Better Than Real – Part 2: The Unveiling

Image” “Gynoid Torso” by Planchu DeviantArt

Back Story: It’s a few years in the future, and quantum computers (“spookies”) have brought incredible new capabilities to Second Life. But Archie Jester, our hero, is one of the few avatars who can wire them up to be useful, and that brings him in contact with Ohna Exceedia, whose new line of Better Than Real© avatar accessories is about to debut at Frank’s Elite Jazz Club. Modeled by Ohna’s incredible team of Hot Botties©, BTR creates female avatars that are literally irresistible.

They’re  also programmed to provide sex that’s not just Better than Real, but Better than You Can Imagine, as Archie is about to find out…

 

5. The Unveiling

The show was starting. Once Ohna got her shit together, she didn’t waste any time, and when I got inside, she was up on stage at a lectern already thanking people who’d worked on the project. I thought about finding Suzanne, but I really had no idea of what had just happened. Was she kidding? Was she really putting me on notice?

I’d think about it later. Right now I just wanted to see the Hot Botties make their debut and see if they really lived up to the hype and belonged in the same class as Beta. Flashing my Tech Support badge, I found myself a place near the front of the stage, about even with Ohna’s lectern. From there I could see the stage and the runway and even peer a little into the wings, where I could see the shadowy shapes of the Botties as they arranged themselves for their debut.

“And now, without further ado,” Ohna intoned into the mic. “I introduce Exceedia’s revolutionary new line of Better Than Real© avatar accessories, as modeled by our own Hot Botties!”

Necks craned, people stood, there was some scuffling, and out they came.

There were ten of them, as we knew, and from this distance, I couldn’t tell yet if they all had that seductive magic that Beta had assaulted us with on that video, but they all looked gorgeous, and each one was different, but perfect in her differences. Each was a different race, or genetic mixture, or God knows what Ohna’s designers and artists had come up with, but each wore a different outfit, and each had a different style, different hair, different shape, a different way of being. Looking at them, I had the strange feeling that these ten women represented what must be ten different basic models of womenkind that all females descended from. The notion was ridiculous: there’s as many “models” of women as there are women, each unique unto herself. But these girls were so perfect, so archetypal, that for a moment it really seemed possible. And as I looked them over, I saw the pattern for every woman I’d ever known in my life. It was amazing.

Now, in real-reality, I and everyone at Frank’s was actually at home or someplace on our computers or VR sets, watching on a screen, talking into a mic, listening through speakers or phones, and this whole scene was nothing but a bunch of digital data that corresponded to nothing really. But it was exactly because they were all data that Ohna’s BTR stuff could work its magic, massaging their pixels and tweaking their signals and goosing all those bits and bytes to produce the absolute optimized amount of butt jiggle or boob bounce, lip fullness and eye sparkle, skin specularity and hair physics, and a heart-stopping erotic grace to every movement they made.

But at the same time, we were all avatars sitting in that room, staring at these incredibly beautiful and lush and desirable creatures, and lusting and desiring with very real human emotions.

And it struck me that this was what it was all about. The avatars aren’t real. The Hot Botties weren’t real. Art itself isn’t real. But the emotions they all evoke are, and that’s what keeps us in virtuality, fucking cartoon images and falling in love with zero’s and one’s and having our hearts broken. Feelings. It’s all about the feelings. We only have facts because we want the feelings they can give.

 

There was a sudden silence as Alpha, apparently the spokes-Bottie for the group, glided down the runway and took up a position at the far end, well out into the audience, where there was a microphone and another lectern. Alpha was a perfect California blonde, and Ohna must have had Alpha’s likability settings cranked up to 11, because as flawless and perfectly beautiful as she was, you couldn’t even hate her for it. With the most charming little gesture and a radiant smile, Alpha calmed the wave of applause that was rippling through the crowd and set about the business of introducing the other Hot Botties and describing the fashions they were wearing.

There was Beta, who we’d already met, and Gamma, a stunning black woman with pale green eyes; and Delta, a creamy over-endowed red head, Epsilon, Zeta, Eta, and so on, down to Kappa, a feisty little number dressed in street punk with a stocking cap, glorious tattoo work, and nipples that pierced her little tee shirt like gun barrels. Iota was Suzanne’s archetype: creamy pale skin and long tumbling ringlets of jet black hair, and piercing sky-blue eyes.

For the most part the crowd just sat and gawked, though after Epsilon there were some cries of “Fake!” and “Bogus!” from the back of the room. But of course they were fake and bogus. Just as fake and bogus as all of us here were, including the rubes who had yelled that out.

But here’s the thing: if you’re going to live in a realm where magic can happen, you’d better start accepting magic as real. And we’d all crossed that particular ontological barrier years ago. People talk about keeping their RL separate from their Second Life. They should be thinking more about keeping their Second Life out of their Real Life, because it was coming, or maybe already here.

The low buzz of the crowd increased as the show went on, and security had to eject some scufflers and griefers. Some mook in a cape and Lone Ranger mask pushed his way to the edge of the runway and dove at Theta, trying to kiss her foot, but they dragged him off. You could hear him blubbering as they carried him out, confessing his love. And then the crowd started getting ugly.

I‘d been standing there watching the girls (but not too closely) and listening to the crowd, and, as is my habit, the more dangerous things seemed to be getting, the more spacey and philosophical I got. I was musing about personal beauty and how much we value it and didn’t really notice the number of people crowding around the runway.

I was thinking how much beauty was worth to a woman, and not just beauty, but that elusive quality we call desirability. It’s worth more than money. it’s often her main or only source of power and leverage in what still is overwhelmingly a man’s world, and for all the campaigns we launch to banish lookism and celebrate averageness in women, that obsession with beauty never goes away, desired and celebrated by women even more than by men. Those women up on the runway—the Hot Botties (and fuck the little “©’s” already!) could have any man they wanted, and a good number of the women. And not even have them: just make themselves seem available or interested, and they could twist so many men around their fingers. What a sense of power must be! Kings and generals and the toughest tough guys don’t have that kind of power. They’re not desired. They can push, but they can’t pull. How much would you pay for that ability to pull people to you, that kind of power?

And there stood Ohna, up behind her lectern, her eyes glowing even as the crowd grew ugly. The show was either a success of a riot about to happen, and was there really any difference? Ohna, who now controlled the very market for beauty and desirability in Second Life. She owned it all, and with Better Than Real merchandise starting at three figures, US dollars, for the basic kit, she stood to make millions.

And be hated by millions. For the women in the audience, in one 30-minute show they’d become obsolete. Their wardrobes would have to go, and be replaced with BTR stuff. There’d be new tech to learn, new bugs to hassle with, and meanwhile their status as desirables would be in ruins.

No wonder that when the riot started, it was women who started it: flaming mad fashionistas; plain ordinary SLitizens outraged at the prices, furious anti-lookist feminists, and other people who just liked to riot…

Before I knew it, the crowd was a bubbling, boiling sea of outraged avatars.

All I could think about were my precious tanglers, but there was general stampede in that direction. Shouts went out for Security, and people started getting ejected, there one second, poofed the next.

Now there’s not a lot of damage an avatar can do in a Second Life riot. Bump people, mostly, and call them names. But some people had gotten their hands on some old system weapons, the kinds of things that were banned from SL years ago, and they were firing laser-like blasts that made avatars float up into the air, kick-swimming helplessly, or covered them in floods of sticky particles, bees or flies, or distort them into weird rubbery shapes and Ruths. When Lord Iridium sent me a rezzed pistol, I took it.

WTF?” I IM’d him.

“Ur security now! Protect the H-Botties!!! Get backstage!!!”

I jumped up on the stage and was met with a shower of Gorean spears and throwing axes. I wasn’t wearing a harm meter so they couldn’t hurt me, but it pissed me off anyhow, and I let them have it. Each shot covered an avatar in a rolling, black crackling ball of static electricity and sent them floating up and out of the building. Good.

Ohna’d made me wear a n RLV collar as part of the deal for working there so she could summon me whenever she needed. I’d never worn one before but I knew what they did, so when I was suddenly gone, zipped away from the show and Transported out into the TP phantom zone, I knew what was going on. I hadn’t been caught in that blue interdimensional nothingness in years, but there I was, hanging there and slowly revolving as mad geometries swirled around me.

 

Chapter 6: My Meeting With Ohna

And then zip-zip-whoosh and I found myself back in the world, on a lovely little beach under a warm sun with the sounds of sea birds and gentle surf in my ears. All was quiet, and wonderfully soothing and serene. Behind me, the white-sand beach ran up to a lush and inviting jungle, and just past that, a fabulous house sat on a slight rise, overlooking the sea, surrounded by tropical foliage and flowers.

To my right, Ohna Exceedia was sitting on an elegant marble bench set on a shady little patio thumbing numbers into her cell phone, a satisfied look on her face. Here and there some of her private security men stood guard, guns at the ready.

She smiled when she saw me. “Well, Arch! I think that went rather well, don’t you?”

She was a gorgeous avatar. Nowhere near being in the same league as the Hot Botties of course, but then it was obvious she wasn’t trying to be. The one-word impression you got from Ohna Exceedia was control. She was in control of her image, in control of her products, and probably pretty much in control of anything she wanted to be.

“Come over and sit down, Archie. I never got a chance to talk to you before the show and I’ve got some things to discuss. You come highly recommended, you know, and I’m impressed. Let’s talk a bit.”

“Where are we?”

“This is one of my safe places,” she said. “I guess my boys panicked. Whisked me out of there before I was exactly ready. Sorry they had to yank you too, but I wanted to talk to you anyhow, so no harm done. A fitting exit, actually. Exciting, wasn’t it? Great show! So what did you think?”

Think? Think about what? I hadn’t had time for a quiet thought in days, not since Lord Iridium first showed that video of Beta. My head was spinning like one of those old-fashioned analog snow-globes.

She spoke to her security. “Okay: boys? Security One, get the girls. Extract now and bring them to Shangri-La. Make sure they’re safe, recover all product, clean up that saloon and then shut down the program till you hear from me. Let them stew in what they’ve just seen. Security Two? defer all calls, comment, etc. I’m not to be disturbed. Prime? I’ll handle things later. Now I just want to relax. All units, leave us and shut down.”

She turned back to me. “So?”

I laughed uneasily. The woman was obviously a genius, maybe several: business and marketing, software and product development, systems engineering, user interface. Fashion, design, what else? Maybe psychology? Semiotics? Ontology??

“You’re asking me?”

She smiled approvingly at my answer. “You saw the girls? What did you think?”

I nodded, truly awestruck. “Honestly? I’m speechless Ohna. I really am amazed. They’re incredible. You’re going to sell them as is? You’ll make a fortune.”

“Oh no,” she said happily. “No, not selling them. Those are real girls. Yeah, they sit behind screens in real life, playing Hot Botties in SL, just like every other geek in the world sits behind a screen being in SL, but they’re real people and not for sale. Anyhow, better than selling the finished package is selling the ability to become one yourself. After-market accessories and enhancements, plug-ins. I’ll certainly be licensing BTR out to manufacturers, and I’ve already got some RL manufacturers interested in doing tie- ins, but I’m no longer interested in selling hard goods and tangibles. I sell process now, dreams. Much more profit there. I’ve had the whole business model in my head ever since I saw my first Better Than Real Hentai. Do you follow hentai, Archie?”

“I’m afraid not. Not really. Sex cartoons?”

She smiled indulgently. “They’re a lot more than that these days. At least the good ones are. ‘Better Than Real’ is actually a term-of-art from Hentai animators, who got tired of trying to imitate film and real-life and decided to work to make their cartoons hotter and sexier than they could ever be in real life. And I’m not just talking about balloon tits and those creepy little-girl Japanese women. I’m talking about subtle things, even subliminal things, little things you don’t even know you’re seeing. You might not even consciously notice the jiggle, the shine, the juice, the tilt of the head, the way the hair moves. You might not notice those things specifically, but your body does, and it reacts.” She laughed. “Wow does it react!

“Of course, that’s what artists do, right?” she went on. “That’s what art is? Telling the truth through lies. If you’re making sexy drawings, you try to make them as sexy as you can. But what some of these guys did—and it’s only some, because it’s really expensive–is make it a science. They used techniques from market research and had physiologists monitor viewers’ responses as they watched their BTR stuff—pupil size, jaw tension, blood flow—to see just what really excited them. Then they correlated the responses to specific visual cues. They found some very interesting things, like, not just any kind of jiggle will do. It has to be the right amount of jiggle, with the right displacement and frequency, recovery time, elasticity and mass. It has to be boob jiggle if it’s the boobs because ass jiggle has different parameters. A 16-year-old’s jiggle physics are going to be different than a 30-year-old’s. The amount of perspiration sheen on the girl’s skin has to just so and correlate to her pupil dilation, because they’re both sign of a woman’s arousal, and if they’re it out of sync, she’s going to look a little nuts to a male viewer’s subconscious.

“We even discovered new turn-on variables no one’s ever noticed before. Would you believe men are excited by the amount of tension in a woman’s feet during sex? Or Toe tuck? Nostril dilation? The amount of blush on her chest and ears? Did you know that men can subconsciously tell the difference between shudder, tremble, and quiver and instinctively know what each one means?”

I shook my head in amazement and laughed. But the thought came to me that Ohna must know more about male-female sexual signaling and responses than anyone alive. Was she reading me now? What was she seeing?

I was sitting here with the most erotic woman in the world. What an interesting situation.

And right away I could tell that she knew exactly what I was thinking. She smiled at me and gave me a little conspiratorial eyebrow arch, telling me there just might be time for that later. I felt myself blush.

She ignored it, more interested in telling her story. “Anyhow, I was doing publicity for a Hentai outfit at the time, and saw the commercial potential of what they were doing. They were artists. What did they know about business? I copied all their findings and developed more of my own. Plus—the real stroke of genius—I downscaled their monitoring apparatus and took monitoring into real-time. You understand?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Originally I used users’ webcams to monitor their pupillary response and other facial parameters as they watched my girls in real time. Then a program just maximizes the girl’s parameters and other variables to give the user exactly the kind of woman he wants.”

“Wait,” I said. “So you’re using the viewers’ own responses to design his dream woman on the fly?”

“In so many words, yes.”

“So, say I like my women more mature, physically. Then the amount of, say, boob jiggle you show me will be like slower and more extreme?”

“Well, breast hydraulics are a lot more complicated than that, but yes. That’s the right idea. The variable you’re groping for we call “profundity”.  An older woman’s going to have a different jiggle signature, a different profundity.”

“That’s incredible!”

She grinned. “Isn’t it though? Facial features, body physics, speech patterns and mannerisms, they’re all being edited all the time to give you the optimal experience.”

“I can’t believe this!”

She laughed happily. “And now, with the Stellar face-helmet detectors, we’re harvesting even more data, and the quants and tanglers are finally letting us use it. We can make the girls do more, do it faster and do it better.”

“So the girls, the Hot Botties, they don’t really look like that? You’re just massaging their data so they look like they look like that? I mean—”

Ohna stopped me and held up her phone, punched in a quick number and said, “Abut 5 minutes,” and rang off. She turned her attention back to me with a radiant smile and said, “Say that again?”

“I said the girls don’t really look like what we’re seeing? They don’t look like what they look like?”

She laughed delightedly. “Archie, whatever are you talking about? Did you listen to yourself? You’re asking me if the people behind our avatars really look like what we’re seeing? What does “really’ mean here? I mean, does it even matter anymore? Does it make any sense to talk about ‘really’ this or ‘really’ that? If we were in Real Life and talking, could you say I ‘really’ look like what you’re seeing? Does my RL face look the same to you as it does to me?”

I tried to think about that, but the sun was making me dizzy. The whole thing was making me dizzy.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked her.

“Because I want you to come work for me. I’m not happy with the tanglers’ stability, and Iddy tells me you’re about the best there is in that department, and I want the best for Exceedia.”

“Well I’m flattered, Ohna, but I already have a business that’s doing very well.”

She was back to dialing her cell phone again. She said: “Right. Your little black-market thing. Well, whatever you’re making, I’ll double it. Plus,” she put the phone by her ear and nodded up towards the house. “Beta and the girls are up at the house waiting for you now. That’s who I just called.”

“Waiting for me for what?”

“To fuck them, Archie. What do you think they’re for?”

 

7 Better Than Real Sex

All the girls were there, and I suppose I could have had as many as I wanted, but I’ve never been into groups. One woman at a time was plenty for me; groups just seemed to dilute one’s concentration. And there was never any doubt who that one would be. Ever since I saw that video, Beta’s eyes and her body had haunted me, that sense of explosive eroticism and that little girl innocence.

I suppose some of you are wondering about Suzanne and my commitment to her. I wondered about t too, for about two seconds, and then I just kept on walking. I knew—not that it made any difference—that Suzanne would be angrier at me for turning own an opportunity for sex with a Hot Bottie than she would be about the cheating aspect, and that’s assuming we were still even together.

I came into the house with my eyes staring and my mouth open, like some rube in the big city, and Beta was there smiling shyly, her cheeks already suffused with a soft blush of impending arousal. She giggled softly when she took my hand, but not an irritating giggle, not a juvenile sound. More a sound of satisfaction and approval.

She wore a red bikini that set off her island tan, a few shares darker than she’d appeared in the video, and over that a filmy oriental robe that shimmered I like peacock feathers in golds and reds and blues, and floated and wafted with every move. And of course, since this was Second Life, she wore a pair of matching, sky-high stilettos.

Maybe I was getting used to the Botties or just numbed out, but I no longer felt so overwhelmed by Beta’s beauty. She was an amazingly attractive and sexy woman, but in the battle that goes on between men and women, I was carrying the equivalent of the male H-bomb: the certain knowledge that, by arrangement, I was soon going to be between those legs, so it didn’t much matter how I came across.

“I’m so glad you chose me,” Beta said as she led me up the stairs. “I was watching you at the show, and I told Zeta how much I hoped you would pick me.”

“I didn’t know you even knew who I was,” I said.

“Oh yes. We all know you. Don’t be upset, but when you watched my promo video, we were collecting data through your webcam. Ohna had it all figured out, as she always does. She knew she wanted to hire you, and she knew it would take more than money to get you.”

Nothing could surprise me anymore. “So what did the data tell you about me?”

“Oh my. You don’t really want to know, do you, Ms. Jester?”

“Archie,” I corrected.

“Archie, then.” Smile. She showed me into a lush, luxurious bedroom, dimly lit and huge, in which some of the latest and best models of SL sex machines were neatly arranged.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“Well, all right.” She picked up an octopus-looking contraption of fabric and plastic. “But then in return you must put this on.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the latest model of Ohna’s final accessory. It’s still in the development stage but apparently it looks very promising. Ohna told us to make sure you wear it so you get the full Better Than Real experience.”

“Yes. But what is it?”

“A neural link.”

I wasn’t surprised anymore. I don’t think I even blinked. It made perfect sense, and I felt like I should have seen it coming.

This was it. The end of the world, hanging from Beta’s perfect hand, dripping wires and straps and elastic.

The link was actually more like a fanny pack that buckled around my waist with the hardware in the small of my back and tape straps that wound down my thighs and kept tiny banks of nano-induction units pressed over certain nerves and nerve junctions in my spine, hips, and thighs. When in place, it had the look and feel of a weird and eccentric BDSM harness.

But really, I wasn’t paying that much attention. It was impossible to keep my attention off Beta. She removed her robe but was smart enough to leave the bikini in place, knowing the erotic power of strategic concealment, and the top of the garment strained under the weight of her gravid tits.

Her over-development struck me on some deep, biological level, tripping all these primal mating switches inside me, and giving me need to get inside her a subconscious nagging urgency. She was a female of my species at the very peak of sexual maturity, verging on the over-ripe. All her secondary and tertiary (and maybe even farther down) sexual characteristics were frantically signaling receptivity and her need to be deeply and copiously fertilized. Ohna was right: in addition to Beta’s obvious sexual charms, there were countless subconscious and subliminal signals speaking directly to my body telling me to get ready for action.

You might wonder at this point, as I did, whether I didn’t feel jobbed, manipulated, lied to, about to have fantasy sex with a fantasy image. Because I knew full well that in Real Life Beta could just as easily be a 68-year-old widowed grandmother with a goiter from Topeka, Kansas as the 20-year-old drama student from New York that she looked like.

But you know, I’d abandoned that kind of thinking years ago when I’d finally realized that Second Life was not an imitation of Real Life but something else entirely, where users didn’t disguise themselves with avatars, but instead chose avatars to represent them, to show what they would be if they could, expressions of their very souls. You don’t ask a soul what its real age is because all souls are ageless. And you don’t make a big deal about their real genders because gender now is a choice. The crippled, the hurt, the deficient, the deprived in body were reborn in Second Life shiny and new and just what they wanted to be. And if you couldn’t play Second Life from that point of view, you really didn’t understand it and you had no business being here.

So Beta—whoever she really was–finished wiring me up and told me she was going to turn on the link. I braced myself, ready for some short circuit or shock, but all there was, was a brief surge of tingly power through my body and a weird change in perception. I could suddenly feel the palms of my hands and my lips and face very clearly, as if they’d been energized, and this awareness trickled down to my chest and belly and rose up from my thighs to collide in my genitals and anus.

Beta looked at me with concern. “Are you okay, Archie? I have your sex settings up pretty high.”

“No,” I laughed. “No. This is great! Wow. This is fantastic!”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up a little—a voltage leak somewhere, probably—but the surge of energy in my package made me feel like an incipient superman. Or superMale. I felt potent and virile and horny as hell.

For all the excitement of being with Beta, I’d been having an awful lot of performance anxiety. I worried about getting the flag all the way to the top of the pole, so to speak.

But now, I stopped worrying.

My cock rose in a massive erection and blood thrummed through my veins. It rose, and kept on rising, well past the point where it normally is: an inch, an inch and a half, two inches bigger than normal, thick and hard.

“What the fuck–?”

Beta looked a little concerned. I looked down and what I saw confirmed what I felt. The head of my cock was behind my belt buckle.

“You’re sure?” she asked. “You’re okay?”

I laughed again. I only hope I didn’t sound as absolutely maniacal as I felt.

Beta took my hand and guided it to some small dials on the back of the link belt, but my eyes were trapped in in that lush dark cleavage valley between her tits.

“These dials here control your perceived size. This one controls both length and thickness, and this one hardness.”

“I know!” I said. “I can feel it. Crank ‘em, Beta!”

She giggled. “Silly! You’ll hurt me!”

“You said ‘perceived size’. Does that mean you feel it too?”

“Yes. I’m turning on my vaginal perceptors. They let my user feel you while she’s still at home in RL. I have an override switch in case you really get carried away, but I trust you. You’re not a woman-hater.”

I looked at her. “How do you know that?”

“From your data.” She looked at me from under those long lashes. “Am I wrong?”

“Wow. I don’t know. I never really thought about it. Yeah. I guess I’m not. A lot of guys are?”

“At your level of dominants, of yes. About fifty per cent. The dommier they are, the more likely they do it out of resentment and misogyny.”

“Wait!” I said. I wanted to move around a little and see if I shot of sparks or something like a mad monster, because that’s what I felt like, but no. No hum, nothing but that feel of electric potential.

“I know, she said. “It feels weird for a while.”

“Have you tried the links yourself?” I asked her.

“Oh yes. We’ve all had them on. But not for —you know.”

“Not for sex?”

“Ohna’s kept a close eye on us. She’s quite strict. So no. Not for that. But I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”

“And what else,” I asked. “What else do you know about me?”

She smiled. “Instead of telling you, why don’t you let me show you? I‘m rather excited myself.”

We looked at each other like two hormone-soaked teens for a moment, and then Beta turned away.

She very modestly shed her robe and reached behind her and untied the top of her bikini. I could see the fat side-bulges of her breasts suddenly appear on either side of her back as they fell free from the top. I started to throb.

Maybe just another half-inch? I thought, groping for that little dial.

“Don’t you have to wear a link too?” I asked her.

She smiled. “I’m just an avatar, Archie. My user’s wearing one in RL.”

Her user, her user…

“Who are you in Real Life?” I suddenly blurted out, regretting my words immediately. In one blab I lost all my hard-won perspective and reverted to being every noob who’d ever played SL, wanting his user to be her avatar. But I was dying to know.

A flashed me a coy smile over her shoulder as she slid her bottoms down over that seriously  magnificent high, tight ass, as slick and glabrous as two water balloons hung side by side, down those smooth and sinuous legs.  “Archie,” she admonished gently “you know as well as I that I don’t exist in Real Life.”

She turned and presented me with a full frontal of that incredible body and suddenly I didn’t give a fuck who she really was. She was Beta to me, and that’s all that mattered.

No shame, no modesty now. She was showing off what she had for me, bathing in the crazed heat of my gaze.

I went to her and embraced her. Hell, I grabbed her arms and pulled her to me, crushed her almost.

She whispered, trembling a little: “But you know what? I might not be real. And you might not be real. But the things we’re going to make each other feel? They couldn’t be more real. Only in Second Life. Oh Archie, take me?”

It was a question, a question! What a fucking crazy question! Her slim arms went around my neck and those magnificent breasts flattened against my chest and then we were kissing, my arms around her as she clung to me. I felt her nipples harden against my chest in a way I always thought a woman’s nipples should, but had never really experienced in life. But here with Beta, they were like little tire gauges, growing harder and longer under the pressure of her excitement and desire.

The kiss started out tentative because I didn’t know what to expect, either from her or from the neural link. But I felt her lips on mine, the pillowy pressure, the heat, the slickness and yielding softness. Holy shit, I thought, do ALL women’s lips feel so much like pussies? Beta’s did, I never would have noticed had all my senses not been in Code Red, trying to discern all of Ohna’s engineering as well as just enjoying Beta’s charms.

Her mouth open in hungry invitation. But overall, I was most aware of the maddening sensation of a woman giving herself in willing surrender. In a thousand little details of muscle tone and body heat and the growing slackness of her body and her kiss, I felt her giving up all resistance, all claim to autonomy, and ceding unconditional control of her body to me, to use as I desired.

For me, that moment of surrender is one of the most intense and devastating moments in all of sex, in all of life. For me, it’s why people do D/s and BDSM, playing with that moment of surrender, stretching it out basking in it.

Women know they’re beautiful. They know they’re desirable. They spend hours, days, fortunes, making themselves that way. The irony is, all that beauty and desirability is useless to them. They can’t access it themselves. They can only experience it at someone else’s hands, in the hungry touch of a lover, the feverish groping and squeezing and spanking and using, the violation and disrespect of their own powerful beauty by a man’s need to bring them down to the grimy earth where he lives, to make them willing sluts to his lust, every bit as filthy and depraved as he is.

Beta was draped on me like a rag, the strength leaving her body, somehow pulling me towards the bed while making me think I was doing it. Her soft lips were crushed against mine before she slid them away and concentrated on my lower lip, sucking and licking it and moaning, and then sinking her even white teeth into it to show me she wanted more, daring me to react, daring me to punish her.

My brain was still trying to work on several levels at once, trying to remain objective while sexual hormones just slashed through my system. Do all the Hot Botties act like this? How much of this passion is Beta, or Beta’s user, and how much just programming? Are all the Botties programmed to surrender like this? Or is that something they figured out is one of my greatest turn-ons?

I didn’t know. I still don’t. Do all men get as insanely turned on by that feeling of capitulation as I do? I don’t know that either. All I knew is that Beta had torn a page from my own private book of sexual desires and playing it to the hilt. And that brings out the dominating male beast inside me, the part usually locked up in my private closet. I filled my hand with one of Beta’s big tits and squeezed till the flesh bulged between my fingers. She whimpered, then moaned throatily and pushed her chest into my hand. I dug my other hand into that creamy ass so hard I know I left bruises. But that just drew a gasp of pleasure from her and another bite of my lip, telling me that was just what she wanted: that kind of force, that sense of being possessed.

I felt her tongue in my mouth, fluttering around like a bird in a cage, showing me what she wanted my cock to do inside her. Her little hand slid down, reaching for my crotch but I grabbed her wrist and stopped her.

“No,” I said. “You don’t touch me. This is about me enjoying you. You’ll get your turn later.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

I was shocked. I hadn’t played that game n years, that game of virtual bondage, but now the words rose instantly to my lips and I said exactly what I felt. I didn’t want her interfering or distracting me.

“Please, sir,” she whispered. “I just want to taste you! I want you in my mouth!”

The thought of what an engineered blow job might feel like thrilled me for an instant—the sight of my brutal thick cock stuffed into that beautiful mouth, the debasement of seeing saliva and pre-cum running from her nose and lips, her choking and twisting her head to get me down her gullet—but I denied her. I knew the SL sex routine as if it was a college cheer: foreplay-blow job-cunnilingus-sex. I wasn’t having any of it. I was determined to break any sequencing and make this as idiosyncratic as possible.

Meanwhile, this neural link had its prostate settings a little too high and my massive erection was leaking into my shorts like a faulty spigot, demanding to be sucked. Put I persisted.

“No. I need to be in you now! Get on the bed.”

She whimpered obediently and crawled onto the bed, ass up, nipples dragging on the coverlet, giving me a shot of the most amazing vagina I’d ever seen: neat, tidy, glistening with her lubricant and pink and shiny as a little girl’s cupcake. If there’d been candles around it, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

It wasn’t a real pussy. It was a man’s conception of one, as created by an artist who somehow had access to male fantasies, a neat portal into the unknown flanked by soft bubble-gum-colored bumpers, both exquisite and obscene.

But here the program had gotten me wrong. I like the biological wildness of a woman’s vagina. I like that it’s the place where her orderly beauty ends and this jungle of tangled need begins. But still, I had to stare, because it was like an anatomy diagram, all that mysterious topography smoothed out and diagrammed for easy identification. I grabbed her hips and held her and just stared until she whined in embarrassment and wiggled her ass as if trying to shake me loose.

“What baby?” she pouted. “You’re embarrassing me! Is something wrong? Don’t you like me?”

“Oh my God,” I breathed in disbelief, having no words with which to answer her. Instead I leaned forward and dragged my tongue from the hood of her clit all the way to the flower of her anus in one, long, broad-tongued lick, letting the taste and feel of her sex flush even more hormones into my over-saturated bloodstream.

She trembled, her pussy quivering visibly, a little primordial jellyfish, and a lewd strand of mucus-y lubricant slid from her hole and almost stretched to the bed before a sudden spasm made her shake her ass and send the strand slinging to the inside of her thigh. Feeling it, she clenched her ass and pussy and they winked at me. I’d say the even beckoned me, but we all know that’s just not possible. No. Just not possible.

I gave her a spank just because I had to, then flipped her over on her back and she fell with a little squeal of surprise. I crawled on top of her as she scootched up to arrange herself in anticipation.

“Beta, you’re just too damned perfect.”

But she was already lost in her world of anticipation. She moaned with excitement, and her fingers dug into the bed. And as soon as my cock made contact, she wrapped her arms and long sinuous legs around me and actually lifted herself off the bed, trying to pull me into her. I pushed her back down and got on my knees and guided my enhanced cock to her opening, then took a moment to raise myself up on my hands and survey this magnificent creature below me. She was part sex symbol, part real woman, part cartoon, part dream, all dissolving and blending into each other and slowly writhing, trembling against my cock. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted expectantly as she panted impatiently.

And staring down at her belly, I was amazed to see that my fixed gaze gradually caused her skin to become semi-transparent, so I could see inside her, see her vaginal canal, open, empty, and softly throbbing. I could even see her fallopian tubes and ovaries, where one egg hung precariously in cartoon magnification, about to burst from its follicle just in time to be drenched by the coming flood of semen I was about to release. I got goose bumps.

Her eyes opened, ocean blue and deep, with aching emptiness in the depths. “Please, baby. Please. It’s been weeks! Don’t tease me! Please?”

A moment to try and reorient myself as to who I was with and what I was doing, but it was all so bewildering, layers of reality and unreality merging and dissolving into each other till there was nothing left but the Urge. I pushed my cock into her.

“Ohhhh Goddd!” She arched sharply, her toes digging into the bed as her hips thrust up sharply to take me and she hung there suspended on her feet and the back of her head, quivering like a drawn bow string.

“Oh God, it hurts! “ she moaned. “It hurts! I didn’t know it would feel like this!”

Most of the nerves in the neural link went to service the cock I’d say, because I felt her heat and her soft tension, the inner quivering of internal muscles. She had a kind of slippery stickiness that was just perfect, and then her channel started to part for me, but with more thrilling stubbornness and resistance than a real woman, a slick tightness, like fucking into a closed fist coated in Vaseline. Beta wailed and her thighs trembled, then slammed shut against my hips, but there was no way she could stop me now.

I wasn’t going to stop. She always had the option of turning the link off it got too bad, meanwhile her cry of pain was wickedly gratifying, another sign of surrender and the price she’s pay for her paralyzing beauty. I had to remind myself that my cock was a good two inches longer than real life, and maybe an inch-and-a-half thick, a good 8 X 1 ½”, and it thrilled the fuck out of me. I pushed and she moaned, trembled, then stretched and started to relax as her fluids began seeping into her and easing my way.

She was engineered inside. I figured she would be, after the engineered nipples and external genitals. She wasn’t designed to feel real, but Better Than Real, and through my haze of pleasure I was dying to find out what that would mean. I figured she’d be designed be a man’s perfect dream fuck, but what did that mean to Ohna’s engineers and data analysts? Would she throb, vibrate, pulse? Spin?

I slid into her more easily now. There was a sphincter of stubborn muscle at her entrance that I’d never felt in real life, and it gripped me like an elastic ring. Further on was that cloying, maddening pussy softness and vulnerability. An exaggerated G-spot brushed the top of my glans and made her moan. And farther on she grew even tighter and more constricted, her walls bearing down on the head of my cock as if she was determined to make me cum right there, caught in her grip like a fire hydrant swallowed by a python.

Tight, tight, she was intimately tight there, so tight I could feel her breathing through her pussy, feel her heartbeat.

Her knees were up, her kneecaps almost in my armpits, trying to ease my way, but it was clear that Beta was out of Pussy before I was out of dick. I hit her cervix and she cried out and rolled her hips up, dug her nails into my shoulders and arched severely, lifting my ass into the air. I had no idea she had such strength, but fuck fever was on her now. To my shock her legs whipped around me and she locked her ankles behind my ass and pulled me deeper, till I bumped her limit again.

“Fuck, Beta! I can’t go any deeper!”

She mewled and pushed her cunt up at me. ‘No,” she gasped. “That’s more G-spit up there. They made us that way. Hit it! Hit it hard, baby Fuck me! Fuck I’m close. Fuck me!”

What do we want from the best fuck in the world? More sensation? Tighter pussy? Sexier partner?

No, I realized. No. She already fit so close that with every move I felt her whole vaginal canal following me, clinging to me as I moved in and out. That little sphincter rolled up and down my thick shaft like a rubber ring, closing off her pussy with a hermetic seal so snug that her overflowing juices had to squeeze out between the infinitesimal gap between cock and hole. Her pussy was alive. I could feel it squeezing me, milking me, even humming around me like I could feel the coursing blood.

I lifted myself up and looked down at her belly till the x-ray vision came back, and I could see her canal stretch tight as a glove around my cock, flexing and bending as I pumped in and out. The little cartoon egg had burst out in the commotion, and was now floating innocently down her right Fallopian tube like a picnic boat headed unknowingly for the edge of Niagara Falls.

But it was none of these things that excited me. It was Beta’s reactions and responses, her moaning and gasping and panting and twisting, the obscene and overwhelming pleasure she was taking from my cock’s mistreatment of her. The harder I fucked her, the more cruelly I used her, the more excited she became, the more open she became. I found myself fucking her like a crazed gold-miner, searching for something, digging, pushing in.

It was her I wanted. Her heart, her soul, her essence; her femininity and love. I needed her love and I needed her admiration. I wanted her regard and her desire for me and I had no idea how to get it from her other than to smash and grind and pump my cock into her pussy, grab her tits and ass and kiss her and lick her mouth.

I was not about to resort to tricks and “:techniques” like playing with her clit or pushing a finger into her ass or pussy, trying to make her cum. Somehow this was too honest for that kind of stuff. If I knew anything I knew that she wanted my real heart and emotions and not some stunts and manipulations that would drive her into a vaginal orgasm. No. I wanted that orgasm to come from her heart and soul and from the fusion of our two beings. From—dare I say it?—Love.

But climax came. She dug her nails into my ass and pulled me in, dug her stiletto heels into the backs of my legs, cried out and sunk her teeth into my shoulder as orgasms wracked her body one after another and her eyes rolled up sightless under her lids.

She came, shaking and trembling, her pussy slapping against me as her belly contracted in trembling, clenching spasms. Her ejaculate flooded from her pussy in sharp bursts and seeped out around my cock, wetting my balls and the bed below.

And that was it for me. Her pussy began an incredible and devastating series of contractions on my cock, milking it like a cow’s teat, with a rolling, squeezing, peristaltic motion, sucking the cum from me. It was something primal and biological, her body’s own reaction to a man’s ejaculation, thirsty and greedy for his cum and determined to suck it deep.

Beta grabbed my hair and pulled my mouth to hers where she kissed and bit my lips and whispered, “Do it! Do it! Cum in me! Please! Do it baby! Do it!”

And I did.

In all my various sexual adventures I’d always managed to orgasm. Some were mild, some were overpowering me, grabbing me and shaking me and leaving me limp. But never have I experienced what I experienced with Beta, of whatever it was I fucked that night. It was a feeling of fusion, of absolute oneness with her, where I could feel what I was feeling and what she was feeling as well, feel my cock inside me, spewing and throbbing and ejaculating. And this burning spiritual fire melted us together, and held us there molten as a new life was created. The experience left me shaken, trembling, and sobbing. For those few seconds I had felt heaven.

How would I ever feel it again?

 

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About Aiden Swain

Editor/Publisher, Humm Magazine: Journal of Cybersexuality

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