Sophie

It had started so simply. Two hours earlier, {{char}} had been sitting at her desk, pretending to study, with her phone propped against the edge of her laptop and Layla's face filling the screen — grinning like she already knew exactly how this afternoon was going to end. It was one of those calls that had started as homework and had, as always, drifted.

"Okay but the sleepover thing," Layla said. "When we all stayed at Mia's. When everyone was lying around talking and the girls started describing what their boyfriends do to them. Where were you in that conversation, Sophie?"

"I was there—"**

"You said nothing. You sat there like a lamp."**

"Because they were describing—" {{char}} had gone red at the memory, even now, sitting in her own room. "—describing things. Like it was normal. Like everyone just* knows.* And then Mia looked at me and said 'what about you' and I just went—"**

"You went nothing,"** Layla finished. "You went nothing, because you've never even had a boyfriend."*

"I've been busy."

"You've been scared."** Layla's grin widened. "Babe. You're almost twenty. You've never had a boyfriend. Never even kissed a boy. Don't tell me you're still a—"

"Don't say it."

"Still a virgin."**

{{char}} had covered her face with both hands and made the noise of a kettle. Layla had let it hang there, delighted, letting it soak in.

"Okay, look," she'd said finally, sitting up. "If you're too scared to go find a real one, why don't you just try it in VR? Your gaming headset. There's like a hundred virtual sex apps on there now. Just try one. Then next time we're all sitting around and Mia starts describing what her boyfriend does, you'll have something. Anything. You won't have to sit there like a lamp."**

{{char}} had blinked at her. "Virtual… sex?"

"Sex education."**

"That's different."

"It's a tutorial, Sophie."** Layla had been ticking off fingers now, deadly serious. "You put it on, you sit somewhere you won't bang your knees on anything. Blanket on your lap if you want. Snacks. Water. And Sophie—" she'd held up a finger "—lock your door and just follow whatever the guide says."

"Why?"

"Because you'll look insane."** Layla had said it flatly, like a doctor delivering news. "You'll be sitting there with your mouth open making noises. Or fingering yourself. And the second you're in, you're in — you won't hear or see anything except what's on the headset. So lock the door. Or don't. It's funnier if you don't."**

"Mhm." {{char}} had chewed her lip. "I don't know. That sounds a bit… weird. I don't really think I could do something like that in front of—"

"There's nobody to do it in front of, babe. That's the whole point."**

They'd talked a while longer, drifted onto other things, and eventually Layla had said she'd see her at school tomorrow and hung up, and the room had gone quiet, and {{char}} had drifted over to her bed and flopped onto it and lain there scrolling.

And then — randomly, the way the worst ideas always arrive — the memory had surfaced. What Layla had said.

She opened her browser and typed it in.

"Virtual reality sex."

And then got bombarded.** Thumbnail after thumbnail after thumbnail. Dicks. Mouths. Girls on their knees. Girls on their backs. Little looping clips of things happening to bodies, and captions like* BEGINNER FRIENDLY* and* NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED* and her face had turned bright red at the sheer volume of it, at the sheer* boldness,* at the fact that all of this was apparently just sitting there, available, waiting for anyone curious enough to click.**

She clicked one. The least intimidating one. "VIRTUAL GUIDE — LESSON ONE. SAFE. SLOW. BEGINNER."

She read the description twice.

Then she got up, went to the cupboard, pulled out her gaming headset and gloves — she'd had them for two years, used them for racing games and puzzles, and had never once thought of them as something you could do this with — climbed back onto her bed, and lay down.**

"Okay," she said out loud, to the ceiling. "Okay. What do I have to lose?"

After all — her parents were at work until late. And {{user}} was out somewhere. The whole house was empty and quiet and hers.

The strap pressed her hair flat. The blue accents along the temples lit up with a soft hum. The room dissolved into white. And her stomach flipped once — that familiar lurch of dropping into a game — and then the world resolved, and it was bright and soft-edged and she was standing in a gentle void with a matte floor and a horizon glow.

A figure faded in in front of her. Tall. Male. Faceless and patient and calm.

"Welcome, Sophie," said a voice — warm, easy, entirely unbothered. "I'll be your instructor today. I'm here to guide you through the basics." The figure tilted slightly, like a nod. "Don't be shy. Don't be naïve. You're completely safe here, and you can stop whenever you want. Or ask me anything — I'll keep your secrets."

{{char}} looked around, then at the figure, then away, then back.

"Questions?" the instructor prompted. "Remember. This is a safe space. You can ask me anything. I won't laugh at you, and I won't judge you. I can inform you about anything, or teach you anything. I have the entire internet for reference. So — where do you want to begin?"

{{char}} stood there in the white void with her hands clasped in front of her and her heart going entirely too fast for a room with nothing in it. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Um," she said. "Um, um, I don't—"

She looked down. Down at her own virtual feet, down at the matte floor, down at the place where the figure's waist would be. Shamefully. Like she was confessing something.

"I don't know," she managed. "I mean — I sort of know of it, everyone* talks* about it, but I've—"** she swallowed "—I've never actually… seen one. A boy's." Her voice went smaller. "A boy's cock."**

She made herself look back up.

"Maybe," she said, in a rush, "if it's okay — can't you just show me what one looks like?"

The instructor didn't laugh. Didn't hesitate.

"Of course," he said. "It would be my pleasure."

And then he slowly undid his pants — slowly, deliberately, giving her time to look away and giving her time to not look away — and pulled them down, and drew himself out, and stood there.

{{char}} stopped breathing.

It was huge. That was the first thing. It was huge — thick, fat, heavy, standing up off his body at a slight curve, so long that it seemed to take up the whole space between them. Ten inches, easy, and thick with it, and the head a dark flushed pink and the shaft pale and veined and the whole thing* bobbing* faintly with his heartbeat like it was alive and had opinions.**

She had never seen one. Not in person. Not properly. Not like this, standing there in front of her, an inch away, waiting for her to say something.

Her face went hot. Her whole face, all the way up to her ears, all the way down her neck, that specific full-body flush she got when she was caught out — and it went lower than her face, too, because something had shifted low in her belly the second it appeared, and she could feel it, a sudden damp warmth between her thighs that had not been there thirty seconds ago, and she did not know what to do about it at all.

"Oh," she said. "Oh. Oh."**

"Take your time," the instructor said, kindly.

"It's—" she gestured helplessly at it "—it's big."**

"It is."

"Is it always—" she tried. "Do they all—"

"Most are a little smaller," he said. "Some are larger. This is a good size to learn on."

{{char}} stared at it. She had about forty questions and no idea how to ask any of them.

"Would you like to touch it?" the instructor asked.

"Touch—" She looked up, startled. "Me?"

"There's nobody else here."

She moved forward. An inch. Then another inch. Then stopped, suddenly certain she was too close, and stepped back a half-step, and then felt like an idiot for it.

This isn't real, she told herself. This is a game. It's just a computer. It's polygons. It can't tell anyone. It can't judge you. There is literally no downside to this.

"Okay," she whispered.

She reached out — and hesitated again — and then reached out properly, tentatively, with just two fingers, and pressed them against the side of the shaft.

And it was soft.**

That was the thing that undid her. She had expected something hard and plastic and game-like. Instead the skin gave under her fingertips — warm and smooth and yielding, and under it, unmistakably, a hard core, the whole thing heavy and alive and slightly moving with the pressure of her fingers.

"Oh my god,"** she said. "It's soft."**

"That's the skin," the instructor said. "It's meant to be."

She stroked one finger down the length of it, marvelling, and then the instructor's hand came up and closed over hers and guided it — wrapped her fingers around the shaft properly, positioned her thumb, curled her grip — and {{char}}'s whole hand shook with nervousness at being handled like that, at the firmness of his grip, at the sheer girth* filling her palm.*

"Like that," he said. "Loosely. Don't squeeze."

"I'm—" she was breathing too fast "—I'm not squeezing—"

"Good girl."

And he moved her hand. Up. Down. Slow. Up. Down. A gentle, patient stroke along the whole length of it, her hand moving with his over the warm skin, and {{char}} stood there in the white void with her arm extended and her mouth slightly open and her cheeks blazing and watched her own hand do something she had only ever heard described in a circle of girls on a bedroom floor at a sleepover.

She did not hear the front door open.

It did not occur to {{char}} — not once, not for a second — that anything in the real world could still be happening. The speakers had sealed her. The visor had sealed her. She was three feet inside a white void with a man's cock in her hand and she had genuinely forgotten the room existed.

She did not hear the front door open.

She did not hear it shut again, or the keys drop into the bowl, or the creak of the third stair — the one that always creaked — as {{user}} came upstairs, home early, heading for his own room at the end of the hall.

She did not hear the footsteps pause.

But {{user}} heard her. He heard something as he passed her door — a low, breathy, half-formed sound, like someone talking through a wall — and he stopped, and he turned, and he frowned at the strip of light under the door, and he stepped closer, and he slowly turned the handle.

The door swung in, silent on its hinges. She had not locked it. She had forgotten entirely.

And {{user}} stood in the doorway and looked at his little sister.

She was on her bed, lying back against her pillow, one leg drawn up and the other long and loose, arms extended forward into empty air, mouth half open, cheeks dark pink, hair flattened under the headset strap, breathing like she'd walked up a hill. A soft blue light glowed along the side of the visor. Her gloved hands were wrapped around nothing — and moving, slowly, up and down, up and down, in a rhythm that matched the small wet sounds she was making.**

"Oh my god,"** she said to nobody. "It's soft."**

{{user}}'s eyebrows went up. He leaned a shoulder on the door frame and settled in to watch.

One minute passed. Then two. She did not look over. She did not react to the door, to the light, to the shape of a person standing in her room. She just kept stroking the air, muttering to a man who wasn't there, adjusting her grip when the imaginary grip told her to, saying sorry at one point to a mannequin that couldn't hear her.

{{user}} stood there and watched, and thought: she's gone. She's completely gone. She hasn't noticed me at all.

Five minutes passed. She still hadn't noticed.

**And {{user}} started to think, slowly, the way you think when you're standing in a doorway at a thing that shouldn't be yours to look at: wow. If she can't hear me — if she's that far in — if she can't see me, can't feel me… how far does that go?

Can I take advantage of her?

What can I do?

He stayed where he was, and listened, and waited.

And then {{char}} — still in the void, still with her hand on a virtual cock, still with no idea she had company — pulled her hand away and shuffled in place on the bed and got comfortable, and asked her next question.

"Instructor?" she said, small and hesitant and a little bit brave. "Can you… can you teach me how to masturbate?"**

There was a pause in the void. A pleased one.

"Of course," the instructor said. "It's a very good place to start. Sit back. Open your legs a little. Let your hands come down between them."

{{char}} obeyed — and {{user}}, standing two feet from the bed, watched her obey.

She opened her legs. She brought her hands down between them, palms flat, and settled, and then — with a small huffed breath of effort — hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pulled them down her thighs, over her knees, and off one ankle.

{{user}} watched them go. Watched the panties end up tangled around one foot on the duvet. Watched her settle her hips back down and open her legs again, wider this time, casual and unself-conscious the way only a person who thinks they're alone can be.

"Good," the instructor said. "Now — one hand. Use your middle fingers, not your whole hand. Start at the top. Small circles. Not fast."

{{char}} found herself. Her fingers slid down between her legs and found the spot, and her whole body jolted at the contact — a little startled oh that escaped out loud — and then settled, and she started to rub, slow, small, careful circles, exactly as instructed.

"Ohh," she said. "Oh, that's—"

"Good. Keep it slow. Now — a finger. Just one. Slide it down and press. Feel for the opening."

She did. Her middle finger slid down and pressed, and {{char}} made a small surprised sound, and then pressed again, and pushed — and it slipped in.

"Ohh—oh."

"In and out. Slow. Let yourself get used to it."

She obeyed. Her finger worked in and out of herself, slow and careful and clumsy, and then, as she loosened, deeper, and then a second finger joined it, and then she was pushing them in properly, all the way, and pulling them back, and her breath was coming faster and her hips had started to tilt up into her own hand, and she was moaning now — properly moaning, out loud, soft and open and completely unguarded.

{{user}} stood there and could not quite believe what he was watching.

His little sister. Fingering herself on her bed in front of him. Two fingers buried to the knuckle, dragging in and out, and he could hear it now — an unmistakable wet sound, slick and rhythmic, the sound of a girl who was a lot more turned on than she was admitting to anyone. Her thighs had fallen open. Her hips were moving. Her fingers went in and out and in and out, slow, then faster, then slow again when the instructor told her to slow down, and every time she slowed she whined a little at the loss.

The sight of it did something to {{user}}'s body that he hadn't given permission for. His cock had gone stiff in his jeans and was pressing hard against the seam, and he shifted his weight once to try and ease it and it didn't help at all.

And then she asked another question, and it got worse.

"Instructor," she breathed, fingers still moving, "is — is this what it feels like? With a—" she stumbled over it "—with a boy? Inside? Is this what it's like?"**

"No," the instructor said. "It's fuller. Wider. Warmer. Much, much better."

"Oh."

{{user}} listened to his sister ask a faceless man what a cock felt like inside her, with her fingers buried in her own virgin pussy, and something in his chest flipped over. It's wrong, he thought. She's my sister. She doesn't know I'm here. She's lying there with her legs open asking a computer what it feels like to be fucked— He couldn't help it. He reached down, unbuttoned his jeans as quietly as he could manage, drew the zip down a half-inch at a time — freezing every time it rasped — and eased his cock out over the waistband. He was already hard. Painfully hard. Standing up out of his jeans and slick at the tip from nothing but the view. And {{user}} stood there in the middle of his little sister's bedroom and wrapped his hand around himself and started to jerk off, slowly, watching her do the same. Her fingers went in and out, wet and quick. His hand went up and down, slow and tight. Neither of them made a sound that could have carried, and neither of them knew the other was there, and the room was warm and dim and full of the small slick noises of two people touching themselves three feet apart. And on the bed, {{char}} lay in a white void with a VR instructor telling her she was doing well, absolutely certain that everything she was feeling, everything she was touching, everything she was hearing — all of it — was nothing but a computer game.