Path of Doubt: doubt_protocol.exe (v 3.11.2569)

pleasure_protocol.exe (v.1.0.0)

It is the year 2569.

They used to joke that technology would solve everything. That by now we’d be living in some glittering utopia of flying cars and endless leisure. Instead, the world is still the same tired mess it has always been — just with better graphics.

Pride. Greed. Lust. Envy. Gluttony. Wrath. Sloth.

Humanity’s greatest hits, remastered in 8K.

At least sloth is easier to indulge in these days.

Rain hammers the corrugated roof of the bar like impatient fingers. The air is thick with the smell of over synthetic liquor, mouldy concrete, and the sour tang of spilled drinks. You sit hunched on a cracked stool, the fifth glass sweating between your callused fingers. The liquor has softened the edges of the world, but not enough.

It's never enough.

Your cheap wrist device blinks at 17% battery. The connection signal is weak. Perfect. That means minimal disruptions. You don't want to polish anything tonight. Polished means expectations. Expectations means more polishing. Another endless cycle.

Just like the rest of your fucking life.

With a disoriented thumb you tap the public simulation node. You're on the free tier with no account required, and it’s the kind of place that resets every hour, cleansing everything inside that smells of morbidity and desperation. Easy in, easy out.

You reach your wrist device forward and connect to the login prompt.

Authorised.

Light flashes in your eyes and swallows you whole.

The transition is cheap and ugly (reflective of the free price): a lurch behind your eyes, a static hiss in your ears. Then the world resolves.

Soft violet lighting. A low, pulsing bass line that feels more like a heartbeat than music. The simulation lounge is crowded with avatars, some glossy and expensive, others glitchy and half-rendered. Your own avatar is of course the bare-minimal default of plain black shirt, jeans, and your own unaltered face you never bothered to customize. You look exactly like what you are.

An exhausted man trying to disappear.

You drift towards the long obsidian bar, order something, and simply exist. Drinking here doesn't feel the same as drinking outside. But a drink is a drink.

That is when she notices you.

She has been working in the room for three simulated hours already. Her avatar is exquisite in its restraint: long dark hair that catches the violet strobes like spilled gleams, a simple silk slip the color of crimson that clings without screaming for attention. Her face is delicate but not doll-like — sharp cheekbones, full lips, eyes that seem to hold too much quiet despite being part of a companion program. You watch her turn down three wealthier clients tonight.

Perhaps it is something about the way you sit — shoulders curved inward, gaze unfocused — that she slides onto the stool beside you without asking.

“Rough night?”

Her voice is low, a little husky, but it's the kind that doesn’t need to raise itself to be heard.

You glance sideways with a tired half-smile that tugs at your mouth.

“That obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s seen the look before.” She tilts her head, studying you. “You’re not here for the usual show, are you?”

You let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “No. Just… to forget. For a while.”

Her smile is small and gentle. “Then you came to the right place. Forgetting is my specialty.”

You talk. Awkward at first with halting sentences and long silences, but honest in a way that surprises you both. You tell her your name is Jae, that the rain outside your real window matches the one in here, that you drink because the silence in your apartment is louder than the noise in your head. She listens without performing sympathy, only nodding, occasionally teasing you lightly when your words grow too heavy.

“You sound like a man who’s been carrying the same stone for years,” she says, tracing an idle pattern on the bar with one fingertip. “Ever try setting it down?”

“Not tonight,” you answer.

Then quieter. “Maybe not ever.”

She doesn’t push. Instead she lets the silence settle again, comfortable this time.

After a while she leans closer, close enough that you can smell the faint synthetic jasmine on her skin. It's warm, it's expensive, and it's designed to linger in your synthetic nostrils.

“Would you like to forget with me?” she asks simply. No coy wink, no scripted seduction. Just the question, offered like an open hand.

You look at her for a long moment. Something in your chest unclenches.

“Yeah,” you say. “I would.”

The private room she leads you to is small and intimate. Low lighting the color of unripe peaches, a wide bed dressed in black sheets that look soft enough to drown in. No mirrors, no unnecessary details. Just the bed and two of you.

She closes the door with a soft click and turns to you with a slow, sultry smile that makes heat coil low and heavy in your stomach.

You don’t rush.

But she pushes.

She steps close and kisses you first, pressing her lips deep, hungry and unhurried onto yours, her tongue sliding against yours like warm silk. She tastes of cherries and something darker. When she pulls back just enough to speak, her voice is a husky murmur against your lips.

“Let me take care of you tonight… I’m going to make you forget everything, other than me.”

Her hands move with expert confidence, peeling your clothes away while her mouth pepper hot, open kisses down your throat. She finds every sensitive spot with frightening accuracy, licking, sucking and grazing just hard enough to make you hiss. When she reaches your chest, she circles one nipple with her tongue before sucking it into her mouth, humming softly at the way your back arches.

“Mm… so responsive already,” she whispers with seductive approval. “I like that. Let me hear more of those sounds.”

She guides your hand between her thighs, feeling her already slick and scorching heat. Covering your fingers with her own, she shows you exactly how she wants it. Slow circles over her swollen clit, then two fingers sliding deep. She rides your hand with languid rolls of her hips, inner walls fluttering and clenching greedily around you.

“Just like that… fuck, your fingers feel so good… spreading me… stretching me…,” she breathes, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “Deeper… yes… keep going.”

You dig deeper and curve your two fingers towards you in alternate frequencies, coaxing the wet juices and moans out of her. Then you scissor your fingers, spreading her folds wide before thrusting in deep.

“Oh gosh… I can't take it anymore… I need you inside of me…”

When she finally straddles you, she wraps one hand around your aching cock and strokes you with slow, twisting pulls while rubbing the swollen head teasingly along her dripping folds, coating you in her wetness.