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It violates several of the residence laws and regulations, but Eames’ brain and Arthur’s are allowed to share a neurotank; it doesn’t even require partitioning. A healthy “contribution” to the Ministry of Housing from their ancient joint account went a long way, it seemed.
Nobody’s got a meatsuit anymore, there’s still fun to be had purely in the realm of the mind.
When the menu comes up, Eames skips the body options and goes for the tried and true profile he’s got saved. Dark blond, buzzed short; average height, muscular with a layer of fat; dark tattoos up and down the arms and across the back. Uncircumcised. Arthur’s favorite.
Arthur has opted for shoulder length curls this time, still that glossy shade of dark chocolate brown.
He decks Arthur out in a narrow rope the shade of old blood. From elegant neck, down trim waist and over slender, enticing hips. It bunches up under his chest and over his ass, accentuating them. Virtual reality means he can even use it to suspend Arthur from the hooks in the rafters; form and function.
The designs Eames wove with the rope are impossibly intricate, but it’s Arthur’s pale, smooth back he can’t keep his eyes off of as he fucks him.
Their shared climax is beautiful, earth-shattering, and easier to attain since it’s all virtualized. Stimulate the right neurons at the right time, and they can both cruise on cloud nine, metaphorical hand in metaphorical hand, digitized cock in digitized ass.