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“I wanna taste that cock, Neil. I want to wrap my lips around your head and lick that dick ring. While I’m sucking your cock, I want you to grab my hair. Take a fistful and pull. Make it sting, baby.”
Damnit, she’s barely started, and I’m already hard. I unzip my pants and pull my dick out, stroking the shaft one-handed while I type out a dance command of my own.
Bunnyluv’s not the only one here who can program cheat codes into the game.
My avatar starts doing a Magic Mike-style dance, hips pumping to a rhythm I set in time with the game’s ambient music.
“Oh, yeah, baby, thrust those hips. Fuck my face while I suck you off.”
Since I don’t know what Bunnyluv looks like in real life, I make do by visualizing her avatar kneeling before me, blue eyes gazing up at me as she sucks my dick. Her character in-game has long, silver-blonde hair, a slim waist, and tits that I’d kill to ride. I know it’s all a fantasy, but I swear, I couldn’t care less what Bunnyluv really looks like. She could be a mousy geek with dull brown hair and thick glasses, and I’d still do whatever she wanted.
I beat faster and faster as she keeps talking. Every lusty word sends me closer to the edge, and I’m grateful I have time for a shower when we’re done.
“I hear you moaning, baby. I love the sounds you make while I swallow your dick down my throat. You make me so hot with that. I’m so wet and ready for you. I’m rubbing myself just thinking about your hard cock in my mouth.” She gives me a moan of her own, drawing out the sound. “You taste so fucking good. Neil, baby, come in my throat. Let me swallow it all down. Every last drop, like the good girl I am.”
“Shit, Bunnyluv, I’m so close …”
“Don’t hold back, baby. Come hard inside me. Just the thought of your hot cum shooting down the back of my throat has me about to burst … Let’s come together, Neil.”
This is one of Bunnyluv’s favorite things: simultaneous climax. She’s gotten to where she can make me blow my load the second she starts screaming. Despite our distance, despite the fact that we’ve never even met, there’s something incredibly intimate about it. It’s like we’re sharing something special, something beautiful, almost religious.
My hand slaps against my balls faster and faster, my breathing ragged, and on the other end of the chat Bunnyluv begins to shriek. The sound is enough to trigger me, and I come in several hot bursts. With careful aim, I make sure it all ends up on my shirt, rather than hitting my keyboard. The last thing I want is to have to deep clean my equipment because I couldn’t control my cum.
Bunnyluv sighs, and I hear soft slurping in my headphones.
“Mm … I love the taste of me, but I wish it could be you I’m licking.”
I almost lose it again at the thought of her sucking her own cum off her fingers. “It could be if you’d let me in more. Give me your phone number, your address, your fuckingname, just something real.”
The silent pause is almost deafening. “I can’t, Neil. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me! Listen, Bun, I care about you. You’re more than an avatar to me; you’re special. I wish you could see that.”
“You should get ready for tonight. Clean up.” Her abrupt change of subject, along with the sadness in her tone, tells me I’m not getting anything else out of her tonight. When she shuts down, she shuts down for days. “Talk to you later, baby. Be safe tonight.”
With that, she logs out and disconnects from the voice chat. I push back from the computer and stand up, stripping my stained shirt and heading for the bathroom. I need acoldshower after that.
By the time I finally decide what to wear, the Uber driver is honking outside my apartment. I grab a jacket and rush down the stairs. I get to the parking lot just as the driver starts to back out of the spot he’d parked in. I frantically wave at him to get his attention, and he stops halfway out. Panting from the jog, I slip in the back seat and give him the address for Club Viper.
I don’t know which is worse: having a driver that’s too chatty, or one who doesn’t say a word. The chatty drivers are annoying, but the silent ones like this guy give me the creeps. As if my nerves weren’t already on edge, now I have to sit back here with nothing but my own paranoid thoughts to keep me company. All I can do is worry about whether or not tonight is going to be a huge mistake.
The driver drops me off at the front of the club, but the line to get in wraps around the block. I backtrack to the end and adjust my collar. I feel woefully underdressed in this crowd. Everyone’s got the latest hot clubwear on, from leather to vinyl to silk and satin, and everything that’s not laced up is buckled down.
My black slacks and crisp, ironed button-down shirt seem ridiculous in comparison. The cheap blazer I have doesn’t improve the look. The damn bouncer’s gonna laugh his ass off before he kicks me to the curb.
Just when I’m about to turn back and call for another ride home, my coworkers show up. They’re all dressed to the nines, just like the other clubgoers, and I could strangle them for not telling me what the dress code for this place is. Justin, our team lead, saves the day by handing me his leather jacket. The fit’s a little snug, but it’s better than waltzing in there looking like I’m about to go to a business meeting.
Through some miracle, Justin talks the bouncer into letting me in despite my lack of flair. The burly man presses a rubber stamp to the back of my hand, but I don’t see anything there. It’s not until we’re inside, where UV lights illuminate the crowd, that I see the inked snake. It glows bright purple in the blacklights, the hood of the cobra flared as the serpent sits frozen mid-hiss.
Well, at least I won’t have a big, black stain on the back of my hand to explain away at work tomorrow. Justin’s okay with the club life, but some of the higher-ups would rather we didn’t get ourselves into trouble.
The thumping bass that was audible even outside the club is maddening inside. Throngs of dancers crowd the middle of the club, gyrating to the beat. Around the edge of the large, warehouse-like room are a series of small bartops. The longer bars have dancers on top of the counters, but there are a few that seem more inviting. By “more inviting” I mean “less packed.” I excuse myself from my group and make a beeline for the emptiest bar, hoping a stiff drink might take the edge off my nerves.
I order a mojito and wait for the bartender to mix it. She hands me the drink, and I chug it back, wincing when I taste how strong she made it. Jesus Christ, I wasn’t planning on getting plastered five minutes into the night!
Justin and the others catch up to me just as I’m handing my glass back to the barkeep. Caryl, another team member, laughs and slaps my shoulder. “All right, Neil! Take a load off, man. Cut loose for once in your life.”
I roll my eyes and flick her off. “Fuck you, Caryl.”
