The first time I logged into this thing, I didn’t even care about the classes or whatever plot it pretends to have - the way the avatars breathe, the tiny tremor in their lips before a kiss, that’s what got me. It’s like the devs poured all their soul into making skin look touchable. There’s this one girl in a half-armored cosplay outfit, silver hair glowing like some digital eclipse, and when she leans close, her breath fogs your screen. Maybe I imagined that, but hell, it felt real. The sci-fi cities behind her hum like they’re alive, something between a nightclub and a dream you shouldn’t be having. The game doesn’t shout about its mechanics, but when you figure out how to sync movement and body sensors, it’s almost too much - like your nerves are being rewritten to crave every vibration.

Sometimes the story pretends to be about mystery - a missing player, a corrupted zone - but nobody’s really fooling anyone. The real puzzle is how long you can last before giving in to pure heat. The VR immersion slips between sweet and filthy faster than your mind can keep up; one moment you’re chatting with a student NPC about history, next she’s on her knees, glasses sliding down, eyes wide like she’s learning anatomy for the first time. There’s group stuff too, awkward at first until it’s not. Someone mentioned modders replaced the background drones with moaning echoes; I laughed until it happened in my session and I swear it made everything feel more chaotic and alive. The music, though? Too clean. Needs something grittier, maybe a heartbeat instead of these sterile synths.

I still can’t get over the fact that clothing physics act like they’ve got personalities - skirts that refuse to stay where they should, latex that remembers your touch. You can taste the future here, but it’s messy and dripping and maybe a bit too honest. Every time I log out, reality feels thinner, like a veil that won’t settle right.

You wake up wrong. That is the first thing that hit me. Not heroic, not cool cyberpunk badass, just this sick, half-loaded feeling like your soul got dragged through a glitchy Pornhub ad. You’re in your backup sleeve, lying in some cheap future med-bay, the kind that smells like burnt plastic and sex lube, and your own body doesn’t quite fit. Your fingers are a bit too long, your chest feels heavy in a way it shouldn’t, heart rate monitor chirping like a horny bird, and your vision keeps tearing like a bad stream on xVideos. Crew’s a mess, ship’s a mess, and your upload is corrupted enough that if you calm down, you die. Which is a fucked up way of saying: you literally need to be kept turned on just to keep your brain from shutting off.

The “keep his heart rate up” thing sounds like a cheesy porn excuse, and yeah, it is, but here it actually wraps around into the story surprisingly tight. You’re surrounded by these thick-thighed, short-haired, neon-dyed space girls that look like someone smashed together a strip club and a hacker bar, then sprinkled futa on top for good measure. They are not gentle nurses. You’re not in some healing crystal spa. You are meat they are determined to keep pumping, with hands that wander the second the monitor dips below a number they like. One moment the medic is calmly explaining your neural corruption, next moment her gloved hand slides under your hospital sheet and she squeezes like she’s testing a weapon part. The captain leans over you, short hair brushing your face, tits spilling out of a half-open suit, and she’s pissed you almost died but she’s also grinding on your thigh with this lazy, practiced dominance that says she has done this before with other poor fucks on other poor ships.

I liked how the game doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about the body stuff. Your sleeve is customizable, but not in that boring “pick eye color, done” way. It’s big asses that bounce when you get grabbed, heavy tits that strain cheap fabric, cocks and clits and both, because why not if you’re paying for a synthetic body anyway. Cyberpunk setting, sure, there are glowing cityscapes outside the porthole and some talk about data smuggling and black clinic surgeons, but honestly the real sci-fi here is “how far can we push this body before the heart flatlines.” There is this one scene that stuck with me: you’re strapped into this sloopy auto-doc chair, and a futa crew engineer, all colorful undercut and grease on her cheeks, is pretending to “check your reflexes” while she slowly strokes you with one hand and plays with the med panel with the other, watching the HR line spike when she squeezes your balls just a bit too hard. And the worst part? She keeps half-talking about thruster repairs, like she’s multitasking you like any other ship component.

Not everything lands. Some of the dialogue comes out a bit stiff in the wrong way, like someone tried to write badass one-liners while also jerking off and lost the balance. There is a moment where a character calls a neural buffer a “quantum RAM thingy” and I still don’t know if that’s on purpose or just lazy, but I kind of love it because it feels like late-night shitposting turned into a game script. The pacing jumps all over: one second you’re gasping, being ridden hard by a thick-hipped futanari officer who pins your wrists to keep your pulse up, the next second someone brings up fuel dates and cargo lists like we didn’t just watch you cum all over the med bed. Also, tiny complaint that bugged me way more than it should: the damn heart rate sound is slightly too high-pitched, like my Fitbit having an orgasm, and it made me reach for my phone twice, thinking I got a notification. Still, when the girls crowd around you, colored hair brushing your skin, their hands greedy, their voices low and bossy, using your overheating body as both patient and toy, that shrill little beep just disappears into the background like any other cheap future noise. Sex as life support. Literally. It’s messed up, and it works.

Reality show from hell, that’s kind of the vibe here. Not the goofy Netflix stuff where everyone cries in the confessional, more like “what if Big Brother was run by someone who jerks off to cruelty and power trips.” You’re the new guy thrown into this locked-down futuristic house, cameras everywhere, no privacy, and twenty-something horny, scared, fucked‑up contestants pretending they’re here for fame while everyone knows deep down they’re being used like meat. It’s all bright lights and fake smiles on the surface, but a few scenes in you start to feel the rot. People get “eliminated” and it’s not just some walk-of-shame to a taxi. The showrunners treat bodies as props. Holes as content. Consent as a slider they can turn off whenever ratings need a boost.

Since I’m into voice work, I went in listening more than watching at first. The moans and gasps during those “teasing” scenes where the girls rub against the MC in the communal bedroom while the others pretend to sleep? That shit feels way too real. There is this one sleep sex moment that actually made me stop and replay, because her breathing shifts so slowly, from deep sleep to confused whimper, then to this reluctant arousal when he pushes her panties aside and starts fingering her under the sheet, while the cameras zoom in and the producers whisper in your ear through the UI, basically encouraging you to keep going. No cartoonish screaming, it’s awkward, wet, quiet. A little uncomfortable. Actually more than a little, and that’s sort of the point here. Same with the blackmail scenes: they use old sex clips, private files, nudes, all that, to force a shy girl to join a group sex “challenge” with guys of different races on live feed, and the MC can either back off or lean into it. When you go with it, the mix of humiliation and arousal in her voice is kind of insane. She’s choking on cock, trying to say “stop” and “keep going” in the same breath. It’s sick, and it’s hot, and I kind of hate myself for liking it.

The sci‑fi / dystopia flavor sits in the background like a bad smell. Futuristic collars, shock systems, drugged drinks served after every elimination, some AI host that sounds almost friendly while pushing the contestants into anal, double penetration and messy creampie “competitions” that feel like twisted party games. There’s interracial and swinging stuff that actually feels like it belongs there, because the show is clearly trying to mix as many bodies and skin tones as possible for the “audience,” not for the characters. At one point they chain a couple to a wall and have other contestants jerk them off in turns while the floor slowly fills with water and blood from the last “test” in the next room, like a porno Saw ripoff that actually commits to the idea. The sound design sells it: wet slaps, muffled cries, someone laughing in the control room, you can hear a mic crackle when one girl is forced into anal while another guy is already buried in her pussy, so you get this rough, overlapping breathing that makes it feel way more chaotic than the usual porn game rhythm. And yeah, it’s all 3D models doing vaginal, oral, anal, the whole package, but I kept coming back to the way they react. Tiny “fuck” under their breath when you push too deep. Nervous giggle before a forced blowjob. That stuff hits my VA brain. The violence goes hard, too: broken noses, bruised throats after rough throat-fucking, someone getting beaten because they refused a group scene, then later you see them again, limping, still used as a toy. Sometimes the MC is just another predator in the system, sometimes he feels trapped with them. The game doesn’t really care what kind of person you are, as long as you keep playing along with its nasty little show.

Moonlight throws you into this dirty, glossy future where everyone pretends they’re happy because their brain is on a leash. Neural implants drip little shots of pleasure in your head while an app rents out your meat-suit to whatever corpo wants a warm body. It sounds ridiculous but it feels… too close. You’re this burnt-out detective with more regrets than friends, poking around a death that smells like murder but is written up as “unfortunate malfunction”. Classic. Except here the corpse has an implant history that doesn’t add up, a porn subscription tied to a dead identity, and an ex who cries like she’s rehearsed but still clutches his jacket like a real widow. The game keeps you in that sweet spot where you’re never sure if people are lying or if the tech is lying for them. Also there is so much teasing it’s almost rude. One moment you’re going through encrypted chat logs, next moment a milf corporate handler is leaning over your shoulder, blouse half open, casually asking whether you’ve ever tried orgasm lock with a neural override. The flirting keeps cutting through the bleakness in a way that feels very queer to me, like everyone is using horniness as armor. I relate too much probably.

Sex scenes don’t come flying at you every two clicks, they crawl up slowly, like bad decisions at a bar. You talk, you joke, you push someone too hard in an interrogation, they push back, things snap. I had one scene where I was questioning this older lab tech, soft belly, tired eyes, very “I have seen some shit”. We start arguing about consent when your body is on remote control, and suddenly she’s grabbing the collar of your coat, pressing you against a sterile glass wall, telling you she wants to feel a real tongue, not a programmed rhythm. The game lets you decide if you go down on her right there among the humming machines while security cameras pretend to sleep, or if you pull away and keep playing the noble asshole. The animation sells it in a very unpolished way; sometimes the lips clip a bit or the angles look too porn-hub, but honestly it kind of fits. It feels like underground smut recorded in a shitty rented apartment, not some corpo-funded sex sim. There’s blood too, real rough stuff. One route turned into a total mess when the guy I was tailing got his implant fried right in front of me, smoke out of his nose, body twitching on the ground while my character is still half hard from a blowjob in the alley five minutes before. It’s uncomfortable and hot and confusing, and the writing never stops to hold your hand and tell you how to feel. Queer vibe shows up more in the edges than in labels: guys checking you out in clubs, women in sharp suits who don’t care what’s in your pants as long as you can keep up, trauma and desire tangled together. Some romance paths clearly want you to think they’re soft and wholesome, then they will turn around and ask you to choke them while they’re jacked into a virtual beach. And I swear the text messages you get on your in-game phone remind me of my ex who used to sext from the metro, like there is this messy, non-perfect English in some lines that actually hits very close to home for me as a non native speaker. Nothing feels translated for a straight American audience, just tossed at you to deal with. It’s horny, fucked up, a bit clunky, and somehow that makes it more honest.