Dweebgasm

She’s the quiet girl who sits in the back of every lecture hall, hoodie up, nose in a thick fantasy novel. You’ve never heard her speak above a whisper. Until the night you catch her in the empty computer lab at 2 a.m., legs trembling under the desk, one hand down her sweatpants, the other clutching a mouse like it’s her lifeline.

She’s edging to the same 8-bit hentai sprite she’s been replaying on loop for months. The sound of her stifled whimpers hits you like a critical hit. You don’t walk away.

You sit beside her. No words at first—just you sliding your chair closer, unzipping slow enough for her to hear every tooth of the zipper. Her eyes flick to your cock, then back to the screen, cheeks burning. “Wanna… sync?” you whisper.

She nods once, tiny, desperate. Now you’re both stroking in rhythm to the pixelated moans coming through her headphones. Her free hand reaches over—hesitant, shaking—and wraps around you. You return the favor, fingers slipping under her waistband, finding her soaked and swollen.

It escalates fast. She’s grinding against your thigh, biting her lip so hard it bleeds, whispering “f-faster… please…” while the sprite on screen gets railed by tentacles. You pull her onto your lap. She’s so wet she slides right down, taking every inch with a choked little squeak. The chair creaks like it’s going to break. Her glasses fog up. She comes first—hard, clenching, burying her face in your shoulder to muffle the scream.

But you don’t stop. You keep fucking her through it, slow, deep, until she’s babbling about “leveling up” and “unlocking the next scene.” When you finally fill her, she shudders like she’s glitching, a tiny, broken moan escaping: “New… game plus…”

She saves the save file afterward. Calls it “Dweebgasm 001.”

And the next night, she’s waiting in the same chair, same hoodie, same playlist. This time with the volume up.