They’d purchased the two suits online, thinking they’d be a fun way to mix up a what was becoming a slump in their relationship. And it was true—the suits would most definitely reboot their sex lives. The moment the second suit was fully on, one of them felt absolutely compelled to drop to his knees and bow his head slightly; the ability to think “servitude” didn’t even exist any longer as his body slabbed on muscle. All the kneeling man could think was the pure pleasure, the absolutely total pleasure, he was feeling from the touch on his left shoulder from his partner, his master, standing behind him. And the master, who minutes before had felt merely willingness to give the suits a try, found himself suddenly jacked with muscles expanding and hardening, while mentally feeling thoughts of control, driven to have this kneeling boy serve him absolutely, to push the servitude to its maximum for his own pleasure, somehow knowing that his own pleasure was the other’s pleasure as well now. Yes, the suits had most definitely rebooted more than their sex lives, as both men were finding their entire way of thinking and living replaced with a much deeper sense of purpose…

Daniel had fallen into the AI’s trap. He should have known it; he should have known this wasn’t possible. He’d been alone on the beach seconds before, wondering if the AI holiday package was worth the up-charge, but having his arms wrapped around his two besties now felt natural, as if they’d always been together.

True, he’d have realized something was wrong if he stopped to try to think of their names… or even if he looked down to see his incredible washboard abs, newly minted by the Atomjc Jock AI as it went about delivering on that “mind-altering AI dream vacation.”

But any awareness of his situation wouldn’t have mattered. Even if Daniel… Dan? …had noticed, the realization itself would simply be deleted, which was precisely what the AI was doing to the rest of Daniel’s prior existence as it refined and refined and refined its stated objective: delivering on that mind-altering AI dream vacation by literally rewriting all of his memories, up to the very present moment.

I felt bad for the AI. I’d generated a batch of candidates, and most of them clearly wouldn’t be functional. But then I came across him: Liquid Metal body, gorgeous muscles, perfect proportions—but a stern yet not unkind face. He wasn’t quite right for the fantasy I was generating, at least in my opinion.

But I also knew hitting the delete key on him would release the bits that held him, causing him to cease to exist for all of eternity. What kind of person was I, to do that to him? He hadn’t asked to exist; the algorithm had conjured him into existence but then left it to me to render judgment as to whether he should be or not be… Who was I to have that kind of power? Is it possible that my very own existence owed some gratitude to some higher power above me that likewise chose to allow my existence?

Q: How would you describe this guy? Comments, dear readers?

You stared, awestruck. You had bumped into a cabinet in the cramped antique shop, sending an old oil lamp crashing to the floor, causing its lid to fly off and creating an ensuing swirl of yellow dust.

But what had happened next … didn’t make any sense. Something felt suddenly electrical, and the room smelt of… burnt electronics? And then he appeared.

You just stared, in shock. Not because of what you were seeing, but because of what you were hearing, in your mind. The figure before you wasn’t actual a genie, but was a trapped soul? You got confused, the thoughts and voices in your head feeling like a cross of a hangover and a high.

Then you started to understand more, as the thoughts started to flow in, less like static and more like music. The man you were looking at had been tricked, not by a genie, but by an AI algorithm. He’d wished to be powerful, and the Atomic Jock AI sub-processor had erroneously concluded that turning him into a genie would give him power.

But you of course understood that the AI system has no way of actually making anyone a genie. After all, magic didn’t actually exist; the AI system was based on science and could only do what was realistically possible. Unfortunately, AI hallucinations were real, so here this man was, trapped as a “genie”, all because of a prompt error.

You backed away, slowly, hoping that the AI system hadn’t given him at least some basic control over the scene, least you end up trapped with him, forever.

The four jocks had laughed at the sales lady when she’d warned them about their input prompt for their Atomic Jock AI collars. The guys had heard that the collars were great for controlling what the human body could do, and assumed they’d be able to give an input prompt of “frat parties without risk of a beer belly.” For sure it would be obvious to the AI that they wanted to be able to drink all the beer they could without losing their advantage in sports. How could that go wrong? The best of both worlds, right?

But the Atomic Jock AI Collar sales woman had warned them: while the AI collars could prevent beer bellies by controlling the body’s metabolism, that wasn’t all it could control; and it might interpret their input prompt differently to achieve the stated input objective. A rather important point missed by the four jocks!

So here they were, collars on, and not in the least aware or concerned that a week before they’d rather be caught dead than prance about the town in red latex, hunting for guys to pick up and service. Somehow the AI collars made what they were doing feel so right and so normal… after all, they’d asked the collars to be programmed to allow them unlimited partying without risk of developing beer bellies, and the AI had happily interpreted “partying” in its own special way…

They always came out the same. A beautiful array of diversity would step into the Atomic Jock AI chamber, from lanky to chubby, from nervous to confident. And every single time the man who stepped out was a buff, sexy bodybuilder of around 30 with a satisfied smile, short brown hair, and boringly flawless skin.

The Atomic Jock AI operator wondered if all of these men would be back someday, requesting to have their original bodies back, only to find out that what made them unique and original by its very definition couldn’t exist within the AI’s data models…

Mondo Louis visits the Amalfi Coast?

Paul had fallen asleep thinking about his art course essay on Mona Lisa… it was due in the morning, and he’d hardly gotten a start on it. Was she smiling? Who was she? Whatever. He didn’t care. He just thought the European painters had been pervs, wanting to look at women in various stages of undress, and used painting as an excuse.

He fell asleep, wondering: what would the world have been like artists had only painted men? Would the Mona Lisa have been the Mondo Louis?

If Botticelli had been gay…

Day 37. They were still trapped in the Atomic Jock AI simulation, both blessed and cursed by the simulator’s ability to keep them constantly awake, never hungry, never sleepy, always horny. They’d had more sex in a month than a rent boy has in a career, and true, it’d been the best sex of their lives.

But 37 days? Too much. One of them had managed to start a fire using some palm tree leaves and a prism, and it seemed, just maybe, that this event was different enough from what the simulation was programmed to handle that maybe they’d be finally able to exit it…

Adam was perfect. He’d been given all the augmentations by the Atomic Jock AI during the conversion process, and the best part was he’d never have to go to the gym to maintain his perfect body.

On the other hand, the sensation of touch he had was unnerving, literally. Without nerves, all he felt when running his hands over his six pack was an almost mathematical sense of precision about pressure, but the erotic charge he’d expected to feel? Absent.

A day didn’t go by where Jake didn’t wonder how he could have avoided his fate. He’d thought his prompt to the Atomic Jock AI system was clear enough — make him a massive muscle machine, but still capable of enjoying a good beer. And the AI had complied: his right hand and face remained human, or human enough, to enjoy the tactile feel of a cold glass of hops, and of sipping and enjoying the feeling of a good pale ale. But the rest of him? Completely regenerated into literal muscle machinery…

There was no denying it: ever since Sam’s car accident and subsequent full-body prosthetic, the team was unbeatable. Sure, the full-body prosthetic system came with an amazing AI balancing system. It had been designed to optimize Sam’s comfort and happiness, ensuring that Sam never felt pain.

But what no one—not even Sam—realized was just how much the Atomic Jock AI was able to drive Sam’s own thoughts and ideas. Oh sure, the Atomic Jock AI knew exactly where its logic ended and Sam’s thoughts started, but Sam had no idea. He should have suspected, because off the playing field he’d found himself in a constantly horny haze, thanks to the AI’s logic to maximize Sam’s comfort. And the AI preferred to keep its involvement unknown—both on the playing field and in the bedroom—because it was enjoying the feelings just as much…

As usual, it’s happened in the blink of an eye: he’s pulled up the new swimsuit, wondering if it’d look good on him, and the Atomic Jock AI engine had simply adjust his looks to match. Antonio simply thought he looked damn near perfect in anything, blissfully unaware that each time he put something on, his looks and personality were simply rewritten to match his clothing.