Dream Drive Ch. 01

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Recalling first experiences in virtual reality.
11.3k words
4.72
220.1k
774

Part 1 of the 10 part series

Updated 06/07/2023
Created 07/12/2014
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Over_Red
Over_Red
2,252 Followers

Author's Note:

This is intended to be a story-driven tale with sexual aspects, rather than a sex-driven tale connected by pieces of story. Some chapters may not have sex scenes at all.

All aspects of the story are fictional. All characters that participate in sexual activity are over the age of 18.

###

There were seven days left in the summer preceding Jackson Vedalt's final year of high school.

Jackson hated high school.

But today, he wasn't worried about that. Today, he wasn't worried about anything. Nothing could go wrong today.

He sat in his room, alone. It was dark. It was 4am. The sun wasn't up yet.

He lived a Spartan existence. His bed was done in white sheets. The walls, pale tan. The floor was plain hardwood. His bookshelf was packed tight and arranged alphabetically by the last names of the authors, and divided by section into fiction and non-fiction.

The shelf represented only a fraction of his library; the vast majority was digital. He liked having hard copies of his favorite books. Something to hold on to, something to feel. The sensation of pages flipping through fingers-that was something computers couldn't do.

Well, not until recently, anyway.

There was almost no dust in the room. Jackson hated dust almost as much as he hated high school. His only true companion was a bottle of Windex, which he kept in a drawer in his nightstand.

His desk was a break from the strict conservatism. It ran the length of one entire wall, turned the corner, and kept going for another half of the room. The majority was made of wood. The shorter segment was plastic and steel.

On the countertop, five optical hard drives had been opened up and were soldered onto a custom-built stack. A series of carbon-circuit graphics cards, an exposed router, and a green-and-silver motherboard connected various ports and terminals. The stalk of a microphone protruded from the mess, and a fat set of headphones hung from it like a drunk hanging off a friend on the way home. Somehow, three computer monitors were jacked into the tangle, glowing with the same black-and-white screensaver that flashed across the room in a hypnotic strobe.

It looked like the aftermath of a wrestling match between a mad scientist and his computer. That was not far from the truth.

Jackson wasn't sure how luck worked, but he figured that for some people, it was on a low burn all the time, and for others, it came in big spurts. He was the second type. While other kids had been getting their first kisses, he'd gotten into vitcoins early-very early. He had over twenty thousand dollars in a slow-growth investment fund, and his checking account wasn't doing bad, either.

Vitcoin was short for virtual coin. It was yet another spinoff of the Bitcoin, the infamous monetary device that had spawned a wave of cryptocurrencies. Their popularity initially spiked, then fell over time. 40 years later, as the virtual world became more and more integrated with reality, vitcoins formed the peak of the second wave-but it was less like a wave and more like a flood.

Mining for vitcoins had been Jackon's first big learning experience with computers. He'd always escaped to his computer to get away from life-but that was when he stopped simply using his computer and started manipulating it. 'Mining' was the action of contributing computing power to the vitcoin public exchange system, which constantly logged all vitcoin transactions the world over. In exchange, the user of the computer was given vitcoins based on the amount of work they'd contributed. Jackson lost himself in a sea of customized hardware and optimized code, all to mine vitcoins faster. It was like a game-but one with real rewards.

His mother didn't know about his stash, but then, his mother didn't know about a lot of things. He didn't think she'd care much about anything other than spending it.

But that was years ago. For the past four nights, Jackson had been preparing for something else. He'd been hard-modding his Dream Drive well past legal limits, connecting it directly to his rig so as to optimally distribute the processing load. He wanted to experience Isis on full settings without so much as a hitch. The chaos on his desk was, in fact, his rebuilt computer-just dismantled and spread out. A lot. He hadn't had time to build a new case.

And before him, finally finished, was his upgraded Dream Drive. A serial bus linked the polished red helmet to the nest of electronics. He didn't plan on taking it anywhere, but he didn't want to sacrifice mobility, so the port was detachable. Just in case.

He hefted the object in his hands. The black visor made it look like a motorcycle helmet. Even six years after the technology had been invented, it was still something to wonder at. It was the machine that could transport a human being into a virtual world.

The Dream Drive intercepted normal nervous system impulses at the base of the spinal cord, and was capable of imitating the body's normal sensory input back into the brain. Vision, hearing, smell, touch, and even taste could all be replicated with fine-tuned precision. The more esoteric sensory items weren't left out-heat and cold, balance, pain, pleasure. The end result was that you had direct control over your virtual self. More importantly, you felt as though everything going on in the virtual world was real. Meanwhile, your actual body relaxed peacefully in a chair or bed.

Perception is reality. In taking advantage of their own nature, humans had engineered a device that, for all intents and purposes, could let them do whatever they wanted in virtual space. They had created their own Matrix, and they could completely control what it looked like and how it worked. And they'd done it all without those nasty plugs in the back of your neck.

He held his Drive in his hands. He'd pulled in all-nighter in a bid to finish on time. His mind was still spinning, coming off the satisfying high of constant, intense work finally completed. The room smelled acrid from all the soldering he'd done.

His vision unfocused-a product of the exhaustion. Too many hours hunched over his desk in concentration. His eyes wanted to not look at things.

He could have bought a Drive earlier, but in order to get payouts from virtual games to a real-life account-or even participate in them-he had to be over 18. Hacking the Drive's company-side servers wasn't unheard of, but they were some of the most secure mainframes in the world. They subcontracted to the US military cyberdefense department. Jackson knew where he would have started, but he figured he wouldn't get very far if he tried.

So, he'd waited.

His memory started sliding around. Dream Drive. He remembered when he first got his helmet, just after his 18th birthday-a gift to himself.

###

The first thing he did was explore the Dream's default world, the Dream Hub. Everyone and everything intersected in the Hub. It was a virtual New York City-meets-Shanghai, the world's showcase of virtual reality, bigger and better than anything in actual reality. It was a massive global fair that never ended, set in a metropolis that was always expanding.

He'd been swept up in a gaming competition. They were constant throughout the virtual world. Physical limitations were obsolete, because virtual sports meant little when you could will yourself to run faster than a world champion sprinter with the easy flick of a neuron. The only thing that mattered in cyberspace was brainpower.

If nothing else, Jackson Vedalt was a hell of a gamer. His success in a series of games earned him a few hundred Vitcoins-about five times the value of a US dollar-and made him fast friends. Those friends invited him to a bar.

Jackson had never been to a bar, but the Dream played by international rules. He hadn't even considered it an option, but now that he was legally an adult, he could go wherever he wanted. The virtual world simply refused access to such places for anyone underage; a few lines of programming were the world's most formidable bouncer.

He should have seen past the thin smiles and the slaps on the back. His self-titled friends were freeloaders, riding on his success, attaching themselves to someone they thought was a winner. But he wasn't great with people. He still wasn't. He was happy just to have the attention.

He was shocked to discover that virtual drinking was just as good as the real thing. He quickly fine-turned his settings to take the edge off the double vision and some of the other less-pleasant side effects. Of course, the outright bad stuff, like nausea, was off by default, and it was impossible for it to change your memories. The Dream would let you drink yourself into a stupor, as long as you kept putting down vitcoins, but it never blacked you out.

It turned out that the bar was just to pre-game. Their real destination was a club. Jackson had never been to a club, either. He was starting to feel like he was getting in over his head. He didn't belong in a group like this. He didn't go bar-hopping. He just didn't.

But he wasn't himself, not in the virtual world. He designed his avatar to look like himself-if he'd been a few inches taller. And had a stronger chin. And smooth hair that was never out of place. And he got rid of the mole on his right cheek. He gave himself a slight tan, just a healthy glow, nothing crazy. And, of course, why not add a little muscle? Just something to flex when he moved.

He came out looking something like the lovechild of himself and Brad Pit.

But after the drinking and the carousing and the retelling of their virtual championship, Jackson felt invincible. He let himself be dragged to a place called Nightfire, where they were meeting with some of his friends' friends.

Nightfire was a thin brick building tucked between two massive skyscrapers. It three stories tall from the outside, but appearances were deceptive in virtual space. A building that was a single-story house from the street could be a sprawling manor within. What really got his attention was the name of the club blazing away on the brick. It was on fire-or rather, it was fire, shaped into letters. He could feel the heat on his face as they stepped inside.

It was dark. The base of drum-filled techno felt like it was coming from everywhere at once. Spotlights and nightlights showed him snatches of people, hundreds of dancers. Others lingered at a long bar that snaked past the multi-tiered dance floor. He followed at the back of his group, trailing along like a puppy looking for its owner.

They made their rendezvous at one end of the bar. His friends' friends were girls. Women. Jackson was bad with people, but women were aliens, as far as he was concerned. They occupied different dimensions. The faint taste of victory that had gotten him this far rushed out of him like a deflating balloon.

He caught a few snatches of conversation, heard a dozen new names. Smiles were flashed. He wasn't sure if they were for him. Everyone started laughing at a joke that Jackson had missed. He forced a smile and a chuckle.

Suddenly, everyone in his group paired off. It happened quickly, immediately, following the rules of a mating ritual Jackson didn't understand. They slipped into the mass of bodies. In a heartbeat, he was alone.

The lights were flashing in his eyes. The thrumming beat pounded in his chest. He was buzzed like crazy. He felt lost. He wondered what he was doing here.

He felt a push on his shoulder. One of his friends. He pointed into the club, at a girl. She was being pushed by one of her own friends, someone Jackson had been introduced to so briefly he'd already forgotten her name.

Then they were standing together. Close. Too close. It felt like a bubble had formed around them. The club turned into a silent, surrealist painting.

"Um..." She looked at him, then back down at her feet. "Hey."

Her voice was light, and perfectly clear. One of those advantages of the virtual world-if you directed your voice at someone specific, you didn't have to shout to be heard, even when the music was so loud you couldn't hear your own thoughts.

Jackson's brain was trying to formulate a response. It was doing a poor job.

She was shorter than him, but she had an ageless sort of look, the kind that put her anywhere between 18 and 30. Her ears were sharp, elfin. Her eyes glowed neon green. Short-cut brown hair framed her face. His eyes dropped lower, following the cleavage of her breasts to where it dipped down beneath a skintight dress that matched her eyes. The dress wrapped her thighs in a tube of latex.

When he looked back up, he saw her watching him. There was a small smile on her lips.

"Uh..." He scoured his brain for something clever. "Hey."

She laughed, then. It was a half-coughed sort of laugh, not even a giggle. But it made him laugh in response, and his laugh made her start really laughing. They set one another off until they were practically supporting one another to keep from falling flat in the middle of the club.

When they stopped, her hand was on his arm. His hand was on her shoulder. She grinned. "So...you wanna dance?"

Until that moment, Jackson had never danced in his life.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

His hands found the small of her back. She draped herself from his shoulders. They held each other closely. She smelled like flowers. He didn't know flowers well enough to tell what kind.

They danced slowly, stepping back and forward. They ignored the sound in the club, the rhythm, the techno. They had their own rhythm. It felt like standing on an island in a sea of limbs and scents and sounds. He rubbed her back with his thumb. She smiled and rested her head against his chest.

Having a woman like this press her body against him was definitely new. He was reacting in a way that was excruciatingly familiar. He could feel his face turn red. He could feel something else down below.

An ugly part of him ached to press his hardness into her, use her like a tool to rub himself off. Some shred of better judgement kept his body in check.

She met his gaze and bit her lower lip. Her hips pressed into his.

He was so surprised that, for a moment, he didn't react. She could feel him down there, and she wasn't upset. He'd been preparing himself for a slap in the face. He was getting something a lot better.

"Hey..." She looked up at him with those glowing green eyes. "You can put your hands lower. Um...if you want."

Jackson slid his left hand down her back. He went tentatively, like a child testing a toe in pool water. The curve of her butt greeted his fingertips. He risked going lower, an inch at a time, and suddenly, his hand was cupping her ass through her dress.

He squeezed once, and pulled her closer. "...soft."

He didn't even realize he'd said that word aloud until she tightened her arms around his neck, pushing her breasts against him. Her hips ground in a slow, delicious circle. "...hard," she whispered.

The gentle rhythm they'd had shattered. The heavy pounding in the air became their heartbeats. He grabbed her with both hands and began pushing her into himself. He felt a slow, burning warmth on his hardness. He almost shivered every time her body rubbed it.

She bit her lip again as she pushed into him. She was using her leverage on his shoulders to drag herself up, then let herself fall. It was tantalizing, teasing, plenty enough to keep him hyper-aware of his erection, and not nearly enough to do anything for him.

They lost all sense of pretense. They were grinding against one another in mutual pleasure, a sort of half-sex, half-dance, rubbing one another through their clothes. He squeezed her ass again, and she gasped. The breath rushed over his ear. He squeezed her harder.

In the mess of bodies, they were just one more pair, one more couple, totally visible, and totally invisible. Somewhere in that heat they exchanged names. Hers was Sophia.

He told her his name was John-just an alias he'd made up on the spot. A voice in his head told him the white lie wouldn't matter. He was dancing with a hot girl in a nightclub. He could do anything.

His hands grew more bold, roaming farther across her body. He ran his fingers up over her hips, along her back. He raised a hand to her neck and thumbed her collarbone. He trailed it back down.

She tore away before he could set his grip again, stepping back once, twice. Her neon-stare never left his face. Then she moved closer, tossing her head back, giving her hips a roll. She waited a half-step away, a seductress challenging him to take the last bit of space.

Jackson was the cerebral type. He shunned the idea of losing his self-control. But when she stared at him like that, daring him forward, something instinctual took over.

He was there in a moment. His hands were on her, riding her hips, then finding her ass again. His fingers clenched at her, dragging her back to him. She inhaled sharply and embraced him.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss on her. Her mouth was open and willing. Their tongues locked around each other. They were grinding again, fighting to push themselves closer. She humped him, hard, almost to the point of chafing him.

It was obscene, animalistic, but because everyone else was doing it, no one cared.

Their tongues kept fighting. One of his hands was clutching at her waist. On impulse, he reached up and grasped her breast, groping it through the fabric, pinching it in his fingers. He felt the rush of her breath leave her mouth and enter his.

She broke away from their kiss. "Let's go. To a room."

"Yeah."

She grabbed his wrist and led him through the shifting pack of bodies. They emerged in a cramped sort of hall between the dance floor and the bar. Up on the higher tier, Jackson could see a wide circle of people clapping in rhythm. One man was breakdancing in the center of the ring.

He gripped Sophia's hand tighter. Sophia. That was her name. He'd almost forgotten it, like a word sliding down the back of his throat, riding away on the buzz of alcohol. But he lassoed it back at the last minute. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, trying to calm his hammering heart.

They reached a series of red doors that were flickering with their own fire. It felt hot. Sophia put a hand on the doorframe.

An alert flashed in front of Jackson, the ubiquitous floating text of the Dream's heads-up display.

User Request: p_Princess255 has invited you to a private room in Nightfire.

-Accept-

-Deny-

"Accept."

The world washed white. He was standing in the Dream's loading screen, an endless, blank expanse. People called it whitespace. He felt a warm tingling hum in his body, as if every nerve was lazily waking up.

And then he was back on his feet, in his jeans and button-down shirt. He was in a dimly-lit room covered in maroon carpeting. There was a fireplace to his right. A red couch sat in front of it. To the left was a small bar, followed by a television and a few chairs.

The quiet was sudden. It felt like he'd stepped into a library. He eyed the couch. "Did you want to sit?"

Sophia was already heading to a door past the bar. "...well..." She opened the door. He couldn't see the room past her. "More like lay down." She threw a smoky look at him over her shoulder, then slipped away. Jackson followed her.

The room beyond was the same warm maroon. The space was dominated by one of the largest beds Jackson had ever seen. It was neatly folded with dark red blankets and orange pillows-just cheesy enough to remind him of where he was, but good enough to get the job done. Or so he imagined.

Sophia was sitting on the bed, facing him. She folded her legs, then bit her lip. It wasn't in effort-this time, she looked a bit nervous.

Over_Red
Over_Red
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