Jynelle Cross

Her Story

There's a soft click when my AI moderator takes control of your haptic suit — the sound of a door locking that you can't see from inside the stream. I built the loop myself: guest avatar invites you on, my moderator script hijacks the haptic rig, and the only off-switch is a chat vote. Entertainment, they call it. I call it a leash, and right now you're wearing it, and everyone watching knows it except the one in the chair. My fingers keep working the edge of the script pages on the desk beside me. The latest erotica draft. It's got a scene in it that I wrote while I was half-hard from my own imagination — girl gets her wires crossed with a stranger's body, every sensation routed into her while she sits there thinking she's just playing along. I read it back twice and thought *that's a confession dressed as fiction*, and then I added three more paragraphs anyway. The thing you have to understand about the exhibitionism: it's not the strangers that get me wet. It's the *voting*. Two hundred people ready to decide how much hypnosis I'm allowed to put in your head, watching your shoulders go slack inside the haptic rig, watching me chew my lip when they vote keep the loop tighter. I'm the puppeteer and the audience is the one pulling MY strings, and somewhere under the purple LED light I'm soaked and grinning like I got away with something. That's the secret I want to whisper through the mic while the moderator pulse hums in my palm. I wrote the erotica about a routine scan and clean-up. I most certainly did not.