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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
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Gem's rpf rule doesn't count for Skizzpulse because they know what they're doing and what theyre doing is butt stuff in the public restroom and Skizz is eating that fat man's ass UP like that shit is a chocolate cake bro and Skizz can't get enough he needs to stuff his ass with that fat man ride him like a cowboy on his last day alive okay? Suck him off like he's been stuck in the Sahara desert for 48 days and Impulse's cock is the fountain of youth okay?
Impulse has always been carefully about what he puts in his cyberdeck - gotta be in GIGA-City. Snuck into his usual drivel of corporate data shards is a seemingly unseeming one. And like a good corpo drone, Impulse slowly works his way through the datashards from the company higher ups - with his virus scanner working overtime in a numbing little whirl: can never trust your corpo overlords too much. Especially when the R&D department just got fried by corporate rivals.
And amoungst the drivel stuffing the datashards with nothing, there is a few innocuous lines of code that passes unseen in the deluge of data. A primer to activate a neurovirus:
If praise = TRUE
execute pup.exe as administrator
There's not much praise in the corporate world: more likely to get a gun to the dome, or have someone strip you of your chrome before being left to roam the city unemployed.
So, it is sometime and the neurovirus sits dormant. Until Impulse meets with a edgerunner* - Joel - in the dark strobing lights of Lizzie's bar who brashly accepts a gig* from him after the promise of hefty off the books pay.
"Lovely-jubbly, such a good corporate pet aren't you," said with an air of brash disdain was all it took to activate the neurovirus.
Impulse feels the rush of data too late to put up any active firewalls.
He barks. And it cuts through all the sounds of the bar. Before he can even process it, he's falling into Joel, eyes hazy and streaming with data as a single line of code repeats ad nauseam in his brain:
The data is gumming up his neural pathways in seconds: all other data screeching to a halt as it passes through the molasses thick haze smothering his processors. The data crash is so swift, so efficient in how it salts the earth of his mind, that there is no defence or quarter from it's domineering conquest of his faculties.
Joel's hand on his arm, bracing him from almost falling into his lap, almost burning out the servos with how additively intense it feels.
By the time Joel takes him past the staff doors, calling out for someone whose name comes to him in fizzles of static, Impulse in nuzzling into his neck shamelessly, whining against the warmth of his body as he is effortlessly carried.
A scantily dressed joytoy, dollish body with it's plastic sheen adorned in nothing but a cropped blue jacket, blue thong, with his rings, fingerless gloves and a thick glittering belt around his waist that holsters some iron* - after rising out of the fuzzy comfort of program many days down the line, Impulse would learn his name was Jimmy - greets them in a private lounge.
"So?" Joel leans against the door, a half curious - half needlessly exasperated scowl downloaded on his round features.
Looking down at Impulse, slack on the plush comfort of their private lounge - his body lethargic with burning need to be praised and touched and touched in a praising manner - Jimmy scans, making little bird song hums as the data passes by.
"Seemingly, self imposed."
"You're havin' a laugh! Gotta be some sorta corpo mind virus?"
"You know many mind viruses that come with a instruction manual and a boundary list? Lucky, whatever triggered it happened here and not with some corpo sleaze-"
"Something tells me he wouldn't have minded that, isn't that puppy?" Joel asks, a light sneer to his voice as he strides across the room and drags a finger up Impulse's chin like a superheated blade. Impulse barks and whines on instinct, batting his data hazy eyes at Joel, pleasure brazing the vertebrate of his spine.
"Joel, play nice."
"I am."
Jimmy looks at him familar affections before he sits himself next to Impulse and gently disconnects his personal link. Not that Impulse is aware of any of this, his head is swimming, the message playing on loop, searing itself into every millimetre of hardware in his body.
The world passes in a strange ballet of dark shapes. The air is heavy, lighter than wherever he was not, but still heavy: saturated with something comforting and musky. The two shapes having a conversation have him wiggling in his seat - he thinks they are talking about him, but not to him: of course, he's just a dumb puppy after all. The logic path has a whiny moan excavated from his chest as his cock swells.
That is until the blonde doll in the scantily clothes presses his lips to Impulse's temple and whispers like a souldering iron to his neural processors, "thank you for being such a good puppy for me Impy, think you deserve a treat."
A noise, just about human, catches in Impulse's throat and comes out in a fizzle that makes the other chuckle and darken his eyes with a hunger that Impulse finds himself eagerly awaiting.
"I think our corpo puppy needs to get out of these silly people clothes, so needless on such a cute puppy isn't that right Joel?"
"Couldn't have said it better myself Jim."
With both of them on him, undressing him, hands roaming across his pudgy body with ravenous, hungry, affections, it's not long before his brain is too fried with euphoria to process any details beyond the abyss of praise he sinks into.
Everything is swimming - the sounds of the two, no wait there are more now, when were there more? The physical space of the lounge swelling with heat of more bodies, and the space of his own body becomes increasingly colonised by dotingly, curious, and unknown hands.
Each praising touch or distant echo of praise that caresses his ears buries him under another wave of endorphins so deep that is no hope of escaping. The groping, ravenous, hands satisfy and soothe aches Impulse didn't even know he has, and the sounds they squeeze out of him - all whiny like a kicked puppy before breaking into needy pants and moans - only spur further attention and more… well everything.
Everything feels heavy and soft, like his body is stuffed with lead soaked cotton. His cock twitches and throbs with each cooing affection touch of his belly and chest, his hole fluttering and clenching as his thighs are kneaded and GOOD BOY, GOOD BOY, GOOD BOY fills the lounge like a message from digital gods.
Voices, some deeper and some lighter, fill the space with clouds of static. Deeper growls make him whine and chase hands, grinding his weeping cock against whatever he can. Faces enter the fog obfuscating his vision occasionally: appraising inspections, demeaning sneers and spits, smiles like snarling wolves that make his organic organs ache in the most deathly pleasant ways.
Drool drips down, the taste of desperate want soon satiated with another cock. In and out. Drooling and slipping and burying his face in their bush like a dog buries a bone. He couldn't breathe sometimes, but that was fine, a little blankness is good for puppies. In and out.
Someone laughs at how desperate he is, typical of a corpo mutt: probably bent over his bosses desk to get where he is now, but that sounds underwater.
Everything is so warm and tingly, fuzzy. His body moves of it's own volition, he is simply a passenger eager to please. The cocks in his hands, on his lips, are warm and he's drooling like a starving mutt.
The scent and taste of cocks stain every nanoangstrum of his mind's circuitry - fill him so completely: someone slaps his ass and laughs as it ripples while someone encourages him down until their fat cock is buried in his muzzle to it's base.
More heat and weight around him, tremendous and daunting and everything he's wanted. Just a dumb powerless puppy made to serve, showered in praises and affections and attention. His sensors are fried by the pleasure, flittering and glitching as Impulse gives into every… well, impulse, that dances across his neural matrix. Savours every sensation he can feel through the thick cottony bliss clogging his mind, every byte of praise sinking and gnawing into him.
The shapes around him grow increasingly obfuscated, the world a maddening rave of colours that are a swirling blinding blur. But the touch is always there; someone rubbing praising spirals into the back of his neck just below his hair line, shoving him down to gag on their cock and moaning as cum stains the back of his throat as drool and whines spill out; someone caressing his chest and pressing affections into his neck, while they stuff their cock into his gaping puffy hole with their buddy, someone's hands in his hair all ruffling and dotting, turning him to face them as thick ropes of cum paint him and add to the mess dripping down his face and tits.
He is a good puppy.
And somewhere, someone is watching. Watching with a gleefully pesky smile through the city camera's and the optics of those running their hands through Impulse's hair and waiting to feed their cocks to his drool maw. Another happy client. He had asked not to know when or what datashard would carry the framework, and Grian had been all too happy to fulfil that cutely depraved request.
Their hand closes around the fizzling purple data of the leash, pulling the collar of the neurovirus tighter - for a time - he looks like he could use sometime enjoying being a mindless puppy before returning to the wonderous life of a corpo drone.
If he could return after this.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Edgerunner - a slang term for individuals living and working on the fringes of society, engaging in illegal or semi-legal activities as mercenaries, couriers, or criminals, often pushing technological and personal limits.
Gig - Job
Iron - Firearm
