Naga Male

My dad is a fan of tough love parenting. When I was a kid, there was a time when I obtained full marks on two subjects. But he told me, "Your grades don't mean anything in life. If you were a true man, you'd leap down five floors without batting an eyelash." Some time later, I was awarded for my act of bravery. But Dad scoffed in my face. "Not even a hair is harmed on your head. Why should you be awarded anyway?" I thought Dad wanted me to go through more training in life. On Christmas Eve, he ditched me on a snowy mountain under the guise of wanting me to go through more training. He didn't give me a tent or a lighter. Later on, Dad even brags about his parenting method to his relatives and friends. "A real man should survive and thrive in a desperate situation! I told Julian that he can forget about being my son if he can't even make his way back to the summit!" But the red dot on the GPS tracker installed in his phone hasn't moved for the past three hours. The truth is, I've already frozen to death in the mountains. Trapped in my fist is a scrap of paper detailing the SOS number that Dad had torn apart earlier. Meanwhile, my soul is currently floating above the dining table while watching Dad brag about his tough love parenting.

At midnight, I accidentally stumble upon the boss' daughter, Julianne Carter, pleasuring herself in the dimly-lit adult store. Her eyes are blindfolded, and her legs are spread on a special chair, where they are propped up on the arms. At the moment, she's cruising through the waves of pleasure uncontrollably. But when the chair malfunctions, Julianne is unable to free herself from the restraints no matter how hard she tries. That's when she starts calling for help. "Please… Please help me…" But I crouch down instead, allowing my fingers to glide across her thighs, past her calves, and back to her inner thighs. "Don't move. This chair's mechanisms are very complex. I need to study them thoroughly and slowly." "P-Please… hurry up…" I watch as Julianne's expression shifts from embarrassment to yearning. She finally stops struggling against the restraints when she breaks down from all the overwhelming sensations. "Give it to me… Please give everything to me…" Just as I'm about to yield, I hear the sounds of the boss, George Carter, opening the door coming from the outside. So, I quickly wheel Julianne into a nearby storeroom. That's where I see hyper-realistic molds that look exactly like Julianne.

On the fourth day after our son died, I decided to end my military marriage. Before that, I spent three days taking care of what remained of him. On the first day, I tricked my wife into signing the cremation papers. On the second day, I went to my son's school and collected the textbooks he never had the chance to use. On the third day, I prepared a table full of his favorite dishes and begged my wife to come home so we could celebrate his birthday one last time. She agreed. Then she turned around, claimed she had a mission, and spent the entire night setting off fireworks with her childhood sweetheart. That night, I sat beside my son's memorial photo and ate alone. The next day, she came home looking guilty and handed me a brand new backpack. She said it was a gift for our son to use at school. She did not know that our child would never live to see his first day of school.

On the day of the SAT exam, my girlfriend’s childhood friend, Benedict Casper, forgot his admission ticket at home. She insisted on retrieving it for him, but I begged her not to go. In the end, Benedict missed his final chance for taking the exam and, overwhelmed by despair, he jumped to his death. Years later, my girlfriend, Ella Simpson, and I graduated from Whitmore Institute of Technology, landed high-paying jobs, and built a picture-perfect marriage. But on the anniversary of Benedict’s death, she stabbed me repeatedly, her voice trembling with rage, “You killed him. If I’d gotten his admission ticket, he would’ve never jumped.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of the exams. Ella’s frantic voice rang in my ears, “I have to go back, Dominic. I need to get Benedict’s ticket!” This time, I smiled and said, “Go ahead. Be careful on the way.”

I poured my heart and soul into securing a big deal for my wife's law firm. But when I stepped out for a quick coffee break, she fired me on the spot, claiming I'd gone AWOL for too long. "New company rule: ten minutes away from your desk, and you're out. You were gone for ten minutes and five seconds. Now grab your stuff and leave." I sneered and flipped the script, turning over proof of her siphoning funds to buy her intern boy a Maybach to the police. She thought she could burn bridges with me, but this bridge didn't crumble so easily.

On the day we decided to get a divorce, I saw Miranda’s account book while I was packing up my stuff. Aside from our daily expenses, Miranda had also set up a scoring sheet for me. Miranda had taken notes of all the things I had done ever since we started dating. Some of them were such miniscule things that even I had forgotten. She took note of them all with a red pen, and she scored them by either awarding me points or deducting them. However, the further down the sheet, the more points were deducted. In the end, I saw Miranda add one line in black ink. [He’s no longer the Henry Jones who used to love me: -100]

My wife, Lindsey Kelsey, suffers from an aversion to intimacy. For ten years of marriage, she pushed me away again and again. Then, on our anniversary, she abandoned me and, in front of the crowd, kissed another man with reckless passion before the two of them walked hand in hand into a luxury hotel. Afterward, Lindsey brazenly declared that a real man should be magnanimous, not petty. Magnanimous? Then I wish them both eternal bliss—may they be bound so tightly they can never break free from one another. Later, I handed Lindsey the divorce papers with a blank expression. I was determined to walk away from her. But Lindsey went mad when she realized she couldn't find me anymore.

On Father's Day, I received a heartwarming gift. My one-year-old son called me Dad for the first time. But moments later, he convulsed, foamed at the mouth, and died before we could reach the hospital. My wife was shattered, and I was devastated. The doctors couldn't identify the cause of his death. Three years later, my wife emerged from her grief, and we welcomed our second child. But the moment this child called me Dad, they, too, died instantly. To spare her further pain, I suggested adoption. Yet, even our adopted children met the same fate. Unable to bear the losses, my wife divorced me. Everyone said I was cursed, never meant to be a father. Defiant, I remarried and had another child, vowing never to let them call me Dad. For years, we adhered to this rule. But when our daughter turned four, she came home from preschool, eager to celebrate Father's Day. Holding a card, she read aloud, "Dad."

At our engagement party, my sister said she saw my fiancee at the hospital for a prenatal checkup. Inga Lane looked at me nervously, then smiled and handed the test results to our parents. “I’m one month pregnant.” Both families were over the moon. I was the only one who could not smile. After everyone left, Inga said, “I’m sorry. I’m pregnant. I was drunk that night. The baby is Xion’s.” I clenched my fists and tried to stay calm. “Then, why did you come to the engagement today?” She leaned toward me and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to marry Xion. He has cancer. He doesn’t have much time left. “We grew up together. He’s the only child in his family. I just wanted to give him a child to carry on his family line.”

The factory had just finished expanding when my wife insisted on bringing her older brother in as our driver. The very next day, my brother-in-law sold my $45,000 business car to a used car dealer. Not only that, he had the nerve to lecture me. "You're just a small business owner," he said. "Driving a car this expensive is a waste. You might as well sell it and buy gold for my sister. At least that'll appreciate in value." I swallowed my anger and tried to explain. "I've never treated her poorly. I've never missed a holiday gift. Compared to what others spend, driving this car is already modest." He flew into a rage instantly. "You still dare talk back? My sister gets treated like a maid by your mother every day, and you pretend not to see it. "Driving a luxury car, pretending to be rich, probably thinking about keeping a mistress. As long as I'm around, don't even think about it. "In my family, women handle the money. You'd better transfer all your assets to my sister." I turned to leave, but he punched me straight in the eye. When my wife rushed over, she did not defend me. Instead, she scolded me for looking down on her family. While I was being treated for my eye injury, she even allowed her brother to sell all the gold and expensive watches in our house. They used the money to buy a car for his son and even sold the house just to show off their wealth. Meanwhile, she went online and complained about how miserable her married life had been. I was so furious I was speechless. In the end, I called the police. Since they were so eager to get their hands on my money, I decided they would not get a single cent.