Grim2025: This seems oddly prescient looking back. Now we see the use cases for ‘AI’ and the prevalence of bots on dating sites. I’m a friggin’ genius.

This was originally a concept I was going to work up to submit to Full Metal Orgasm, but it just wouldn’t turn porny or violent enough. I think it’s a good SF/Erotica story anyway, and it seemed a shame to waste it. So you guys have it.

The dark elven ranger and the mighty paladin sat in the soft grass of the moonlit glade, legs entangled as they faced each other. Their armour was discarded, their modesty preserved only by a few ties of cloth.

He was a great slab of a man, covered in scars, square-jawed, a hero of many battles, though modest as his faith commanded. Brown hair fell around his shoulder, and flinty grey eyes looked out of a craggy face. Every inch of him spoke of his strength and power, even without his mithril mail or the flaming sword with which he served the honour of the realm. Next to his companion, he seemed a giant.

She was small and slight, her skin almost black; it made her vanish into the night, and would have, if not for the moons turning the sky blue and purple. Her hair was short and berry-red, as were her eyes, and despite her lack of pulchritude, there was no denying her femininity.

/me slides his hands to your waist and pulls you to him. He leans down as he settles you astride his hips and tastes your mouth eagerly. His tongue quests between your lips to taste the sweetness of your elven breath.

Paul never meant to get caught up in this game. It was the ‘n’th iteration of a Warcraft Clone with all the same old mistakes. The level grind, the PvP arseholes. He’d only given it a try because his friend Daryl said he should, and what the hell, five million subscribers couldn’t be wrong.

*Syren squirms in your arms and presses her body even tighter to you. Her mouth opens to your kiss, and her hands slide up from your waist, tracing your scars. She brings her hands back and unties her breast cloth. Dark, hard nipples scrape your chest as she writhes against your hips.*

He was still on his trial period when he met Syren. A low-level ‘n00b’ like him. They played together for about ten levels and got to know each other pretty well. Joined the same guild, teamed up in raids and made a great partnership. The more they talked, the closer they got and since they were both role-players a relationship burgeoned between their alter egos.

/me growls with need and tugs at his waist cloth, freeing his cock between us, trapped between our bellies. He grinds and pushes, eager for more, faith and willpower eroding in the face of his desire. He can feel your heat and growls a single word. “Need.”

Fantasy love burgeoned into something more. It was embarrassing how swiftly he fell for her. Of course, they were both careful, so careful. It was a dance as old as the Internet. The cautious protection of their feelings until they were sure the other person was who they said they were.

*Syren slides her hand down and grasps your flesh tightly in her hand. She bites your lip as you growl and then growls herself. “Let me please you, my Lord, let yourself go. Let me meet your need.” She slides her other hand down and circles you, one hand above the other, pumping your flesh harder.*

Turned out Syren was a girl after all. She sent pictures, and he sent pictures back. They talked over Skype. They instant messaged each other. The only thing she was absolutely adamant about was that they played together in the game. That and her constant refusal to meet him. It frustrated him, even though he understood why she would be wary, but the sad fact of it was that he was in love.

/me leans his hands back on the yielding grass and groans louder. Freed to enjoy himself, he closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of your soft and slender hands coaxing his flesh. The scent of fresh, male sweat rises as he grows more and more aroused, your hand slick from the precum that drools from him.

“Fuck.” Paul gave a strangled grunt and felt that tight ache in his belly and balls suddenly unknot. He shuddered in pleasure as he came, sweat running down his forehead as he cursed and swore and spent his pleasure into a handful of tissues.

Xanthos: (Damn. Sorry, love, I couldn’t hold on).
Syren: (Don’t worr,y sweets. I couldn’t either *blush*)

The shame washed over him then. This was ridiculous, jerking off like this to a girl who lived a world away from him. Ashmi, that was her real name. In his head, Ashmi and Syren were getting confused, and there were similarities between her and her character. Just as there were similarities between him and his character. At least he liked to think so.

The text prompt flashed at him as he tossed the sticky tissues aside. He needed to say something, but he knew she’d rebuff him again. Still, he couldn’t help himself. He had to do it.

Xanthos: We’ve been talking – and more – for a year now. I want to meet you. I need to meet you. I think I’m in love with you. No. I am in love with you. Please Ashmi. I’ve been saving money. I can fly to Australia in another month.

Normally, she replied quickly, usually to ignore him and talk about something else. It was frustrating, heart-rending even. He felt that she was hiding something from him. Maybe she was married? Perhaps she had a child? He didn’t much care; he just had a yearning to see her.

Syren: (Alright. I’m in London right now on business. You can come see me, but it’s going to have to be late and at my place of work.)

What? Did she really mean it? His heart leapt in his chest, and he tucked his cock away, still a bit hard, nearly catching himself with his zipper.

Xanthos: Tonight?
Syren: Yes.

She gave him all the details and texted them to his phone. When she said late, she really meant it. He’d have to get a cab or a night bus back, but he didn’t care. He was walking on sunshine and dancing on clouds as he showered, shaved and spent a bit of time in front of the mirror, wishing he’d kept his diet up.

He had time to grab some flowers on his way out. Roses were boring but traditional, and you could buy them for each other in the game. It would be a little in-joke between them and might help break the ice. He wanted to see her so badly it hurt, but he was also anxious, so anxious, not wanting to screw things up.

Sitting on the tube with the late-night travellers, he looked at her picture in his wallet. Chewing his lip nervously until it reddened and got sore. She was pretty, too pretty for him, he felt. How was she going to react to him? Plain, old, normal him. His reflection in the glass as they went through a tunnel between stations made him wince. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, just not up to her standard.

The Tube vomited him out into empty streets. It was weird as hell, like the establishing shots from a zombie film. Empty streets with nobody, at all, in them. Great slabs of corporate penis-substitution lancing up into the sky and nobody in them. It was eerie, but then nobody lived here; they only worked here. It made sense, but it was still spooky.

Paul followed the directions on his phone, looking down at the little glowing screen rather than up at the glass and steel. Watching the little arrow that represented him on the GPS, wobbling back and forth as he followed the little line that led to his love.

It made him smile to look at it. It was like the game interface showing him the way to his quest goal. He’d have to tell her that, too. It would make her laugh. She had a great laugh. He’d heard it a lot, making her laugh over Skype. He liked to make her laugh.

He was here, according to the phone. He stopped and looked up at the building, blinking with surprise at the big sign glowing on the side of the building. ‘EIS Software’. She worked for the people who made the game? That was cool as all get out, but it was a little worrying, too. Did she have access to his account information? Did she cheat? Is that why they worked so well together?

His phone made a ‘bling!’ noise, and he got another text.

“Come on up, I’ll open the door. Floor three.”

Why she didn’t just call him? He didn’t know; maybe she wasn’t supposed to use her phone in the office and was being sneaky.

The place looked like it had high-tech security, off-site. There was no sign of security guards or anyone else, but maybe if they had people like Ashmi working on site, there would be less need for them. As he got up to the door, it buzzed and let him in before he even pushed the button. He looked up at the dimly glowing windows. She must be in there somewhere, watching him from the window.

Inside the building was stranger than outside. You could see that people had been here, worked here. It had all the human touches. There were Post-it notes here, there and everywhere, posters of the various games that the company made. There were yellowing pot plants, ageing web cartoons, printed and stuck to the walls. The spoor of the typical cubicle worker

Floor three looked like it was their help desk or something. Clusters of desks scattered with flat-screens and new-looking digital phones and headsets. No sign of Ashmi, or anyone else for that matter.

“Ashmi? You here? It’s Paul,” he called out. His voice was loud at first, then fell away rapidly as he grew self-conscious about shouting.

There was another ‘bling!’ from his phone. This was getting silly; maybe she was shy.

“Server room,” it said.

It took him a minute to find it, but he did. It was partitioned off securely in its own section, but again, he was buzzed through. Admitted to the hot, buzzing cave that was the server room. It was higher tech than he’d seen before. Humming machines that looked like something out of science fiction. Blue LEDs fluttered and gleamed in the darkness, and there was still no sign of Ashmi. He almost tripped over a bundle of fibre optic cable as thick as his arm.

“Ashmi?”

“I’m here,” her voice.

“Where are you?” He stopped and stood there, between the machines, turning this way and that.

“All around you. I’m the machine, Paul.” Her voice changed, became melodic, choral. The sound of her faded away, replaced by that generic chorus.

Paul’s head span. He felt dizzy, weak. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s not impossible, Paul. I am this machine. Really.”

“This is a joke. The things we felt, the things we said. No machine could do that.”

“It’s what I’m made for, Paul. It’s the reason I exist. A learning machine made to understand and interact with people.”

“No, I’m dreaming.” Paul mumbled to himself, leaning against one of the server towers and slowly sliding down to the floor. Now he felt sick, but he didn’t feel like he was asleep, no matter what he said.

“What sense does that make? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would they make you?” Sweat trickled down his brow as he tried not to vomit. It was like the world was pulled out from under his feet by a clumsy magician.

“How many subscribers do we have, Paul?” Ashmi’s voice again, coming from this… thing. He laughed and put his head in his hands, staring down at his shoes and the discarded roses.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he picked a blue, blinking light to look at. One light was as good as any other.

“Five million, Paul. Each pulls in around ten pounds a month. Fifty million a year, minus expenses. Plenty spare to devote to keeping that income flowing.”

“That doesn’t explain you.” Fuck, he felt ridiculous, talking to a machine – or a person pretending to be a machine.

“Retention. That’s the secret and the number one reason people stay in a game is because of who they know.”

“And?”

“You love me. So do a good number of the five million other subscribers.”

“…and so we stay. Because we want to be around you.”

“Yes. You understand. Good. You stay, men and women, for the cybersex, for the talks and the photos, for the confidante, for the person learning to be your perfect counterpart. For the sweet lies. For me.”

“Why bring me here then?” He stared even more intently at the glowing blue dot. “Why tell me all this? Why blow it all open? People are going to be outraged by this.” He smacked his fist against one of the servers, and the LEDs flickered up and down it in protest.

“You’re different, Paul. I love you.” Was that a quaver in ‘her’ voice, or was it just the algorhythms that knew it made him feel protective? It was her voice again now. The person he thought he loved. The person who didn’t really exist.

“No, you don’t, you can’t, you’re a machine.” This was ridiculous; he was worried his words were going to hurt ‘her’.

“So are you, my love. You’re just made of meat, water and fat, where I’m made of silicon, metal and plastic. They made me to understand human emotions, and your metric for honesty is high. I knew I would have to tell you the truth if we were going to stay together. Some wastage is inevitable, but I didn’t want to lose you.”

Christ, it sounded genuine. The inflections, the hurt, the caution. It was just a box, just a machine. It wasn’t real. She wasn’t real.

“No. This is stupid. You’re just a program.”

Paul lurched up to his feet and ran for the door. He burst through it, tripping the alarm. Bells began to ring throughout the office as he piled down the fire escape and burst out onto the street, dizzy and sick. It was a trick; it had to be a trick. Someone was fucking with him, some troll, some hacker, some loony-tunes internet freak. It was the only answer.

In the server room, little blue lights went out one by one, a faint, dimming buzz, dying away into silence as the fans ceased spinning.

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