Chapter 2: Confidence
The neon glow from his monitor was the only light in the room, painting everything in a sickly blue hue. Joel stared at the blank notepad file on his screen. Do not apologize. He’d typed it three days ago. Living it was another thing entirely. The phantom sensations from the simulation—the static buzz of the alley, the pressure of Diana’s hands—haunted his idle moments, a delicious and terrifying ghost. His own apartment felt less like a refuge and more like a museum of his previous life. The empty energy drink cans, the dust on the romance novels, the quiet hum of his PC—it all seemed staged, a diorama titled ‘Loneliness.’
A knock at his door shattered the silence. He flinched, his heart doing a familiar, panicked stutter. No one knocked. Ever.
He peered through the peephole. It was Indi from across the hall. She was wrestling with two overstuffed canvas grocery bags, her keys dangling from her mouth. Her vibrant brown braids were piled in a messy bun, and she wore a paint-splattered smock over jeans. She kicked her own door gently in frustration.
Do not apologize for existing.
He took a breath, unlocked the door, and opened it.
“Uh, hey. Need a hand?”
Indi spat her keys into her palm, her face breaking into a relieved smile.
“Joel! You are a literal lifesaver. I think I bought the entire organic produce section. My ambition vastly exceeded my arm strength.” She hefted a bag, and a bunch of kale threatened to make a break for freedom.
“I got it.” He took the heavier bag, his fingers brushing hers. The contact was electric, mundane. Real.
“Thanks, neighbor.” She unlocked her door and pushed it open, revealing a riot of color—drying canvases leaning against walls, vibrant tapestries, a faint smell of turpentine and incense.
“You wanna just…set it on the counter? If you want. I’d offer you a drink, but I think I only have weird herbal tea and questionable gin.”
“Counter’s good,” he said, following her in. He was actually in a woman’s apartment. Voluntarily. His internal monologue was screaming. He set the bag down gently.
“You’re a painter?” He asked.
“Art therapist,” she corrected, unloading sweet potatoes with a grace he envied. “I paint, but the day job is helping folks smush their feelings around with clay. It’s messy. In a good way.” She turned, leaning against the counter, appraising him. “You’re the quiet tech guy. I see you coming home, always buried in your phone. You got that ‘brain-in-another-dimension’ look.”
He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “It’s Just… work stuff.”
“Bullshit,” she said lightly, her smile taking the sting out. “No one thinks about spreadsheets that hard. You’re plotting a dungeon raid or something. It’s cool.” She paused. “You know, for a quiet guy, you have kind eyes. You ever gonna use ‘em to look at someone?”
The directness was a gut punch. It wasn’t cruel. It was curious. It was Indi. He remembered Serenity’s words: They are people too.
“Trying to,” He managed, and it didn’t sound like an apology. It sounded like a fact.
“Good.” She nodded, as if filing the information away. “Well, don’t be a stranger. I’m terrible at quiet, so if you ever need noise, my door’s open. And I make a mean, questionable-gin cocktail.”
“I might just take you up on that,” he heard himself say. The sentence hung in the air, a tangible bridge.
Back in his own apartment, the silence felt different. It wasn’t empty; it was charged. He had talked for once. He hadn’t spilled anything. He’d held eye contact. It was a microscopic victory, but it felt tectonic. He needed more.
The Virtual Gym booth welcomed him like a cocoon. The familiar hiss, the weight of the gear. This time, when the alley resolved around him, the rain was a gentle mist. Serenity stood there, her avatar somehow more solid.
“Progress report, Joel,” she began, her voice a warm probe. “Your heart rate is elevated, but the rhythm is different. Anticipatory, not anxious. You had an interaction.”
“My neighbor.”
“And?”
“And… it was okay. I didn’t implode. For once.”
“A high bar you’ve set for yourself,” she said, a smile in her tone. “Today we raise it. Confidence isn’t a suit of armor you put on. It’s the absence of the belief that you need one. You met Diana, who excels in dominant energy. Now, you meet Aisha. She excels in… invitation.”
The air to Serenity’s left shimmered, and a new avatar materialized.
Aisha was breathtaking. She was a bigger woman, with soft, generous curves that her emerald green wrap dress celebrated, not concealed. Her dark brown skin had a warm glow under the neon, and her hair was a crown of intricate, tiny braids swept up in an elegant knot. Her smile was immediate, open, and it lit up the digital alley.
“Well, hello there,” she said, her voice a rich, melodic contralto. Her eyes traveled over his avatar, appreciative but not predatory. “Serenity’s been telling me about you. Said you’re a quick study.”
“I don’t know about that,” Joel said with his old reflex of self-deprecation rising.
“See?” Aisha clicked her tongue, walking a slow circle around him. “That right there. You’re standing in this… this magnificent body the system gave you, and you’re still that skinny guy in glasses hiding in the back. That’s the mental shit we gotta unpack.” She stopped in front of him. “You think confidence is for guys who look a certain way? Baby, confidence is the sexiest thing on any planet, regardless of body. And you got the seeds of it. I saw the replay of you with Diana. You got hands. You got focus. Now you gotta believe you deserve to use ‘em.”
Her frankness was disarming. It lacked Diana’s challenging edge. This felt like a collaboration.
“How?” The word came out as a plea.
“By letting someone want you,” Aisha said simply. “By accepting the compliment of desire. My job today is to want you. And your job is to not talk yourself out of it. To not think, ‘She’s just a program,’ or ‘She’s just saying that.’ I am saying it. So listen.”
Serenity’s voice murmured in his ear, private. “This is about receiving, Joel. It is actually harder than giving. It requires vulnerability.”
The alley melted away, reforming into a plush, intimate lounge. Low, deep music pulsed through the air. A massive, velvet-upholstered chaise dominated the room. Aisha walked to it and sat, patting the space beside her. “Come sit. Not over there. Right here.”
He sat. The haptic vest translated the soft give of the cushions. He was intensely aware of the heat of her digital body next to his.
“You ever just been touched, Joel? Not for practice. Not for a goal. Just… for feeling good?”
“No. Not really.”
“Criminal,” she whispered. “Let’s start there.”
She shifted, turning to face him. Her hands came up to his face. The gloves on his hands tingled, but the primary sensation was on his cheeks, his jaw, delivered through the delicate haptic systems in the headset—a soft, warm pressure. Her thumbs traced the line of his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose. Her gaze was heavy-lidded, focused.
“You have a good face,” she murmured. “Intelligent. Kind. It’s a face that pays attention. A woman who feels seen… that’s a powerful thing.” Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, a gentle scrape of nails that made his breath hitch. “See? Your body knows. It’s screaming yes. Your brain is the bouncer trying to keep it quiet. Fire that bouncer.”
She leaned in and kissed him. It was nothing like Diana’s instructional kiss. This was soft, exploratory, a slow giving and taking of pressure. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he opened for her, a low groan escaping him. The taste was different—dark chocolate and oranges. She kissed him until his head swam, until his hands, of their own volition, came up to cradle her hips.
“That’s it,” she breathed against his mouth. “Touch me. I’m not a sculpture. I’m a woman. I wanna feel you.”
His hands slid up her sides, over the curve of her waist, feeling the fantastic swell of her hips through the soft fabric. He was hesitant.
“Don’t you be gentle,” she commanded, her voice dropping, taking on a husky, raw edge. “I’m not made of glass. I’m made of flesh. Feel it.”
Emboldened, he squeezed. The feedback was lush, yielding and firm all at once. A sharp, approving sound came from her throat. She took his hand and placed it squarely on her breast, holding it there. The weight was breathtaking, the nipple already a hard peak against his palm through the silk.
“Yes. Squeeze those titties. Like you have a right to be there. Because you do have a right to be there.”
She stood then, looking down at him. With a slow, deliberate movement, she untied the wrap dress. It fell open, revealing a magnificent, full-bodied nakedness. She was glorious. Heavy breasts with large, dark areolas, a soft stomach, generous hips that curved into powerful thighs. She was completely unashamed.
“This…”she said, gesturing to her own body, “…is what desire looks like for me. This is the package. Now, come taste it.”
She lay back on the chaise, a beautiful vision of voluptuous abundance. Joel’s mouth was dry, his arousal a painful, demanding throb. This wasn’t a lesson in technique. This was an offering.
He moved over her, settling between her thighs. The scent of her, warm and musky and intensely real, filled the headset. He kissed her stomach, lavishing attention on the soft skin, learning her textures. He nipped at the crease of her hip, earning a sharp gasp.
“Stop skipping the main course, baby,” she panted. “Get your mouth on it. Eat my pussy. I’m already wet for you. Feel it.”
He needed no further instruction. He buried his face between her legs. The sensation was overwhelming—soft, thick curls, then slick, hot folds. She was utterly soaked. The taste was earthy, potent, deeply female. He licked a broad, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit.
“FUCK! Shitttt!” She cried out, her hips jerking off the chaise. “You ARE good. Just like that. Baby, your tongue is magic, don’t you ever forget it.”
He dove in, the simulation of taste and texture and sound merging into a single, devastatingly erotic reality. He feasted on her. He lapped at her opening, drinking her in, then zeroed in on her clit, sucking the hard bud into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it with the rhythm he’d learned.
“Yes, yes, right there, Joel, god, just like that…” Her voice was a broken string of praise and obscenity. Her hands fisted in his digital hair, holding him to her. “You eat pussy like a fucking natural. Don’t stop. Make me come all over that mouth of yours.”
The raw filth of her words ignited something primal in him. He was no longer a student. He was a man giving a woman pleasure. He added his fingers, plunging two fingers deep inside her, curling them forward. She was tight, incredibly so, a velvet fist clamping down on him.
“Oh, you found it, you beautiful wonderful man,” she sobbed. “Right there! Rub that spot, baby. Fuck me with them. Harder, baby. Harder!”
He fucked her with his fingers, his mouth glued to her clit, his world narrowing to the symphony of her pleasure. Her moans were guttural, unrestrained. Her thighs trembled against his ears. The haptic feedback in his hands was a rapid, pulsing clench.
“I’m gonna come! I’m gonna come on your face! Don’t stop! Don’t fucking stoppppp!”
He redoubled his efforts, his jaw aching, his fingers pumping. Her climax hit like a dam breaking. A loud, raw, shattered scream tore from her, her body buckling, her walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers in brutal, delicious pulses. He rode it out, gentling his tongue until she was a twitching, spent mess beneath him.
He pulled back, breathing raggedly. His lips and chin were glistening in the simulation’s light.
Aisha looked at him, her eyes hazy with post-orgasmic bliss. She reached down, her hand closing around the hard length of him straining in his virtual pants. The haptic transfer was perfect, a firm, knowing grip.
“Look at you. All that beautiful focus on me. Let’s return the favor.”
She pushed him onto his back and swiftly undid his pants, freeing him. His real body jerked at the sudden, simulated cool air, then at the warm, tight circle of her fist.
“You see this?” she said, stroking him slowly, her eyes on his. “This is beautiful too. This is your want. It’s honest.” She leaned down, her breasts brushing his chest, and took him into her mouth.
The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever experienced—a wet, sucking heat so realistic his back arched off the chaise. She swallowed him deep, her tongue working along his shaft, her head bobbing with a skilled rhythm. She took him to the edge, then pulled back, stroking him with her slick fist.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “You’re gonna come inside me. You’re gonna fuck me, Joel. And you’re gonna watch me while you do it.”
She rose, straddling him, positioning the broad head of his cock at her slick entrance. She looked him dead in the eyes, holding his gaze with an intensity that pinned him to the spot.
“This is what it feels like to be wanted,” she said, and sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable motion.
He was engulfed. The tight, wet heat was absolute, a perfect, maddening pressure.
She took him all, a slow conquest that stole the air from his lungs. Her fullness surrounded him, a breathtaking friction that his brain could only process as yes. She held still, her inner muscles fluttering around his length, letting them both feel the complete fit.
“God… you feel that?” she breathed, her voice thick with lust. “That’s you. All the way in me.” She began to move, a rolling, deliberate grind of her hips. “This isn’t you fucking me. Not yet. This is me taking my pleasure from you. You’re just gonna let me. You’re gonna watch.”
He was transfixed. Her breasts swayed above him, her face a mask of intense concentration and bliss. The slick, wet sounds of their joining filled the headset, obscene and beautiful. He gripped her hips, not to guide, but to feel the power of her movements.
“That’s it,” she moaned. “Feel how deep you are. You’re hitting everything, baby.”
Her pace quickened, the slapping of skin on skin becoming a frantic percussion. “Now… now you can fuck me. Show me what that focus feels like, baby.”
The permission shattered his restraint. He thrust up into her, meeting her downward strokes. The chaise creaked under their digital weight. He found a rhythm, a driving, desperate cadence that had her crying out, her head thrown back.
“Yes! Fuck! Right there! Don’t stop, Joel! Don’t stop!”
Her words were gasoline on a fire. He pounded up into her, the simulation translating every impact, every clench of her around his cock. The world dissolved into sensation: the smell of sex and sweat, the visual of her bouncing above him, the brutal, perfect friction.
He was close. The coil in his gut tightened unbearably.
“Aisha, I’m…”
“I know. I feel you. Come on. Let it go. Let it go. Fill me up.” Her command was guttural, absolute. “Give it to me. All of it.”
With a broken shout that was part sob, he erupted. The orgasm tore through him, a white-hot wire of release that felt less like pleasure and more like demolition. His hips stuttered against hers, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulsed inside her, wave after wave of simulated ecstasy that his very real body convulsed with.
She milked him through it, her own climax rippling again, her inner walls gripping him in rhythmic pulses that prolonged the shattering sensation until he was spent, hollowed out, shaking.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, a warm, heavy weight. Their breathing synced, ragged in the quiet room. After a long moment, she pushed herself up and looked at him. Her expression was soft, satisfied, serious.
“Remember this feeling, baby,” She said, holding his face. It was an echo of Diana but with a wholly different texture. “Remember what it’s like to be so inside a woman she forgets her own name. Remember that…you caused that.” She stroked his face. “You… are not a ghost. You are a fucking man. Start acting like one out there.”
The lounge faded, bled back into the misty alley. Serenity stood watching, a small, approving smile on her lips. Aisha, now fully dressed again, winked at him.
“Your brain is going to try to dismiss this,” Serenity said. “It will say that it was only the hardware, the code, the artificiality. Do not let it. The neural pathways you fired are real. The confidence, however small, is real. You have now been desired. You have now given pleasure successfully. These are facts for you to build upon.”
Joel just nodded, his body humming with a profound, exhausted tranquility. The simulation ended.
In the arcade booth, he removed the gear with steady hands. He didn’t rush. He walked out into the fluorescent glow of the arcade, the cacophony of pixels and children feeling distant, irrelevant. He felt solid in his own skin in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling.
His apartment welcomed him with its familiar gloom. He didn’t turn on the main light. He stood in the middle of the living room, the city’s sodium glow painting faint stripes across the floor. The silence was different. It wasn’t accusing. It was waiting.
He thought of Indi’s invitation, her comment about his eyes. He thought of Aisha’s weight on him, her raw words in his ear…
You are a fucking man.
He walked to his closet, pushed aside the graphic tees and sweatpants. In the back, hanging and forgotten, was a simple, well-cut navy button-down shirt. He took it out. He found a pair of dark jeans. He laid them on his bed.
Tomorrow was Saturday. He had no plans. The neighbor across the hall made questionable gin cocktails and said his door was always open. It wasn’t a promise, just a statement. But for the first time, Joel considered walking through an open door without being invited first. The idea didn’t paralyze him. It sat in his chest, a warm, low pulse of possibility. He touched the fabric of the shirt. It felt like a tool, not a costume.
He looked at his reflection in the dark window. Same face. Same glasses. But the man looking back held a new, quiet certainty. The simulation had given him a script, but the wanting was his own. That, he finally understood, was the only thing that was ever real. He turned from the window, the ghost of a touch still humming on his skin, and began to plan.
He planned to go to the bar.
The decision sat in his stomach like a stone, cold and heavy. He spent the next day cleaning his apartment with a nervous, manic energy, scrubbing away the ghosts of old takeout and older regrets. The navy shirt hung on his closet door, a silent judge. When he put it on that evening, the fabric felt foreign against his skin, a crisp shell over his still-uncertain frame. He stared at his reflection, trying to see what Aisha had seen, what Indi had perhaps noticed. He saw a man playing dress-up.
Do not apologize for existing, he commanded the mirror, and the reflection held his gaze.
The walk to the bar was five blocks of agonizing rehearsal. He ran through lines in his head, scenarios where he’d smile and order a drink, where he’d make casual eye contact without flinching. Each step away from his apartment felt like a step off a cliff. The bar, “The Rusty Nail,” was a wedge of warm light and muted chatter spilling onto the sidewalk. He stopped outside, his pulse throbbing in his ears. The noise within was a solid wall.
He pushed the door open.
The atmosphere hit him—a blend of hops, old wood, and the low thrum of a blues track on the speakers. It was crowded but not packed, a Friday night hum of conversation and clinking glass. He made for a sliver of empty space at the far end of the bar, aware of his own movement, of the way his shoulders wanted to hunch. He focused on walking as Diana had made him stand: spine straight, eyes forward. He slid onto the worn leather stool.
The bartender, a woman with a shaved head and a gauged ear, gave him a nod.
“What can I get you?”
“An IPA. Whatever’s local.” His voice didn’t crack. It was a small victory.
She brought the bottle, condensation beading on the glass. He paid, left a tip, and took a long pull. The bitterness was an anchor. He was here. He had done it. The simplicity of the accomplishment was almost dizzying. He allowed himself to survey the room without staring, practicing the act of observation. A group laughed loudly at a high-top table. A couple debated something in low tones near the jukebox.
Then he saw her.
She was alone at a small, round table near the back, a book propped against her cocktail glass. She was older, maybe early forties, with a tumble of auburn hair shot through with gray, and she was utterly absorbed. She turned a page, took a sip of her drink—something dark with a twist of orange—and smiled faintly at the text. The smile did something to her face, carving lines of warmth and intelligence. She wore a simple black sweater that clung to her curves, and Joel’s mouth went dry. She was the living, breathing echo of Serenity’s avatar, but real, imperfect, and completely unaware of him.
His earlier rehearsals evaporated. His mind blanked into static. He took another gulp of beer, the alcohol doing nothing to steady him. He remembered Aisha’s words:
You are a fucking man. Start acting like one out there.
And Serenity: The dance that happens before you get to the bedroom.
Before he could think, he was standing, his bottle in hand. His legs carried him across the room on a current of pure, terror-fueled momentum. He stopped at the edge of her table. The blues track ended, and in the sudden lull, his voice sounded too loud to his own ears.
“Is that any good?”
She looked up, her eyes a startling, clear green. They held neither annoyance nor immediate welcome, just a calm assessment. She marked her page with a coaster and closed the book. “The Left Hand of Darkness.”
“I couldn’t get into it,” he said, the truth tumbling out. “The worldbuilding felt… cold.”
One of her eyebrows arched. “That’s the point. It’s a thought experiment on gender and society. The cold is thematic.”
“I guess I need my fiction to have a little more heat.” He cringed internally. Was that a cheesy pickup line? It sounded like a cheesy pickup line.
But her lips quirked.
“Heat is easy. Ambiguity is harder.” She gestured to the empty chair opposite her. “You can sit, if you’re going to critique my reading choices.”
He sat, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Joel.” He introduced.
“Elena.”
“You come here to read often?”
“I come here to drink often. The reading keeps people from bothering me.” Her gaze was direct, challenging. “Usually.”
“I’ll go.” He made to rise, a hot flush of shame climbing his neck.
“Sit down, Joel.” Her command was soft but absolute. He sat. She took a slow sip of her drink, studying him over the rim. “You have the look of a man on a mission. Or a man who just survived a shipwreck. Which is it?”
“A little of both.” He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “The mission was to come here. The shipwreck was walking over.”
Her laugh was a low, pleasant sound. “Honest. I appreciate that. Most men who interrupt my reading try to sell me on their band or their podcast.”
“I don’t have a band. My podcast is about debugging legacy code. It has a very, very niche audience.”
This time her smile reached her eyes. “So you’re a tech guy. That explains the posture.”
He straightened instinctively. “What’s wrong with my posture?”
“It was defensive. Now it’s better.” She swirled her drink. “You’re recalibrating. In real time. It’s interesting to watch.”
He felt seen, X-rayed. It was terrifying and exhilarating. They talked. He didn’t know how, but the words came. About books, about the selection of music, about the strange art on the bar walls. She was sharp, witty, and she listened as much as she spoke. He made her laugh, a real, unguarded laugh, and the sound fed a hungry part of his soul.
An hour slipped by. Her glass was empty. His bottle was long gone.
“I should get another,” she said, but made no move to flag the bartender.
“Can I buy it for you?”
She considered him. “You can walk me home instead. It’s close. I have a better bottle there.”
The implication hung in the air, a live wire. This was the threshold. The simulation hadn’t prepared him for this moment, for the nuanced, terrifying offer in a real woman’s eyes. He heard Diana: Control is the key. He heard Aisha: Let someone want you.
“Okay,” he said. His voice was steady.
Her apartment was a loft above a closed bookstore, reached by a narrow, twisting staircase. It was full of bookshelves and plants, lit by the soft glow of a single floor lamp. It smelled like paper, damp soil, and her perfume—something spicy and deep.
She closed the door and turned to him, the playful glint gone, replaced by a focused intensity.
“No more talking about books, Joel.”
She crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him into a kiss. It was nothing like the simulations. It was messy, insistent, all tongue and teeth and a low hum of desire from her throat. The taste of her drink, of her, exploded across his senses. His hands came up, gripping her hips through the soft wool of her sweater, and he kissed her back with a hunger that shocked him immensely.
She broke the kiss, breathing heavily.
“You learn that from a book?”
“No.” He answered simply.
“Good.” She yanked his shirt from his waistband, her hands sliding underneath, cool palms against the heat of his back. Her touch was greedy, explorative. She found the scar from a childhood bicycle accident above his hip, the knobs of his spine. “You’re so thin,” she murmured, not as a criticism, but as a discovery. “I want to feel all of you.”
She pulled his shirt off over his head, her fingers trailing down his chest. Then she peeled her own sweater off, revealing full, heavy breasts barely contained in a lace bra. She was older, her body soft and lived-in, and she was magnificent. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. The weight was real, the heat was real, the hard nipple pressing into his palm was profoundly, devastatingly real.
“Bedroom,” she said, her voice rough. “Now.”
She led him to a low platform bed heaped with pillows. She pushed him down onto the edge and knelt before him, her hands working his belt, his button, his zipper. She freed his cock, already fully volcanically hard and leaking. She didn’t pause, didn’t study it. She leaned forward and took him into her mouth with a groaning sound of satisfaction.
The wet, engulfing heat was more intense than any simulation, a shocking, visceral truth. Her head bobbed, her tongue pressing along the sensitive vein underneath. She deep-throated him with a professional, practiced ease that made his vision almost blur. She pulled back to swirl her tongue around his head, lapping up the pre-come. The filthy, wet sounds filled the quiet room.
“You taste good,” she growled, stroking him with her fist. “I’m going to ride you until you scream.”
She stood, shedding her bra and pants, revealing a thatch of auburn curls at the junction of her thick thighs. She climbed onto the bed, straddling him, but instead of sinking onto him, she turned around, presenting her ass to his face, lowering her pussy toward his mouth.
“You first. Make me wet. I want to be dripping when you slide in.” She said in a thick tone, dripping with lust.
The view was obscene and breathtaking. He needed no instruction. He gripped her ass, pulling her onto his face, and buried his tongue in her folds. She was already wet, her musk rich and complex. He feasted on her, licking and sucking, finding her clit and worrying it with a focused pressure. She cried out, grinding her hips against his mouth, her hands braced on his thighs.
“Yes! Just like that! Fuck, your tongue!” He slid two fingers inside her, crooking them, and she shuddered, her juices coating his chin. “You fucking devil. Enough.”
She turned, her eyes wild, and positioned herself above him. She gripped his cock, guiding it to her entrance slowly. She held his gaze as she sank down, a slow, inexorable descent that stretched her, filled her. He watched her face contort in pleasure, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as she took him all. It was so raw. So beautiful. So erotic that he had no words for it.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, full of him. She began to move, a slow, rolling grind. “You fit. You fit so perfectly.” Her pace quickened, becoming a demanding, bouncing rhythm. Her tits swayed, her body a beautiful, powerful machine. He gripped her hips, thrusting up to meet her, the slap of skin filling the room. “Harder! Fuck me harder, Joel! Don’t you hold back! None of that gentle shit! Fuck me!”
He obeyed, slamming up into her, the bed frame knocking against the wall. Each drive punched a choked gasp from her lungs. He was lost in it, in the primal reality of flesh and friction and sound. The controlled techniques from the simulation were gone, burned away by raw, unfiltered need.
“I’m gonna come,” she snarled. “Come with me. Don’t come inside me unless you’re coming with me. You understand?”
Her words pushed him to the edge. He felt the tight, gathering coil in his balls, the inevitable snap.
“Now! Elena, now!”
She then let out a high scream. A raw, broken sound broke her as she clenched around him in violent, rhythmic pulses. The sensation tore his own orgasm from him. He erupted, pulsing deep inside her with a shout that tore from his throat, his body arching off the bed as he filled her, wave after wave of blinding release.
She collapsed onto his chest, a sweaty, trembling weight. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. He was still inside her, softening, wrapped in the intimate, wet heat of her. His mind was utterly, completely quiet.
After a long while, she slid off him and onto her side, facing him. She traced a finger down his cheek, over his lips. Her green eyes were appraising, satisfied.
“You’re full of surprises,” she said softly.
He just looked at her, the ghost of a smile touching his own mouth. The plan had been to go to the bar. He had done that. Everything after was a terrifyingly glorious accident. He didn’t know what this was, or what came next. But the hollowed-out feeling in his chest was gone, replaced by a solid, quiet warmth. He had crossed the threshold. The real world, for the first time, felt like a place he could inhabit.