Locking Love Curse

The second the evening study hall bell rang, Tyler Zhao—backpack already slung over his shoulder, packed earlier—bolted out the back door before the drowsy teacher could even finish saying “dismissed.” He sprinted toward the school bike shed at the speed of a track star nailing a 100m dash. He was practically the first to burst through the school gates. Even the stern dean couldn’t help shouting after him, but Tyler tuned it out entirely. His mind was already back home. His butt lifted off the bike seat, wheels spinning like mad. His mind burned, his neck flushed; every inch of him hummed with restless energy, as if a coiled spring had finally uncoiled. His eardrums thudded with the force of his racing pulse. He shoved the bike into the small shed, snapped the lock shut, and bounded up the dimly lit stairs three steps at a time. First floor, second, third—turn left, fish out his key, jam it into the lock, twist three times, yank open the double-locked door, and dive inside. He slammed it shut behind him and finally exhaled, long and shaky. Empty. Perfect. His aunt should’ve left after dinner. He took several deep breaths to calm his thundering heart, flipped on the desk lamp, and ducked into his bedroom. Even with the final stretch of sophomore year looming, exam stress hadn’t touched him. Partly because his parents, always away on business, gave him free rein over his studies. Partly because his mind was consumed by something far more pressing than boring textbooks. He turned on his desk lamp, killed the overhead light, drew the curtains, double-locked the bedroom door, and slid the bolt across the inner latch. Sitting at his desk, he finally felt certain: even if his aunt wandered in to check on his homework, she’d never catch him doing what he was about to do. He pulled a wallet from his bag, unlocked a small hardcover journal with a key, flipped to the middle, and extracted a thin secondary key tucked between the pages. He jammed it into the lock of the small cabinet beside his desk and twisted. Ever since his aunt had confiscated his “treasures” once—those books with swapped covers—he’d hidden all his new finds here. He crouched, moved aside stacks of books by authors like Ono Fuyumi and Nishimura Hisayuki (practical-looking but harmless enough to pass as ordinary reads), and pulled out an old, tattered volume from the back. He flipped through it, satisfied by its content, and set it on the desk. Next, he grabbed a sheet of paper, pressed it flat with a ruler, and used a knife to carve a precise 10cm-by-10cm square. He picked up a brush pen—unremarkable enough for a student desk—and dipped it into a specially prepared bottle of ostrich quill ink, watching the liquid cling to the bristles. He shook off the excess, steadied his wrist, and began drawing rapidly on the square paper. He worked fast, almost mechanically. After all, this was his 360th preparation. He’d drawn thousands of these squares. Heck, he could probably sketch one in his sleep. But sleep-drawn ones? He didn’t dare use them. A single mistake could waste nearly half an hour—and even with his stamina, he didn’t have that kind of time to spare. He placed the finished square on the desk, within easy reach. Then he opened the book to a page of the most explicit, thrilling passages, hauled out his limp p***s from his pants, and began rubbing it eagerly. He’d been m**********g since he learned how, but never had he felt this tense—so wound up he could barely get it up.