Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop
299 – Vicarious Sin

What does sharing senses really mean?

Oh, just the charming concept where your body stops being yours and starts acting like a badly synced twin with someone else's nervous system.

Touch, warmth, maybe even a shiver or two. Except no one talks about the real deal: the full bodily experience. Pain? Sure. Fatigue? Constant. Sleepiness? A treat. But that's barely scratching the surface.

It sounds sweet in a honeymoon-voodoo kind of way—“Feel what I feel, darling,”—until you realize “feel” includes everything from emotional butterflies to full-blown gastrointestinal dread.

You think it’s about kisses and hugs and warm chest flutters? Think again. It’s about bladder twinges at three in the morning. It’s about a phantom itch on your inner thigh that you know isn’t yours. It’s about suddenly having to clench because somewhere, someone you like is thinking about sitting on a toilet—and your body is just trying to be supportive.

Aroche, poor bastard, lived this nightmare daily.

“Ah, f—” he jolted upright like he’d just remembered he left the stove on. “Sir, I need to—”

“Yes. Go,” Vlad said with the voice of a man who had clearly seen too much and would prefer not to relive it again.

Aroche took off, sprinting with the desperation of a man outrunning divine punishment. He wasn’t even sure if it was his bladder talking anymore, but it sure felt like it was about to declare independence. One misstep and he’d be on the floor in an undignified puddle of shame and secondhand affection.

He made it. Just barely. Hands shaking, fumbling with his waistband like it was booby-trapped, he finally got into position—And let go.

“Mmmmmm…”

Euphoria.

Except.

Only a few drops came out.

Why? Because he wasn’t the one who needed to pee. Oh no. That honor belonged to Bella. And thanks to the absolutely unregulated magical nonsense called a love potion, Aroche got to enjoy the full, vivid sensation of her urination in his body. Let’s repeat that. The full technicolor sensation of her relief.

The worst part? It wasn’t even gross. It was erotic. Deeply. Tragically. Inconveniently.

Every single time Bella’s bladder hit critical pressure, so did his. Pressure, volume, tingle—all lovingly broadcasted into his nervous system. He’d feel the swell, the ache, the glorious relief—down to the last golden drop—and it was everything he didn’t ask for. And it got him hard. Every. Damn. Time.

The sensation of her pee coming out of her body triggered his. The pulse, the release, the relaxing thrill. It hit his nervous system like an accidental kink that had no business existing but refused to go away.

Worse still? It felt dangerously good. Orgasm-adjacent. Full-body chill kind of good. Just the relief alone could send his own equipment reacting out of sheer sympathetic overdrive. His body, ever loyal to this magical romance, wanted to join the celebration every time she used the bathroom.

There were a lot of things he could fight in life. Hostile armies. Rogue assassins. Vlad’s passive-aggressive parenting. But Bella’s bladder?

Absolutely undefeated.

How could this… transcend his cuckold fantasy?

It shouldn’t have been possible. That was already the peak of degeneracy—knowing someone else was inside her while he felt everything through the cursed magic of shared senses. That was enough to make him feel like he needed to go lie face-down in a cathedral and apologize to every saint carved in the walls.

But no. The universe, in all its perverse creativity, had one more card to play.

Bluetooth urination.

The mere act of her peeing—her, the girl he liked, just relieving herself—was somehow more erotic than his most depraved mental spirals. He wasn’t even in the room. He didn’t have to be. His nervous system was tuned into the event with the clarity of a four-thousand-gold sound system. And now?

Now, he found himself thinking—what if she peed on his face while he felt it happening from her end too while she was being railed by someone el—?

“FUUUUUCK STOOOOP BRAIN!”

He physically slammed his forehead to the wall.

He wouldn’t do that to Bella. He respected her. He had restraint. Dignity. A vague memory of self-worth.

"How did I even get this kink...?" he muttered to himself like a man discovering mold in his soul.

And then—oh no—the memory came back.

Repressed, buried, suppressed like a war crime in his psyche.

A petite noblewoman. Brown hair. Cute. His type to a statistically incriminating degree. Stepping out of Burn’s room one morning. Disheveled. Glowing. Dressed wrong.

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “It was THAT BASTARD—”

It was Burn.

It had always been Burn. The seed was planted in his soul by that guy—his best friend—railing a girl his type while Aroche's dumb little teenage brain filled in the blanks with emotional damage and accidental kinks.

Shaking with a cocktail of rage and unwanted arousal, Aroche clenched his fists, seething.

He was going to punch that bastard. Just once. Just once would be justice. One holy punch for every unintentional fetish Burn had given him.

And then it hit him—Like a divine slap from above. Or below. Probably below.

His mental treatment with Vlad was about to start.

Vlad. The father of the girl he was mentally defiling with love potion-enhanced pee kinks and accidental cuckold flashbacks. The ancient vampire cardinal-priest-warrior-psychic-judge-jury-and-executioner. That Vlad.

And Vlad reads his mind. Not metaphorically. Not vaguely. No, no—reads. Live. In full HD. With surround sound. No filters. No skip buttons.

Which meant—

Vlad would see all of it. The stream. The phantom sensation. The face stuff. The fantasy of watching Bella get railed by someone else with commentary and feelings. All of it. It would be a psychological slideshow of degeneracy, broadcast straight into the mental inbox of a man who once bit a demon in half for blinking at Her Holiness wrong.

Aroche paled. No battlefield, no duel, not even death and resurrection had ever instilled this level of dread.

“I’m dead,” he whispered. Not in despair. Not in fear. In pure, clinical acceptance.

There would be no explaining this. No stammered denial. No escape.

He was going to walk into that session, sit down, and Vlad was going to see a cinematic rendering of every unholy neuron in his brain. And then Vlad would stand up, dust off his robes, and murder him in the name of decency and fatherhood.

The only thing left to do was pick a burial plot.

In moments of peril—true peril, not battlefield peril, but Bella’s-bladder-induced horny spiral while your psychic father-in-law is waiting peril—a man must reach deep into the pit of his soul and pull out the nuclear-grade trauma.

And Aroche did just that.

“Alright, Aroche Leodegrance,” he muttered to himself in the toilet echo chamber, voice grim and eyes glassy. “Remember those five years. Floating in the corruption void. As a severed head. With no torso. No limbs. No eyelids.”

Yes. That.

“Come on, mental damage, returnnnn!”

And like a loyal old friend, the trauma answered. Flooded back in, thick and cold and blessedly deadening. The lewd visions shriveled under its weight. Bella’s bathroom symphony? Silenced. The cursed face fantasies? Flushed. His libido? In a coma.

It worked.

He was mentally unwell again. Thank the gods.

Finally stable in the worst possible way, Aroche exhaled, straightened his collar with all the dignity of a man who just brainwashed himself, and opened the toilet door.

Only to walk straight into living disaster number two.

The vampire nun. Salsabella. In the flesh. Robes and all.

And she turned red. Not “light blush.” Not “rosy cheeks.” Red. The full tomato. The oh-no-he-knows-I-know-he-knows red.

“M-my lord…” she squeaked, eyes darting everywhere but his.

And that’s when Aroche realized he wasn’t going to die in battle, or in Vlad’s psychic interrogation chair.

No. He was going to keel over in a hallway.

God was real. And He was spiteful.

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I was having a great fun writing this one :'vvvvvvvvvv