December 20, 2025
Ben’s bedroom was dimly lit, primarily by the faint blue glow from his laptop screen. The subdued lighting created a calm, somewhat mysterious atmosphere, illuminating a cluttered desk with scattered papers, a few books, and a mug filled with pens. The unmade bed, partially covered with a thick blanket, added to the sense of lived-in comfort. The ambiance conveyed focus, quiet reflection, or a moment of escape from the outside world. Ben’s room was his sanctuary, a refuge of muted grays and deep navys, filled with the scent of woody cologne. Sitting cross-legged on the rumpled comforter, the only sound was the frantic tap-tap-tap of his own heartbeat, underscoring a sense of concentration or introspection.
His fingers, slick with a nervous sweat, hesitated over the keyboard. The familiar, hollow ache was there, a restless energy coiling low in his stomach. His cock was already half-hard, straining against the soft, damp cotton of his white briefs. This was the ritual. The search bar was a gateway, a promise of momentary oblivion. He just needed to type the right words, find the right site, and have the right bodies move in the right way to make the static in his head go quiet.
He typed a few letters, deleted them. Tried another phrase. It all felt so… transactional. The same polished, airbrushed scenes. The same sounds. It was like chewing on cardboard.
A soft ping cut through the silence, sharp and entirely out of place.
It wasn’t from a browser tab. It was the dedicated messaging app Ben kept buried in a folder, the one with the lock icon. His pulse, which had been a steady thrum, suddenly kicked into a gallop.
The notification glowed on the screen: Digital_Dreamer_69.
Ben’s breath hitched. They hadn’t spoken in weeks. He’d assumed the connection had fizzled, like they all eventually did.
He clicked the icon.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Hey. You there?
The words were simple, but they sent a jolt through him, straight to his core. It was a different kind of thrill, sharper and more uncertain than any video could ever provide. This was a person. A voice in the dark.
His fingers fumbled over the keys.
Ben_23: Yeah. I’m here. Wasn’t sure you still were.
He hit enter and waited, his entire body tense. The anticipation was a physical weight.
Digital_Dreamer_69: got bored. The usual stuff wasn’t doing it for me tonight. It all feels so fake.
Ben stared at the message, a strange sense of recognition washing over him. He read the words again. It all feels so fake. It was like someone had reached into his own head and pulled out the very thought he’d been choking on just moments before.
Ben_23: Seriously. I was just thinking the same thing. It’s like… you’re watching a commercial for a feeling you’re never actually going to have.
He bit his lip after sending it. Was that too much? Too revealing?
The reply was almost instantaneous.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Yes. Exactly that.
A pause. Three dancing dots appeared. Ben held his breath.
Digital_Dreamer_69: What are you wearing?
The question was so direct, so blunt, it bypassed his brain and went straight to his groin. A fresh, heavy warmth spread through him. He was fully hard now, achingly so, the fabric of his briefs feeling like a rough prison.
Ben_23: Just… briefs. White ones. They’re soft.
He felt ridiculous typing it, and yet a flush of heat crept up his neck.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Mine are blue. And they’re definitely not soft anymore.
Ben’s mouth went dry. He could picture it. The suggestion was more potent than any high-definition video. His own hand drifted down, pressing against the rigid outline of himself, a soft groan escaping his lips.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Tell me what you were looking for. Before I messaged you.
Ben_23: I don’t know. Nothing specific. Everything. I didn’t get very far.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Good. Don’t. Let’s just talk.
Ben_23: Okay.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Are you touching yourself?
Ben’s fingers froze on the keyboard. The question hung in the blue-lit air, so direct it felt like a physical touch. His cock twitched, a painful, needy pulse against his restraining briefs.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Lying felt stupid. Pointless.
Ben_23: Yeah.
He hit enter. The admission was a floodgate opening. A sharp, hot current of pure want shot through him, so intense it made his legs feel weak. He finally gave in, palming himself fully through the soft cotton, a choked sound catching in his throat. The pressure was immediate, a rough, delicious friction.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Good. Me too. One hand on my cock, the other typing. It’s thick and heavy tonight. So fucking hard for you.
“Fuck,” Ben whispered to the empty room. The words on the screen weren’t just words; they were a phantom mouth, a ghost of a hand. He could almost feel the heat, the weight they described. It was infinitely more real than any video.
He shoved his briefs down, his own cock springing free, flushed and leaking. The cool air of the room was a shock against his feverish skin. He wrapped his hand around the base, his grip tight, and a full-body shudder wracked him.
Ben_23: Tell me how. How you’re touching it.
The reply came faster now, the words a frantic, messy stream.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Slow strokes. From the root to the tip. My thumb is smearing the wetness around the head. It’s slick…, so slippery. I’m imagining it’s your mouth.
A moan tore from Ben’s lips. He followed the instruction, mirroring the motions, his own hand gliding up and down his shaft, using the pre-cum beading at the tip as lubrication. His hips began to move, a shallow, involuntary rhythm against his fist. The laptop screen was a blur, the only clear thing the text, the filthy, beautiful text.
Ben_23: I wish it were. I’d get on my knees for you. Right here.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Yeah? Would you swallow? I’d fuck that pretty mouth. Deep. Hold your head right there.
“Yes,” Ben gasped, the word torn out of him. His strokes became faster, rougher. The fantasy wasn’t a polished scene; it was raw, clumsy, and perfect. It was his knees on the scratchy bedroom carpet, his throat being used. The image was so vivid he could almost taste the salt and skin.
Digital_Dreamer_69: I’m so close. Are you? Will you come for me?
Ben_23: So close. God, please.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Then come with me. Now.
That was all it took. The permission, the command, the shared precipice. Ben’s whole world narrowed to the white-hot tension coiling at the base of his spine. His back arched clear off the bed, a broken cry echoing in the silent room as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick, hot stripes painted his stomach and chest, each pulse a seismic release that left him trembling and hollowed out.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the frantic beat of blood in his ears. He lay there, spent, staring at the glowing screen.
Digital_Dreamer_69: Fuck!
Ben_23: Yeah.
The afterglow was a fragile thing, already cooling on his skin. The silence from the other side of the screen began to stretch, thinning from intimate to empty. The blue light felt cold now, clinical. He was just a guy alone in his room again, the mess on his stomach already going sticky.
He watched the three dots appear, then vanish. Appear again. His heart, which had finally begun to slow, gave a single, hard knock against his ribs. A different kind of tension filled the room—the kind that came after.
Then, a new message….