A hostage stepped forward, clutching a plastic container, eyes gleaming. "We saw you and knew… your strength, your smarts, your flawless genetics. You're perfect for our donation."
The woman in red glided close, her gaze tracing Chad's frame. "We want a child born from the finest genetic material. Your athletic prowess from those phys ed classes, your brilliant mind honed at Brightwater Academy, your perfect blend of resilience and intellect… Your DNA is a masterpiece."
With a slight recoil, Chad's expression twisted in baffled disbelief. "Wait, so why were those robbers hitting a sperm bank? And why the guns… threatening to shoot everyone?"
Bobby the cop leaned back, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Best guess? They were chasing high-profile sperm from celebrities like Ryan Reynolds or Ryan Gosling.
(Deadpool Ken babies?)
He went on, "Some folks are obsessed with celebrity relics… used tissues, half-eaten burgers, you name it. Bet they figured they'd hawk that premium DNA on eBay for a fortune."
The sergeant gave a gruff laugh, scratching his jaw. "Or, more likely, those idiots thought this was a real bank stuffed with cash, not a damn sperm bank."
Rubbing the back of his neck, Bobby tilted his head toward him. "Huh, makes sense. I didn't figure they'd think it was a bank loaded with cash."
The other cop gave a lazy shrug. "Probably desperate for cash to buy Nintendo Switch 2 games. Hundred bucks a pop… You'd have to rob a bank just to afford that nonsense."
He leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Screw that. The Switch has a few good games... like Nekopara... but the rest is just recycled slop we've all seen before… And fuck Nintendo for copyright striking my stream. Pirating's the move. PirateBay, baby… Free games, no hassle... just a few keyloggers, viruses, and spyware, but whatever."
Grinning like a nutter, Bobby jumped in. "Nah, KAT is king. I love anything to do with Kats or kittens...or… ummm… pussy."
The sergeant shot them a sidelong glance, his voice dry as sandpaper. "You're confessing to breaking numerous copyright laws right in front of me?" — "I'm just gonna pretend I didn't hear any of this conversation."
The silence cracked. Camera shutters burst into a frenzy. Reporters jostled for angles, voices rising and colliding in chaotic bursts.
Laughter exploded out of him, loud and unstoppable. "I knew it was a wank bank! I said it was a wank bank!! Right? Right?!"
Chad spun on the spot, eyes wild as they scanned the buzzing crowd. "C'mon, someone back me up—I totally called it, didn't I?"
His voice wobbled—teetering between smug pride and outright panic—as the noise drowned him out.
He paused, waiting—hoping—for someone, anyone, to confirm he'd actually said "wank bank" out loud.
But no dice... (or die… however you pronounce it)...
All he could hear were rapid-fire camera clicks, the steady drone of police sirens, the far-off chirp of crickets... and scattered chatter rising like steam off a boiling pot.
Then—like a whisper in his brain, or maybe just the voice of reason's cheeky twin—the narrator chimed in.
["You did, Chad... I heard you mutter, 'They seriously built a building dedicated to personal wank banks.'" She paused. "Pity no one else was around to hear it... but me. teehee~"]
Chad shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. "So, the only one who actually heard me was the perverted narrator? GREAT... What's she even narrating, anyway? She's not really narrating anything. It's like she's just throwing in these random pervy comments every now and then for no reason. Where the hell did the narrator even go? One minute she's dropping all these weird lines, and the next—nothing. It's like she pops in just to make things awkward and then vanishes."
One of the hostages, the granny, shuffled closer to Chad, followed eagerly by the others. Each of them clutched a plastic cup container with both hands, their eyes fixed on him with anticipation.
The woman in red sidled closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Mmm, and for lucky guys to tease and play with whenever the mood strikes."
A flush crept across his cheeks as he fumbled, "N-No, not those cups! The plastic ones in your hand!"
His mind raced. He knew women sometimes padded their bras with silicone cups or socks to boost their curves. He'd even heard that some guys wore cups in sports to... enhance their bulge and protect the goods. Did women ever wear cups down there too? Probably not—it'd look like a camel toe or some kind of animal's foot.
Still, he couldn't help but wonder: Did women need protection from low blows like guys did? Did it hurt them if they got hit between the legs? I wonder... he thought. I'll have to try kicking a girl between the legs one day to find out... for scientific purposes, of course.
["Chadwick, you've already been told what they want. They want you to jerk off in their cup so they can impregnate themselves with your flawless genetics. That's why they went to the sperm clinic... now, go on, go on, go! Jerk off in those little plastic cups for them… Mister Hero…"]
So when people donate cum, is it really stored in those little cups? I always imagined women just walking into the clinic with it splattered across their faces—like, they'd scrape it off with a window scraper or something, spit it into a test tube, and hand it over. Or maybe they'd just stroll in with a mouthful and spit it out on demand. Though, come to think of it, if a girl walked into the clinic with a mouth full of cum, she probably wouldn't be able to say much. I guess she could use Google Text-to-Speech or something.
Another former captive, her curves accentuated and eyeshadow shimmering seductively, cooed, "You're a hero, Chad, and heroes deserve rewards."
The granny cackled, "A reward for us all!" Her wrinkled face lit up, and she opened her toothless mouth wide, gums gleaming, cloudy eyes burning with lust as she reached for him.