I Came Back to the Game and She Was Still Waiting for Me on the Bench

I met her in one of those virtual worlds where people invent new bodies for themselves. I went in to write, almost always in the early hours, using the excuse of unwinding for a while before getting back to whatever chapter I was working on. She went in to play at being something else.

Her name was Lúa, or so her avatar said: a girl with long pigtails, a lilac dress, and white shoes, bouncing around the central square as if she were stepping on glass. The first time we spoke was because I sat down on the bench where she was drawing something invisible in the air.

—Careful, you’ve stepped on my dragon —she said, with that childlike, slightly dragged-out voice she would keep forever, both in and out of the game.

I played along. I apologized to the dragon, thanked her for letting me share the bench, and, without quite knowing how, we ended up talking for two hours. She was twenty-two, almost my age, and lived in another city, far enough away that meeting in person felt like a lab experiment. She said things like “I made myself pretty for you today” or “are you going to scold me if I misbehave?” and I didn’t know whether to laugh or whether that was exactly what I wanted to hear.

That first night we agreed on the important thing: nothing serious. I didn’t want a relationship, neither did she. If something happened, it happened. If not, we’d keep being two avatars crossing paths in the square.

***

Things happened.

During the following weeks, Lúa always logged in at the same time. If I was ten minutes late, she waited for me still on the bench, hands in her lap, like a doll in a display case. I forced myself not to be late.

We talked about everything. About books, her nightmares, the exact color of the polish she’d just put on her real nails. Sometimes, when we were alone in a private room, her voice would deepen. She’d tell me what she was really wearing in her room, away from the avatar. An old T-shirt, no bra. Cotton panties with little pictures on them. Sometimes nothing.

—Ask me —she’d murmur.

And I asked. I asked if she was wet, and she’d give a soft laugh before answering yes, soaked, that she’d been like that since she saw my name light up in the list of people online. I asked if she’d already slid a finger inside, and she told me how deep, and how her cunt tightened around it when she thought about my voice.

I learned how to guide her with my voice, how to tell her exactly where to put her fingers and at what rhythm. I’d ask her to spread her legs over the bed, to lick her fingers first so they’d slide in better, to run them over her nipples and tell me how hard they got. I’d tell her to rub her clit in small circles, slowly, not to put anything inside until I said so. I heard her breathing harder, letting out half-finished words, laughing at her own panting. “I’m dripping,” she confessed, “my hand is sticky, the whole room smells like me.” I’d clench my thighs in my chair and ask her to suck her fingers, to clean them with her tongue so they’d come back even slicker to her cunt. I’d tell her to fuck herself with two fingers, curling them upward, searching for that spot that made her arch her back. She always finished the same way: with a long sigh and a “thank you” that sounded like a little girl who’d just come. I’d stay quiet for a while, lit up, with my hand inside my pants and not quite able to come, because I kept that for myself.

***

Then I stopped logging in.

I had a book half-written, readers waiting for chapters, and a back that was starting to bend from so many sleepless nights. I’d fallen into what I called vampire hours: sleeping by day, writing by night, eating whenever my body remembered to. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself: raccoon eyes, skin the color of the ceiling, sternum bones sharper than ever. I was sick without being sick, exhausted with myself.

Before I disappeared, I warned her. One afternoon, in our usual private room, I explained that I needed a month, maybe two. That I’d come back. That she should remember the deal: nothing serious, no promises.

—Okay —Lúa said, in that voice that always sounded like “okay” even when it meant something else inside.

I closed the session and focused on the book. The weeks went by fast. When I finished the big block of chapters, I slept for thirty-six hours straight. When I woke up, the first thing I did was put on the visor.

***

I had forty-seven messages from her.

They started out softly. “How’s the book going?” “I thought of you today.” “I put on the yellow dress you like.” Then they shifted tone. “Are you still alive?” “Was the work thing a lie?” “I don’t care, seriously, but answer.” The last ones had no text: just screenshots of her avatar sitting on the empty bench, one after another, at different hours, like evidence of a small crime.

I found her online. Same square, same bench, same dress. I sat down beside her without saying a word.

—You have no right —she said, without turning around.

—I know.

—Don’t tell me you know. That makes it worse.

I asked her to come into the private room. It took her a long minute to stand up from the bench. When she did, she did it slowly, as if the dress weighed her down.

In the room, the light was warm, fake, perfect. Her avatar stood in front of mine, arms crossed. We had agreed on nothing serious and this was, exactly, something serious.

—I told you I’d come back —I began.

—I didn’t believe you.

—Well, here I am.

—Too late.

But she didn’t disconnect. That was what mattered. She was angry, yes, but she was still there, with her lilac hair and her tightened chin, and I knew what it meant that she was still there.

—Take off the visor —I said.

—What?

—Take off the visor for a second. I want to talk to you, not your doll.

She went quiet. On the other side, I heard the sound of straps being loosened. A different breath. When the voice came back, it was lower, more adult.

—There.

—What are you wearing?

—Don’t start.

—I’m asking seriously.

She let out a long sigh. I heard it in my headphones as if she were three centimeters from my ear.

—An old hoodie. Nothing underneath. I was going to sleep.

—Nothing underneath? —I repeated.

—On top. I’m wearing panties. The white ones with the pink trim, the ones I sent you in a photo.

I remembered those panties very well. I’d looked at them so many times I knew exactly where the trim was sewn, and I also knew how her cunt showed beneath the cotton when she sat with her legs crossed.

—Lie down —I said.

—I’m not in the mood.

—Lie down, Lúa.

There was a silence. Then the sound of a mattress dipping. A sheet shifting into place. A breath, a little deeper.

—Done.

—Arms up?

—Arms up.

—Pull up the hoodie.

Another pause. Then the sound of fabric dragging over skin.

—Up to my neck —I said.

—Up to my neck.

—Are your nipples hard?

—What do you think?

—I want you to tell me.

—Yes. They’re hard. My nipples got stiff the moment I heard you. They hurt, they’re so hard.

—Pinch them —I asked. —Both at once. With two fingers, hard, like I was biting them myself.

I heard her obey. A short moan slipped through her teeth.

—Harder —I insisted. —Until it hurts and you have to tell me.

—You’re hurting me —she whispered, and there was a smile in her voice.

—Good. Now pull on them. Stretch them toward the ceiling. Make your breast lift up off your chest.

I heard her suck in a sharp breath. I closed my eyes behind the visor. I forgot the square, the avatars, the forty-seven messages. I could hear her. That was enough.

—One hand —I said. —Whichever you want. Start over the waistband of your panties, slowly. Down over your belly. Run your fingers over your mound, don’t put them in yet.

I heard her obey. The faint rustle of cotton. A small “hm” between her teeth.

—I’m soaked —she murmured. —You can see the wet bulge outside my panties.

—Show me with your fingers. Press there, on the bulge, with your palm. Like you’re hugging yourself. Like I’m hugging you with my hand over it.

—This is unfair —she murmured.

—I know.

I guided her slowly, carefully, with that low voice she said tickled her from the inside. I told her to put two fingers in her mouth, to suck them well, to make them slick with her own saliva before lowering them. She obeyed. I heard her suck, heard the wet sound of her fingers leaving her lips, and then the tiny silence of those same fingers sliding down her belly.

—Now —I said—. Put your hand inside your panties. But don’t touch your clit yet. Circle it. Run your fingers over your lips, open them up, feel how wet you are.

—I’m going to get everything dirty —she murmured.

—Good.

I asked her to describe what she felt. She described it like a girl who doesn’t want to admit what she’s doing: in fragments, embarrassed, with broken words. “It’s really hot,” she said. “It opens by itself. I can slide a finger in without pushing, it slips right in.” I liked it better that way.

—One finger in —I said. —Just one. Slowly, all the way. And hold still. Don’t move yet.

I heard her moan for the first time in earnest, unfiltered, without nervous laughter. A low, throat-deep moan that sank into my chest.

—It’s in —she whispered. —I’ve got it in.

—How does it feel?

—Tight. My cunt is squeezing the finger. Like it doesn’t want to let it out.

—Take it out slowly. Halfway. And put it back in.

She started fucking herself with one finger, obeying the rhythm I set with my voice. After a while, I told her to add the second. I asked her to curl her fingers upward, searching for that rough spot that drove her crazy, and with her thumb to make small circles on her clit. I heard her bite something, maybe a knuckle, maybe the sheet. I heard her say my name in a low voice, the one she almost never used, and something tightened in my throat that wasn’t desire.

—Slower still —I asked, even though she was barely listening anymore. —I want it to last. I want to hear you beg.

—Please —she said, and “please” in her mouth was almost a new name.

—Please what.

—Please let me come. I can’t take it anymore. My hand is a mess. I’m dripping all over the sheets.

—Not yet. Take your fingers out. Show them to me, even if I can’t see you. Suck them. Tell me what you taste like.

She pulled them out. I heard it. I heard the sticky sound, the broken breathing, and then the soft sound of her mouth closing around her own fingers.

—I taste like me —she said, clumsy-tongued. —Like me and what you’re doing to me.

—Good. Now back again. Three fingers this time. And your thumb on your clit, fast. As fast as you can.

I let her take control in the last few minutes. I told her to imagine me watching her from the edge of the bed, my hand resting on her thigh, seeing her fuck herself for me, waiting for the moment I’d move her hand away and put my tongue between her legs, lick up everything, leave her trembling. I heard her breathing as if she were climbing stairs. I heard her let out a “I’m coming” that was almost a sob, and then stop breathing altogether.

When she came, it wasn’t with the usual doll-like sigh. It was with a dry, short sob, a long spasm that shook her voice for almost half a minute, and then a silence longer than any other.

—Are you okay? —I asked.

—I’m angry with you.

—I know.

—You’re not done.

—Tonight isn’t my turn.

—That’s not true.

I smiled in the darkness of my room. I realized I was close too, my hand stuck inside my pants for ages, cunt soaked and clit swollen, barely daring to move, just from hearing her. But I wanted to leave her something, a small victory, a debt of mine she could collect another day, in person, with her mouth.

—Next time —I told her— I want to do it in person. I want to eat your cunt until you beg me to stop.

She went very quiet. Far away, I heard the sound of a tap running or a train passing by her window.

—Seriously?

—Seriously. I’ll buy the ticket tomorrow if you say yes.

It took her a while to answer. When she did, her voice was the square’s voice again: high, childish, with a hint of laughter.

—I’m going to have to make myself very pretty.

—You’re already pretty.

—You haven’t seen me.

—I heard you come. That’s enough.

I turned off the visor without waiting for an answer. I stayed a while in the darkness of my room, face hot and hands still sticky on my knees, thinking about an empty square with an invisible dragon and a girl with lilac hair waiting for me on a bench that no longer existed.

Tomorrow I’d buy the ticket. Tonight, for the first time in many weeks, I’d sleep.