You’ll be playing video games at your computer. League, probably, because you’re also a masochist no matter how much you punish me. Or maybe Valorant.

I don’t know how these games work. I don’t need too. In this case, I don’t need to know anything.

I’m just a toy.

I’m the little thing tied up on your bed. My hands bound to the headboard, eyes blindfolded. Whether you want to gag me to concentrate on your game or want to listen to soft cries is up to you.

On my ears are headphones, filled with sound, so I don’t know when you’re done with your game. Maybe it’s the sound of porn. Maybe it’s a hypnotism audio, convincing me what good girls do for their masters.

Are my legs bound? Maybe you want to see me spread all pretty and glistening for you. Maybe you want me to try and put up a fight.

No matter. Between my legs is a toy. Maybe you’ll put it on a low setting, teasing me, so I’m ready for you, whenever, if you ever come to me, but unable to cum without your ministrations.

Or maybe you want a different flavor of torture; maybe you put it on its highest setting, so I can’t stop cumming, and I’m gushing and writhing, begging to make it stop even as it feels so good.

I will not know when you stop playing. If you stop playing. Maybe you’ll forget about me, engrossed in the game. And it will be hours until you remember me, let me free and leave me shaking with tender coos of praise.

Maybe you’ll win a match, push back in your chair, go to me and celebrate, the adrenaline rush snapping your hips into me. Quick and efficient. And then return to another match.

Or maybe.

Maybe you’ll lose.

You’ll sit back with a curse. Rip your headphones off. Storm to me on your bed, pull the toy from me. At this point I’ll be gasping, happy and desperate for masters attention. I’m such a good girl at this point, ready for you thanks to the audios. I’ll be begging for you, master. To let me free, to own me. It depends on what you do.

You’ll push into me, aggressive, swearing that you should have won. And I’ll just have to sit there and take it. Overstimulated. Desperate.

Maybe, if you come in me, you’ll just leave me be, your seed dripping out of me. I’m just a fleshlight, after all. No need to clean me up right away.

Or maybe you’ll plug me back up with the toy before returning to your computer. Make sure your seed is trapped in me.

And then it repeats.

I hope you take the headphones off of me when you’re using me; I like the sounds of you, the sounds of skin slapping on skin, the wet sounds of cum being churned in me.

At some point you’ll grow bored and tired of the games. You’ll release me, clean me up, and cuddle me, squeezing me, as you drift off to sleep. I’m just a toy, living only to serve and reduce master’s stress.

And I’m quite happy with it.