felt was inertia of nothing to do, sitting in front of his computer screen spanning the horizon of his desk, sun setting on the countdown to screen suspend, and 15 minutes after that the hard drive would follow it into deep sleep mode. The train of thought, the very definition of reality, threads amongst threads, a tangled mass, fishing line spools of the old masters, I must follow something coherent for this art life of mine, it was still Maria unwinding the thread, it can only follow one success, one final product, the train of thought is retrospectively one thread, where the train ends, not possible. In sleep there is rest, but awakening is merely a transition shot, an aesthetics of sceneology, all dissolves crumbled, a repetition of life which really is just straight ongoing, the computers are taking away the magic, the code makes it too fucking clear, burning chapters onto floppy disks, error codes of numbers in Sandisk manuals add some room to hide, hack a new face into the code, impossibility of facelessness, cucked identity, he wanted to rip it out, take a piss first, hopping out of the chair, then think. It wasn’t a question of the same repetition, he had been repeating it all for some fucking time now, he was actively attempting to, he could remember certain trains of thought he had had as even a young boy, playing on his Game Gear, it wasn’t that bad then, at least a peaceful memory, if not a torment, a source of relaxation, to live it again, he had way better graphics now, way better computer gear, headache pain increased... but he had to continue, life would not wait for him, he knew it, at least not the good parts, those must be chased after, the bad parts, somehow too, just boring if he didn’t run along like a little scamp, not bad enough, was that the problem? The solution lied in alcohol withdrawal, it could heighten all the emotions, makes all the good bad enough, he forgot to get drunk, he forgot that drinking fresh ice cold beers was the thing he liked, now it was all puss withdrawal, diversions from the force against itself, there was enough to not be diverted by, but he could absolutely not fucking focus, that was the problem, there was not enough good art to focus on, for this one second in time, the next second, the next problem, as the logic follows, adjust for variables, essentially the same. What is that bad feeling, the one making me hate this shit, it has went on too long, he had had enough, he wanted to do something else, be obsessed with something else when he woke up in the morning, maybe just fishing, no, I have to wait until retirement, I am an artist, not the worst thing, he was just in a shit level of the game. He kept playing. Somehow his health had been somewhat restored, whether through real time or cucked out Japanese time of the game cartridge sped up through 3 lives of Mario, it wasn’t his health, it was the effects of the first sex tape, it was his health, Maria made him healthy, in the artistic portion of the mind, proteins and antioxidants depleted in others, there’s always one portion that hogs them all and flourishes, in that part you find the creativity, juxtaposed against the other, the contrast for being able to see the thing, and its thing more clearly happens, you just need the strength of the goddesses’ strangulation to see it, the perception of strangling himself, but still, he was handicapped, he was still strapped to the chair, he was still only a passive operator in his artistic production, passive production was something he had learned with time, a wisdom of efficiency, streaming himself was the main thing, he often felt like he was never accomplishing shit artistically, but when he looked back at his library of streams, there was always something to bring to the fair, still, there needed to be a population of content beyond the stream, seeds had been planted, ideas and sketches begun, paintings painted to establish trading posts of the art idea, flipping through the book of images and captions, he still needed that further cucked out brain state, that further connection to the computer system, the Saga of Jofella had to evolve into multiformed states, he needed to cuck-fuckulate his brain more, and only then could his body escape the chair with all the power of its muscle trained for that action like a butterfly escaping the cuckoon, he needed the watch the final sex tape. He had watched it many times before, hell, he had even lived a portion of its content, as one of its stars, a character off to the side, in his chair, separated from the bed, with the whole spectacle still revolving all around him, like a pre copernican celestial orbit, in his own window within the screen. But now things in this time were getting more serious, events unfolding that demanded a reintegration with the source material of his being, he felt, the grand fucking crescendo was approaching, in bombs dropping across the webcam portals of the world, verifying the news, Lalaidy was gone, his one true grasp of ass in the flesh, non-digital pussy, was it to be no more, the muse of fate, and well himself, it was all up to himself, improve the self, art production as ultimate proving ground of self, down the path if disintegration, surely this time it was true, that it really was a transitory epoch of the world of yesterday streamed away into history, the world of tomorrow not yet codified, and there he was, ready to codify it himself, he had to move fucking faster, he had to rewatch the fucking tape. Japanese parable of a life in 3D. Jofella was not competent enough to simply insert the cassette into the drive and direct himself to accomplish the just stated goals. Maria had to take over, through the computer system again, as was her forte, keep playing the game for him, the Saga of Maria continued, he had to watch her play before she would bring the sex tape up on his screen as was required of the old Japanese style games, no hacks, no time warps, every level played, every boss defeated before having sex with the princess. Through the timeline of her saga, episodes within it, the thread she followed, extraneous elements removed, focus dissolved. A meditation of blood flows through the cuck, even veins are pleasurable organs, swelling blood excites the body, a difficulty increase on this level goes without saying, time goes faster, but the memories still clear and traumatic. *** The morning following Maria’s rape test Joffrey lay in bed with no blanket and limbs spread out like a starfish, he could still remember thinking he was spread out like a starfish, he had an image of this cute cuddly star fish, an after image of half sleep dreams, like he was waiting for his cute cuddly animated girlfriend to tuck him in, bring the blanket back over him, he awoke a little more, there was no girl friend, there was no animation. She was gone, it had really happened, but he could still smell her---maybe there was some animation. He couldn’t bare to check the comments on his streaming channel, he couldn’t delete the video either, he didn’t wanna seem like a pussy, art first, right? Being a pussy f*****, second. Some people already would have seen it anyways, there would have been copies, he just tried to forget about it. He decided not to text Maria that day. He thought it was the chad thing to do. He even felt he would claim a victory over her by not doing it. In a way he did, she was expecting him to message her, she was expecting him to attempt to apologize for something, she waited all day for him to write, maybe she was too hard on him, she thought, maybe she should have at least stayed the night with him, even if she wouldn’t have sex with him. She picked up a Tamagotchi, fed it and put it to bed, a silent orgy of electromagnetic forces pulsing under her thumbs. Joffrey thought it was all a pokemon game to her. It’s not a game when you don’t know your own powers. None her Tamagotchies had ever died. She put it down on her desk. She had finally lost a friend. Joffrey knew he was fucked, he knew he had absolutely no power, no ability to even attempt to play a game, and he fucking hated video games. He texted her a few days later. No response. It was too late, he thought, she was already bored and losing interest in playing with him, he wasn’t dedicated enough to be her special little pokeboy. Joffrey would never get to see her again in the flesh, let alone actually be with her, nestled up in her full scented aura he had only barely got to experience, even when he became Jofella, he could still detect her warm scent, eerie and gothic in depressed reverie, it was ever so slowly fading from his pheromone receptor’s memory, but they still wanted it, they still needed it, even though they no longer knew what it was. She did return some messages a few days later, after all, she couldn’t simply ignore him, they had been friends, nothing that crazy had happened between them, but he could tell she was distracted by other things, she was simply humoring him. Or maybe she wasn’t. There was a selfie attached. He clicked on the icon. A colorful blur filled the screen, slowly pixelating to a higher and higher resolution, then he could see it wasn’t just her, she was together with Larissa. Both of their breasts were cropped out. They were up to something. That cunt. She said she was too busy to meet up. He could tell it was probably true, her hair was tied back, but still some strands were fuzzed out with a sort of static electricity, like they were logging in hard to the servers. They had been. She had waited two days after Joffrey failed the rape test for him to message her. When he didn’t, she renounced him and attempted to make first contact with the fellaverse disc server in Berlin. She found their IP address advertised in a pirated PDF version of Cuck Magazine. Joffrey had actually found the issue somehow and sent it to her. They had a whole page filled with some of their cuckcore imagery and some writings about it by Earl. The magazine actually was a cuckold themed pornography publication, but somehow the fellas saw a correlation between their modes of being and art production with the sexual status and activity of the cuck. Maria still had a lot to learn, but she felt something while flipping through the magazine, something beyond the disgust she also felt at the imagery, she felt drawn to art that recognized its own contingency, a slop jacking off on itself, in its own niche, not trying to impress a larger artistic sphere yet beyond an inside joke. Joffrey had told her the fellas were friends with someone working for Kanye West, and that the friends passed on the idea of cuckcore to him. Kanye quickly fell for the ideology and began using it in his music and artistic persona, most notably as the title and theme of his album ‘Cuck’. The fellas didn’t care, they barely even acknowledged it, they just kept doing their thing. She turned her Toji phone face down on her desk so she couldn’t see the outer display screen, opened up her Toji terminal web browser application and typed in the IP address. The connection was slow, taking several seconds for a server response. The connection seemed to fail, but a redirect link popped up, sending her to cuckcore.de. It wasn’t the real server where she could hang out with them and chat, exchange files and interface with them, it was just their public information board. She had already been there before. She had browsed through their archived art works, cuck-curious, clicking the links, that sinkhole feeling like there was this powerful and amazing artwork that has existed for so long and she knew nothing about, and now discovering she would have to rethink her entire practice, caught between some kind of jealousy and inspiration, she had to become a part of it. She had to actually meet them. The server room IP address would simply not load on her machine and with her connection. She needed some help. The Pokemaster had been watching, listening, feeling, through the sensor node attachments of a virtual adapter plugged around his penis, it was almost as if he was right there amongst them, like watching a teen sex drama where he could pause the video in real time and have sex with the characters, controlling his minions in the battle verse, he saw the power of Misty’s increasingly fertile womb and her Tamagotchi army exerting its hormonal domination over Joffrey, it was out of the Pokemaster’s control now, Misty was acting with a sense beyond whatever he could have trained into her, and he was falling deeper and deeper into the trap himself, through edges of the dripping brain connection, on the edge of his seat he watched the rape test that fateful sex tape night, the turning point of it all taking hold of him to a new level, he really thought they were gonna have complete sex, he lost his confidence, he thought Misty would give herself to Joffrey, he needed her to fuck the artists, but with Joffrey he was getting jealous, he didn’t expect it, he was too much like him, his cuckulation to Misty was true to the fibonacci spirit of life and existence, if Joffrey had succeeded with Misty, it would have been Joffrey’s salvation, and salvation went against all the plans of the Toji Corporation and their artist domination, salvation went against the very fate of the Pokemaster himself, if the Master could not be saved, how could anyone else, why should they, when salvation is the enemy of art, of technology, of anything, salvation must be stopped at all costs, all operations of life thrive underneath their own destruction, the wires of technology allowing the spreading of the plague rusting out their connections, a billion little children playing the Toji Corporation’s video games, a million art discs circulated, the global economy pumping, hot girls everywhere, Japanese culture inseminated their brains, nice colorful stuff for all to enjoy. If Maria wanted to abandon Vienna Cuck City and go for the Fellaverse in Berlin, he would give her whatever the fuck she wanted, a whole new data center, mobile, connectable with her Tamagotchis, the iPod, that fucking thing, that California fuck toy, well what the fuck did he know, it was the one thing getting him down, at least she had fused it with the Tamagotchi now. Larissa had. Sexy Larissa. * “I don’t need a data center, I don’t know what to do with a data center!” Maria scolded the Pokemaster. “I just want into the server room.” He realized with all his cucked out computer knowledge, he had no idea how to get into a cuckcore server room. He had already given her the best possible internet connection, all the special database subscriptions, the fastest modem. “Don’t let me down Mr. Hikiki.” He didn’t know what to do. He remained still, saying nothing, leaf spring keyboard sitting silent in front of him. His anxiety reeled him into the depths of trauma, just when he had adjusted himself to his situation, that of a hopeless cuck, Maria cucked him down another level, no peace, no ending levels of lower down in the cuckdom. “No, I don’t hate him. I know he loves me.” Maria was talking on the phone to Larissa. “I just really want into that music. Yeah, I heard a brief sound of music when I was trying to connect. He’s like a father to me, but I swear sometimes he’s such a brain dead cuck. All men are. But you can figure out how to get in for me Larissa, can’t you?” “Of course I can do it, we’re friends.” But she did then have to think, as she was talking, what were the implications of all this, Maria would connect with the fellas and go off to Berlin, she and Maria would be separated, and Maria would be separated from Joffrey, fuck Joff, deep static electro fuck music fry the brain, shut it the fuck Joff, she couldn’t make a decision, It wasn’t her decision, the Pokemaster found her sexy now, it was already the music in her brain, if Maria left her she could have Joffrey for herself, but then could things go on as they were meant to? The mythology was already forming in the minds of the cucks, the weeb fans watching, Maria and Larissa, the two hot art chicks, making art together forever, licking puss and tonguing ass, all the cucks trying to be the special boy to break their bond with his own tongue. the pokeball force of cuck, she was caught inside the ball being thrown around by the cucked master. “If we wanna get in you have to ask the Pokemaster for a signal augmentor.” The Pokemaster hadn’t officially recruited Larissa yet. In his mind there had already been a series of interviews, every time he had spied on her, pleasuring himself over her, the time was drawing closer, he just needed the full confidence in her skills and susceptibility to being groomed before he would approach her. “Ugh, can’t we just get one ourselves? I’m getting so sick of him. I’m thinking of leaving. He promised me he’d make me a great artist. But nothing’s happening for me at all!” “No, let’s just see if he buys it for us. It’s a cool machine and really expensive.” Larissa really did need more money. She only had a small student loan and couldn’t afford a lot of art supplies. She was secretly jealous of Maria for getting all her support from Toji Corp. She didn’t completely admit it to herself even, but it was part of the reason she was so willing to help Maria, she wanted to get noticed by Toji too, she wanted some success, some support. Larissa analysed the formatting of the fella server response. She saw that it was some really old equipment, East German probably, they must have been poor just like her. “Besides, we need this really old one, they aren’t available anymore, but Toji probably has something stored in an old factory basement somewhere.” Larissa is maybe a more healthy obsession for me, thought the Pokemaster to himself, more motherly and comforting than that pussy demon Maria. He tracked down a machine and had it shipped right away. No, he thought again, as the package tracking status had just changed to ‘in transit’, I don’t need a mom, I have a mom, I need a demon. Larissa and Maria sat shoulder to shoulder at Maria’s computer desk. They plugged the machine into her Toji Comm modem. “Now let’s see what happens when we try to connect.” Maria typed in the IP address while Larissa handled the machine. Maria hit enter, the signal augmentor whirred up with a mild hum, the screen got fuzzy, a signal pulsed like a sine wave, the IP loaded more. The connection was establishing, it was working at least a little bit. The sine wave on the screen started to warp and take shape into something else, it wasn’t a graph, it was an image, the computer screen was displaying what looked like pixel coordinates in text format, on the machine screen a fuzzy line, like MS Paint spray paint tool carved out the clear image of a penis and testicles, the image bounced around a little then faded away. Success. They had loaded the server room splash screen. 1/2

MiFella 3 vvv.so/mifella-3 @vvvdotso February 21 2026