FIC fragment of orig (rpg)

[lobelia321]

Iris Cotton met Prancemeister in an on-line hardcore sex lounge.

Prancemeister appeared as a tall, pale avatar, with thick blond hair down to his shoulders and a builder's cap pushed to the back of his head. He sported bulging biceps, a six-pack of a tum and nipples the size of peanuts. This in itself was nothing out of the ordinary; two-thirds of sex-lounge men looked like Greek gods on steroids.

Iris Cotton didn't mind. She liked her men young and strapping, arrogant and vain, and in a way she preferred the off-the-peg templates to the botched DIY jobs that sometimes passed through the massage parlours of the virtual world.

Prancemeister slouched on a red divan, one hand dangling a bunch of grapes above his thin manly lips, the other loosely and invitingly cradling his satin-clad crotch. Or at least, Iris Cotton presumed the shimmer effect of the shorts to be simulating satin.

The package thus wrapped promised efficiency and a basic rate of realism.

Iris Cotton clicked on Prancemeister's head and opened up his vital stats.

Prancemeister, he introduced himself. Stud. Bi. Up for fun.

Iris Cotton had been surfing the chatrooms for long enough to know how to read between the lines of user profiles.

Bi. They all wrote 'bi'. Mainly the young ones. They didn't want to miss out. They wanted to make themselves seem daring.

Stud. Par for the course. If anything, it showed a certain and, to Iris Cotton, rather off-putting timidity. But she let it pass.

Prancemeister. An absurd name. This could go either way: some of the absurd ones could be inventive, others were just plain silly.

Up for fun. Well, who wasn't?

The only other people in the vicinity were two slim-hipped guys in leather harnesses ('Bob' and 'Wankman') and a couple of bimbos dancing on poles. And SilverLover in the background.

But Iris Cotton was tired of SilverLover. She scrolled through her on-line personae and selected one whom SL had never met. Not Guernica and not Peonie, and certainly not the all-purpose Latio-Fell. She checked her user info and tweaked the info.

Hot f. Take me now.

One, two, three. She materialised three feet away from the divan.

Prancemeister looked up and dropped his grapes.

Comments

[msilverstar]

You have one hell of a start there, I have no idea where you're going but I like the style of this one and I'm willing to ride that train until the metaphor runs off the rails!

[lobelia321.livejournal.com]

Ooh, thank you so very, very much! There is a long tail behind this one that I may or may not divulge one day, *g*.

I've just posted a short sequel to it. :-)