Archive of Our Own

“IS THIS THING [On/Off]?”

With an invisible pull of the green strings on his shoulder, an oversized marionette lifts his arm and taps the microphone in front of him.

“[Test message #1], [Test message #2]... WAIT.” The strings pull away, and his hand hesitantly follows. “... ARE WE [Live]?!”

He looks to the side, then flips back to face the camera with an overstretched smile. 

“HELLOoO0O [[Cyber World]] ! I’M SPAMTON G. SPAMTON, AND YOUR W4TCHING THE LATE-NIGHT [World Wide Web] PREMIERE OF [SpamTV]™!” A glittery logo stretches across the screen, and Spamton’s equally sparkling smile is lit up with the same CGI. “[[Thought]] YOU’D SEEN THE LAST OF [Me? On TV?]!?”

Spamton slams his fist on the desk. “WRONG!!!” His sparkly veneer is instantly shattered by the sneer that replaces it. “[You] WI$H!! YOU WISH YOU COULD [Kiss] THIS SWEET [@$$] GOODBYE! EHAEHAEH4A3HA!!!” 

Spamton G. Spamton: a salesman turned superstar, turned washed-up celebrity—turned unofficial ruler of Cyber City. After the former queen left to go live in another castle, Spamton showed up and... asserted himself. The Mansion had been converted into a hedonistic hellscape of his own design. Free space was filled by self-replicating neon signs, walls were painted over with a certain spambot’s self-portraits, and swathes of Swatchlings sculpted statues in their ruler’s own self-image—which was significantly more muscular and scantily clad than the real dealmaker. There was also a Pipis room. Just an entire room full of Pipis. No one knew why, least of all Spamton.

The inexplicability was part of his unstoppability. Darkners were predisposed for servitude, so they indulged Spamton’s assumed superiority without much of a second glance. Spamton wasn’t improving the Cyber World, but he wasn’t making it any worse than it already was. Aside from the Mansion, the most that changed were Queen’s royal mixtapes, which were re-recorded to replace any instance of her name with Spamton’s, and then remastered to have 30 minute unskippable ad breaks between each song (forming a genre later known as ‘Ad-Breakcore’). That wasn’t all that ended up changing, however. Not long after he seized the throne, Spamton found someone to rule beside him.

You found the Cyber World by total chance—it was after Spamton took over, so you’ve always known it like this, for the short time that you’ve known it. The internet had been down for days, so there was little reason to use the Librarby’s computer lab, but you were really craving a game of 3D Space Pinball: the kind that only a late ‘90s library computer could provide. Apparently you weren’t the first Lightner to stumble in there, but the last few that arrived left the Fountain open. It all really seemed like an incredibly unlikely series of contrivances, but... Well, you weren’t complaining.

When you first arrived in the Cyber World, Spamton took an immediate, exceeding interest in your SOUL. That was all he cared about initially, but he quickly came to love everything around it. He became too attached to you as a whole to detach your SOUL from your body, thankfully, and you became too attached to the strange salesman to leave him on his own. To Spamton, you were an angel sent from ‘Heaven’; you graced him with your light, and in return, he granted you elevated administrator privileges. Not that you had much to do with the authority, but it felt nice to be appreciated.

Spamton was the one pulling the Cyber World’s strings. And tonight, you would be his plaything.

You’re sitting on an oversized bed, impatiently awaiting the premiere of Spamton’s ‘specil’ program. While you wait, you take the time to take in your surroundings. They’re certainly... an acquired taste. Ostentatious would be an understatement, and nothing here is understated. Gaudy decor garnishes the walls around you. Garish pink-and-yellow hues assault your eyes from every direction. You’re surrounded by assorted Spamton-shaped memorabilia, and it feels like the outdated-wallpapered walls are closing in around you. You’ve never starred in a film before—certainly not beside a star like Spamton, and certainly not in a feature like this. But as star-crossed as you are with him, you wouldn’t take up a role like this if you didn’t think you could nail it.

Anxious yet excited, you sprawl yourself across the bed. The sheets are nice enough, but noticeably not nice enough for someone of Spamton’s status. They definitely were chosen keeping in mind what was to occur on top of them. It’s all-too-sterile, yet simultaneously filthy in the unabashed sleaziness of it all. Stage lights are blaring above you. There are cameras all around you, yet the set still somehow lacks any sense of cinematography. You don’t know much about shot composition, but you’re offended on behalf of anyone who does. It’s one of the most beautiful disasters you have ever seen—and it hasn’t even started.

Though you can’t see Spamton from where you’re sitting, you can see everything going on behind the scenes. There are a few screens relaying the broadcast back to you, from a few different angles. The one you’re watching—the one tuned into the SpamTV channel—shows Cyber City’s favorite salesman sitting at his desk. 

“[Studies] SHOW THAT [[SpamTV]] CONTAINS THE HIGHEST-QUALITY UNCENSORED [[Uncut]] H0T [Celebrity Scandals],” Spamton explains, “WHICH IS [part of, a Balanced Breakedfast]! SPEAKING 0F [Breakfast]> H4VE YOU HEARD OF TODAYS [[Sponsor]]: FRIED PIPIS” You promptly tune out of Spamton’s Pipis sponsorship and set your sight on the SpamTV star himself. 

From personal experience, you’re well aware that Spamton is bigger than he seems on TV—which is saying a lot, because he already looks utterly massive. As he is, he’s about twice your height; though you never met him before he took over, you’re aware that Spamton didn’t always look like this. He seems a lot more satisfied with the body he’s currently inhabiting, however, seeming especially appreciative of its size. His green strings blend into the greenscreen behind him, but not perfectly. The intangible puppeteer piloting his movements is made immaterial by the lack of visible strings, so Spamton looks like a marionette moving all on his own. It’s almost uncanny. 

Though he’s overall puppet-y in appearance, Spamton is seemingly part ragdoll, part mannequin. His face and signature smile are hard, shiny plastic. His torso is sleek and smooth, while his limbs differ in composition from the rest of his body: they’re soft; made of stuffed fabric. Hanging limp, Spamton's arms sway slightly at his sides as he idles. Though they appear to be unarticulated, Spamton has no trouble flailing his hands about as he erratically explains “the New ” Spamton experience, or whatever strange marketing slogan he’s adopted today.

“UP NEXT: THE [New] AND [[NEO]] SP4MTON EXPERIENCE! [4K HD 120FPS]. STARRING: WHO ELSE BUT [Spamton G. Spamton]?!” he shouts. “ALSO STARRING: A CERTAIN SPECIL... [[Associate]].”

That’s you—and that’s your cue. Taking a deep breath, you silently prepare yourself. 

“STARTING: NOW. THAT’S [Right]. RIGHT NOW.” 

Spamton gets up and kicks his chair offscreen.

“Are you watching, CYBER CITY?! SPAMTON G . SPAMT0N IS OFFICIALLY [Back] IN [Business]... STARTING [Right:Now], CST [Cyber Standard Time]. EHAEHAEHAEHA!!!!”

He beams down at the camera.

“... AND THEN THE WEATHER AT [12]. [Spoiler Alert] THERE IS NO WEATHER WE LIVE IN A [%?@!]ING [Cyber Society]. ANY WAYS—”

Spamton tears the greenscreen curtain from the ceiling, and throws it to the side.

“—HOTSINGLES? IN [MY] AREA!? [It’s More Likely Than You Think]!”

Neon lights flash on, and a soundtrack of ugly synthesizers starts blaring from a nearby set of speakers. Flying on his strings, Spamton glides backwards. The stilted MIDI soundfont does its best to serenade you as he lays himself atop the mattress, lounging right at your side. It has to be abundantly clear to the audience what’s about to happen, and their dawning horror is undoubtedly amplified by the TV-XXX rating that pops up in the corner of the screen. 

“THE FOLLOWING PROGRAM CONTAINS [Scenes],” Spamton says, and then refuses to elaborate. “DON’T LIKE IT? TOO BAD!! NO WHERE TO [[Turn that Dial]]—THIS [Day of Play] IS ON EVERY CHANNEL!!!”

Laying his lanky legs across the bed, Spamton lifts you into his lap. He turns to face the camera—rather, he’s trying to face as many cameras as possible. At the same time. He flips his head to face another angle every other second, like an auto-tracking algorithm gone awry. Despite his erratic head-turning, he still speaks smooth as ever, which is to say not at all.

“LONG-GONE ARE THE [Long Days] AND [Lonely Nights] OF THIS LONG-NOSED [Doll],” speaks Spamton. His voice sends booming shockwaves through your body, though it’s still as nasally and piercing as you’d expect a sentient spam advertisement to sound. “AND TO [Commemorative Ring] IN THIS SPECIL [[Occasion]]... I HAVE. AN ALL-NEW [Featured Films] JUST FOR [[You]]!!”

Your heart is hammering; his body is flush against yours, and mechanical thrumming drones from somewhere inside him. Darkners didn’t have SOULs, but something was beating beneath his plush exterior. The sheer size of Spamton’s shadow is more than enough to encompass you entirely. If he needs a chinrest, you’re the perfect height. Spamton tilts his head down and peers over your shoulder, placing his chin right next to your neck. The crisp, citrusy scent of cheap cologne surrounds you—every time you think you’ve gone noseblind to it, Spamton seemingly dunks himself in another gallon of whatever aromatic abomination it is that he adorns. 

“FOR ONLY THE [Low, Low] COST OF [All Dignity], THIS [[l0vely]] LIGHTNER JOINS US TONIGHT FOR THIS SPECIL PREMIERE,” he says. “SAY [How do you Do] TO THE [Unregistered Hyperlink 2], HOTSHOT!”

You let Spamton lift up one of your arms; he makes it wave to the camera. You smile coyly.

“NOW [Thats] WHAT [Eye] CALL EYE-CANDY! WHAT A REAL [Any%] SUPERSTAR!!” Spamton says. He leans even closer. He tilts his head to face you, smiling statically. “GIMME SOME 5UGAR, [Splenda]!!” Cool plastic presses against your cheek—it’s his teeth; his equivalent of a kiss. You squeeze your eyes shut, smiling bashfully, and a dark red warmth spreads across your cheeks. But when you open your eyes, all that looks back at you is the cold, metallic stare of cameras.

“NOW. WHY DON`T YOU INTRODUCE Y0UR SELF TO THE [Audience]?? LET THEM KNOW [[Who You]] ARE!”

Before you can open your mouth to give an embarrassingly unprepared reply, Spamton brings his hand down, hovering it just above you. Pink-and-yellow LEDs in the shape of stoplights shine spotlights down on you.

“OR... MAYBE SIMPLE [Introductions] IS [[Sell-Buy Date]]. TO0 [small talk] FOR A [[BIG SHOT]], AM I WRONG!?” Spamton smiles slyly. “MAYBE,” he says, “MAY BE YOU WANT IT MORE [Up-Close]. SOMETHING... PERSONNEL.”

Spamton’s light-up lenses refuse to let up their gaze; he leers down at you, seemingly salivating at the sight. You’ve never felt smaller in your life. Red recording lights stare you down from every direction. Thousands of unseen eyes are watching, and you can feel them all undressing you at once. Red-hot humiliation rushes through your veins as Spamton slides his soft thumb against your shirt.

“SO WHY DONT WE GET THIS [Unboxing Tutorial] ON [Tour] ALREADY?!” He gently teases his fingertips across the fabric, fiddling with the ends before flipping up your shirt. “LET ‘S! GET! [Stripping]!”

The mitten-like hands caressing your body begin to undress you—lying limp as a ragdoll in Spamton’s arms, you shudder as your shirt is pulled completely off. Burning with anticipation, shivering with excitement—you freeze as Spamton starts to stroke your exposed stomach, before bringing another hand up to your bare chest. Your skin must be scorching to the touch, but Spamton doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

“THE LIGHT, THE [Burning] LIGHT,” he mumbles, strangely subdued. “LOOK’S LIKE YOU’ve GOT IT [Inside].” Spamton repositions you on his lap, flipping you to face him. Looking past you—into the camera—Spamton says, “[Did You Know] THAT`S INAPPROPRIATE ATTIRE FOR A HOT [WorkCasual] FRI DAY?” He looks down at you, and you see a spark of hunger that you didn’t see before. “YOU BEST GET [Best-Dressed] FOR [[This Summer]] OCCASION!! AND I’VE GOT A CERTAIN SPECIL [Suit]: MADE JUST FOR [You]”

Your pants are stripped off with frightening ease; Spamton stares down at you, oddly silent. You realize he’s not responding. Gears turn, blue circles buffer, and behind his blank smile, something inside Spamton short-circuits. He jerks back to life in a sudden snap, and you can feel the hunger in his artificial eyes as they stare at your bare body.

“H-HERE’S THE HOT [Action!]” You stifle a gasp as Spamton shoves his hand between your legs. “TONIGHT WE’ЯE POPPING PU$$Y LIKE [Puppets] AND [Popcorn]!!!”

His massive, mitted palm rubs up and down your pussy as he holds you tight in his lap—you squeeze your thighs around him, rocking desperately into the plushness of his hand. You’re already soaked, and Spamton’s touch isn’t nearly absorbent enough to soak up the exorbitant wetness he’s causing. He purrs, letting his cushiony thumb roll circles against your clit. Drool drips from his open-mouthed grin. You can tell it’s getting him off too; you’re humping right into his lap, and you can feel a sizable bulge in his lap.

Spamton gropes your ass, indiscreetly pushing you against his erection. His hands won’t leave your body, and his eyes won’t stop ogling you. He seems utterly entranced by you. You appreciate the attention, but he’s never going to get to the point of the program at this pace. You’re getting impatient, and you know how to pull Spamton’s strings, so to speak. Looking into his eyes, you moan his name—his full name, in fact—with just enough desperation to kick him into overdrive. You make sure to throw in a “Mr. Big Shot” for good measure. It works: Spamton burns red, and bursts out laughing.

“W OAH THERE!! [Some]ONE’S EXCITED TO HAVE [There Brains] SCRAMBLED AND [Fried] A ND [#%@!]ED OVER AND [Out]” His hands squeeze you tighter—you groan, bucking harder in return. “WELL. THAT’S. THAT’S. THAT’S. THAT’S. THAT’S. THAT’S.”

Your legs wrap around Spamton’s hips and you lean into his shoulder, muffling needy moans into his neck. His pupils trail off in opposite directions. Spamton stutters under his breath, stopping and starting over and over. You didn’t expect someone like him to get stage-fright, but he seems to be stuck in some kind of loop. You gently tap Spamton’s shoulder, and he shrieks out an alarm clock beep.

“NOW THA’TS [A Deal You Can’t Turn Down!]”

His body glitches; his head twitches, and his teeth clatter together. His painted on blush flushes brighter, and you can hear his jaw rattling. You have no idea what’s happening, but he seems excited about it? Spamton picks you up off his lap and delicately sets you offscreen, looking square at the camera when finally he speaks up.

“YOUVE WAITED [TimeInterval] ENOUGH !! IT’ S TIME FOR THE [Main Course]. AND THIS [[GodBod]] IS HOT-N-READY TO GO [Ga-Ga]”

Sliding his legs off the side of the bed, Spamton sits himself right in front of one of the bedside cameras and centers himself in the frame—the broadcast quickly switches to display the contents of that camera angle. Grinning, Spamton sprawls his lengthy arms akimbo as he slowly spreads his thighs. His wings flutter with apparent excitement. The pink cloth of his robes is settled between his legs; Spamton pinches it between his fingers before lifting it up and aside, revealing his clothed cock bulging beneath his unitard. The already dark fabric is made darker by a small, wet spot seeping across the obscene outline.

“[10 Real Tricks to ENLARGE YOURSELF (Working 2X22 Legit)],” Spamton says saucily.

He crams his hand into his unitard and rummages around—he had a hole tailored for easy access to his cock, because of course he did. Spamton grimaces when he can’t get it out. The silky fabric slips from his sweaty grasp as he tries to stretch it over the tent straining inside it. Steam smokes out from his gritted teeth as he continues fishing through the fabric, in an utterly futile attempt to free his raging erection. 

“[$!$!]!!!! WHO DESIGNED THIS [Junk] of [Hunk]?! PROBABLY A R3AL [No Body]!” Spamton’s face fumes an enraged red, and he emits a nasal shriek. 

Elsewhere, in the center of Cyber City, dozens of TV screens beam down at the crowds below. Their shared speechlessness is drowned out by Spamton’s sexually frustrated screams.

“[@%?$]iNG, COME ON!!”

The sound of ripping spandex blares from citywide speakers, followed immediately by a chorus of exasperated groans. A few people boo.

“THAT’S RIGHT [Babie] THERE WE [[GO]]...” The tea kettle scream boiling up inside him subsides, and Spamton exhales a cloud of steam. “The SMOOTH taste [[Cyber City]] CRAVES: THE BIGGEST [@%?$] FOR YOUR BUCK YOU’VE [Never] SEEN!!”

Spamton, no longer fondling himself fruitlessly, finally rips his cock all the way out. A pitiful amount of pre-recorded applause plays.

“NOW. I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING: [Nice Cock!]” Spamton’s bodysuit is torn from his thighs all the way up to his tummy, which just barely bulges out beneath the ripped spandex. His cock is already more than half-hard—and it’s big. There’s no other word to describe it. It’s big. Spamton’s plush hand wraps around his shaft, and he starts stroking himself slowly. “s$SO BIG, [BIG], [[BIG]]!!! I WANT, I [Want] IT HOT AND HEAVY [[Inside Me]], PL3ASE!! ... IS WHAT YOU’RE THINKING.” 

He’s not wrong. It’s hard not to stare at something that size, and doubly hard to suppress the terabytes of fond memories that memory stick has stored inside you. In contrast to his cloth body, Spamton’s cock is something like silicone; like a sex toy strapped to a puppet’s pelvis. It’s a stark, shiny white like the rest of his body. It’s thick, firm, and sized substantially, and the pair of balls swinging between his legs is bigger than anything you could’ve imagined before you met the big shot. Not that you can’t take it. Spamton himself knows that better than anyone else.

As Spamton motions you forward, leading you between his legs with a gentle push, you can feel your breath wavering and your mouth salivating. You fail to suppress the smile tugging on your lips.

“DoNT BE SHY, [SweetCheeks]!” Spamton says. “WHY DON’T YOU SHOW THE FOLKS @ [[My Home Page]] HOW G0OD YOU [Gobble] THESE [Baubles]”

You lose yourself in his thick musk as you lean in, pressing your fingers into his soft, plush thighs. You take a deep breath, exhaling through your mouth—Spamton’s cock throbs at the touch of your warm breath. You gently lift his shaft, pressing your nose up against his massive sack. His scent is overwhelming: strong and rich with the smell of sweat. Your tongue lolls out, lapping at the sweet sweat on his skin as you flirtily look up into his pink-and-yellow lenses.

Spamton jolts upright, then clatters with staticky laughter. “H HEHAEHAHEAHEA, YOU F1LTHY [Worm], Y-YOU’RE REALLY GIVING A [[Good Show]]!” 

His cock twitches and pulses, desperate for stimulation. You quickly remedy the situation. Nuzzling, stretching your lips across his shaft, tongue curling all the way down to his balls—you’re practically slobbering all over him. Streaks of saliva run down, mixing with the sweat soaking his skin. Spamton’s LED eyes flicker faintly, and a satisfied sigh escapes him. His gaze is half-lidded and lecherous. You lavish him with your mouth, rolling and rubbing your tongue against the underside of his cock lasciviously, eliciting a deep groan from Spamton. 

“THE [Smooth] TASTE of SPAMTON,” he mutters. He leaves his jaw ajar, panting quietly. “YOU LiKE IT, DON’T YOU?”

Tongue too occupied to talk, you nod with a muffled moan. There’s no need to articulate any further: you assume it’s already obvious to the audience at home. What they’re watching is nothing more than a public vanity project, reminding the world that Spamton is back on top and rubbing it in hard, not dissimilar to how he’s currently rubbing his nuts across your face. This isn’t lost on either of you, not in the slightest. Spamton wants the world to bow down in front of him, and you’re on your knees giving him exactly what he wants. You press your lips against his cock, over and over and over—if that wasn’t worship, what was? 

“TH-THAT’S RIGHT. [Kiss] IT  HARDER.” Spamton falls into a moan as you trail your tongue up his shaft, peppering even more kisses along the way, planting a trail of tingling love along his length. “GOOD, SOo [[Good]]” He curls his hand into your scalp, gently stroking your hair with his plush palm. You flick your tongue underneath the tip and a shiver runs from Spamton’s head all the way down to his hips, which jerk forward a bit too hard into your touch. You pull away, narrowly avoiding having your eye poked out by puppet penis, but it doesn’t take long for Spamton to shove it back in your face again.

He grabs you by the hair and tugs you gently towards him, leaving you right in front of his throbbing, flushed cocktip. Freeing the sheets he had clenched in his other fist, Spamton desperately jerks himself off in the brief absence of your touch. 

“YOU KNOW [[All the → Buttons]] TO PRESS, [Baby]!! Y YOU—EHAEAHEAHA!—YOU [[REALLY]] know what you’re DOING...!” Spamton’s voicebox crackles out, followed by a shaky moan. “WE HAVE A wwWiNNER!! [[You Win!]] NOW JUST—jUST OPEN W1DE TO [Receive] YOUR W1LDPRIZE!!” 

The slow, appreciative part is over. At this point you’re fully prepared to be facefucked, and for the whole world to see it. You know there’s no reasonable way you should be able to fit even half of his cock in your mouth, but damned if you weren’t about to do it anyway. You have an audience to impress. You’ve done this before, of course—you’ve learned to love the art of taking Spamton’s ridiculous size down your throat, and swallowing whatever he shoots down there. Your lips slide around his cockhead and take it into your mouth, already an impressive feat for the size. What you can’t fit at first is left for your hands to handle, and you need both hands to even begin to cover his girth.

“OH [Baby] TH THAT’S THE TICKET... YOU—” Spamton shoves your head down, practically feeding you his cock. “TAKE [Me] TAKE [[More]] M0RE MORE,” he demands. Spamton looks woozy; head thrown back, his pitch-shifted whines waver as you swallow more of his cock. You’ve taken a majority of it into your mouth, but there’s still more, somehow. Spamton shoves your head down. Drool bubbles up at the sides of your mouth, and your eyes water as you bob up and down on him. “YOU’RE ggGgGONNA>, YOU,OHhHhH [!@#%] you’re GOING TO MAKE ME... C—[Cut to Commercial!]”

Spamton suddenly shoves you off of him—he shoots up in an instant, snapping his neck to the side, facing a camera you can’t see. Disco balls descend from the ceiling as Spamton smiles vacantly. Behind him, a hot pink sign blinks to life:

“H EY HEY HEY!! HAVE YOU [Ever] HAD [Problems], WELL GREAT NEWS [[Theres]] A PR0DUCT. FOR.  THAT,” Spamton explains, indiscreetly scooting you offscreen. “INTRODUCING: [All-New!] PIPIS.” A single Pipis spontaneously appears atop his palm. Sparkly CGI graphics light up Spamton’s award-losing smile as he presents the product to the camera, cock still extremely out. “[Chicango Style!],” he says. Ratings instantly flash up on the screen beside him: at least 160 people ‘liked’ that.

As Spamton prattles on pointlessly about Pipis, your eyes settle somewhere between his legs. “GET [Set of 2] AND YOU GET [[Free Shipping]] AND/OR [[Handling]]!!” he says.

Unfortunately for Spamton, you were only interested in handling the salesman’s other set of blue balls: the self-imposed ones. Your fingers slide against Spamton’s shaft, and you taste the precum leaking from his tip as you tongue at it devilishly. Spamton cuts off mid-sentence. A car alarm sounds off as he shrieks, “H E-EEEY! THIS ISN’T IN THE [ScriptEvent]!!!” 

You cup and caress his balls in one hand, working his throbbing shaft with the other. He groans as you swipe your tongue across his sensitive tip again, then tries to swat you away the best he can with one Pipis-occupied hand. “[Hands] OFF THE [ServiceProvider]!” he says. Spamton whines out a muffled moan, and his body contradicts his marketing instincts as he leans into your touch. 

“TH1S ISN’T [Advertiser Friendly] PIPIS IS A [Family] PRODUCT!!” he protests, still making a meager attempt to resist. “... WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S AN [Adults Only] AUDIENCE?! PIPIS [[Stocks]] ARE PLUMMETING AS WE [Scream]”

You try your best to ignore your loss of valuable Pipis investments, which isn’t that difficult to do. Humming, you take Spamton’s twitching cocktip around your hungry lips—and finally, he relents. 

“OH [[FORGET]] IT, THIS IS GETTING [Demonitized] ANYWAY” 

There’s a record scratch; the overly sexy soundtrack resumes, and the neon sign explodes as Spamton shoves you back onto his aching cock, groaning with relief. 

“KEEP GOING [Angel]!! MAKE ME [Release] ALL THE W4Y DOWN YOUR [[Slippery slide]]!!” he screams. Spamton tilts his head back, drool dripping from the corners of his plasticine mouth. Fucking your face hard and fast, saliva lines your lips as Spamton picks up the pace. Sparks crackle and fly from his electronic eyes as you choke around him; he looks like he’s shorting out, or seconds away from spontaneously self-destructing. 

“QUICK [[Zoom In]],” he gasps, “HERE COMEs my [[MONEY$HOT]]!!!”

Spamton lets out a long, guttural groan, and you gasp as he shoves your head all the way down. Your mouth is filled, jaw stretched obscenely; saliva coats your chin, and your nose is pressed up against Spamton’s plush pelvis as he pumps thick, salty cum down your throat. You’re bordering on breathless as Spamton bucks into your mouth, babbling incoherently between intercuts of advertisements for various soft drinks, demanding you “[Drink It Down!]”. You swallow as much as you possibly can—it tastes too good to go to waste. 

After draining what has to be the entire contents of Spamton’s testicles, you pull away, and a strand of saliva stretches from his cocktip to your lips. Spamton tilts your chin up to look into your eyes, and you can’t help but smirk. His expression drips with lust—and the corner of his mouth drips with drool. You can practically see the hearts in Spamton’s eyes as you swallow, then open your mouth to reveal nothing but pooling saliva. If he had a soul, you may have sucked it out of him. 

“N NOW THATS WHAT I CALL [$99 sloppy]! YOU REALLY KNOW HOW TO [Get Down] ON ME BAB1E,.”You turn your attention to the screen, appreciating how thoroughly fucked you look. Your hair is a complete mess, and your flushed face is coated in a mess of various fluids. Indirectly making eye-contact with you, Spamton looks to the camera and says, “WELL.  IM 100% [[Satisfaction Guarantee]]! GUESS THATS ALL, [[Folk’s]]”

A set of curtains closes around the scene. You breathe a brief sigh of reprieve—which is promptly stolen away by the sound of Spamton cackling insanely. Before the screen can fade to black, he pokes his head out of the curtains, looking straight at the audience with a sneer.

“... [But Wait], THERE’S MORE!!” 

It can’t be over yet. Not when you have a whole half-hour of airtime to fill.

“YOU THINK IT’S OVER? You think OL’ SPAMTON [Can’t Get It Up?] AGAIN?? WELL STOP READING THE [Tabloids] THEY’RE [[Outdated]]!”

Spamton’s cock throbs. He’s just as erect as before—if not more.

“NEW‘S FLASH,” he pants, “THIS [[BIG SHOT]] BODY HAS [InstantReloads] AND ∞ AMMO [CheatCodes]: THAT‘ S THE p0WER OF [NEO]!!”

It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for: Spamton practically lunges on you; he presses your bare body down against the mattress, drawing a ragged breath as he leans forward. Your burning skin glistens under the neon lights. Spamton looms above, letting faint laughter fall from his drooling jaw as he shoves his way between your legs. You catch him slipping a glance toward the camera as he spreads your thighs and holds them open. As he lines his hips up with yours, his rock-hard erection twitches with anticipation. Spamton bursts into perverted laughter. Smiling wildly, he whispers, “OHHhH, THIS IS [[Happening]], HOTSHOT.”

You feel a hot rush in your stomach. The tension inside you is close to snapping. You’re nearly nose-to-nose with his flushed face—if he leans in any further, you might be impaled by his pointy nose. Face buried in his neck, each breath you take is oxidized euphoria: you’re left intoxicated by the sharp scent of cologne, with underlying notes of overheating plastic and motor oil. Droplets of sweat drip down Spamton’s forehead, and steamy vapor expels from the sides of his mouth. 

“LET ‘S [Fool] AROUND, BABY...” Spamton’s shaft slips easily in and out from your sweaty thighs as he rubs himself between your pussy lips; he slicks it up and down, coating his cock with your wetness. Eyes half-lidded, Spamton says, “TAKE A RIDE [Around Town] ON  MY SPECIL [[Cumgadero]].” 

Though you’ve become well accustomed to the sheer absurdity of Spamton’s speech, you’re taken aback this time. But before you can burst out laughing, you’re silenced by the sound of yourself gasping. Spamton leers down lustfully as he lines his cock up with your entrance, and as he slowly presses into you, you pray to the unlistening heavens that Spamton never calls his dick a Cumgadero on live television again. White hot light fills your vision as Spamton fills your much, much smaller body. The slow stretch is unbearable, leaving you with nothing but desperate whines of his name.

“H-HOLY HOMMAMO, WHAT A [[Hole]]!” He gives a satisfied groan as he finally bottoms out inside you. You clench around his cock, throwing your head back in the throes of pleasure. “YOURE  REALLY [Squeezing] MY [[Macaroni]] 0VER HERE!!” he shouts. Panting, Spamton sinks his weight forward, and his thick, girthy cock plugs you completely—meanwhile, you can’t even speak straight enough to beg him to fuck you already. Finally, he starts moving, and euphoria overtakes you instantly. “NOW, G-GET [Beach]-READY FOR A H0T [[Summer]] WORK-OUT!!” 

You succumb to his size, gripping wildly at the bedsheets around you as a scream of Spamton’s name escapes your lips. Hearts swirl in his eyes as he fucks you relentlessly into the mattress. “y€$YESS$s$sSs,” Spamton hisses, “[Say] MY NAME!! SAY IT, SAY IT [Scream] IT FOR ME” Holding your hips, he pounds as hard and fast his godlike body can handle, lifting your legs until his entire cock fits as deep as it will go. “sSHOW THE [W]HOLE [W]IDE [W]ORLD WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE [&$!%]ED OVER BY SPAMTON G. SPAMTON’S [[Patent Pending]] [Money]-MAKER!!!”

Spamton hammers into you, spurred on further by the euphoric sounds he’s forcing out of you. It feels like a dream; it has to be impossible how thoroughly you’re being fucked right now. But it’s real, and it’s exhilarating—Spamton is fucking you like no one else can ever hope to, and all the eyes on you can attest to it. 

“OH [[Angel]],” he cries, “W WE’RE IN HEAVEN—THEY’RE THE ONES [Watching]! E>H4EHAaE%hh<3!H/ HAEHAaA,HAaHh!!” 

The sound of squeaking springs and sleazy sex jams are drowned out only by Spamton’s lovedrunk yammering—which he takes care to make perfectly audible to the audio equipment around you. “YOU FEEL SO [[Good]] BABy, I—I1’LL get y0U, I’LL GET YOU nnNhNICE&&[KnockedUp]!! WATCH [[The Act of Creation]] FREE ON-L!NE,” he moans. “WOULDNT THAT BE [Nice!]? LET ME mM[[MakE]] A [Deal] IN SIDE YOU!!” 

Is that even physically possible? You don’t care—the implication alone throws you into overdrive. Your legs instinctively pull Spamton closer, plugging you full with his cock as he snaps his hips harder and harder.

“AaHAEHAhEEAHaHA... I“’LL SHOOT MY hOT [Hyperlink Blocked] INSIDE YOU AND, AND—” Spamton grunts. “[Instant delivery] HOT DEAL$ STRAIGHT TO YOUR [Door]!” 

He folds your legs up further and drives his cock deeper. His voice is tinged with what sounds like desperation; his hot breath falls right beside your ear as he shouts, “COME ON, SPAMT0N NEEDS A BRAND-NEW [[Heir]] TO HEAVEN’ S [Throne]!! LET ME  PUT MY [Pipis] PRINCELINGS [[Inside]] YOU”

He’s so deep—you can see just the faintest bump pushing up every time he plunges into you. “SO [[Helpless]], ALL ffF[!@#%]ED TO [FullCapacity],” he breathes. “yYOU`D LOOK, YOUD LoOK sO G0O0D LL1KE/ THAT.” 

Spamton’s head is spinning, and his eyes are swirling in sync. Almost any words he has left to say are cut short by priority overrides—in their place, glitchy moans and depraved laughter crackle out as his hips stutter and slam into you. Spamton’s voice is nearly glitched beyond comprehension at this point, but you don’t need to know what he’s saying to hear him loud and clear. 

“I [Need] IT , s0 H4RD [[inside]]YOU>, PLEASE PL PleasE PLEASE, T-TAKE MY [[Hyperlink Blocked]],” Spamton shouts. “INeED-YoUIl0veYOU I<&lt;3YOU” His balls slam into you with each thrust, and the sound of silicone slapping against skin is peaking the microphones. “^&@% iLo?0v&EYOU! I’M [[Coming Soon]], I’M, I’M, I’M, I’M—”

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him as close as possible. Spamton tightens his arms around you in return, and you can feel his cock tensing and throbbing inside you. His pupils rattle around his electronic sockets as he pounds you, like a set of pink-and-yellow googly eyes pasted onto hard plastic. Eyes rolled back, Spamton’s jaw hangs open, panting out puffs of steam. He’s so close: you can hear his voice compressing and cracking, and the humid air steaming from his mouth is turning to smoke.

“—~>OHHhBABY I’M ¢-₵UMMiNG!! I—I L0VE YOU!! I lOV<3 YOU i 1OvE YOU so MUCH IM ¢UMMiNG>, I—[!!!]” 

Spamton stuffs himself as deep as he can, and thick, hot cum shoots inside you, over and over. His balls clench against your ass as he empties himself inside you. Your walls milk his swollen cock for all it has, taking every last drop. You notice Spamton looking down—your belly is bulging just the slightest. He presses his soft hand down on the bump, and you moan. You feel unbelievably full. You want to stay like this, stuffed with his hot seed; and Spamton seems to want the same. He keeps his cock inside you as he rides out the red-hot bliss, still fucking and lazily rutting into you. Finally, you feel warm, wet cum splatter against your inner thighs as Spamton slowly pulls out, panting. 

Dark Worlds seem to function on their own set of otherworldly whims, and with what you’ve gleaned from Spamton, you assume Darkner anatomy functions in roughly the same way. Maybe you’d get pregnant—or, more likely, you’ll have multitudes of mini Spamton heads or Pipis spewing forth from your pussy, or something similarly stupid. You can never tell with this guy.

Exhaust emits from Spamton’s mouth—he looks exhausted. “HOLY CUNGADERO WAS THAT EVER [Creamy]...” he says. Looking around, you begin to notice pieces of electronic equipment similarly sizzling and smoking. You suppose when the cyber sex is sufficiently insane, this is only to be expected. You’re left sprawled atop crumpled, creased sheets, cum dripping from your thoroughly used hole, soaking into already sweat-damp linen. Spamton lounges languidly beside you, looking straight into the camera as he says, “LOOKS LIKE ANOTH3R [[Satisfied Customer]]! THIS STAR-SALESMAN ALWAYS [[Succeeds]] AT [SexualActivity]. CAN WE GET AN 1NSTANT [[Replay]]?!”

The cameras cut to pre-recorded footage. Seeing yourself in the TV playback is a bit embarrassing, but Spamton looks more than pleased. He leans in, wrapping his soft arms around you. “YOU’RE A [[Certified]] STAR, YOU KNOW," he mutters, nuzzling his nose into you. You laugh, pressing your head into Spamton’s plush chest as he continues to praise your performance. His entire body is warm to the touch. Though the overheated CPU in his core has cooled down quite a bit, his cloth body still courses with pleasant heat. He smells like the air coming out of a computer fan.

“[Above]-AVERAGE RATING: [★★★★★]!! YOUR A [[Big Natural]], THE [Critics] L0V ED IT!!” Spamton says, then begins to narrate the feed of ratings that appear on one of the screens. “REVIEWS ON [Hyperlink Blocked] HAVE THIS TO SAY: [[What the [$%@!] did I just watch?]], [[i HATE this guy’s penis]], [[Avant-garde art piece. Spamton indirectly prostrating himself before the audience in the name of exhibitionism as a self-referential acknowledgement of his self-awareness made for an absurd, engaging viewing experience.]] AND [[At least the Lightner was hot.]]” 

It’s high praise for a piece of pornography. You wonder if you’ll be cast in any future SpamTV productions—you’ll have to ask Spamton about a sequel later. He’ll probably be more than willing to cash in on the success of this feature, and you have a good feeling that he’ll consider you for yet another leading role.

“LOOKS LIKE AN OTHER [[BIG]] WIN FOR SPAMTON G. SPAMTON & [[Associate’s]]! GREAT W0RK CREW,” Spamton says. “THATS A [[Wrap]]!”

The bedroom door flies open, startling you—a red Swatchling courteously steps towards Spamton and bows, holding a silver platter. As the lid is gently lifted, Spamton reveals a single, lit cigarette on the plate.

“WOw [[Epic Win!]]” he says.

Spamton blows a puff of smoke from the comically undersized cigarette; it forms in the shape of his face—which blows out a heart-shaped cloud of smoke itself, before dissipating. “THANK YOU, KIND [Swatchling] !” The Swatchling bows and leaves the set. 

“WELL. [Thats] ALL, FOLK’S! TUNE in NEXT TIME FOR [Salacious] AND/OR [Disguisting] CONTENT: ONLY ON [[SpamTV]],” Spamton says. 

With a satisfied smile, he turns to face an incorporeal camera.

“AND DON’T FORGET TO LIKE & SUSCRIBE FOR MORE [Cock and Ball Pics] HD”