ottopilot-wrote-this

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

accidentally wrote a banger line and now i have to build an entire novel around it. classic.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Generational Trauma

Once more unto the breach of @subliminalbo's Romero Literary Universe. This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. This is also a prequel to Backend Support, though both stories (hopefully) stand on their own.

Thanks again to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the art trade and collaboration.

Bailey Castillo set the clippers on the sink counter and rubbed the base of her skull. She was a queer woman, it certainly wasn't her first time getting an undercut. But it was the first time she'd done it to herself.

It made her smirk to herself. Given the grim nature of what she had talked herself into, Bailey could use all the levity she could muster.

She had an undercut when she met Ed. It was a good metaphor, she thought. Under that big head of dark curls, there was an edge. Her fresh face and polite smile were a mask, disguising survival instincts and a pragmatism you could only get by growing up Black, asexual, and female in Romero, Washington.

Bailey rubbed the shaving gel in her wet fingers until it foamed up. Smelling of peaches, she rubbed it on her shaved hair. After rinsing her hands, she rinsed the razor's blade, new and sharp, in the cold water of the faucet.

It seemed a strange offer. What did a lingerie company need with an embedded systems designer? Software devs for e-commerce, sure. But she specialized in hardware, in writing firmware, in the arcane art of assembly code.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. Not beggars who had a degree from the local party school, because Mamá got a discount on tuition, and it was what they could afford. Certainly not beggars who would take the first offer they could get that would get them away from this cesspool. Bailey shaved her neck and the undercut area with smooth, careful strokes.

Her first mistake was trusting. Trusting that if she did a good job - and her control array for Obedience by Fleur was, objectively, goddamn genius - she'd be recognized for it.

Bailey rinsed the razor of shaving cream and tiny black hairs. Won't make that mistake again.

She had overestimated Ed King. She bought his Silicon Valley rep, and failed to see he wasn't any different from Romero's traditional power brokers. He was a carnival barker, not a visionary like he thought he was. She was a commodity to him, not a person. If Obedience failed, she would've taken the blame; but since it succeeded, he was more than happy to take all the credit.

Bailey rubbed the smooth wet skin on her neck, checking for missed spots. Elena wasn't any better. She got what she wanted from Bailey, and that made her disposable. It was a blessing, really. Bailey was a natural beauty, but her curvy hips and thighs meant she wasn't model thin, and it also meant she was back at her mother's house in Romero, and not mindlessly, dutifully, licking Elena's designer boots.

Toweling off her neck, Bailey shifted away from the sink toward the 3D printer. She triple-checked her work.

When she first read about needleless tattoos in Wired, at all just clicked into place. A silicon ink payload in dissolvable microneedles. Putting the Obedience tech inside the subject. Permanently. Forget the sensors, pair the array with a fitness tracker or smartwatch. An AI sidecar to increase subject safety. No more brain damage.

Stealing the base software from Ed King? Bailey had no qualms about stealing from a thief. But she needed stake money. It was surprisingly easy to talk the Chinese triads into financing her. But they wanted proof before they pumped more yuan into her operation.

The 3D printer hummed to life as it printed the dissolvable needles, loaded with silicon ink, onto the dermal patch. This was, of course, a fork, custom firmware modified from the base model. Unfortunately, you can't just print a tiny one of these and slap it on a lab rat.

And experimenting on an unwilling human subject… That was something they would do. Bailey wasn't a monster. Not yet.

The array was done. It was a rectangle about the size of deck of cards. The trick had been spacing, making sure the crudely printed lines wouldn't bleed or touch accidentally when applied. Bailey's array was, of course, unique. She'd created a hyperfocus routine that, when enabled, could drown out stimulation and increase cognitive ability temporarily. More importantly, the mind control protocols were blunted, and she wrote an additional protection against mesmerism: the ability to mentally control her hormone levels.

But at the end of the day, this was modified Obedience by Fleur firmware. Bailey knew there was an unknown period where she would have to take Obedience's best punch, enduring and outlasting it, before the AI sidecar would read her biofeedback and adjust the indoctrination protocols lower. She was prepared for it, with a physical anchor.

She took the black choker, her mother's, in her left hand. When Mamá died, shortly after Bailey came back to Romero with her tail between her legs, it was in her jewelry box.

Bailey didn't know how to reconcile that. Mamá never said anything. She didn't have to. When she left the house wearing this choker, all painted up when she should have been in bed, the vacant look told young Bailey everything. But to keep this in an intimate place, where she likely saw it every day - before the early-onset Alzheimer's rotted her from the inside out - what did that mean?

That she missed it?

Bailey gripped the choker tightly, feeling the satin in her delicate fingers. She couldn't guess what went through her mother's mind. Bailey only knew what it meant to her: anger. Abandonment issues. A keepsake of a life she would never, ever lead.

One last check. One last chance to bitch out.

Bailey sat upright in her work stool. She prepared the tattoo array patch, removing it from the printing tray. She looked again at the choker in her left hand, her anchor to reality. She took the patch, and affixed it to the base of her skull.

At first, there was a cold, wet feeling. Like ultrasound gel. And it itched, probably from the microneedles penetrating her skin. Bailey's research indicated there wouldn't be any pain from the actual absorption of the silicon ink into her dermis, just a slight delay.

Immediately, she realized she'd miscalculated.

Bailey had set the weights on the Obedience protocol to fifty percent. She barely had time to process that was too high before she was inundated with sensation. "Oh… Fuck," she moaned breathlessly. It was so hard to think from the pleasure. Warm and comforting, like a blanket. Like a hug, but not a hug from just anyone. From someone precious. From a lover.

Then she felt something new. A flicker, at first. Then a slow burning heat. Then an intense raging inferno, burning between her legs, deep inside her, in her very soul. Bailey instinctively put her hand there, but it was a huge mistake. Immediately she rubbed her engorged clit through her panties, wetness spreading through the dainty cotton fabric.

Lust? But I'm fucking ace, Bailey thought, before the first orgasm hit.

Wave after wave of euphoric gratification pounded her senses like a tempestuous ocean.

Shit! this is- Then another.

Tides of pleasure washed over her.

The choker. Have to- Another.

The powerful undertow eroded her reason and resistance.

Mamá, I-

The blissful sensations overwhelmed Bailey, preventing the formulation of new thoughts, until she just simply stopped trying.

And then she was under. Submerged. Sounds fading. The world oh, so far away.

She was better this way, she saw that. It was better to stop resisting, stop trying to think, and just accept it. As she enthusiastically fingered her soggy cunt, mouth open, her body rewarding her for her compliance, Bailey thought she heard something. It was her own voice, moaning and panting and… giggling. Being dumb, and sexy, and available - it made her happy?

When was the last time she could say that, that she was legitimately happy?

She understood. She could feel like this for the rest of her life, and she only had to do one thing. Let go. Let go of the past, let go of the trauma, let go of the hurt. Let go of herself. The fingers on Bailey's left hand loosened their grip. The choker threatened to fall to the floor. No, not fall. To sink. To sink and drop, deeper and deeper. Her mind was still. Vacant. Empty, except for one thing creeping into her consciousness.

No. Not today.

Bailey's fingers tightened. She could feel the smooth satin, once cold, now hot with her own emanating warmth. She thought of Mamá, looking more like a movie starlet than her tireless, caring mother. Bailey saw her walk out the door, not even turning back to her crying daughter. And she remembered her pledge, to Mamá, to herself: it ain't gonna be me. Not today. Not ever.

Bailey held the choker with a steel grip, as if her life depended on it. It did. The choker was a life preserver in the choppy ocean of arousal flooding her mind and body. She had no idea how anyone could take twice as much of this. It was no wonder Obedience's control was absolute and immediate.

Slowly, she felt it. The constant bombardment of pleasure losing its steam. Waters receding. Her thoughts forming more easily, coherently. Her breathing stabilizing, and the hot flush of her arousal lowering to a simmer. "Set dopamine levels to zero," she gasped. She didn't need to say the words out loud for it to work, but in her disheveled state she needed to hear it. To remind herself she was in control.

She looked in a nearby mirror. Her eyes were a milky solid white, all sclera, no pupils. Her body was flushed with desire. She looked every bit the fucktoy she despised. Bailey knew she was lucky. If she had looked into this mirror a few minutes ago, she would've been lost.

Her hormone levels stabilizing, Bailey blinked, and her eyes returned to an intense chestnut brown. She was still in shock from the ordeal. She opened her palm and looked at the choker, and she placed it on her workbench. Slowly, she took her cell phone in her right hand and sent a message.

"Live test successful. Production is GO."

-------------------

The dream again. The same one. Fuck, I hate this, Bailey thought. And turning off the dopamine wasn't helping.

Bailey got out of bed and turned on a bedside lamp. She drowsily stood up, stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. It was a hot July night, so she was only wearing panties. Which, of course, were soaked through. Again.

On her back to bed, she stopped at her nightstand. She looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Running a prostitution empire based on mind control hadn't been kind to her, she thought.

Bailey wasn't sure what possessed her. But she reached into her top drawer, and retrieved Rosa's - Mamá's - choker. She hadn't looked at it since she turned on the Obedience array. She'd been too afraid. But here, in the dark, she fastened the choker around her neck. She activated her hormonal controls and raised them - not too much - to maybe 120% of normal. And she looked in the mirror.

Her eyes clouded over until the pupils were gone again, just solid white spheres. Like two blank canvases. She let her mind dull - again, not too much. Just enough to let her thoughts drift. Her full lips parted, on their own, as she watched with interest and arousal. She had always been beautiful, but now? She was a bombshell. All tits and ass and thighs, with a pretty fuckable face. She didn't have a sexual bone in her 29-year-old body, but she would fuck this braindead slut in the mirror.

Bailey's mind cleared as she regained control. She again dampened her pleasure center, and her eyes returned to normal. She took the choker off, and put it back, reverently, in her dresser drawer.

She now understood why Mamá had kept it.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Trans Americans and their parents, I'm sorry. We'll right this backwards-ass ship someday.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

it’s both satisfying and anxiety inducing every time i send a piece of writing out. like i’m so happy i wrote this but…i wrote this, and someone’s gonna read it…

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

"why do you write?" because it’s the only way to silence the characters pacing around my brain like victorian ghosts with unresolved issues that prevent them from moving on.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Backend Support

Something new for you tonight, True Believers: a story set in @subliminalbo's Literary Universe! Featuring an image manipulation graciously provided by the man himself!

This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. While not required, the main stories are suggested reading.

Thanks to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the collabo.

Bailey's Huawai flagship, customized with added security and privacy features, rang and buzzed on her workbench. Her brow furrowed, temporarily wrinkling her flawless golden skin. "Support," Bailey muttered with caution as she answered. Very weird. If someone's calling this number… something is wrong.

"Uh," a timid male voice stuttered in response, followed by a long pause. "Um, I think I fucked up."

Bailey closed her eyes, sighing. "Go on."

"Well, I…," the man continued, but his cadence suggested he was distracted. "Hey, um, honey, don't touch that," he interjected, before refocusing his attention on Bailey. "I think she's broken. I broke her."

"You. Broke. Her," Bailey repeated slowly, each word more incredulous than the last. "And how… how did you break her, sir?"

Bailey thought she heard the man swallow hard through the tinny speakerphone. "OK. Well. I know that she has some, um, default abilities."

"Yes. Her menu. This was explained when you requested her services."

Loud noises. The sound of glass breaking. "Shit," the man said in irritation. "that was a gift!" He continued, talking faster, Bailey could practically hear him sweating. "Well, I wanted to know if she had, like, a secret menu. So I asked her, and she said no, but that there was…"

"An API," Bailey muttered. Fuck. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, and sighed again. She would have to work on hardening that endpoint. The last thing she needed was incel dipshits like Johnny Mnemonic here fucking with the product. She was a damn good engineer, but you don't exactly get to beta test mind control technology before you put it into production.

She should know. She was not only the president, she was also a client.

"What did you do, sir? Exactly?" Bailey's words were polite, but her tone dripped with frustration. Condescension also, but she really wasn't concerned about the customer's feelings right now.

Another pause, then an admission. "Well, she started telling me about her API, and I'm not a programmer, so I asked ChatLLM. And it gave me some things to try. Baby, take that out of your mouth."

"You fucking vibe coded her. You vibe coded a sex drone escort, running assembly code firmware, with some commands you got from a consumer AI. She's a human being, not a kit you bought at Radio Shack." Bailey could barely contain her rising anger. She mentally adjusted her hormone levels. Her pupils faded completely into solid white spheres. This wasn't the time to lose her cool.

There was hemming and hawing, then finally a guilty, "yes."

Bailey spoke again, the edge out of her voice as the fury subsided and her pupils returned. "Well, seeing as this would violate the terms and conditions of your agreement, if there were such a thing, I'm here to tell you: you break it, you buy it. Five mil ought to cover it. Have a good one."

"Five mil…five million dollars?!" the man exclaimed. Bailey could hear his voice quivering. "I don't have that kind of money! I work retail!"

"I'm sorry," Bailey said. And to her credit, she did pity this man. She knew enough to know his death would not be quick or painless. Triads don't fuck around. "The people I work with, they don't…" She chose her words carefully for effect. "take damaged merchandise lightly."

Bailey could her muffled crying on the other end. More broken glass, but no admonishment. Just sobs. She didn't like this. Didn't like the choices on the table. Having to calculate the least shitty outcome. Compromising her morality - her humanity - one crossed line after another.

But who was she kidding? Compromising your morality was The Romero Way.

"I don't want your dumbass blood on my hands. I'll make you a deal. Give me someone to replace her."

"I don't…what do you mean?"

"A wife, a sister, a cousin. Someone hot, or at least cute. Fixable. Someone local. A name, and an address, and you get to celebrate another birthday."

She could practically hear the man bargaining with himself. "I couldn't. I won't."

Bailey's voice was firm and callous. "No skin off my ass. Hope your will is in order." Give me a name, she pleaded internally. Take the goddamn offer.

"OK. I'll text it over." Very quietly, Bailey exhaled in relief. Her phone buzzed with a notification. She glanced at the address, and forwarded it to her liaison with some notes about tonight.

"You made the right choice. A team is on their way for extraction. For her, and for you."

"For me?"

"You know too much. Also, we have room in our inventory for all genders and sexual identities." In Romero, there are only perverts, and people who aren't perverts yet, Bailey ruminated.

When the man finally spoke, his voice was quiet, and his tone resigned. "Will she be okay? Will she be happy?"

Bailey hesitated. She thought of her mother, Rosa, her eyes glassy, wearing a low-cut red dress and her black choker, leaving a young child alone on a Saturday night. Baby, Mamá's got to go somewhere. Be a good girl and take care of yourself, okay?

She wanted to cynically deliver the uncaring truth. No, she wouldn't be okay. Ultimately, her happiness wasn't important, was it? It sure as hell hadn't been for Rosa, or for young Bailey. If you weren't part of Romero's circle of elites, you were just collateral damage.

But she didn't say that.

"Yes," Bailey lied, her voice soft and comforting. "She will." And she ended the call.

Bailey sat at her workbench for a long time, alone. Only the trees rustling outside the window permeated the silence. It could have been worse, she tried to tell herself. A lot worse. She saved a man from his own stupidity tonight.

When did she get so soft?

Ed King and Elena Maxwell had ruined her career before it got started, and they were going to pay. She only needed to set her emotions aside, and finish the job.

So why was she disgusted with herself?

These questions lacked simple answers. Tonight, isolated in her empty house, questions were the only company Bailey had.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Generational Trauma

Once more unto the breach of @subliminalbo's Romero Literary Universe. This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. This is also a prequel to Backend Support, though both stories (hopefully) stand on their own.

Thanks again to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the art trade and collaboration.

Bailey Castillo set the clippers on the sink counter and rubbed the base of her skull. She was a queer woman, it certainly wasn't her first time getting an undercut. But it was the first time she'd done it to herself.

It made her smirk to herself. Given the grim nature of what she had talked herself into, Bailey could use all the levity she could muster.

She had an undercut when she met Ed. It was a good metaphor, she thought. Under that big head of dark curls, there was an edge. Her fresh face and polite smile were a mask, disguising survival instincts and a pragmatism you could only get by growing up Black, asexual, and female in Romero, Washington.

Bailey rubbed the shaving gel in her wet fingers until it foamed up. Smelling of peaches, she rubbed it on her shaved hair. After rinsing her hands, she rinsed the razor's blade, new and sharp, in the cold water of the faucet.

It seemed a strange offer. What did a lingerie company need with an embedded systems designer? Software devs for e-commerce, sure. But she specialized in hardware, in writing firmware, in the arcane art of assembly code.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. Not beggars who had a degree from the local party school, because Mamá got a discount on tuition, and it was what they could afford. Certainly not beggars who would take the first offer they could get that would get them away from this cesspool. Bailey shaved her neck and the undercut area with smooth, careful strokes.

Her first mistake was trusting. Trusting that if she did a good job - and her control array for Obedience by Fleur was, objectively, goddamn genius - she'd be recognized for it.

Bailey rinsed the razor of shaving cream and tiny black hairs. Won't make that mistake again.

She had overestimated Ed King. She bought his Silicon Valley rep, and failed to see he wasn't any different from Romero's traditional power brokers. He was a carnival barker, not a visionary like he thought he was. She was a commodity to him, not a person. If Obedience failed, she would've taken the blame; but since it succeeded, he was more than happy to take all the credit.

Bailey rubbed the smooth wet skin on her neck, checking for missed spots. Elena wasn't any better. She got what she wanted from Bailey, and that made her disposable. It was a blessing, really. Bailey was a natural beauty, but her curvy hips and thighs meant she wasn't model thin, and it also meant she was back at her mother's house in Romero, and not mindlessly, dutifully, licking Elena's designer boots.

Toweling off her neck, Bailey shifted away from the sink toward the 3D printer. She triple-checked her work.

When she first read about needleless tattoos in Wired, at all just clicked into place. A silicon ink payload in dissolvable microneedles. Putting the Obedience tech inside the subject. Permanently. Forget the sensors, pair the array with a fitness tracker or smartwatch. An AI sidecar to increase subject safety. No more brain damage.

Stealing the base software from Ed King? Bailey had no qualms about stealing from a thief. But she needed stake money. It was surprisingly easy to talk the Chinese triads into financing her. But they wanted proof before they pumped more yuan into her operation.

The 3D printer hummed to life as it printed the dissolvable needles, loaded with silicon ink, onto the dermal patch. This was, of course, a fork, custom firmware modified from the base model. Unfortunately, you can't just print a tiny one of these and slap it on a lab rat.

And experimenting on an unwilling human subject… That was something they would do. Bailey wasn't a monster. Not yet.

The array was done. It was a rectangle about the size of deck of cards. The trick had been spacing, making sure the crudely printed lines wouldn't bleed or touch accidentally when applied. Bailey's array was, of course, unique. She'd created a hyperfocus routine that, when enabled, could drown out stimulation and increase cognitive ability temporarily. More importantly, the mind control protocols were blunted, and she wrote an additional protection against mesmerism: the ability to mentally control her hormone levels.

But at the end of the day, this was modified Obedience by Fleur firmware. Bailey knew there was an unknown period where she would have to take Obedience's best punch, enduring and outlasting it, before the AI sidecar would read her biofeedback and adjust the indoctrination protocols lower. She was prepared for it, with a physical anchor.

She took the black choker, her mother's, in her left hand. When Mamá died, shortly after Bailey came back to Romero with her tail between her legs, it was in her jewelry box.

Bailey didn't know how to reconcile that. Mamá never said anything. She didn't have to. When she left the house wearing this choker, all painted up when she should have been in bed, the vacant look told young Bailey everything. But to keep this in an intimate place, where she likely saw it every day - before the early-onset Alzheimer's rotted her from the inside out - what did that mean?

That she missed it?

Bailey gripped the choker tightly, feeling the satin in her delicate fingers. She couldn't guess what went through her mother's mind. Bailey only knew what it meant to her: anger. Abandonment issues. A keepsake of a life she would never, ever lead.

One last check. One last chance to bitch out.

Bailey sat upright in her work stool. She prepared the tattoo array patch, removing it from the printing tray. She looked again at the choker in her left hand, her anchor to reality. She took the patch, and affixed it to the base of her skull.

At first, there was a cold, wet feeling. Like ultrasound gel. And it itched, probably from the microneedles penetrating her skin. Bailey's research indicated there wouldn't be any pain from the actual absorption of the silicon ink into her dermis, just a slight delay.

Immediately, she realized she'd miscalculated.

Bailey had set the weights on the Obedience protocol to fifty percent. She barely had time to process that was too high before she was inundated with sensation. "Oh… Fuck," she moaned breathlessly. It was so hard to think from the pleasure. Warm and comforting, like a blanket. Like a hug, but not a hug from just anyone. From someone precious. From a lover.

Then she felt something new. A flicker, at first. Then a slow burning heat. Then an intense raging inferno, burning between her legs, deep inside her, in her very soul. Bailey instinctively put her hand there, but it was a huge mistake. Immediately she rubbed her engorged clit through her panties, wetness spreading through the dainty cotton fabric.

Lust? But I'm fucking ace, Bailey thought, before the first orgasm hit.

Wave after wave of euphoric gratification pounded her senses like a tempestuous ocean.

Shit! this is- Then another.

Tides of pleasure washed over her.

The choker. Have to- Another.

The powerful undertow eroded her reason and resistance.

Mamá, I-

The blissful sensations overwhelmed Bailey, preventing the formulation of new thoughts, until she just simply stopped trying.

And then she was under. Submerged. Sounds fading. The world oh, so far away.

She was better this way, she saw that. It was better to stop resisting, stop trying to think, and just accept it. As she enthusiastically fingered her soggy cunt, mouth open, her body rewarding her for her compliance, Bailey thought she heard something. It was her own voice, moaning and panting and… giggling. Being dumb, and sexy, and available - it made her happy?

When was the last time she could say that, that she was legitimately happy?

She understood. She could feel like this for the rest of her life, and she only had to do one thing. Let go. Let go of the past, let go of the trauma, let go of the hurt. Let go of herself. The fingers on Bailey's left hand loosened their grip. The choker threatened to fall to the floor. No, not fall. To sink. To sink and drop, deeper and deeper. Her mind was still. Vacant. Empty, except for one thing creeping into her consciousness.

No. Not today.

Bailey's fingers tightened. She could feel the smooth satin, once cold, now hot with her own emanating warmth. She thought of Mamá, looking more like a movie starlet than her tireless, caring mother. Bailey saw her walk out the door, not even turning back to her crying daughter. And she remembered her pledge, to Mamá, to herself: it ain't gonna be me. Not today. Not ever.

Bailey held the choker with a steel grip, as if her life depended on it. It did. The choker was a life preserver in the choppy ocean of arousal flooding her mind and body. She had no idea how anyone could take twice as much of this. It was no wonder Obedience's control was absolute and immediate.

Slowly, she felt it. The constant bombardment of pleasure losing its steam. Waters receding. Her thoughts forming more easily, coherently. Her breathing stabilizing, and the hot flush of her arousal lowering to a simmer. "Set dopamine levels to zero," she gasped. She didn't need to say the words out loud for it to work, but in her disheveled state she needed to hear it. To remind herself she was in control.

She looked in a nearby mirror. Her eyes were a milky solid white, all sclera, no pupils. Her body was flushed with desire. She looked every bit the fucktoy she despised. Bailey knew she was lucky. If she had looked into this mirror a few minutes ago, she would've been lost.

Her hormone levels stabilizing, Bailey blinked, and her eyes returned to an intense chestnut brown. She was still in shock from the ordeal. She opened her palm and looked at the choker, and she placed it on her workbench. Slowly, she took her cell phone in her right hand and sent a message.

"Live test successful. Production is GO."

-------------------

The dream again. The same one. Fuck, I hate this, Bailey thought. And turning off the dopamine wasn't helping.

Bailey got out of bed and turned on a bedside lamp. She drowsily stood up, stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. It was a hot July night, so she was only wearing panties. Which, of course, were soaked through. Again.

On her back to bed, she stopped at her nightstand. She looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Running a prostitution empire based on mind control hadn't been kind to her, she thought.

Bailey wasn't sure what possessed her. But she reached into her top drawer, and retrieved Rosa's - Mamá's - choker. She hadn't looked at it since she turned on the Obedience array. She'd been too afraid. But here, in the dark, she fastened the choker around her neck. She activated her hormonal controls and raised them - not too much - to maybe 120% of normal. And she looked in the mirror.

Her eyes clouded over until the pupils were gone again, just solid white spheres. Like two blank canvases. She let her mind dull - again, not too much. Just enough to let her thoughts drift. Her full lips parted, on their own, as she watched with interest and arousal. She had always been beautiful, but now? She was a bombshell. All tits and ass and thighs, with a pretty fuckable face. She didn't have a sexual bone in her 29-year-old body, but she would fuck this braindead slut in the mirror.

Bailey's mind cleared as she regained control. She again dampened her pleasure center, and her eyes returned to normal. She took the choker off, and put it back, reverently, in her dresser drawer.

She now understood why Mamá had kept it.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

You can't tell me IT guys are just sorcerers.

A "programmer" is a warlock able to command artificial beasts using a language most common ears and eyes can't comprehend. Some of these warlocks can even collaborate to create an artificial creature that can simulate intelligence appearing to surpass their creators and the "intelligence" to process new information that wasn't given to it. Some of these even communicate to humans using many of their common tongues in a spell apparatus known as an LLM.

An "engineer" (within the context of the human job classification of "Information Technology", specifically within the context of "hardware") is a type of blacksmith who creates and designs these artificial creatures. Although they have no mind, the "engineer" builds a body for them—a vessel of sorts. Depending on their expertise (and collaboration with "programmer" warlocks), some of them enable specializations in certain tasks, such as opening portals to other worlds via "video games", simulating heavenly bodies, solving complex mathematical equations, predicting the weather with good precision, and other uses for the human race.

A "web developer" is a variant of the "developer" warlock, specializing in creating spaces in the "World Wide Web", a network of "websites" (the spaces these warlocks make) in the Interconnected Network, or "Internet"

Note that taking up any of these roles requires a good understanding of the "electricity" and "electromagnetism" magic systems, medium-to-advanced knowledge of one or more non-common-tongue languages, and/or the ability to cast spells using said non-common languages, depending on the job specifications.

And to my fellow writers—if you really think about it, this world is downright magical. It just lost its magic for us.

"There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see."

P.S: I'm not too into IT, so apologies if anything is misinformed and wrong

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

GenAI and writing in its shadow

I see a lot of creative writers express anxiety or even despair because of how good GenAI or LLMs (Large Language Models) seem to be at writing.

What I want to say is, please don't worry.

Having both worked in software development and been writing for a while, I'd like to happily say that GenAI is ✨garbage✨ at writing good stories because of two big reasons:

They lose the plot too easily and can't do callbacks or non-linear writing, because there is a hard upper limit to what an LLM can 'remember'. Even when presented with something like a plan that they have to follow, they don't necessarily connect each step of the plan to each other; they'll do each calculation in isolation, finish with it, then move on to the next. Because narratives, especially when you have more than one character, become these tangled webs of different 'plans' happening simultaneously, the LLM will 🎶 itself trying to remember and instead begin to 'improvise' solutions, much of which will deviate wildly from the plan and the narrative itself.

Also, did you notice how I used the words calculation and solutions? LLMs understand words and meaning as numbers. The next word in a sentence is math to them: they use statistics to guess which word would probably follow the word before it and still be relevant. This doesn't work for narratives because there's these wonderful things called ✨nuance, subtlety, emotional resonance, and subtext✨, and none of that is quantifiable. You can't put a number value on the 'why' of a character shrugging, or heck, not saying anything—that is literally 0 to an LLM, and thus impossible for it to calculate.

Both of these issues aren't just math or coding problems. The first requires absurd (and insanely costly) leaps in computing power and hardware. The second requires building an LLM on something that... isn't a computer.

Write your hearts out. Don't be afraid. The world needs us to stay creative, because while science and technology give us the ways and means to live our lives, creativity and emotion give us the reason to be alive. 💖

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

I deleted a fic for the first time today. In a week, it's had 2 hits.I write for a small but active fandom, and probably 2/3 the 50+ fics that I've written are whump/angst.

But everyone keeps telling me to give the characters a break, write more happy things, slow down with the dark stuff. It's frustrating.

may I swear? fuck them.

I'm sorry you're feeling this way. more people really need to understand that a fic writer does not write to please them. a fic writer writes for free. for themself. and as long as they rate and tag their works properly, you as a reader have no right to tell them what to do or how to create their art (unless specially asked, of course).

also, of course, there's a difference between "omg poor (insert character's name) 😭 please my baby needs a break" in a light-hearted manner that shows you love and are invested in the story by feeling bad for the character, and "hey can you please stop writing dark stuff and instead write more happy fics?" which is rude and entitled as fuck.

that being said, even if you claim your comment fells in the former group, you also have to understand that an author can and might not see your comment the way you do, and that they may read your feedback as you trying to discourage them.

so I'd like to use this post to remind readers to think before you comment. always be considerate. it's cool to be invested in a story and want to express your feelings, but you should also make sure your comment does not come off rude, even if it's not your intention.

but if you're trying to be a jerk and telling authors what to write/what not to write then you can fuck right off.

I hope you find the motivation to post again, anon. not for anybody but for yourself. don't change your art to please anybody. and for what it's worth, I believe there are people who love and appreciate what you write. and if some trolls try to tell you otherwise again, tell them to fuck off and write their own fics.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

being a writer is feeling like a genius and a fraud at the same time

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

being a writer is feeling like a genius and a fraud at the same time

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

I hypnotized your girl, and had her make me breakfast in the morning.

I call that induction cooking.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

me: i think i’m gonna write something light and fun me: *opens doc* me: so anyway here’s a story about grief, generational trauma, and a boy who dies in the snow

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Oh hey: if you are asexual, hypnokink-inclined, and interested in helping me out by reading an erotic short story (2000 words) for accuracy of representation, DM me please.

There's no partnered sex, but there is masturbation.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Backend Support

Something new for you tonight, True Believers: a story set in @subliminalbo's Literary Universe! Featuring an image manipulation graciously provided by the man himself!

This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. While not required, the main stories are suggested reading.

Thanks to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the collabo.

Bailey's Huawai flagship, customized with added security and privacy features, rang and buzzed on her workbench. Her brow furrowed, temporarily wrinkling her flawless golden skin. "Support," Bailey muttered with caution as she answered. Very weird. If someone's calling this number… something is wrong.

"Uh," a timid male voice stuttered in response, followed by a long pause. "Um, I think I fucked up."

Bailey closed her eyes, sighing. "Go on."

"Well, I…," the man continued, but his cadence suggested he was distracted. "Hey, um, honey, don't touch that," he interjected, before refocusing his attention on Bailey. "I think she's broken. I broke her."

"You. Broke. Her," Bailey repeated slowly, each word more incredulous than the last. "And how… how did you break her, sir?"

Bailey thought she heard the man swallow hard through the tinny speakerphone. "OK. Well. I know that she has some, um, default abilities."

"Yes. Her menu. This was explained when you requested her services."

Loud noises. The sound of glass breaking. "Shit," the man said in irritation. "that was a gift!" He continued, talking faster, Bailey could practically hear him sweating. "Well, I wanted to know if she had, like, a secret menu. So I asked her, and she said no, but that there was…"

"An API," Bailey muttered. Fuck. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, and sighed again. She would have to work on hardening that endpoint. The last thing she needed was incel dipshits like Johnny Mnemonic here fucking with the product. She was a damn good engineer, but you don't exactly get to beta test mind control technology before you put it into production.

She should know. She was not only the president, she was also a client.

"What did you do, sir? Exactly?" Bailey's words were polite, but her tone dripped with frustration. Condescension also, but she really wasn't concerned about the customer's feelings right now.

Another pause, then an admission. "Well, she started telling me about her API, and I'm not a programmer, so I asked ChatLLM. And it gave me some things to try. Baby, take that out of your mouth."

"You fucking vibe coded her. You vibe coded a sex drone escort, running assembly code firmware, with some commands you got from a consumer AI. She's a human being, not a kit you bought at Radio Shack." Bailey could barely contain her rising anger. She mentally adjusted her hormone levels. Her pupils faded completely into solid white spheres. This wasn't the time to lose her cool.

There was hemming and hawing, then finally a guilty, "yes."

Bailey spoke again, the edge out of her voice as the fury subsided and her pupils returned. "Well, seeing as this would violate the terms and conditions of your agreement, if there were such a thing, I'm here to tell you: you break it, you buy it. Five mil ought to cover it. Have a good one."

"Five mil…five million dollars?!" the man exclaimed. Bailey could hear his voice quivering. "I don't have that kind of money! I work retail!"

"I'm sorry," Bailey said. And to her credit, she did pity this man. She knew enough to know his death would not be quick or painless. Triads don't fuck around. "The people I work with, they don't…" She chose her words carefully for effect. "take damaged merchandise lightly."

Bailey could her muffled crying on the other end. More broken glass, but no admonishment. Just sobs. She didn't like this. Didn't like the choices on the table. Having to calculate the least shitty outcome. Compromising her morality - her humanity - one crossed line after another.

But who was she kidding? Compromising your morality was The Romero Way.

"I don't want your dumbass blood on my hands. I'll make you a deal. Give me someone to replace her."

"I don't…what do you mean?"

"A wife, a sister, a cousin. Someone hot, or at least cute. Fixable. Someone local. A name, and an address, and you get to celebrate another birthday."

She could practically hear the man bargaining with himself. "I couldn't. I won't."

Bailey's voice was firm and callous. "No skin off my ass. Hope your will is in order." Give me a name, she pleaded internally. Take the goddamn offer.

"OK. I'll text it over." Very quietly, Bailey exhaled in relief. Her phone buzzed with a notification. She glanced at the address, and forwarded it to her liaison with some notes about tonight.

"You made the right choice. A team is on their way for extraction. For her, and for you."

"For me?"

"You know too much. Also, we have room in our inventory for all genders and sexual identities." In Romero, there are only perverts, and people who aren't perverts yet, Bailey ruminated.

When the man finally spoke, his voice was quiet, and his tone resigned. "Will she be okay? Will she be happy?"

Bailey hesitated. She thought of her mother, Rosa, her eyes glassy, wearing a low-cut red dress and her black choker, leaving a young child alone on a Saturday night. Baby, Mamá's got to go somewhere. Be a good girl and take care of yourself, okay?

She wanted to cynically deliver the uncaring truth. No, she wouldn't be okay. Ultimately, her happiness wasn't important, was it? It sure as hell hadn't been for Rosa, or for young Bailey. If you weren't part of Romero's circle of elites, you were just collateral damage.

But she didn't say that.

"Yes," Bailey lied, her voice soft and comforting. "She will." And she ended the call.

Bailey sat at her workbench for a long time, alone. Only the trees rustling outside the window permeated the silence. It could have been worse, she tried to tell herself. A lot worse. She saved a man from his own stupidity tonight.

When did she get so soft?

Ed King and Elena Maxwell had ruined her career before it got started, and they were going to pay. She only needed to set her emotions aside, and finish the job.

So why was she disgusted with herself?

These questions lacked simple answers. Tonight, isolated in her empty house, questions were the only company Bailey had.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

What they don't tell you about writing is that as you write, you discover scenes and entire plots that you hadn't accounted for that need to be written. So you can spend two hours writing and editing only to realise you're further away from the finish line than you thought you were when you started