Chapter 29: Brask Unleashed
The air in the common room was thick with the smell of old pizza and anticipation. Emily slipped through the door, the faint dampness between her thighs a secret pulse beneath her short, pleated skirt. No panties. The coarse fabric of her skirt’s lining brushed against her with every step, a constant, teasing reminder. She’d been thinking about Sarah all afternoon—the curve of her smile, the intent look in her eyes during their last private talk—and the fantasy had played on a loop: Sarah on her knees, her tongue a flat, persistent pressure against Emily’s clit while Emily’s own hands kneaded her breasts, imagining them heavier, more sensitive, glowing for the chat’s delight.
“Hey, you,” Sarah said, not looking up from her character sheet. A neon strip light above her dyed her hair electric blue. “You look… focused.”
“Just ready to play,” Emily murmured, sliding into the chair beside her. She adjusted her headset, the movement making her skirt ride up. Cool air hit her bare skin. She was already wet, a slick heat she could feel gathering. She crossed her legs, the contact making her breath hitch.
On screen, Mark’s DM avatar—a stern-looking dwarf—faded in. “Alright, party people,” his voice crackled through their headsets. “Last we left our illustrious band of degenerates, you were sprinting away from the Emperor’s personal guard, the scent of burnt ozone and poor decisions hanging in the air. No rest for the wicked. Roll initiative.”
The clatter of digital dice filled the audio feed. Emily’s character was already panting on-screen, her magical robes disheveled. Emily’s own heart thudded in time with the imagined footsteps of their pursuers.
“Shit, they’re flanking,” Ryan’s voice, gruff and tense, came through. “Brask, you’re looking ragged. That rage still burning?”
Emily bit her lip. Brask’s beserker fury was tied to arousal, a mechanic they’d exploit for views.
The chat was already spamming, a frenzied sidebar of greed and anticipation. DONATE NOW FOR BERSERKER CHARGE! flashed across the screen in pulsating crimson letters. Emily licked her lips, the taste of her own coffee and nerves sharp on her tongue.
“I’ve got him,” she whispered into her mic, her voice a low promise meant for both the audience and Sarah beside her. On screen, her sorceress moved behind Brask’s hulking, pixelated form. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing the command: [Alessandra channels Arousing Touch]. “Just a little help, big guy. Let’s make this worth their while.”
In the real room, her hand slid from her mouse and into her own lap, under the short skirt. She found her clit, swollen and slick, and gave it a rough, circular rub. A soft gasp escaped her, picked up by the sensitive microphone. On stream, her character placed glowing hands on Brask’s broad back. His avatar shuddered, muscles bulging as red damage numbers swirled around him, mixing with +50% RAGE BUFF notifications. “Feel that?” she breathed into the mic, her voice hitching as she pushed two fingers inside herself, fucking them slowly in and out for the wet sound it made. “Feel how much we need you to break them?”
“Fuck yeah,” Ryan grunted, his voice dropping, becoming Brask. “I feel it. They’re mine.”
The ambush hit. Empire guards materialized from the digital trees, blades drawn. Brask roared, a sound that distorted the audio feed, and charged. It was a beautiful, brutal symphony of pixelated violence, every crit fueled by the credits pouring in from the chat. Emily worked herself in time with his swings, her breath coming in short, sharp pants, her eyes glued to the rising donation total. Sarah’s hand found her knee under the table, a warm, grounding pressure that made Emily’s inner muscles clench.
But then the damage numbers changed. They flashed from yellow to a deep, violent purple. BERSERKER STATUS: OVERFLOW. CONTROL LOSS IMMINENT. Brask turned from the last guard, whose body was slumped in a corner, and faced the rest of the party. His avatar’s eyes glowed a feral, programmatic red.
“Shit,” Jake muttered, a slice of real fear in his voice. “He’s agroed on us. Em, he’s not stopping.”
The chat exploded in a panic of emojis and all-caps. Emily’s fingers stilled inside herself. She knew the mechanic. The rage needed a release, a channel, something more visceral and intimate than violence. The fantasy she’d fed him had to be consummated. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum. The solution was a physical law, simple and inevitable as gravity, written in the ache between her legs and the glowing red pixels on the screen. “I’ve got him,” she said, her voice suddenly clear and devoid of its earlier performative hitch, and she stood up so fast her chair wheeled back and hit Sarah’s with a plastic thud.
The little bell on her choker tinkled once, a faint, ridiculous sound swallowed by the hum of computers. She didn’t look at Sarah, or Jake, or Mark’s surprised face on the monitor. She only looked at Ryan, who was staring at the game, his jaw tight with a player’s frustration. She stepped around the table, the static from the carpet buzzing up through her bare feet. “Ryan.”
He turned, his question dying on his lips as she dropped to her knees between his sprawled legs. Her hands went to his belt, fingers fumbling only for a second before the buckle gave. “Whoa, Em, what—” The zipper’s rasp was loud in the sudden quiet of the room, save for the game’s combat music.
She didn’t answer. She fished his cock out from the confines of his jeans and boxers, already half-hard and thickening rapidly in her cool hand. She leaned forward, her damp skirt pooling on the floor, and without ceremony or hesitation, she sank down onto him, taking his entire length inside her in one deep, consuming stroke. A punched-out groan left his throat. She was so fucking wet, her pussy swallowing him greedily, a slick, tight heat that made his hands fly to her hips, fingers digging into the flesh above her skirt’s waistband.
On screen, her character Alessandra strode toward the berserker. [ALESSANDRA USES COMMAND: CONDUIT.] The pixelated sorceress tore open her own robes, baring her chest to the snarling brute. Brask grabbed her, his massive hands dwarfing her waist, and lifted her effortlessly, impaling her on his own monstrous, armoured cock with a single brutal thrust that shook the game camera. The chat scrolled too fast to read, a waterfall of emojis and caps lock.
In the room, Emily began to move, a hard, desperate rhythm. Her own breath came in ragged gasps that fogged the front of Ryan’s t-shirt. “Don’t stop playing,” she gritted out, her nails scraping his scalp as she ground down onto him, feeling him hit a deep, perfect place. “Control him. Fuck me and fuck him.”
Ryan’s hands anchored her, lifting and pulling her down onto his dick in time with his other hand moving the mouse. On screen, Brask pounded into Alessandra with a mechanistic, savage pace, each thrust rocking her character model. Emily matched it, her hips pistoning, the wet, slapping sounds of their coupling mixing with the keyboard clicks and the digital snarls from the speakers. Sarah watched, her lips parted, her hand now unmoving on her own mouse.
“Jesus, you’re tight,” Ryan grunted, his eyes darting from her flushed face to his monitor. He drove up into her, his hips coming off the chair. “Take it. Take all of it.”
“I am,” she hissed, her head falling back. The sensations blurred—the real, aching stretch of him filling her, the fantasy of being that digital vessel, the audience watching both. She was the channel, the conduit, the fucking receptacle. “Give it to me. I want his rage. I want your cum. Now.”
His control broke. A guttural sound ripped from Ryan’s chest, a human echo of the berserker’s roar. He slammed her down, holding her deep as he bucked up, pulsing inside her, a hot flood that painted her walls. On the monitor, Brask’s final thrust locked, the screen shaking as a torrent of pixelated cum, an absurd, glitched waterfall of white, flooded Alessandra, overflowing her character model. The BERSERKER STATUS meter plummeted to zero.
Emily clenched around Ryan, milking him, a sharp, silent cry caught in her throat as a second, thinner wave of her own pleasure crested and broke, leaving her trembling. The only sounds were their labored breathing and the game’s victorious fanfare. The donation alert chimed, a steady, relentless ping. Sarah reached over slowly and muted their microphones with a soft click.
“Well,” Sarah said, her voice dry but her eyes bright and unreadable in the neon light. “That’s one way to handle a tank losing agro.”