Time to update your porn collection.

After you finish eating the breakfast that you **** your mom to cook for you, you head back up to your room and change into your typical weekend clothes: boxers and an old T-shirt. Perfectly comfortable for your typical weekend activity: dialing up the Internet on your blazingly fast 56K modem, and leeching porn off of Usenet. As you take your pajamas off, you start to remove the armband, but as your hand gets near it, you stop, and look at it again. The crimson light on it really is nice, you think. So weirdly soothing. You decide to keep it on for the time being; after all, it's not like it'll hurt anything.

After slipping into your "surfing outfit", you connect to your ISP, hearing the harsh-yet-wonderful sounds of the modem negotiating its connection with the provider. A while ago your mom got sick of you constantly tying up the phone line, so she caved and got a dedicated line for the modem. It’s a good thing, too, as if either she or Laura had picked up the phone and killed your connection one more time you’d have taken a sledgehammer to every phone in the house.

You pull down posts from so many alt.binaries.* newsgroups: blondes, brunettes, redheads; white, black, Indian, Asian; thin or chubby; you love them all. You meticulously catalogue them on your hard drive, megabytes of prime jack-off material. Of course, if the Manipulator is the real deal, you soon won’t need it — but until you’re absolutely sure, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

The downloads are slow-going, but you’re patient; after all, it only takes five to ten seconds per picture to download, which is really quite fast compared to just a few years ago.

As usual, you feel your dick growing stiff as you scan through all these dozens of tits, pussies, and asses; it’s only natural, after all. That’s why you keep a bottle of lotion and roll of paper towels near the PC at all times. You start an auto play slideshow, squirt a pump of lotion in your hand, and start stroking as you watch the torrent of digital titillation flit past on your screen. As you do, you think of the band on your wrist, and all the doors it promises to open for you — pun intended.

Feeling yourself get close, you rip a paper towel off the roll; and, groaning, shoot your load into it. Such as it is, this and every weekend morning.

Having satisfied yourself for now, you keep the download going in the background, and head downstairs: it’s lunchtime.