Desireprint: Dream Dates
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 1
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Another tale set in the Desireprint universe. Veronica Lauren has planned her perfect sex-date. Nothing would go wrong.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Masturbation Oral Sex
The first thing Veronica felt was the crest breaking.
Her thighs clamped tight around Draco’s head, heels digging into the small of his back, hips grinding up in short, helpless jerks she couldn’t control. The synth’s tongue—engineered, tireless—worked her clitoris in slow, fat circles that built into rapid wet flicks, pressure firm and relentless. The orgasm wasn’t a spike; it was a long, rolling tide that kept rising.
She gasped—then the gasp tore into a low, broken moan as the next wave slammed through her. Her back bowed hard off the sheets, spine curving until only her shoulders and ass touched the mattress. Fingers knotted in his dark hair, yanking hard, holding him flush against her pussy. She flooded his mouth. He drank her down, tongue broad and flat, lapping every gush as her vagina pulsed in hard, rhythmic spasms.
Each crest built on the last until her whole body shook, thighs quivering around his ears, a second, sharper peak ripping through her right on the heels of the first—making her cry out, raw and unfiltered. Her clit throbbed under the wet heat of his tongue, swollen and oversensitive, every lick sending fresh sparks up her spine. She gushed again, slickness sliding down between her ass cheeks, soaking the sheets beneath her.
Chest heaving, vision swimming, she tapped three times against his scalp.
He lifted his head slowly. Lips glossy, chin slick with her release. Veronica collapsed back, thighs falling open, body still trembling through the aftershocks. Sweat beaded between her breasts, nipples tight and aching, pussy still fluttering weakly. She lay there wrecked and euphoric, staring up at the sealed blackout ceiling, feeling the slow drip of her own arousal, the deep throb between her legs, the loose, liquid satisfaction pooling in her hips.
Perfect.
As the aftershocks faded, her mind drifted—not to the room, but to the glowing Desireprint interface she’d spent hours staring into three nights ago.
The booking screen had filled every wall of her apartment, windows tiled with sliders and preview thumbnails. She remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor in nothing but an oversized shirt, legs spread shamelessly, phone in one hand and a small handheld mirror in the other. She’d filmed herself—close, unapologetic—spreading her lips with two fingers, pulling the hood back so the camera caught every fold, every glistening ridge, the exact way her clit peeked out when she was already half-aroused. The video was grainy in the low light, intimate, filthy. She’d uploaded it without hesitation. She wanting them to have every detail, so the date would be perfect.
Then came the long, obsessive fiddling.
She must have spent countless hours dragging the tongue-speed slider back and forth, watching preview renders of a faceless male mouth working a 3D model of her own pussy. Too fast at first—made her wince in the test playback. Too slow and it felt teasing in the wrong way. She kept adjusting, resetting, replaying the loop, tweaking again until the rhythm started with lazy circles and built into quick side-to-side flicks exactly when she knew she’d be desperate. She tested pressure the same way—light licks that made the model twitch, firmer ones that dragged a moan from her own throat just watching—over and over, until it matched the way she touched herself on nights when she was too impatient for anyone else: just her fingers, the mirror, and the dark.
She’d added notes in the text box, half-typed, half-muttered:
“Keep going through the gush—don’t pull back when I squirt. Swallow it all, then go right back to the clit like nothing happened. If I grind up for more, give it to me harder.”
She remembered hitting “Preview Loop” one last time after endless cycles, legs shaking on the carpet as the rendered tongue finally followed her instructions perfectly. She’d come just from watching—small, surprised, clenching around nothing—then laughed at herself, breathless, and saved the settings at last.
Back in the present, Veronica licked her dry lips and shifted on the damp sheets. Between her thighs she could still feel the ghost of that same tongue, the same relentless pattern she’d built from scratch, from her own body, from nights alone with a mirror and far too much time on her hands.
It had worked.
Better than she’d even hoped.
She let out a slow, satisfied breath and rolled onto her side, already hungry for more.
Her breath was still coming in shallow, uneven pulls when Draco lifted his head from between her thighs. His lips were still wet, eyes dark and steady as they met hers.
Without a word he rose over her, slow and deliberate, the heat of his body settling between her open legs like it belonged there. She reached up, fingers sliding along the back of his neck, pulling him down into a deep, lazy kiss—tasting herself on his tongue, salty and slick. The kiss stretched, turned hungrier; her teeth grazed his lower lip as she arched up, pressing her breasts against his chest.
He shifted his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging her entrance—already swollen, dripping from the long oral climax. She tilted her pelvis just enough, a small invitation, and he slid inside on one long, smooth glide. The stretch made her gasp into his mouth—full, thick, pressing every sensitive inch of her walls that were still fluttering and tender. He started slow, rocking deep, pulling back almost to the tip before gliding in again, letting her feel every ridge, every vein dragging along the front wall where the pressure built low and sweet.
His mouth left hers, trailing hot down her throat, then lower. He closed over one breast, sucking deep—firm, rhythmic pulls that tugged her nipple taut, tongue swirling the peak before a light scrape of teeth along the softer curve underneath. Pleasure spiked sharp and bright, shooting straight between her legs. Her back lifted off the mattress with a moan. His free hand found the other breast, thumb and forefinger closing around the nipple in steady, pulsing pinches—squeezing just hard enough to sting sweetly, then rolling slow circles that made her pussy clench around him.
“Fuck,” she breathed, hips rolling up to meet his lazy rhythm.
He answered the movement without hesitation. Hands slid under her knees, folding her legs up and over his shoulders in one smooth lift, opening her wider, sinking him deeper. The angle shifted everything—his cock now slamming higher, harder, hitting that swollen ridge inside her with every thrust. The pace built naturally, hips snapping forward, balls slapping wet against her ass. She felt the blunt head kiss her cervix on the deepest strokes—sharp, delicious pressure that bordered on ache and made her eyes flutter shut.
Her nails dragged down his back, scoring red lines along the muscle. A low growl rumbled in his chest, pace turning rougher, more urgent. She reached between them, fingers slick with their mess, and pressed the tip of one past the tight ring of his ass—slow, one knuckle deep, circling gently.
His body locked.
A ragged snarl tore from his throat. His cock swelled thicker inside her, pulsing hard as he came—hot, heavy spurts flooding deep, hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts. The sudden wet heat, the helpless twitching of him buried to the hilt, tipped her over the edge again.
For the second time that evening, she orgasmed. Her pussy clamped down, spasming around him, milking every pulse as her own orgasm crashed through her—sharp, rolling waves that left her crying out, thighs trembling against his shoulders, walls fluttering long and hard.
He stayed inside her, unyielding thickness still filling her completely even as the last of his release leaked warm around his shaft. No softening. Just the slow, eager heat of him, ready for whatever came next. No real man had ever stayed this ready, this long, this perfectly attuned—and she savored it.
Veronica let her head fall back against the pillow, chest heaving, a slow, satisfied smile curling her lips as she felt him twitch again inside her—still thick, still perfect, still exactly what she’d wanted.
Her legs were still draped over his shoulders, body loose and humming, when the memory pulled her back—three nights earlier, same apartment, blinds sealed, the glow of the Desireprint interface washing blue across her bare skin.
She’d been sprawled on the bed that time, propped on pillows, phone balanced on her stomach. The booking screen floated in hologram layers above her, every tab open. She’d started with the breasts because they were easy—familiar. She’d stripped down completely, turned on the front camera, and filmed herself in the low lamplight: slow pans across both tits, fingers circling the areolas until the nipples peaked hard, then pinching—first light, then harder, testing how much pressure made her breath hitch, how much made her thighs press together without thinking. She’d zoomed in close for the details—the faint freckles on the upper curve of the left one, the way the right nipple flushed darker when teased just right.
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