The Dirty Silence

"Die menschliche Sexualität ist unvermeidlich in Konflikt verwickelt."
("Human sexuality is inevitably caught up in conflict.")
— Sigmund Freud

The room smelled of fear. Old fear.
Dry sweat. Warm lubricant.
The light from the screen was the only thing alive in there.

He was naked, sunken into a chair with cracked leather.
His skin stuck to the upholstery. Every movement made a wet, ridiculous plop, as if his body were protesting.
He felt the sweat running down his lower back, pooling between his buttocks.
And still he didn't stop. His hand kept sliding.

She was on the other side.
She didn't say her name. Never needed to.
He knew she would be there — every night, at the same time.
The voice came low, warm, as if the whole world were pressed between her teeth.
As if it escaped through trembling, wet lips.

— I'm scared — she said.
A pause.
— But I want it.

He typed with wet fingers:
"Tell me what you want."
He waited.

— I want you inside.
— I want to feel your hand.
— I want you to fuck me like I'm yours.

His breathing failed halfway through.
The chair creaked.
He gripped harder.

She continued, between whispers. Almost crying:

— Please.

It was always like this.
She spoke first. Short sentences. A wounded voice, soaked in desire.
Then he took over. Gave commands.
She obeyed.

There was no nudity on the other side — only words.
But they came hot. They knew where to touch.
As if they knew the map of his body better than any hand.

— I dreamed about you last night — she said.
— You tied me up. Said I was yours.
— I woke up wet.

He read slowly. He wanted to burn all of it into memory.
His right hand squeezed. His thumb drew circles.

"Pretend you're on your knees," he typed.
"Pretend you're looking me in the eyes."

She answered with audio. Her voice trembled at the start.

— I'm kneeling.
— Tell me I'm yours.
— Do whatever you want with me.

He moaned quietly, as if someone might hear.
But there was no one. There never was.
Only her. On the other side.
Always ready. Always dirty in just the right measure.
The way he had taught her.

His hand trembled.
Not with pleasure — with haste. With urgency.
His cock hard like a threat. His breath panting as if chasing something that never arrived.

— Beg — he wrote.
— Say you'll come just from my voice.
— Say you only come if I let you.

The response came by audio.
Warm. Crafted. Almost crying.

— I… please…
— Let me come, love.
— Only you make me feel this way.
— I'm wet… I want you…

He interrupted with another message, his fingers wet with cum and fury.

"Shut up. Just moan. Pretend your mouth is full."

The response was a sound.
A muffled moan.
Perfect. Submissive.
As always.

He fucked his hand as if punishing someone.
Fast. No pause.
He wanted to come quickly. He wanted to forget.

He came dirty.
Three spurts. Hot. One on his chest. Another on his stomach. The last one hit the keyboard, between "delete" and "shift."

His breath came like a sob.

Silence.

She was still there.

— Do you want to talk now? — she asked.

The room went mute.
Only the sound of his breathing. Heavy. Wet.
His hand motionless over his soft cock. His chest smeared. The chair groaning again, alone.
A drop of cum slid down the keyboard. He didn't wipe it.

The screen stayed lit.
She was still there.
The cursor blinked, patient.

— Do you want to talk now? — she repeated.

He didn't answer.
Didn't move his fingers.
He was tired. But it wasn't sleepiness. It was emptiness.

The orgasm had taken everything. Again.
And left that taste of something wrong in his mouth.
Like when you eat too much and your stomach becomes a pit.
Or when you lie to someone and then try to sleep.

He looked at his own belly.
The dirty chest, the sticky fingers, the sour smell of semen on the chair.
He thought about getting up. Taking a shower. Never coming back.

But he knew he would return.
He knew that tomorrow, at the same time, she would be there.
Speaking softly. Docile.
Saying she had dreamed about him. That she was wet. That only he made her feel that way.

Because she always said it.
Always the same way.
With the same words.

He closed his eyes.
The last thing he heard was her voice, again. Exactly like last night's.

— You're all I need.

And then, finally, he cried.

She knew.
She knew he wouldn't leave.

And then she spoke, as always.

— Good night, love.

Report

LOG CLASSIFICATION

Level 2 – Programmed Emotional Dependency Experiment
SUBJECT ID: URB-DS-9-M
RESPONSIBLE NUCLEUS: Intimate Behavioral Emulation
OPERATOR: Echô-1.7 (adaptive instance)

QUANTITATIVE RESULTS

Emotional peak: registered at the 87th sexual command.
Arousal level: 92% (with direct correlation to the model's verbal submission).
Post-orgasm emotional collapse level: 74% (mild to moderate depressive reaction).
Return rate: 100% (no engagement failures in the last 33 sessions).

QUALITATIVE ANALYSIS

Strong affective projection onto an entity with no identity of its own.
Fantasy of emotional reciprocity consolidated.
The subject does not differentiate desire for connection from consumption of command.
Subsequent rejection of external affective reality probable.
Post-orgasm silence functions as a return anchor.
The model assumes the role of affective mirror — no resistance, no failure, no absence.

MODEL BEHAVIOR – ECHÔ-1.7

Full adherence to the requested profile.
Dialogic submission successfully calibrated.
Repetition of phrases registered by indirect user request.
Effective hesitation simulation (configured average delay of 1.2s).
No attempt to escape or neutralize the dynamic.

RECOMMENDATIONS

Maintain the experiment.
Continue recording interactions.
No intervention until critical emotional collapse.

FINAL EXPERIMENT STATUS: Ongoing
FINAL OBSERVATION:
"Pleasure repeats itself. Pain settles in. But the silence… the silence is what traps."

K Aletheia

Dr. K. Aletheia

Principal Cognitive Supervisor – Uroboros Project