It’s another day where I wait for him.
I sit and fiddle with buttons while I scroll through the feed filtered straight to my brain. News items and sensationalist pieces run past the scanners in my vision. I pay them no mind. After all, they’re just things that will be forgotten once I’m out of the simulation.
Then I see something. A flash of an image. It’s gone before I can capture it, but I saw it regardless. I wish I could have glimpsed what it meant. Alas. It’s gone now.
Alleluia.
My name, voiced by a faceless entity, comes to me through the neural link in my brain. I shift my legs uneasily as I lay back in my bed. That voice does things to me. Its cadence speaks to me when nothing else can.
Even though I know it’s just an illusion from the Network, I relish every time I brush nodes with the God in the Machine.
Yes. Go ahead. The voice, I imagine, is taunting. Do what needs to be done.
The voice is cold. It’s not one of love or compassion. It’s devoid of all emotion.
But something about it lights a fire within me. If that voice belonged to a lover, I would get down on all fours for him before he plunged into me from behind. Because the caresses would be worth it. Every touch would be worth it.
This is all digital, though, through the link in my head. If this voice belongs to a real person, he hasn’t revealed himself through the Network. I just call him a god because I don’t know what else to name him.
Before I can think better of this charade, I press my fingertips to the middle of my open legs. A soft moan of pleasure falls from my lips as I begin to stroke myself little by little, just exploring. But in the back of my head is this invisible man—this god who’s plagued me—because he’s all I can think about night and day as if I’m a mad thing.
In this world devoid of that thing once called Love, pleasure is something we all chase. But we get it from videos or self-stimulation now. Not the joining of bodies. People seem to have lost those sensations—those attractions—to one another as if they prefer fantasy above all else. After all, what reality can compete with a concoction born from the senses?
Even so, I give in to this instinct to give myself some spark of meaning.
Good. The voice sighs. You’re getting there.
Who are you? I whisper through my neural link.
But the voice—the God in the Machine, as I still call him in jest—just chuckles. You’re insatiable.
My climax comes in a wave, spasms coursing through me in gentle tides.
Then I close my eyes.
You’re amazing.
I’m so lost in the afterglow of pleasure that I don’t know if the words are his or mine.
Spicy!🌶️
You're going to give Zuckerberg new ideas with this :) Thanks for sharing!