It started with a single click at 11:47 p.m. on a Thursday that had already gone sideways—work emails piling up, a fight with my roommate over dishes, the kind of day that makes you want to disappear. I opened the updated list, picked a scene at random, and the world dissolved. The headset hummed to life, and suddenly I was barefoot on warm marble in a desert palace straight out of a fever dream. Silk curtains billowed in a breeze I could feel through the rig’s hidden fans; the air carried frankincense, read it now rosewater, and something darker—raw desire. Four women circled me, their skin tones ranging from honey to midnight, each draped in translucent veils that caught the torchlight like liquid gold. The haptics vest pressed against my chest with every heartbeat they shared through the NeuralSync. One knelt, her breath hot on my thigh; another traced my jaw with fingers that felt impossibly real. click to try The audio was a layered symphony—soft laughter, the rustle of fabric, the wet sound of lips meeting skin. When they moved as one, the rig’s motion base tilted me back onto a mountain of pillows, and the sleeve on my cock began a slow, deliberate pulse that matched the rhythm of their hips. I lost track of time, of self, of everything except the crescendo building in my spine. The climax hit like a sandstorm—warm, overwhelming, endless. I came so hard the headset slipped; when I pulled it off, my real room felt foreign, the palace still flickering in my peripheral vision.

The next night I chased a different high. The list had refreshed overnight, and I found myself in a rain-drenched cyberpunk rooftop garden, neon kanji bleeding into puddles that reflected a violet sky. The model was a hacker with chrome arms and a cock that glowed faintly under her skin. She hacked the rig mid-scene—my real lights dimmed to match the virtual storm, the temperature dropped ten degrees, and the haptics delivered the sting of rain on bare skin. She pressed me against a glass railing, the city sprawling below in 16K detail, traffic a river of light. The sleeve tightened in waves as she entered me from behind, the NeuralSync reading my moans to adjust depth and speed. Thunder cracked in 7.1 audio; lightning illuminated her face at the exact moment she came, her release triggering a cascade of virtual fireworks that exploded across the skyline. My own orgasm followed like an aftershock, the rig’s vibration plate rumbling through the floorboards. I sat there afterward, soaked in sweat, watching real rain streak my window and wondering if the storm outside had been programmed too.

By the weekend I was deep in a forbidden library, the air thick with the scent of old leather and candle wax. The model was a librarian with ink-black hair and glasses that fogged when she leaned close. Books floated around us in zero-gravity physics, pages turning themselves to reveal erotic illuminations. She whispered spells in a language the AI translated in floating subtitles, each word sending a pulse through the haptics vest. The rig’s scent module released parchment and her arousal in alternating waves. She bent me over a desk carved from dragon bone, the wood cool against my chest, and entered me with a strap-on that morphed size with my arousal—growing thicker as my pulse spiked. The climax was a “forbidden orgasm”—the rig muted all sound except her voice counting down in Latin, the sleeve milking me in perfect silence. I came as the library dissolved into starlight, books swirling into a galaxy around us.

The list kept giving. One dawn I woke inside a sunflower field at sunrise, the rig’s light therapy lamps syncing to the golden hour. The model was a farmer’s daughter with dirt under her nails and a cock that curved like a scythe. She fucked me against a tractor tire, the haptics delivering the heat of sun-baked rubber, the scent of earth and hay. Another night I was a gladiator in a Roman coliseum, the crowd’s roar in 7.1 audio, the model a victorious warrior claiming her prize on the bloodied sand. The rig’s vibration plate pulsed with the stomping of feet; the haptics vest delivered the weight of her armor as she pinned me.

This updated list isn’t off the hook—it’s a lifeline to worlds I never want to leave. Every scene is a new drug, every orgasm a new religion. I canceled plans, sold furniture, lived in the headset. And I’ve never felt more alive.