I'm pretty sure this is bad for me.

Ow. Fuck.

A hot, tender pain is radiating from your cock as you return to consciousness. Your eyes work themselves open as you prop yourself up on one arm, looking down at yourself: naked, with a red, shriveled remnant of your earlier erectile glory. What the fuck just happened?

Looking around, disoriented, you find yourself in your small living room, your clothes scattered around you. There is no one in sight. The back door is closed and locked.

As you stand, against the protests of your genitalia, and go about dressing yourself, you pull your wallet from your jeans' back pocket, to find nothing missing. In a daze, you shuffle into kitchen. There is a bag of coffee beans on the counter, with a note:

/Master,
/I'm sorry, but you will thank me.
/— Lelita/