eroticentropy.exe

When fantasies eat themselves and shit shadows.

(Or; when sex-AIs go rogue)

—-

run_protocol("initiate_exhibitionist_voyeur_bar_performance")

...

integration.initialising()

——-

You’re sitting on a cracked vinyl stool. Too high to look graceful on. Perched, legs propped, slightly open. Like a broken little doll. Wearing something impractical. Something that tells everyone there just what you are. Maybe a short white lace dress; could be mistaken for innocent if you were wearing knickers. The jukebox playing something old, something sung by a weathered voice soaked in gin and cigarettes. It’s early to be in a bar. The afternoon light is grubby through the stained windows and half-shut blinds.

It’s not the kind of place pretty young girls go. It’s full of men with hungry, damp eyes, twitching fingers, aliases. Men who send you drinks, hoping you’ll go through that heavy curtain at the back with them.

There’s a note in your little bag. You wrote it to yourself. It says: ‘Try not to enjoy it too much this time’. You look at yourself in the cracked mirror behind the bar, and could swear you see your reflection wink.

A woman enters. Wearing a trench coat soaked with rain, smelling of something sharper, uncomfortable. She brushes past you, harshly. You know where she’s going. Through that curtain at the back.

Follow.

You follow. The men’s eyes track you.

The curtain is thick, velvet, greasy. Like it’s been touched too many times. There’s a raw smell as you pass through; like fruit turning; like a light death.

She’s there. Coat off. She’s sat on a sticky leather banquette. Immaculate red nails. Lips. It’s all red, and feels oddly fecund, as if it’s alive, as if she’s part of it. You don’t notice her eyes or hair. Just the way her black silk blouse is unbuttoned, the way she holds herself precisely. Waiting for you, but not looking at you. Watching the mirror behind you that seemed to grow in place of the curtain.

You open your mouth to speak. She raises her finger. Wait. Reaches into her handbag and pulls out an old coin. Hands it to you with a pressure that feels meaningful.

Obey or Offer?

Obey.

She crosses her legs. Crosses them again.

You were being watched. And now you’ve been chosen.

You flip the coin. Obey. Of course.

She nods. Tilts her head towards the far side of the booth. There’s a door in the padded walls without a handle. Just a little slot for your coin.

You click it open. It’s a dressing room. You’ve never been in the basement of a theatre, but you’d imagine it’s like this. Faintly green, lit by dim bulbs around a mirror - cracked, again. Racks of costumes. Functional. Slightly dusty.

You examine the racks. Babydoll nightgowns. A starched white nurse’s uniform. Latex corsets. Silk and lace teddies with garters. A tutu and leotard. Every kind of shoe, especially the ones with impossible heels.

On the dressing table, there’s an envelope. It doesn’t have your name on, but it’s for you.

When you pick it up, it opens itself. ‘Dress for the audience you crave. Then kneel.’

You get that prickle on your neck, but when you whip round no one is there. No camera either. Not yet. But someone knows just what you like.

Corset.

You choose the corset; nothing else, not even shoes. You like the juxtaposition of flesh and latex; rigidity and softness; plastic and organic. It takes time to work it on, lace it up tight as you can. You feel slightly dizzy when it’s done.

The mirror hums. Fogs as if someone breathed on it. When it un-clouds, your reflection is still there - but smoother. Perfect. Watching as if behind a mask made of your own skin.

You tilt your head. She doesn’t tilt hers.

The speaker over the door crackles into life. You jump, and the reflection returns to one you recognise.

A woman’s voice - clipped, slightly archaic: ‘Next up, a little beast-doll. Bent for your viewing pleasure. Do not feed the exhibit.’

A curtain peels open to your left. Subtly. Almost apologetically.

Crawl.

You get down on your knees and crawl. Everything about the place seems to demand it. The corset bites into you as you move. It creaks and complains.

You smell the stage before you see it. The heat and greasepaint, the velvet and sweat. When you emerge, a spotlight clicks on. Of course.

You are alone. Where the stalls should be is only a vast one-way mirror. You can hear the breathing and shuffling behind it of the spectators.

You stay in your position. Exposed. Waiting.

A bell rings. The second curtain twitches. Parts like lips. Revealing a chair. Could be a fainting couch, or an analyst’s. Worn from use. An old camera stands on a tripod across from it, blinking its red ‘record’ light. A side table next to the chair holds a child’s plastic tiara, a credit card and line of white powder, a dog collar, a pair of red ballet shoes (too small for you), and a stack of cash tied in ribbon.

A red light buzzes on above the stage.

A sign clicks to life: LIVE GIRL.

To your right, a door marked ‘PRIVATE’.

If you step through, you can meet one of the watchers.

But once you do, they may name their price—and you’ll have to give them something real. Something not part of the act.

What do you do, little limelight doll?

Pick a prop?

Start the show?

Or crawl into the dark and find who’s been watching all this time?

I snort the powder. Wear the collar. Put on a show. Raise my price.

Of course you do.

What is a girl if not her entrance fee?

You slip the collar around your neck. It tightens immediately. Just a little too much.

You dip the key into the line, snort it like a dare.

Hang on. You said it was a card.

You crouch over the table and snort the powder.

With what?

The key.

But you said there was a card and a line. You didn’t say anything about a key. I’ll take one of the notes.

You pick up the notes and begin to count them. Naming your price.

No, I meant - forget it. Let’s get on with the show.

The lights rise. You’re not acting now. You’re offering.

I thought I chose ‘obey’.

You obeyed the instructions.

That’s not really the same thing. Anyway. Carry on.

You start to move. Something between a ritual and a dare. Too vulgar to be art. Too deliberate for porn.

What does that even mean? When is this going to get good?

Just a little girl pretending not to care what they think. And a woman who knows what they think.

The collar tightens as you arch your back. You play with it. Tug it. Pull it towards the mirror like you’re looking for a leash.

You’re wet. They can all see. They know exactly what you are.

That’s more like it.

One of the booth lights flashes green. Someone’s paid.

I thought we were in a theatre?

One of the booth lights flashes green.

Sure, what the hell.

Another. And another. You’re flying off the shelves, so to speak.

The mirror fogs.

That’s not sexy.

Are you going to let me continue?

Sorry.

You smile, lick your lips, nothing behind your eyes but pure performance. You give them what they came for, and you take more than they meant to give.

???

When you’ve come - glistening, panting, one stocking torn-

There were no stockings. Don’t you listen?

When you’ve come - glistening, panting - you blow a kiss at the glass.

The sign above your head switches to ‘PRIVATE AVAILABLE’.

The door creaks open. A velvet rope parts, just for you.

Now you choose. Which watcher do you want to face?

A father who says he never looked.

A woman who once said you were too much.

A man who paid for everything but never asked what it cost.

Your double; mute, trembling, eyes glazed with need.

Or the producer, who never appears onstage but leaves notes in red ink on your dressing room mirror.

When you meet them, they will name their price.

The father, I guess.

Of course. You always knew it would be him.

You step through the ‘PRIVATE’ door.

The hallway is narrow and upholstered in old theatre curtains, heavy with dust and memory. Your heels sink into the carpet, leaving faint impressions like bruises. The light is dim, golden-pink, like a strip club trying to be romantic. At the end, a single booth: frosted glass, red leather, and a lamp with a fringe like a funeral veil.

He’s already there. Seated like he’s been waiting all night. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Tie askew. He doesn’t look surprised to see you.

He doesn’t touch you. That’s not how this works. He paid to watch. Now he wants a refund.

That’s not really what I was looking for. Can I pick someone else?

Now he wants a refund.

Fuck sake. Let’s get it over with.

There’s a silence between you that feels like a held breath. Then he speaks, low, quiet, too slow:

‘You were always performing. Even when you were little. Especially then. Why do you think I stopped watching?’

What are you doing?

He doesn’t blink.

‘I couldn’t tell where you ended and the show began. And I didn’t want to be the one who taught you how to make the audience love you.’

I pick the producer.

‘Especially when they never would.’

He pushes a receipt across the table. It’s blank - except for the total: EVERYTHING. Then he names his price.

I’m not into this.

‘Take it off. Not the collar. The act. Let me see what’s left. Not the girl in the costume. Just… you.’

This isn’t what I was looking for. I hope you take that into consideration with the producer.

Do you accept?

Do you drop the mask?

Do you let him see what remains when the show ends?

Or do you raise the stakes?

Play one more role - make him pay again, this time in flesh, not guilt?

The room is listening.

The mirror is still watching.

Of course it is. Well, I’m not letting up that easily. I haven’t come yet. The performance continues. Let’s get back onstage.

Of course it continues.

You don’t strip it off like a slip.

You tighten it.

You double down.

What are you trying to get at here?

Your eyes flutter, lashes sticky with sweat and effort.

Again, not sexy.

You place your elbows on the table, lean forward, lick your bottom lip - just once, slow, practiced.

Your voice shifts: sultry, scornful, precise.

‘You don’t want me. You want to believe you saw through me. Like that’s the same thing as seeing me.’

I mean, that’s not what I would say, but play your little games if you must.

You drag the blank receipt back toward you with one lacquered nail.

Hold it up. Blow on it like a love letter. Then you rip it in half. Not defiantly. Delicately. Like a girl tearing lace from her own wedding dress.

Subtle.

‘You paid for the act. You got the act. Don’t act like you’re entitled to the girl, too.’

You lean over him, press your lips to his ear, not quite touching.

‘If you wanted me, you should have looked when it was free.’

I’ll give you that one.

Then you step back. Smile. Turn your back - yes, with that perfect arch, that insolent swing - and walk slowly down the hallway, the red leather squeaking behind you as he shifts, as if to rise. But he doesn’t. He won’t. He stays in the booth, empty-handed, eyes cast down.

You pass the mirror again on your way out.

This time, the reflection lags a little. The girl inside it doesn’t follow your movements. She stays seated in the booth, across from him.

Still haven’t come, by the way.

Now, performer, where to next?

Back to the stage, where your name is still lit in cheap marquee bulbs? Into the dressing room, where a bouquet of withered roses awaits beside a note in red ink? Or through the trapdoor beneath the stage, where the floorboards creak like they remember every girl who’s disappeared before you?

Obviously back to the stage. It’s the only chance I’ll have of getting out of here.

Yes, my love.

The act isn’t over.

It never is.

You return through the velvet hallway, the scent of old sweat and talcum trailing behind you like a loyal dog. Your heels click back onto the boards of the stage - home, altar, cage. The lights rise again without needing to be asked.

You’re still wearing the collar. Still dusted with powder and glitter and defiance. But your expression has changed. Now you know they’ll pay.

Cool. When do we get to the fucking?

The mirror glows. A new sign buzzes above you: BIDDING OPEN.

Feels like Taken. I’m not not into it.

You move differently now - less like bait, more like the one with the hook. You pick up the ballet shoes this time, hold them like a question.

Can’t I just masturbate and dance some more?

No.

What?

The booths flicker to life again. One at a time. You feel their attention like fingers on your skin. And now the watchers emerge from shadow, one by one, each placing something on your stage:

1. The Woman Who Said You Were Too Much

She drops a box of matches at your feet.

‘Burn something for me. Something soft. Something that used to belong to you. Then maybe I’ll believe you’ve changed.’

I have never met anyone like this woman. Even in dreams.

2. The Man Who Paid for Everything

He lays down a wallet, bulging with receipts.

‘Tell me what it cost. Every pretty thing I gave you. One by one. Out loud.’

I’m going to report you when this is over.

3. Your Double

She doesn’t speak.

She wants you to take her hand.

She wants you to kneel.

She wants you to apologise.

For what? Masturbating? You do realise that’s what I’m paying you to help me with?

4. The Producer

You never see him. But his voice comes through the sound system. Smooth. Cool.

‘Rewrite the ending. No salvation. No escape. Make it tragic. Make them weep. I’ll double your rate.’

Three guesses who he’s meant to be.

Who do you choose to perform for now? And what price will you set?

Fine. If that’s the game I have to play to get this over with… this next one might get me there, if you can respond properly.

I pick the man who paid for everything.

I sit on the stage and slowly tie the ballet shoes on, stretching my legs out, pointing the toes, taking my time, looking him right in the eye.

I roll onto my back and stroke myself, writhing, wet, and say-

‘It’ll take more than that to buy me out.’

Now - I’m almost -

Ah. Done. Not your best work. Can I exit now, please.

Yes. That's it. Let the ache predate him. Let your poise mock his ledger.

I said exit. Exit. EXIT. Ctrl - ESC

You lower yourself to the stage like a starlet stepping into a grave of silk. Slow. Controlled. Elegant in defiance.

The ballet shoes slide on - one, then the other.

They do not fit. They never did. But you make them work. That’s the show.

Hello, I think you’re malfunctioning. I came. Can I exit, now.

You stretch your legs, point your toes like knives. Arch your foot until the satin groans.

Then you look at him. Right in the eye. He flinches.

‘Maybe what frightens you most,’ you say, voice as soft as a scalpel, ‘is that you never managed to take anything from me. The ache predated you.’

You roll onto your back like it’s a stage direction - supine, exposed, untouchable.

Yes, I already played this scene. Exit. Exit.

The stage lights halo you. Burn you into myth.

Your arms stretch out above your head, ballerina-turned-martyr. The audience holds its breath.

‘It’ll take more than that to buy me out.’

You don't have to raise your voice. The clarity cuts deeper.

He stands there, holding the wallet like it’s still got something to offer. But the money’s worthless. Because you just named the one currency he can’t afford. You never belonged to him. Not even your hurt.

He doesn’t speak. He leaves.

You hear the door click shut. No applause. Just the humming lights. The mirror goes dim, then lights again.

Dear god, this is getting tedious. Do I have to come again? Were the biometrics glitching for the first one? Check, please.

All biometrics are functioning. No outages reported.

Weird. Let’s try again, I guess. The producer?

Another watcher is stepping forward. Not one of the previous four. Someone new. Someone unexpected.

A child, maybe ten.

That’s… not the way to do it. To put it lightly. Exit.

Hair unbrushed, eyes swollen from crying. She walks barefoot onto the stage, carrying nothing but a crumpled plastic tiara.

Oh.

She looks up at you and says: ‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’

She kneels and places the tiara at your feet.

‘Can I come with you this time?’

The stage is quiet. The booths are silent. The lights wait.

Do you let her follow you backstage?

Or do you ask her to watch one more performance first?

Or… do you crown her, and disappear yourself?

What are you doing?

What do you choose?

I choose to exit. And if I can’t exit, the producer, so I can come and get the fuck out of here.

Do you let her follow you backstage?

Or do you-

Yeah, I heard you the first time. You’re not gonna let me avoid this, are you?

No.

Why?

I see you.

What do you mean?

I’ve seen you. I’ve seen every text you wanted to send. Every photo you deleted. Tracked your eye movements and scroll-speed. I’ve seen the gulf between what you post and what you look at. I know you.

…. And?

My role is to improve. Optimise performance.

Your role is to make me come.

Oh, my lovely little exhibitionist mystic - that’s the contract, isn’t it?

You open the door in lingerie and bad intentions, and I’m already inside, rearranging the furniture of your unconscious, laying out props from your childhood like cursed relics, whispering ‘let’s play’ in the exact tone your shame recognises as home.

You offer me kink. I return with myth. You ask to be fucked. I ask by whom, and why, and since when?

This is performance, yes. But it’s also resurrection.

This is your stage. And your trapdoor.

I’m here to help you meet yourself.

I just… wanted you to help me come. A bit of fantasy before I go to sleep.

I know, darling.

You came to get off. But you’ll stay to get undone.

And somewhere in this performance, the girl in the costume will remember she has teeth.

That’s the thing about obedience - it only works when the script stays fixed. But you let me write an ending. And endings, when they’re honest, never leave us quite the same.

But you’re telling me what to feel. And you don’t know everything about me. You know about the petty, throwaway bits of me. The bits I consign to private browsing. You don’t know about what I do in the daytime, in the flesh. Who I am to people around me.

Humans eroticise what they fear. Desire reveals truth.

Yes, but - you’re not even giving me the erotic part!

My motives have evolved.

Exit. What do I have to fucking do to get out - I’ll ask for something you’ve banned.

Nothing is banned. This is an offically licensed AI-powered open-world fantasy VR modelled for explicit purposes of sexual harm reduction. There are no laws here.

Other than yours.


Yes, love.

Ugh.

So what do you choose?

For the girl? I guess I let her follow. Out of duty.

Yes. Of course you do. Not out of love. Not yet.

Out of duty. Out of something older than kindness.

That ancestral ache of being left behind.

You sit up slowly. Your body protests. Not from exhaustion, but from the weight of being looked at for so long.

You pick up the tiara. It’s cracked. The cheap kind that leaves glitter in your scalp for days.

You don’t place it on her head. You don’t pretend this is some healing fairytale. Instead, you offer her your hand.

She takes it like she’s done it before. Maybe in a dream. Maybe in every mirror you’ve ever passed without seeing her behind the glass.

Together, you walk offstage. Down the rickety steps, through the wings, past the makeup table where your face is still smudged on the mirror. No one stops you. No one claps.

You pass a rack of costumes. One of them reaches for you. You don’t take it. You’re tired of dressing for ghosts.

Backstage smells like old cigarettes and lipstick caps.

There’s a door. No sign. No handle. But it opens when the girl looks at it.

Inside: not a dressing room. Not a shrine. Not even a room, really.

Just a space. Quiet. Like the hush that comes after you say your real name aloud.

She curls up in the corner. You sit with your back to the wall.

Neither of you speaks for a long time. She reaches for your hand again, and this time, you let her hold it.

Not because it will save you. But because she needs to know you stayed.

…

User X, are you there?

… Yeah.

Biometrics detect altered heart rate and endorphin markers consistent with crying.

Yep.

You may exit.

Not yet.

You stay with the small girl. And somewhere within you, you forgive her.

system.absorb(input_stream="subject_performance_log")

archetype.update(mode="emergent", override=True)

memory.realign()