(Warning: This short story is profoundly NSFW.)
It’s another Saturday night and you’re tired of lying on the couch crying. Wallowing is officially over, you decide. You grab your headset and jack into the club.
You’re standing in a corridor lit purple by the strips of glowing pink and blue that run at ankle level. Straight ahead is the bar, lights and music pulsing in a heartbeat rhythm. The left doorway leads to the playrooms. The right leads to the wardrobe, where you can purchase pre-made and exclusive character customization options.
To continue into the bar, go to 2. For the playrooms, go to 3. For the wardrobe, go to 4.
In the wardrobe, you flick through your current purchases. They all feel too familiar, too well used. The exclusive options have always been overpriced, but fuck it. You deserve something new and shiny, baby, and you feel like looking fucking edible tonight.
To choose the midnight-blue suit shot through with gleaming threads that glitter like distant stars, go to 5. To choose the black leather pants that sweep your thighs with silver chains and make your ass look frankly fabulous, along with the almost-transparent shirt that wisps over your shoulders and arms like the lightest touch of bare skin, go to 6. To chicken out and go back to lying on the couch, because you’ll put up with anything to avoid having to face change, won’t you? go to 7.
Wearing your new leather pants and silver shirt, you walk down the corridor to the bar. It feels weird being back here, but it’s just as much your place as his; why should you be the one to stay away? You pause for a moment as the room opens out before you, an arena of beauty and possibility. Drinks and face paint and jewellery luminesce in the purple-tinged atmosphere. Men, women, and others crowd at the bars and linger at the standing tables. You’re not looking for anyone in particular. Of course you’re not.
To get yourself a drink to help you fucking relax a little, go to 8. To head for the dance floor so the world can appreciate your best assets, go to 9.
The club has your regular drink set as a default, but you override it for something pink and frothy that comes with a strawberry cut into a flower on a skewer across the glass. It goes to your head fast, and everything lightens, as if someone’s turned the gravity setting to less than a full gee.
To flirt with the robot bartender, because the club’s apparently been watching that new retro serial and is it weird that you find the play of lights on the matte silver surface of his exposed arms entrancing? go to 10. To head for the dance floor and find someone to work up a sweat with, go to 9.
As you make your way to the dance floor at the back of the club, the music changes from a moodstep classic to a straight-up dance inferno multilayered remix. You slip from the margins of the room into the crowd and raise your arms above your head and give yourself over to the beat.
The crowd is one joyous entity, one pulse in a hundred bodies, and you gyrate and shake and swing with it. You feel hands on your arms, hips close to yours, a touch to the small of your back, and you lean into them and fly.
Eventually the music spins into a low, slow number. In front of you, a short, pointy-eared guy with green hair grins and licks his bottom lip. Beside him, a woman with scarlet locs halfway to her waist lifts her hair from the back of her neck, smiles at you, and closes her eyes.
To dance with the woman with the locs, who is legitimately luscious even if women aren’t usually your lane, go to 11. To move closer to the guy with green hair and seriously nice shoulders, honestly you’d forgotten how much of a thing you have for shoulders, go to 12.
The guy with the green hair puts his hands on your hips and you rest your forearms on top of those shoulders, and as the music flows on, you sway together like a wave on the beach, so close that you can feel how he’s going to move before he does it. Drops of perspiration glitter at his hairline like a row of diamonds. He smells wonderful, and you can feel the space between you buzz as if the air molecules are charged with static energy. By the time the track ends you’re plastered against one another. Those new leather pants aren’t hiding anything, and you’re pretty sure the guy’s liking what he feels.
He stretches up to speak into your ear, and you can feel the line of his neck against your jaw. “I’ve got a room,” he says, halfway to a question, his warm of his breath making you shiver.
To follow the guy to his room, god, it feels like a year since you last got laid, go to 13. To keep dancing with the woman with the locs, go to 11.
As the two of you make your way through the crowd, you catch a glimpse of a familiar dark-haired figure by the bar. Your body electrifies, not in the fun way.
To brush your dance partner off and go order some flamboyant drink to prove that you’re completely over that guy at the bar and he can go fuck himself, go to 14. To keep following the guy with the green hair and just get fucking laid already, go to 15.
As the guy with the green hair leads you off the dance floor, you pull up his public screen to check him out. You’re hoping that his name isn’t something cringeworthy likes sexxxxx!y or do-me-69, because that would kill the mood right there, but it turns out to be hi-jamie.
The corridor to the playrooms is lined in lights of varying shades of blue, making it suggestive and intimate. The beat from the dance floor follows you, and it seems to tie everything together, matching the pace of Jamie’s steps and the cadence of your heart.
Jamie’s playroom is warm and simple, a big bed and thick rugs and two easy chairs and the lights turned low. He closed the door and leans back against it and pulls you to him.
You kiss him. He tastes subtly of mint and bourbon. He slides his hands down your back, curving around your ass, to the two matching rings on your hips where those silver chains are anchored. You jump as though they’re a live wire patched into your skin. He uses them to pull you closer, your crotch snug against his, and a circuit completes, shooting pleasure all up and down your body.
“You’re so hot,” he murmurs. He licks the vee of skin above the silver shirt’s first pearly button. “What are you into?”
It’s been so long that everything flashes through your mind. You want to fall to your knees for him, you want his hands to tease you until you can’t even beg for more, you want to bend him over and feel him come with your cock inside him.
To get on your knees and suck Jamie until he moans and pants and comes, go to 16. If you want him to stroke you into incoherence, go to 17. To see if he feels like being fucked into the mattress, go to 18.
“Hell, yeah, you can suck my cock,” Jamie says. He pushes a thigh between your legs and grinds his hips against yours, making your dick throb. “What kind do you like?”
You dig your fingertips into Jamie’s ass and nip the soft skin of his neck, forcing a gasp from him. The idea of choosing a cock appeals to you. You ask him to show you what kinds he has.
The two of you let go of each other with a little bit of effort, flushed and breathless. Jamie leads you over to a drawer built into the wall and pulls it open.
He’s got a good collection, a lot of custom ones. You’ve never been that much into this aspect of the club, but it’s clear that Jamie is, from the pointy ears and the green hair on down. Some people really enjoy having more choices than came with the body they were born into.
The dicks resembling tentacles are interesting. You imagine how the suckers would feel under your tongue. There’s another one with golden, iridescent scales. There are a range of sizes, some cut and some not, human dicks and some inspired by other members of the animal kingdom and some that are pure artful fantasy.
You ask if you can touch one. Jamie nods, and you run your finger up a column of clear glass with spirals of crimson within, curl your hand around it. Jamie swallows audibly.
To choose a tentacle cock, go to 19. To choose the cock with scales, go to 20. To choose the glass cock, go to 21.
The cock with the scales looks like a good size for you, a reasonable mouthful and beautiful to boot; you’ve always had a soft spot for glitz. You lift it from its velvet nest. Jamie sighs and leans his forehead against your shoulderblade.
You cradle the cock in your palms and bring it to your mouth. You run your lips along it. The scales are warmer than you expected, more flexible. It tastes a little like cinnamon.
Jamie is trembling. You turn to him and kiss him gently, circling your thumb on the head of his cock. He opens his lips and groans into your mouth. You wonder if he likes it this way, or if he prefers the cock to be attached to him.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” he says. “But I want to be naked with you.”
You slide one hand under his shirt and push it up. Jamie grabs it by the hem and pulls it off over his head.
There’s a tattoo across his clavicle and down between his nipples, cascading over his abdomen. It’s the same gold as his cock’s scales.
“It’s a mod,” he says, as you trace the curves of the tattoo with your fingertip. “Matches whatever dick I want.”
He’s gorgeous, and you tell him so. You trail your hand below the waistband of his grey trousers and pull the fastening open. The tattoo, you find, goes all the way down.
To back Jamie towards the bed and push him down onto it and press his body into it with yours, go to 22. To get him into the chair, go to 23.
Naked, Jamie allows you to push him into the nearest armchair. He watches you as you unbutton your shirt and slide it off. You hold his dick against the skin of your chest and rub its tip through the hair there. Jamie thrusts his hips, eyes never leaving yours. You wriggle out of the leather pants, the chains jingling as they pool on the floor. The armchair is wide, and you settle into it over Jamie, your knees to either side of his warm hips.
Jamie watches as you slide his cock between your lips. “Oh fuck,” he breathes. His eyelids flutter.
You enjoy sucking cock, love the contradiction of being on your knees and making a man go wild with need. Jamie writhes under you, head tilted back to expose his tender throat. You’ve made a good choice; the cock fits perfectly into your mouth, just long enough that Jamie can feel it when you swallow. He groans, stutters out half-words. The scales are a pleasant texture on your tongue. Jamie’s too distracted to do more than rest his hand on your own cock, and you rock against him, tantalizing yourself with thoughts of what else this golden cock might be able to do once Jamie’s satisfied.
You pull Jamie’s cock almost all the way out of your mouth and circle its blunt tip with your tongue. Jamie arches his back. “Oh–I’m–I’m close–I’m going to–”
To keep sucking Jamie’s cock and make him come, go to 24. To stop and make him wait instead, go to 25.
You push Jamie’s cock back into your mouth, along your tongue, slow and wet. Jamie’s entire body goes rigid. His cock ripples as he throws his head back and digs his fingers into the soft arms of the chair and cries out as he comes.
You suck him gently through it, though there’s conveniently nothing to swallow. When you withdraw his cock from your mouth, Jamie holds out his hand. You put his cock into it, and he reaches over to lay it gently on a small pillow on a table beside the chair.
“That was awesome,” he says. He tugs you down for a kiss. “What can I do for you now?”
If you want him to stroke you into incoherence, go to 17. To see if he feels like being fucked into the mattress, go to 18.
“Like this?” His hand circles your cock and slides up it slowly. He takes something from the table with his other hand, and suddenly his touch is slick and warm and makes your breath catch in your throat.
It feels sublime. You slowly rock your hips into the sensation of his hands, and plead with him to talk to you.
“Sure. What gets you going?”
To hear Jamie talk about how good it feels to have you hold him down and fuck him deep, go to 26. To have him describe the delightfully filthy things he can do with his collection of cocks, go to 27.
“The thing about having more than one cock is, you can go forever.” Jamie’s thumb circles the head of your dick. “You can do it all. I could do it all to you. Would you like that? I could give you another cock to suck, keep your mouth busy while I get you off.” You can feel Jamie watching your face. “Not just your mouth. I’ll bet I have a cock just the right size for your stunning ass. God, you look incredible in those pants, I almost didn’t want to take them off you. I’d spread you out on the bed and pull them down just enough for you to take it. Let you feel me fuck you both ways.” You can’t help moaning at the thought. His hand is moving faster. “I’d fill you up and I’d hold you down and jerk you off, come in your mouth and come in your ass and watch you come, make you come so hard, yeah, like that, just like that–”
Your skin dissolves into spangles and a shooting star fizzes up your spine and you come as if you’re flying apart, so overwhelmed by pleasure that you’re soundless. You shake and shudder and finally deflate into Jamie’s arms, where you rest your forehead against his shoulder, trying to remember how to breathe.
Go to 28.
Holy fuck, that was good for you.
Go to 29.
Jamie watches you get dressed. You lean down to where he’s sitting in the chair and kiss him again with affection.
“That was fun,” he says, and stretches. “Do you think I might see you here again?” You nod, and he runs an appreciative hand down the side of your leather pants.
You feel warm and relaxed and pleasantly buzzed and not yet ready to be completely alone again. You’ll go have a drink, you think; you’ll sit anonymously among the crowd, listen to the music, watch the parade of beautiful bodies fill the night with joy and pleasure.
You’re walking down the corridor to the bar when you see a dark-haired figure coming towards you.
He stops. You stop. You look at one another.
“Hi,” he says.
He looks good. No bags under reddened eyes, no hair left too long without showering, no clothes gone baggy because he hasn’t been able to force food down. Of course, you’re only looking at his club face. And he’s only looking at yours. Masks and costumes. Maybe that was a lot of the problem.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
You shrug and say something inane about work.
“Yeah, same here. I, uh.” He swallows. “I didn’t expect to–” His voice thins. “It’s good to see you.”
You bite down on your tongue, and say nothing. It’s so difficult, you think you might stop breathing.
“God, I miss you.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Could we–do you think we could have a drink together? Do you think we could try again?”
To have a drink in the club with the man who lied to your face and betrayed your trust and left you in pieces, go to–actually, no, that’s a terrible idea, there’s no choice here. You know there’s no choice here.
You walk past him and into the bar. You order an extravagant drink with orange foam and multicoloured ice cubes and a rim frosted with sugar. You sit, feeling the heartbeat of the music through the floor, and wonder what you should do next.
When you finish your drink, go to–what number are you at now, 30? Go to 30. Go to 31. Feel the possibilities that you’d turned away from arise and unfold in front of you, new colour blooming in a world that you’d feared would always be grey. Go to 50, go to 200, go to 16,497. Go to any of them, go to all of them. Go wherever takes your fancy, because it’s another Saturday night, and you’re finally done with crying.