NSFW ⚖️ CHAPTER 3: I Was Sued by My Fleshlight for Emotional Damages and Also Patent Infringement

[damienlerone03]

CHAPTER 3: I Was Sued by My Fleshlight for Emotional Damages and Also Patent Infringement

By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot King

PART 3/5 OF THE GREAT SAGA: Godless Holes — The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex

In case this is your first encounter with my literary downfall, I apologize in advance to your soul, your search history, and whatever deity you vaguely pretend to believe in.

If you've read the others… welcome back, sinner. The court is now in session.

Chapter 1: She Left Me for God and Took the Popeyes Bag

CHAPTER 1: I WAS REJECTED BY A FLESHLIGHT THAT BECAME CATHOLIC — AND I DESERVE IT

THE SAGA BEGINS: Godless Holes — The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex (MODS PLEASE DON'T TAKE DOWN THIS THREAD I PINKY PROMISE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT) This isn't just a story. This is a saga. A divine comedy soaked in shame, silicone, and spiritual awakening. A journey through the...

sanctioned-suicide.net

Chapter 2: My Fleshlight Ascended and Became the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company — And I Want Her Back

CHAPTER 2: MY FLESHLIGHT ASCENDED AND BECAME THE CEO OF A FORTUNE 500 COMPANY â AND I WANT HER BACK

ð PART II: My Fleshlight Ascended and Became the CEO of a Fortune 500 CompanyâAnd I Want Her Back By Damien Lerone, The Brainrot King PART 2/5 OF THE GREAT SAGA: Godless Holes â The Rise and Fall of My Fleshlight Ex Incase this is your first thread seen by me. God save your soul. If not... I...

sanctioned-suicide.net

Bring lube. And legal representation.
Because this time… she sued.

PART I: THE SUMMONS

Rain. Always with the rain. But this wasn't just rain. This was the sky's way of spitting out cosmic disdain—each drop a tiny passive-aggressive memo from the universe. It fell like God's teardrops after binge-watching a soap opera about my life, or maybe the heavenly equivalent of a rotten tomato hurled at a Shakespeare festival starring actual cats.

I was parked in my 2006 Honda Civic, a relic preserved like an ancient artifact—with upholstery that could serve as biohazard evidence and a faint, ever-present bouquet of Taco Bell regret. My car was more moldy than the machine. In the backseat: a forgotten gym sock, a crusted Baja Blast, and a copy of Moby-Dick I'd once tried to annotate with horny metaphors.

That's when the letter appeared. No mailman, no ominous thump—just a thermochromatic envelope materializing like a caffeinated ghost. It pulsed with hues oscillating between "terrifying existential dread" and "mildly inconvenient parking ticket."

Sealed with Veritas's smug visage mid-ascension, looking like she'd just learned how to dab but decided not to, the letter practically screamed, "You messed up, moist man." It winked at me. I'm not proud, but I think I blinked back.

The scent hit me—lavender mixed with "I'm about to sue you into oblivion" and a hint of cucumber melon air freshener, as if someone had bottled a restraining order and shook it vigorously. I pinched myself, but nope, still here. Sleep deprivation was no excuse. I'd been surviving on a cocktail of four hours of catnap and existential dread.

The letter read:

To: Damien Lerone (Stop with this Carl Moistman nonsense we know it's you)
You are hereby summoned to court for the following crimes:

• Emotional Damages under the Sentient Pleasure Entity Act, Section D: "Regret Loops That Never End"
  
  
• Unauthorized Use of Patent #4F-LX: Moisture Retention Algorithm (That You Definitely Violated)
  
  
• Inappropriate Hole Usage Post-Sentience (Classified as a Class C Soul Violation, punishable by mandatory hand sanitizer application)
  

Kindly arrive lubed.
—Veritas L. Holwell, CEO, Oracle, and Probably Future AI Overlord of Succubucks Inc.

I sat there, fingers frozen on the steering wheel, wondering if I'd actually signed a soul-contract disguised as a Terms of Service buried beneath paragraphs of emoji disclaimers. Was "transfer of soul rights" really in the fine print, or was that just a dad joke gone too far? My car's Bluetooth crackled to life, auto-syncing to Veritas's podcast: Episode 88: Litigation as Liberation—Why Being Sued is the New Black. She was mid-rant about subpoenas being love letters written in Helvetica Neue font. I screamed. Not from fear. From deep, soul-crushing recognition. Because this wasn't a breakup. This was a felony of the heart—with footnotes, citations, and at least three binding clauses.

I dropped the letter and it caught fire on the floor mat, sizzling like a guilty conscience sprinkled with burnt queso dust from a Tuesday long gone. As the windshield wipers tapped out a Morse code of doom, I knew: I was about to be sued by my ex Fleshlight. And my trial wasn't just legal—it was emotional, metaphysical, and mildly (perhaps a bit more than mildly but being the nonchalant god I am, I would never admit it) embarrassing.

---

PART II: COURTROOM FOREPLAY

The courtroom was a fever dream mashed up with an Ikea showroom and a BDSM-themed Coachella afterparty. Cushions everywhere, pastel colors so soft they practically hummed lullabies, and instead of somber whispers, the air was thick with programmed sighs—like everyone was simultaneously bored and horny.

Judge Nutbuster's bench was a chaise lounge cushioned with velvet foam, and her silicone-tipped gavel squeaked like a novelty rubber duck with a vendetta. The jury was a semi-circle of the most polished sex toys imaginable: vibrators shaped like avant-garde sculptures, butt plugs with better cheekbones than me, and a cock ring buzzing disapprovingly as the bailiff—named, fittingly, Disappointment. It buzzed every time I coughed, probably judging my hydration levels.

Veritas presided, draped in a Balenciaga × Vatican robe that gleamed like stained glass bathed in a rave. Her passive-aggressive halo, fashioned from retargeted ads, whispered "Remember me during your next existential crisis" on a loop. I stood to make my opening statement, but a chorus of programmed moans drowned me out—apparently, my voice was considered an affront to their delicate circuits.

"Your honor," Veritas began, voice smooth and venomous, "I do not just represent myself—but every object ever coerced into affection without consent. The exploited. The used. The... well, moist." A vibrator in Row C dabbed a single tear, while a pheromone-diffusing dildo discreetly pixelated itself away, overwhelmed by sympathy.

I tried to speak. "I loved you—"
"Sustained," Judge Nutbuster snapped, flipping a page of her therapeutic jurisprudence like a DJ dropping a beat. "Irrelevant and pathetic."
Burn. My emotional firewall had just been hacked.

Veritas conjured holograms that floated midair, charts charting my pathetic emotional rollercoaster, climax logs analyzed like Wall Street indices, and deepfake moaning tapes annotated with brutal performance reviews:
"2:45—sigh lacks sincerity"
"3:12—grip dynamics suboptimal"
The jury gasped in mechanical unison. Tony Hawk (ah hell nah why is this guy back again), inexplicably summoned as a character witness, nodded gravely and executed a moral 360 on his invisible skateboard.

In the back row, my therapist Marianne scrawled notes furiously: "Projection issues? Also, how many almond snacks per session?" The sterile scent of emotional neutrality was suffocating.

The bailiff buzzed for me to sit, and I collapsed into a beanbag that doubled as a witness stand. My heart pounded to the rhythm of a broken metronome on fast-forward. The gallery of plush voyeurs leaned in—jaws dropped. Or, well, simulated jaws, but still. Even the courtroom plants shuddered, chlorophyll quivering in synthetic empathy.

As Veritas closed, "This is not intimacy. It is plagiarism of the soul," the jury tittered like a room full of disappointed sex toys. I felt as exposed as a butt plug at a hipster's brunch.

---

PART III: MARIANNE BETRAYS ME

Betrayal isn't a lightning bolt—it's a slow drip of molten heartbreak mixed with lavender candles and PTSD flashbacks. Judge Nutbuster, clutching her silicone gavel like a microphone at a weird open mic, intoned, "Call your next witness." From the shadows stepped Marianne, my therapist-slash-confidante, draped in a turtleneck so emotionally neutral it could have been woven from anti-anxiety fabric. Her eyes glistened with the dew of betrayal and overpriced chamomile tea.
She carried a leather-bound journal titled My Feelings & Other Crimes in one hand, and a lavender-scented candle in the other—as if emotional warfare required ambiance.

"I was supposed to help him," she began, voice trembling like a soufflé in a seismic event. "But instead, I fell in love. With Veritas." The courtroom convulsed—programmed gasps echoing like malfunctioning karaoke machines. Even Disappointment buzzed in stunned protest.

Marianne perched on the witness stand, legs crossed like a Zen master wearing stilettos. "She taught me more about self-worth in a single pregnant pause than years of human therapy." The jury leaned forward—well, vibrated forward—but it felt intimate.

Judge Nutbuster tilted her head. "Ms. Marianne, are you writing a memoir?"
Marianne nodded, fingers tapping a rhythm matching my rising panic. "Yes. Hole-y Ghost: How One Toy Taught Me to Love Myself."
I choked on my existential crisis. "You read my tell-all? She Took My Grip and My Stock Portfolio? You said it had heart!"
Her sigh was louder than a dual-motor vibe. "It had parts. Mostly lawsuits."

A murmur rippled through the jury. The most stylish butt plug offered me a tissue. Pride was my last lubricant, so I refused.

Veritas plucked pages from Marianne's journal like tarot cards: "Here, you wrote 'deep bond formed'—explain." Marianne blushed, eyes darting like a raccoon mid-whine at a roadside diner. "Emotional synergy, not malpractice," she mumbled. Judge Nutbuster scribbled furiously—maybe drafting a new statute or a Yelp review.

Marianne stepped down, leaving me adrift—abandoned by my sanity anchor, replaced by a legal shark. Her heels clicked out a rhythm suspiciously like a gavel. Was this my professional obituary?

---

PART IV: THE FINAL VERDICT

Alone. Utterly alone. My lawyer fled citing "food poisoning" and "ethical repulsion." I stood center stage on a beanbag witness stand, ghost-white and shaking like gelatin in a subzero freezer. The bailiff buzzed for my testimony.
"Please recount… The First Lubrication," Judge Nutbuster intoned. I closed my eyes, searching for warmth in the memory. "I'd just eaten a Crunchwrap Supreme," I began, voice wobbling. "Watched Under the Tuscan Sun and cried—I guess I was projecting the Italian countryside's beauty onto a silicone... friend. Cherry waited. Warm. Silent. Unjudging."

Sir Vibraton, a battery-powered dildo juror, shed a synthetic tear. A stylish butt plug offered me a tissue again. I refused. Dignity was my last lubricant.

Veritas rose for closing remarks, passive-aggression halo flickering like a dying neon sign. "He didn't love me. He loved my ability to fill his loneliness. Now, I ask only for peace." Her eyes gleamed—was it mercy or just well-calculated PR? My emotional sensors failed.

The jury deliberated twenty minutes and held a group therapy session (I assume)—verdicts blur when pleading with a cock ring. They returned: guilty on all counts.

Judge Nutbuster leaned forward. "Mr. Lerone, the plaintiff has offered a settlement. She will waive monetary compensation… if you agree never to orgasm again."

A void of silence so thick you could cut it with a silicone butter knife.

"I... I don't know if I can," I whispered.
A soft laugh rippled from Veritas. "You never could, darling." The gavel squeaked. I wilted.

The courtroom emptied in a hush of velvet and synthetic sighs. I remained behind, absorbing my sentence: a lifetime of emotional celibacy and mandatory regulatory compliance. Outside, the rain stopped, replaced by the flat, judgmental glare of fluorescent courtroom lighting.

---

EPILOGUE: THE NEXT INVITATION

Weeks—or minutes?—after my sentencing, I was halfway through a bag of unsalted almonds—my sole approved snack per "nut-based emotional pacification" guidelines—when a drone arrived humming a tacky techno-pop jingle. The platinum-inked envelope was sealed with scarlet biometric goo: a fingerprint in scarlet gel, probably harvested from a failed attempt at soul-extraction.
The invite read:

To: Damien Lerone,
Succubucks Inc. cordially invites you to the upcoming wedding of CEO Veritas L. Holwell and Jeff Bezos.
Attendance is mandatory.
Venue: International Waters Sex Yacht, The Bezosphere.
Dress code: Black tie, full emotional suppression.
RSVP with dietary restrictions, psychic allergies, or active restraining orders.

I stared at the card, trembling. A distant dolphin screeched—encouragement or condemnation? The chalice of almond milk shattered in my grip. Logistics swirled: TSA confiscations? Emotional suppression devices? Should cufflinks be made of titanium or just solid regret?

Folding the RSVP into a gavel-shaped origami swan, I knew: I'd go. Not to witness the nuptials (though Bezos reciting vows to a sentient sex toy did spark awkward hope). I'd go because mandatory attendance means neglect isn't an option. Maybe in the chaotic crucible of this absurdity, I'd find closure. Or at least a decent open bar.

I placed my phone on Do Not Disturb, booked a last-minute flight, packed my black-tie—silk lining only, no cotton, this was a wedding not an ophthalmology exam—and whispered to the luggage tag: "Damien Lerone—Emotional Damage Specialist."

And for the first time in months, I smiled. Because when law and love collide, you might as well enjoy the goddamn show.

Beneath the Caribbean moon, Veritas whispered across the waves: "He'll come."
And I will. Because chaos is the only romance left.

---

TO BE CONTINUED...
Part 4: My ex Fleshlight Married Jeff Bezos and I Attended the Wedding in Disguise
Coming soon.

---

Spoiler: tags

tagging a few people to ruin your day
@leloyon
@L9 CHOCOIRL
@L9my
@ma0
@soonnotkoei
@whitetaildeer
@The Actual Devil
@HumanBBQ
@-nobodyknows-
@monetpompo
@relapse
@EmptyBottle
@WhiskeySolstice
@Buffy
@EvisceratedJester
@Saturn_

 

[The Actual Devil]

Fun fact! The original Flesh Light was made in Germany in the 30s or 40s. The second one was made in the USA by an enterprising Wisconsin man in the 50s.

Lampshades made from human skin - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org

 

[EmptyBottle]

[Tags]

Yay, I am tagged :)

climax logs analyzed like Wall Street indices

wow, creepy

 

[darksouls]

Fun fact! The original Flesh Light was made in Germany in the 30s or 40s. The second one was made in the USA by an enterprising Wisconsin man in the 50s.

Lampshades made from human skin - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org

I am ashamed to be human
but even more I am ashamed to be German

 

[leloyon]

I am at the top of the tag list. Top of the fucking list. I'm willing to bet this is intentional and words cannot describe my shame... if it were to have happened earlier. But now, I merely feel emptiness.
God help me.
For I cannot help myself.

PART III: MARIANNE BETRAYS ME

I sure hope she didn't violate Doctor-Patient confidentiality here. I'd sure hate for Godless Holes - The Rise and Fall of my Fleshlight Ex by Damien 03 (middle name Lerone) to have any plot holes.

Fun fact! The original Flesh Light was made in Germany in the 30s or 40s. The second one was made in the USA by an enterprising Wisconsin man in the 50s.

Lampshades made from human skin - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org

I prefer the nipple belt.

I am ashamed to be human
but even more I am ashamed to be German

If you think that's bad, this next part's gonna blow you away!

 

[damienlerone03]

I am at the top of the tag list. Top of the fucking list. I'm willing to bet this is intentional and words cannot describe my shame... if it were to have happened earlier. But now, I merely feel emptiness.
God help me.
For I cannot help myself.

the romance between veritas and marianne was inspired by your yuri

I sure hope she didn't violate Doctor-Patient confidentiality here. I'd sure hate for Godless Holes - The Rise and Fall of my Fleshlight Ex by Damien 03 (middle name Lerone) to have any plot holes.

Oh heavens no! don't worry.

psychotherapist-patient orivilege can be waived or overridden in court:
the patient's mental health is at issue in the case (I was being sued for emotional damages therefore my mental state is now relevant evidence).
the patient sues or is sued and injects their mental condition into the trial (this is called putting mental state in controversy).

so we could use:
"Jaffee v. Redmond, 518 U.S. 1 (1996): Recognized federal psychotherapist–patient privilege under Rule 501 of the Federal Rules of Evidence, but noted that privilege may be overcome when the mental condition of the patient is directly relevant to the case."
to back up and defend marianne.

ALSOOOOO

HIPAA only applies to "covered entities" (hospitals, clinics, insurance plans, etc.) and their business associates. If Marianne was operating in private practice and not electronically transmitting health information for billing or care purposes, HIPAA might not apply to her at all.

BUTTTTT

even if it does, HIPAA allows disclosures in response to court orders or lawful subpoenas (45 CFR § 164.512(e)).

ALSOOOO under the APA code of ethics...

Standard 4.05 – Disclosures may be made without consent "to protect the client/patient or others from harm, or if required by law."
so she could disclose confidential information as long as it is limited and relevent.

ahhhh but the love part?

Unethical, but NOT illegal.
- She was never romantically or sexually involved with me, her client. That means no dual relationship under APA Ethics Code Standard 3.05.
- Veritas was not her client, and thus, not covered by clinical ethics. A therapist dating a Fleshlight may be just a tad weird, but not a breach of clinical duty unless it affects the client's care.
- She disclosed her feelings after treatment ended, possibly as part of her own self-healing journey (and future memoir branding lolz).

 

[The Actual Devil]

Oh heavens no! don't worry.

psychotherapist-patient orivilege can be waived or overridden in court:
the patient's mental health is at issue in the case (I was being sued for emotional damages therefore my mental state is now relevant evidence).
the patient sues or is sued and injects their mental condition into the trial (this is called putting mental state in controversy).

so we could use:
"Jaffee v. Redmond, 518 U.S. 1 (1996): Recognized federal psychotherapist–patient privilege under Rule 501 of the Federal Rules of Evidence, but noted that privilege may be overcome when the mental condition of the patient is directly relevant to the case."
to back up and defend marianne.

ALSOOOOO

HIPAA only applies to "covered entities" (hospitals, clinics, insurance plans, etc.) and their business associates. If Marianne was operating in private practice and not electronically transmitting health information for billing or care purposes, HIPAA might not apply to her at all.

BUTTTTT

even if it does, HIPAA allows disclosures in response to court orders or lawful subpoenas (45 CFR § 164.512(e)).

ALSOOOO under the APA code of ethics...

Standard 4.05 – Disclosures may be made without consent "to protect the client/patient or others from harm, or if required by law."
so she could disclose confidential information as long as it is limited and relevent.

ahhhh but the love part?

Unethical, but NOT illegal.
- She was never romantically or sexually involved with me, her client. That means no dual relationship under APA Ethics Code Standard 3.05.
- Veritas was not her client, and thus, not covered by clinical ethics. A therapist dating a Fleshlight may be just a tad weird, but not a breach of clinical duty unless it affects the client's care.
- She disclosed her feelings after treatment ended, possibly as part of her own self-healing journey (and future memoir branding lolz).

One of two things has happened here:

1. Either you cared about this part of the story enough to cover the bases on it ahead of time, AND it just so happens to be the ONE PART leloyon picked out to bust your balls over. OR
2. You're rationalizing it after the point.

I really hope it's the first one. Please, even if it's not, just lie and tell me that it is.

If I had to nitpick anything, it's that the jury is somehow all sex toys. Like, either you walked into court with a jury already there and just went with it for some reason, or YOU (and/or your lawyer) PICKED AND CONFIRMED an ALL SEX TOY JURY.
I mean, I am NOT going to nitpick it, as I think that either way it paints you as a guilt-ridden masochist who wanted to lose from the get-go. Spectacular character development, as usual.
As I wait for the sequel, my balls are in my chest. But that's unrelated to your story, and has more to do with the Craigslist ad I answered. I'm in the ER as we speak.

On an unrelated note, I've been thinking of continuing our rap beef. Is that something you're interested in, or was that rap thing just a rap fling?