My Lesbian Encounters on a Video Game App

Two years ago, when I was still in my final year of high school and my life plans were crystal clear—technical degree, job, independence—I installed a life simulation game on my phone. It was one of those games where you create your character, decorate your virtual house, and can interact with other players in real time. Something like The Sims, but online and with an integrated messaging system.

I didn’t install it to meet anyone. I installed it because I was bored.

For the first few weeks I only talked about the game mechanics: which decoration boosted style points the most, how many hours it took to unlock a certain expansion, whether it was worth spending virtual coins on the new furniture collection. Unimportant stuff. But the community was active, and there was something about that digital space that felt easier to me than the usual dating apps. The girls who played weren’t there looking for a partner. Or at least not explicitly.

That was what put me at ease.

I started paying attention to the profiles. There was everything: girls my age, some older, some living in the same city and others in countries I hadn’t even been able to place on a map. Some had photos of themselves at music festivals, with dyed hair in bright colors or tattoos peeking above the shoulder. Others used avatars and never showed their faces. But in the messages, in the way they wrote, in the moments when they sent a voice note at midnight with a laugh that sounded like they were alone and in the mood to talk, it was easy to guess who they were.

With some, the conversation never went beyond the superficial. With others, though, something slowly started to heat up.

I was always clear when that moment came. If the conversation started getting personal, if the messages came later and stretched longer than necessary, I said it without overthinking it: I’m not looking for a relationship, I have other priorities right now, but if you want to hook up and fuck and see what happens, I can be available for that.

Most of them took it well. Some didn’t.

***

Valentina was the first one who made me understand that being honest from the start doesn’t always avoid trouble.

She was twenty-one, studied graphic design, and lived forty minutes away by subway. For three weeks we messaged every day. First about the game, then about our lives, then about things neither of us had told anyone in a long time. She had a quick intelligence I liked, and a way of joking that made time pass without my noticing.

I explained what I was looking for in the second week. She told me that was fine, that she wasn’t looking for anything serious either.

We met on a Saturday afternoon at a bar downtown. She arrived in a dark green dress and greeted me with two kisses as if we’d known each other forever. We spent two hours talking, drinking beers, and at some point, when she leaned over to reach something on the table, I noticed her neckline was low and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits stood out against the fabric every time she breathed. When she told me her apartment was three blocks away, there was nothing more to add. We paid and left.

The moment she closed the apartment door she shoved me against the hallway wall and shoved her tongue into my mouth with a hunger that made it obvious she’d already arrived at the bar decided. One hand squeezed my tit over the dress, the other grabbed my ass and pressed me against her hip. I kissed her back just as hard, bit her lower lip, and slipped my hand under her dress, up her thigh until I confirmed she wasn’t wearing panties either.

“You little bitch,” I said against her mouth.

“I wanted to travel light,” she answered, laughing.

I pushed her all the way to the living room sofa, knelt between her legs, and lifted her dress up to her waist. Her pussy was already soaked, glossy, with lips swollen from hours of holding on to that decision. I buried myself between her thighs without hesitation, licking her from below up to her clit with a long pass that made her arch and let out a sharp moan. She tasted like salt, wine, and that raw smell only a hot pussy has, and I ate her like I’d been hungry for three weeks, parting her lips with my fingers to get deeper in.

“Deeper, fuck,” she panted, grabbing my hair and pushing my face harder against her.

I slipped two fingers inside without warning. She was so wet they went in all the way with one push, and I started fucking her with my hand while I kept sucking her clit. Valentina opened her legs as wide as she could, lifted her hips against my mouth, and let me do it. I added a third finger when I felt her tense, curling them against the spot that made her let out a muffled cry. I could hear her moaning louder and louder, repeating “yes, yes, like that, don’t stop,” and I picked up the pace until I felt her pussy clench around my fingers and she came, soaking my hand and chin.

When I lifted my face to look at her, she was already pulling her dress off over her head. She hadn’t even caught her breath and she already wanted more.

She dragged me to the bedroom without giving me a second to rest. She ripped my clothes off with a practiced efficiency, threw me onto the bed, and settled over me in sixty-nine. She buried my face between her thighs again while she sank her mouth into my pussy and started eating me with a technique that made me close my eyes and arch my back. I grabbed her ass with both hands, spreading her open, and went back to using my tongue on her while I ran my thumb over her asshole, pressing without actually slipping it in.

Valentina moaned so hard I felt her vibrate against my clit. Her tongue got faster, dirtier. She sucked me like she wanted to leave me dry, alternating long licks with short sucks that ripped out an orgasm I’d been holding in for weeks. I came in her mouth while she kept eating me, and a minute later I felt her come for a second time over my face, releasing hot juices that ran down my cheeks and onto my neck.

We stayed like that for a while, panting, not quite separating. Then she collapsed beside me and kissed me with both of our tastes mixed in her mouth.

We did it again before I fell asleep, this time with her riding my thigh, rubbing her pussy against my skin while I squeezed one tit and bit her nipple until it turned red. She came with her forehead resting against my neck, without making a sound, just breathing fast. By the time we finally lay still it was nearly four in the morning and my body felt wrecked in the best possible way.

The problem came afterward.

The messages after that changed tone. Valentina started asking about my weekend plans, sending photos of what she was eating, writing things like “hey, did it happen to you too that after yesterday you kept thinking about it?” It wasn’t aggressive, but it was exactly what I had said I didn’t want.

I told her carefully. She understood it, at least on the surface. But the messages stayed too frequent for another week, until I asked for space more directly.

After that we never spoke again.

I don’t regret what happened with Valentina. I regret, maybe, waiting too long to set the boundary back in place. But I learned something useful: clarity at the beginning doesn’t exempt you from having to repeat it later.

***

Camila joined the game in May, when I’d already been in the community for months and had a clear idea of how everything worked.

Her profile didn’t have a photo. Just an avatar with black hair and a three-line description saying she liked interior design, cats, and “people who don’t waste time.” The last part made me laugh, and I sent her a message saying so.

She replied in ten minutes with a “good to know I made you laugh, because I didn’t have much else to go on with that profile.”

That’s how we started.

We talked for two weeks. Camila was twenty-three, worked in a craft workshop, and had been living alone since she was nineteen. She was direct in a way that felt natural, not performative. When I asked if she’d ever met up with anyone from the game, she took less than a minute to answer: yes, twice, and both times had been experiences she didn’t regret.

I asked her if she was bisexual.

“I’m whatever I like at any given moment,” she said. “And right now, I like you.”

The tension that had been growing little by little became obvious that night. The messages got longer, more specific, less about the game. She asked me things nobody asks me in a first conversation. I answered everything. At two in the morning I asked her if she wanted to meet up.

“When?” she wrote.

“This week.”

“Tomorrow,” she answered.

***

Camila lived in a small apartment in the old neighborhood, fourth floor, no elevator. I arrived at eight with a bottle of wine she hadn’t asked for but that seemed like the right thing. She opened the door barefoot, wearing dark jeans and a cotton T-shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her black hair was straight and her expression wasn’t nervous. It was more like someone who already knows how the night is going to end and has no problem with it.

“The wine was a good idea,” she said, and let me in.

The apartment was exactly how I’d imagined it: books piled everywhere, plants in the window, a work table with half-dry ceramics. We sat on the sofa with our glasses and talked for a while about nothing important. It was a way of letting ourselves relax, I guess. Or of checking whether what had worked in messages would also work in person.

It did.

When she set her glass down on the side table and turned toward me, I already knew what was coming. She looked at me for a second before doing anything, as if asking. I moved toward her before she even finished forming the question.

The first kiss was calm. One of those kisses where there’s still some hesitation, where two mouths are recognizing each other before deciding how much pressure to use. But it didn’t stay like that for long. Camila put her hand on the back of my neck with a firmness that made it clear there was nothing tentative about what she was doing. Her other hand slid down my chest, squeezed one tit over my T-shirt, then went under it, looking for my bare skin.

I liked that. I liked it a lot.

We moved toward the bedroom without rushing, without the kind of urgency that sometimes makes first encounters clumsy. She knew what she was doing. She took off my T-shirt slowly, looked at me for a moment with an expression that wasn’t evaluative but appreciative, and then ran her mouth over my left shoulder with a slowness that made me close my eyes.

“Stay still for a second,” she said.

I stayed still.

What followed was methodical in the best sense of the word. Camila wasn’t in a hurry. She unclasped my bra with her fingers and let the fabric fall calmly, as if she wanted to see every reaction on my face. She stared at my tits for a full second before lowering her head and taking one nipple into her mouth, sucking slowly while she ran her thumb over the other. She moved down my neck, bit my collarbone lightly, and then kept going with wet kisses across my chest, stopping at my nipples with a dedication that made me arch my back and let out a moan I hadn’t expected so soon. Her hands traced my waist, hips, ass, squeezing just hard enough to make it clear she was measuring me and enjoying every curve with total shamelessness.

When she took off my jeans and underwear, there was no solemnity and no shame. Only that dirty, precise attention of someone who knows another body is best explored with patience. She knelt in front of me, parted my legs with both hands, and looked at my pussy for a full second before doing anything, as if she wanted to memorize what was in front of her.

“You’re soaking,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“I’ve been thinking about this for two weeks,” I answered.

She laughed against my thigh and pressed her mouth to where I was already wet. She licked slowly at first, parting my lips with her tongue, then hungrier, alternating the tip of her tongue over my clit with firm sucks that stole my breath. I grabbed the edge of the bed because my whole body started trembling. She slipped her tongue inside me, fucking me with it while holding my hips so I wouldn’t get away, and went back to my clit to suck it with a suction that almost made me come right there.

“Like that, don’t move,” she murmured, and the tone of her voice turned me on more than the tongue did.

I put my hand in her hair, not pushing, just to keep her close. She noticed and didn’t change what she was doing. She slid two fingers inside me while still licking my clit, curling them inward until she found the spot that made me moan louder. She moved deeper between my thighs, held me by the hips, and kept eating my pussy with a steadiness that slowly took me apart from the inside. When she noticed I was on the edge, she let out a short laugh against my skin and increased the pace of her fingers and tongue until the orgasm hit me all at once, hot and violent, leaving me breathless and shaking.

After that it was my turn.

Camila lay back and let me do what I wanted. I took my time too, because I liked looking at her. I lifted her T-shirt all the way up, lingered on her tits, first with my fingertips, then with my mouth, sucking her nipples until they turned hard while she moaned under me. She had tattoos on the right side I couldn’t see with her clothes on, and at some point I got distracted tracing them with my tongue before picking up where I’d left off. She laughed a little. She didn’t complain.

When I pulled down her jeans and underwear, I found her soaked. The fabric of her panties was stuck to her pussy from how wet she was. I parted her legs and settled between them, first with my hand, testing her wetness with two fingers that went in without resistance, then with my mouth, because I wanted to watch her lose control little by little. The smell of sex had already filled the room and I liked that mix of wine, sweat, and hot skin. I licked her from below, going over her lips one by one, sucking her clit until it was swollen and red. Camila grabbed the back of my neck, made me go up and down, asked me in a broken voice not to stop, and I kept going, sucking and fucking her with three fingers at once, until I felt her tense under my mouth and come with a long moan, clamping my head between her thighs. I sucked my fingers in front of her, looking her in the eyes, and saw her bite her lip.

After that we kissed again, with wet mouths and both our tastes mixed together. Camila got up for a moment, went to the nightstand drawer, and came back with a black leather harness and a thick dark silicone dildo, already marked by use. She strapped it on without saying a word, with the ease of someone who does it often, and the image hit my stomach in a way I hadn’t expected: her naked, still with my mouth’s red marks on her tits, tightening the straps around her hips with that cock pointing at me.

“Come here,” she said.

I knelt at the edge of the bed and sucked it without being asked. I know silicone can’t feel anything, but the expression on her face when she saw me take it all the way into my mouth was worth it. She grabbed my hair and started moving it, fucking my mouth slowly, looking at me with a calm that was more obscene than any thrust.

“That’s how you get it nice and wet for me,” she murmured.

I pulled it out of my mouth with a wet sound and looked at her.

“Put it in me already.”

Camila turned me with surprising ease and lay me on my back, opening my legs with a confidence that left no room for doubt. She settled over me and slid it in slowly, watching my face as she entered me centimeter by centimeter, as if she wanted to savor the exact moment my breath broke. The cock was thick and it took me a little at first, though I was so wet it ended up going in all the way. When it was fully inside, she paused for a second, buried to the hilt, letting me feel it completely.

“You like it like this?” she asked, voice low.

“Slower first,” I said, almost out of breath.

She smiled and started moving with a firm sway, slow at first, then deeper, hitting with her hips so that every thrust pulled a moan out of me. Her hands held my wrists against the bed. I watched her lean over me, hair falling across her face, jaw clenched, tits bouncing with the rhythm, and thought there was nothing soft about her, and no need for there to be. Every movement was pure cunt and control. She brought one of my hands down to my clit and started rubbing it with her thumb while she kept fucking me, and I felt like my bones were going to fold.

“You’re a beautiful little slut like this,” she told me in my ear. “All open for me.”

I bit her shoulder in answer.

When she changed positions it got worse, in the best way. She put me on my side, bent one leg against my chest, and kept fucking me from behind, going deeper, rubbing the exact spot that made me lose my mind. I asked for more, harder, deeper, and she answered by putting two fingers in my mouth to shut me up while she kept pounding me from behind, the wet sound of the cock going in and out, the sound of our bodies crashing together, filling the whole room. I was soaked, sensitive, trembling, with the sheets already smelling like sex, and even so I still wanted more. I sucked her fingers like they were her cock and heard her let out a low growl.

Camila changed my position again at the edge of the bed, made me kneel with my ass in the air and my face against the mattress, and took me from behind with one hand on my waist and the other buried in my hair, fucking me hard while forcing me to hold myself up. The rhythm got rougher and rougher, more animal. The mattress creaked, the plants in the window shook with every blow, and I couldn’t think of anything except the pressure of the cock going all the way in, the friction against my clit when she brought her hand back down to rub it, the way she was driving me to the edge again. I felt the thumb of her other hand press against my asshole, not going in, just pressing, and the extra sensation ripped a cry out of me.

“Come for me,” she panted against my nape. “Come on, I want to feel it.”

I came with a clarity I rarely have on my own. One of those orgasms that comes slowly and stays, with my pussy clenching around the cock and a long moan I couldn’t control.

Camila didn’t stop. She kept moving, fucking me even faster, until I felt her tense too, digging her nails into my hip. She pulled the cock out for a second, tore off the harness with a rare urgency, and ground her pussy against my ass, rubbing her clit against my skin until she came hot, leaving her juices sliding down the back of my thigh.

She collapsed beside me, still trembling, chest rising and falling fast. I collapsed too, face down, with my pussy throbbing and my face buried in the sheet that smelled like both of us.

Afterward, both of us panting, we stayed silent for a moment, listening to the room settle around us.

“That was good,” she said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

***

I stayed until after midnight. Before I left, we did it again, more lazily, her lying on her back and me on top rubbing against her thigh while we kissed, two slow orgasms that came almost without warning. Then we drank the rest of the wine, talked about unimportant things, and when I left I said goodbye with a brief kiss at the door.

In the days that followed we sent each other a few messages. Without the frequency of before, without the weight of someone expecting something. It was an easy conversation, with no subtext. We talked about things in the game, about something that had happened to her at the workshop, about a movie we’d both seen.

After that, the frequency naturally started to drop, the way water does when there’s nothing left.

I kept talking to Camila sporadically for a few months. We never met again, not because anything bad had happened, but because neither of us suggested it and we both knew why. It had been exactly what it needed to be.

The game remained my way of meeting girls that year. There were other conversations, some that went nowhere, one or two that didn’t. Each one worked on its own terms.

What I learned from that period isn’t just about sex, even though sex was part of it. It’s about knowing what you want and saying it without apologizing. About understanding that something temporary isn’t any less real than something permanent. About the fact that one single night, fucked properly, is worth more than months of something that doesn’t convince you.

I finished high school. I started my technical degree. I kept going with my plans.

And every now and then, when the game notified me that someone new had sent a friend request, I looked at the profile before answering.

I never accepted blindly.