Callie, alarmed by her deep dissatisfaction when her mystery man fails to log in one night, decides to make their next game their last.
However, the old, cliche scenario she intended to be the send-off to their awkward relationship only ends up making her yearn for more…
11,000 words of BDSM rape-play, suitable only for mature audiences.
Interested? Buy right now at Smashwords. Or, for an excerpt, continue reading…
“So this is probably like, ‘dog ate my homework’ kind of shit to be hearing, especially when it wasn’t like we made plans together, but since I usually see you Friday night I guess I kind of assumed? And then I saw your message after? And I felt like shit because it must have seemed like I was ghosting you?”
“Which you weren’t,” I say, wryly. “Seeing as the dog gave you a concussion.”
“Cat, actually,” he says. “They’re all cats on that side of the family. They all act like the dominance shit is beneath them, and then it’s like, oh, ‘dad, Marco was looking at me’ or something equally stupid, and then it’s World War 5.”
“Soooo,” I say, “I’m guessing you wanna play?”
Yep. I try to tell myself it’s not near-desperation for a good, like a really good scene driving me to swallow this sort-of-true-sounding story, or to not even push back on Simon84’s assumption that we even have enough of a connection that his not showing up might mean he was ghosting me, but…
“Holy fuck yes,” he says. “One sec, gotta strip.”
For a moment I think of making a crack about how it’s nice that the weather around here decided to give everyone with a sim couch the free sauna experience on top of everything, then I remember, with a sudden surge of embarrassment, that he mightn’t necessarily be in the same city, or on the same frigging continent as me. Same planet, sure, interplanetary net links are so fucking pricey it’s not even a question, but other than that?
It’s true that the company I sim with touts localized matchmaking as some kind of extra perk of simming through them, but it’s not like the region I’m in is all even in the same weather band, or like it’s impossible that you’d come across some game that’s set up to pull in players from more than one region. So I really need to stop imagining all sorts of crap and otherwise operating in this not-relationship based on data that’s like 99% likely to be false.
“What game were you thinking?” Simon84 says, under the hokey little progress bar he pasted up, which, if he’s not gaming it somehow, shows that he’s still in his socks and t-shirt. “Same engine as last time?”
I’m not going to ask him what region he’s in. I might—might—let myself take a gander at his profile later, to see if he’s got it listed, but anything more than that is just sad. “Same engine,” I say, and, for symmetry, post my own progress bar.
“Oh, hello,” he says, and either he’s already mostly patched in, or he’s having the chat program vocalize for him. The voice he chose suits the (probably bullshit) story he told me earlier: low, growly, the way people like to imagine a sexy werewolf on the edge of turning would sound. Which isn’t at all realistic, but it fits, and for some absurd reason, it makes me grin and shuck out of my panties that much quicker. “Mmm. You getting wet?”
“Just a little,” I lie. I don’t even know why I do it; it’s not like he’d think he was hearing the absolute truth if I told him I’ve been wet all day, or if I told him just how smoothly my plug-in dildo is going in. This is why I don’t like pre-gaming in chat; I just can’t get into the kind of back-and-forth and ‘ooh yeah baby’ some people like. “You okay with getting a little weird?”
“How weird we talking?”
I pause for a second, settling back against the cooling mesh of the couch. I know I’m stalling as I readjust the dildo, reposition my legs, tweak the straps, and stretch my neck a bit beneath the helmet I’ve just strapped on, but it’s a few moments before I can make myself respond to it. “Dirty Modern Elven King.”
He laughs. It’s just an ‘lol’ or two typed in, but it stings anyway. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, “I just don’t, it’s not that it’s that weird, it’s just, I’ve always seen you as like, super experienced? And it’s kind of—”
“Noob magnet, I know,” I type, very carefully. Which is why I don’t bother running it, for the most part; anyone I ask to go custom with always fucks it up somehow. There’s a lot of play in there, so much room for surprise, and yet it’s always like, hello, here’s a pop-up asking permission to shove in some kink I explicitly passed on, like I’m so bored I’ll change my mind. “Let’s say I’m nostalgic, okay? Do a short custom run?”
For his response, he simply sends me a link to the scenario, one clearly modified to run on the high magic version of the engine we used last time, and though I’m wary when I load in to his custom setup room, that all fades away when I see that he’s facing a full-length mirror, cycling rapidly through minor appearance tweaks for his tall, buff, dramatically pointy-eared avatar. “Script pref?”
“Um,” I say, “B2 okay? The extended version?”
“Somehow I knew you’d want at least one repeat,” he says, flashing me a quick, slightly alarming grin over his shoulder. This elven king he’s building has some weirdly long, sharp incisors, at least for the moment. “Extras?”
With this particular scenario, ‘extras’ can mean only one thing: how many other participants, whether NPCs or actual players, get to rape the main female character. And now, with just that one word he said, I am suddenly extremely aware, even through the slowly increasing, sensation-dimming sim fog, of just how wet, how ready I feel.
“I’d like at least one full one,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You can add on more, just, well. Four people is my hard limit, if we’re gonna do repeats.” When he turns around to face me, I flinch a little, half because he’s worked up one nicely imposing elf, and half because my half fearful, half excited reaction to his avatar makes me remember that I didn’t do much work on my own. “Shit, I haven’t—”
“Don’t,” he says, taking an abortive half step toward me. “That’s like, roughly what you wore last time, right? With darker skin?”
It is roughly what I wear every damn day, IRL, only with the default blankly cute face, and miraculously smooth, rounded flesh where there’d realistically be flab. Somehow, telling myself that doesn’t make me feel less flattered. Not even when he tentatively requests that I make my boobs a little more, uh… Because, after I dutifully up the slider, he flushes, and mumbles that that wasn’t what he meant, and then spends a very embarrassed couple of minutes having me dig through the slider presents before opting for the first pair of tits with large, puffy areolae.
“You sure you still want to go with B2?” I can’t help but ask, teasingly. “I mean, if you’re that particular, we really should do an M-variant—”
“Naw,” he says, shortly, turning back toward his mirror. “You know how crap milking is in this thing. B2’s fine.”
I find myself opening his profile to add a me-only note about his preferences before I remember what I immediately decided when I first saw him come online: that I’d allow myself one more go-around with him, just because I know I’d be cranky tomorrow without a really good go, but. Afterwards, after we sign off and log out…
“It’s not even like I don’t know, like really know that how large the areolae are has nothing to do with any of it,” he adds, giving his avatar one last, fiddly, largely unneeded tuning pass. “I blame what’s-her-name, the middle sister in Milkmaids 4020. All those frigging closeups of her spraying and writhing can’t have been good for my common sense as a kid.”
If I were going to play with him ever again after this, now would be a golden opportunity to dig in, shoot the shit a little bit, laugh about the moments in movies and so on that had turned us on to our kinks, but since I’m not planning to play with him again after this, all I can bear to say is: “Hey, not to rush you, but…”
“I know, I know,” he says. “Just one more pass. More gut, less gut?”
“More,” I find myself saying, instead of the much, much safer “doesn’t matter to me”. I hate that I like the fact that he didn’t assume I’d go with the popular option (less. Always less). “Nice, I like it.”
He grins again, and both the mirror and the vague gray boundaries of the room magically expand and stretch so that he can waggle his eyebrows at me without turning around. “Shadow effect?”
“No.” I’ve almost always found it much more menacing to see my attacker in full detail; my second run-through of this scenario (two minutes after my breathless first run) had me fiddling with the then-limited options to try to turn off the heavy-handed false shadowing the game liked to use during the rapes. “All good?”
“Actual last thing: slight accent, or…?”
“Slight’s good.” Except for a couple very specific ones, accents are almost always a huge turn-on for me. And it’s not like it’s an uncommon thing to be into, so I don’t mind letting him know about it.
“Huh. Okay, I’m officially way too nervous, now.”
“But it’s not, I mean, the opening’s not really complicated.”
“Exactly,” he says, in the Elven King’s low, cultured voice. “So if I fuck it up, it’ll make me look even more of an idiot.” Then, after sliding me an evaluative glance, again without turning around: “Well then. Shall we?”
As the game starts, I already know my resolution to put him on ignore after it’s done is crumbling.