H.O.R.E.: Includes In-House Purchases

[Beginning of Thought Reconstruction Transcript]

The suite door swung shut behind me, cutting off the hallway’s white noise. The soles of my shoes scraped against the silicone flooring 3D printed into the texture of dark oak. Charcoal Egyptian cotton sheets on the king sized bed, mirrored ceiling combined with wall mounted mirrors throwing every angle back at me in triplicate. The only wall without a mirror was fitted with floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights shining through the sheer curtains like lethargic voyeurs. A bar to the side was stocked with a decent choice of liquors, drawing the eye away from the nonchalant door to the bathroom suite close by. The entire room was illuminated by a row of faux old-world lanterns hanging overhead. And the sensors—slim black strips along the crown moulding and baseboards, red pinpricks winking every few seconds like patient eyes. A reminder that H.O.R.E. “guarantees client satisfaction through absolutely secure use of biometrics while ensuring the privacy of both client and staff”.

I’d paid the entry fee downstairs absent-mindedly. $1,500 for the “basic package”. Confirmation pinged the sleek wristwatch-style band I picked up from the lobby: Includes in-house purchases. Additional features may require unlocks. I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe I should add that feature to my investment services.

She stood near the bed, back straight, legs slightly spread, giving off an air of easy elegance. She had been waiting for me specifically. Her breasts pushed against the deep emerald green qipao - this week’s uniform - the shape of her nipples outlined against the thin fabric. The side slits opened up to an inch below the undersides of her butt cheeks.

The back of her dress was visible in the mirror on the far wall. The fold covering the zipper ran from the mandarin collar all the way down to the small of her back, opening into a slit above her crack, where a bushy tail with black vixen fur hung from her behind all the way down to just below her knees. My eyes traced down her long legs to the bare feet with emerald-painted toes. Her auburn hair fell in loose waves, framing her heart-shaped face and the hazel eyes that locked on me the instant I entered.

“Mr. Boots,” she said, with a surprisingly husky voice that reminded me of hostess clubs in Ginza. “Welcome. I’m 088, your entertainment technician this evening.” A small, knowing smile curved her lips. “I have your name from the booking, of course, but I always ask—do you have a preferred way you’d like me to address you? Jamie, perhaps? Or something more personal?”

I shrugged off my jacket, dropped it on the armchair, and the face of the interface band lit up with a holographic display when I tapped my thumb against the bezel. The menu bloomed in mid-air: free basics at the top, locked tiers below, a small affinity gauge sitting at 0%.

“Jamie works,” I said. Then, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I added, “Or Lanny. A few friends call me Lanny.” Why the fuck did I say that? Heat crept up my neck.

Her smile deepened. “Lanny.” She let the name settle, tasting it. “I like it. Intimate. Tell me about it, if you’d like.”

I laughed, awkward, running a hand through my hair. “It’s to do with my sister—Elizabeth Boots. Concert pianist. She’s sort of famous, tours the big halls in Europe. Striking woman, elegant. And apparently I look like that actor from the Game of Thrones reboot—you know, those books some dead guy started writing decades ago, and AI finished the rest? Anyway, that character, Jaime Lannister, golden hand and all. Friends thought it was funny. Lanny stuck.”

088 tilted her head, auburn waves shifting. “The AI-finished ASOIAF? I remember the uproar. People were furious, then obsessed. Divisive ending, but at least it ended.” She laughed softly, as if she remembered something funny from the books. The affinity gauge ticked to 3%, a soft chime vibrating against my wrist.

I rolled my eyes a little, remembering the “walkthroughs” I’d read online: free grinding only gets you so far. The handful of percents is just there to make you feel like you’re more than a paying john. Still, watching it creep up was amusing, even if I knew it didn’t really matter without unlocking the real features.

Her smile increased in intensity, one corner of her lips raised slightly higher than the other. “Lanny,” her voice was soft and intimate as she stepped close enough for a faint floral scent to hit me. I remembered reading somewhere that humans have lost the use of pheromones receptors, but the scent was doing its best to object to this scientific discovery.

“It suits you—strong, a little roguish. Elizabeth sounds stunning; must run in the family.” She traced a finger along my shirt collar. “No master or sir tonight, then? Just Lanny. Please tell me what you need first—petting to unwind? Or should I pour you that scotch I see you eyeing?”

I laughed, tension easing despite the eyes in the walls. She felt real, picking up my awkward vibe and pivoting to flattery, banter flowing like we’d met before. “Scotch first. And… the… petting you suggested, sounds like a good idea.”

She nodded, gliding to the bar. The qipao was stretched taut around her hips as her tail swung with each step. She poured two fingers neat, handed it over with a wink. I accepted the scotch she poured, fingers brushing hers on purpose. “How does it go again—yes, ‘hear me roar.’” She then did a roar that sounded more like a cat purring than a lion hunting prey. I chuckled, shaking my head. This place, these mechanics… and somehow, it worked.

I sat down on the bed, and tapped the Petting button on the holographic face. She knelt gracefully next to my knee, and I had to stop her right there. “No, not like that. Just… lie down on your side on the bed.” I patted the soft sheets next to my left thigh. She rose smoothly from her kneeling posture and climbed onto the bed. “Yes, good… and here,” I slapped my thigh twice, “your pillow.”

The lights dimmed into a relaxing hue of amber. Her head leaned into my thigh as I stroked her hair, auburn strands sliding like silk under my palm. A low, contented hum rose from her throat. “You have nice hands, Lanny. Strong, but not rough.” She purred.

I sipped the scotch and placed the glass on the bedside console. The sensors watched. “Now…” I said, thumbing the holographic menu again, “let me see…” I scrolled through the music library—classical, jazz, ambient, a curated selection tied to client profiles. My finger hovered, then selected Ravel. Jeux d’eau spilled out from the room’s hidden speakers, the dream like chords descending one after the other like a waterfall.

“Ravel,” I said, glancing down at her. “I hope you like impressionist composers?”

088′s eyes flickered—only for a split second, but I caught it: a visible tightening around her mouth, a flash of annoyance that looked… unscripted. Her lips parted, breath catching as if she were about to to say something sharp… then the collar vibrated for a split second, a subtle mechanical nudge, and the tension melted. She smiled, warm and perfect once more.

“Sorry...” she said quietly, voice steadying. “Yes, Ravel would be lovely.”

I blinked, catching that micro-twitch around her eyes, an almost smirk that got pushed away, a possible quip or retort disappeared before it could be voiced. My pulse quickened. Was she trying to say something else? Or was it some kind of glitch in the collar?

Whatever it was, she was smiling at me in the mirror again, the same warm expression as before. I downed the whisky and flushed the unease away as best I could. It didn’t exactly go away, but the strong liquor cushioned it enough for me to not linger on it for now.

The music swelled slowly behind us, relentless and hypnotic. We made small talk, her questions branching like game dialogue. My job? (“Digital Asset Intelligent Automation.” “Sounds interesting—and profitable.”) Favourite shows? (I mentioned the Thrones reboot; she recalled a scene, with a light laugh.) Liz’s tours? (“She must miss you on the road—brothers like you are rare.“) It felt personal, her leaning in, body heat radiating. Affinity ticked to 7%.

My hand lingered in her hair for a while longer, fingers threading through the auburn waves as Gaspard de la nuit trickled onward, titillating and intense. The mirrored ceiling caught everything—the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the qipao shifting slightly with each inhale, the affinity gauge on the holographic display slid up to 9%. She lay stretched along the bed, head pillowed on my thigh, the synthetic fur of the tail plugin conspicuously hiding where it was plugged into her body.

I let my palm drift lower, tracing the curve of her shoulder, then down the dip of her waist, finally brushing the swell of her butt through the fabric. Gently, as if I’m worried that sudden movements might make the collar buzz again. Maybe I was worried.