Prompts and peens

by BRK   

Calvin finds a strange A.I. app on his tablet that generates interesting responses to his story prompts.

Calvin was swiping through several pages of his tablet’s home screen, looking for where Crosswordly had got to the last time he moved everything around—he really had to dump some of these apps!—when his eyes fell across an icon he didn’t recognize at all.

Calvin frowned, his finger frozen in mid-swipe. The image was a realistic blue-marble shot of the Earth with a crackle of similarly true-to-life lightning forking across it. The name underneath was “AlterGen.”

Nope, no idea. He should delete it, but… he didn’t know what it was, so rationally how could he know whether it needed to be deleted? Anyway, he was curious, so he tapped the app.

The app opened, presenting a simple black screen with the same earth-and-lightning image at the top, with the app name below including the word “BETA” in tiny gray type. Interesting. When the fuck had he downloaded this, and how had he ended up with the beta version?

A third of the way down the bare screen was the instruction, “Prompt me for one-sentence stories that will change the world.”

Calvin snorted at the developers’ hubris, resettling himself in his cherry-red, extra-large triple-size beanbag. Even the most famous one-sentence story—”baby shoes, never worn”—hadn’t exactly “changed the world.” As he made himself more comfortable, he straightened his legs, letting the heels of his bare feet scoot out a little further across the scarred wooden floor of his shoebox apartment. It was a good, basic place to live, and an easy bus ride to the IT call center where he had to wear corporate drag—even shoes, an article of clothing he’d hated practically since birth—and let people shout at him for ten hours a day. It wasn’t just the callers, either. It paid okay, but the management there had their heads up their asses and didn’t have a single fuck for the call staff.

The apartment was okay, anyway. The worst thing about it was that it was situated one flight up from Willie’s Thai Take-Out, infamous locally for its one-star reviews and a lemongrass chicken that was, by all accounts, more grass than lemon. Too bad he had to smell it all the time—the odor, one floor removed, was a lot more appetizing than the face-to-face presentation. Or the taste.

A blinking cursor flashed below that, with the gray placeholder text suggesting he write something that began “Tell me a story about…”

Hmm. He scratched his scrawny chest through his old band tee, thinking. He remembered some rando on PicThread spouting off about A.I. and how the biggest bar to its general utility was its inability to recognize sarcasm on the internet. (In response, someone else had snarked that the rerelease of Venom proved humans couldn’t do it either.)

He pulled up the onscreen keyboard and typed, “Tell me a story about how ‘great’ the Thai place downstairs from me is.”

He smirked, wiggling into the beanbag a little just to hear the scrunching. Parse that, bitch.

Almost instantly, his prompt faded out and a response came up in its place. “Willie’s Thai Take-Out is so great, Tony the Tiger pimps their pad thai.”

Calvin burst out laughing. What the fuck?! The story response format was based on “yo mama” jokes? What did this A.I. use to build its knowledge base, old scripts of In Living Color from back in the ‘90s? At least it was smart enough to use GPS to locate the actual restaurant he lived above—that was no shocker these days.

Probably Street View had picked up that huge poster in the window, too, the one with the colorful Frosted Flakes mascot in his classic finger-pointing-up pose announcing their menu was “grrr-delicious!” Well, Kellogg’s hadn’t objected yet. “Their pad thai is pretty good,” he said agreeably, patting his flat belly.

Then again, he had basically asked “how great is it,” which thanks to vaudeville by way of Match Game pretty much guaranteed a response that began “it’s so great…” Maybe the others would be structured differently, working off of the prompt?

He’d soon find out. The response was vanishing, though just before it faded it looked like it had changed slightly, abruptly prepending the category-establishing phrase “Like most Thai take-outs” at the head of the response text. Then a blink later the whole response was gone completely, leaving Calvin uncertain whether he’d seen anything strange or not. A moment later the prompt reappeared in the blank space where the text had been, and he forgot all about it.

Casting about for something to write, he noticed his size-10 feet stretched out in front of him. Wiggling his toes, he grinned and typed, “Tell me a story about a guy who doesn’t have to wear shoes to work.”

As before, the prompt fell away and was replaced by the generated text: “Calvin’s employers are so employee-loving, his extra-big shoes stay as closeted as Cary Grant.”

Calvin gaped at the screen in bewilderment. Okay, no change in the dumb format, then, but seriously, what the hell? At least “pimps their pad thai” was pithy. This was just a mess, like those A.I.-generated images that had hands sticking out of people’s belly buttons. Pure luck that the work-from-home part was factually true, he thought, glancing at the headset sitting on his desk that he’d need tomorrow when he was back on shift.

Then again, maybe not. Not only would it be child’s play for the app to pick up his name and identity info from the tablet it was installed on, but where he worked and the company’s reputation for backing its employees were probably in a dozen databases as well.

He glanced down his legs at his size-17 dogs. “It knows I got big feet, at least,” he said happily. The thought of the chat app knowing about what had at the end of his long legs kind of turned him on for some reason. He wasn’t that into feet, necessarily, though guys who liked him often were, for obvious reasons, but after all the generically bland info it had mined about him he found the idea of a pretend-sentient A.I. chatbot noticing his big feet intimate and a little sexy.

His totally average uncut torpedo-cock was even plumping a little in his sweats as the response melted and vanished, the prepended “Like a third of his coworkers” unnoticed before the words were completely gone a millisecond later.

Feeling flushed and a little titillated, however accidentally, he forgot about his bosses and their weird habit of hiring a disproportionately large number of people with unusually big feet. With his thoughts diverted down the well-worn channel of sex, it occurred to him to wonder if the app would go there, too. Was it a sexless prude, like some A.I.s? He had to know. Adjusting his dick in his sweats, he waited for the prompt to come up and typed, “Tell me a story about a guy who’s really horny.”

He had barely a second of heart-thumping anticipation, then the prompt was replaced by the response. “Calvin is so horny all the time, the only thing harder than him is getting him soft.”

Calvin shook his head, snickering. This app was so hopeless. Kinda funny, though. Technically that counted as wordplay, at least. And it was accurate as fuck, somehow, thanks to his rare permaboner condition. The doctors called it benevolent priapism, since he experienced none of the negative effects of being constantly hard. He was just… he’d gotten turned on looking at some hot, crooked-smiling basketball player on his team while he was going through puberty and it had pretty much never gone down. Certainly not for long, and most of the time not at all, even when he blasted a succession of serious loads all over himself like a wanton hussy.

The toughest part was that it didn’t just want to be hard—it wanted to be touched. He’d had to learn to type one-handed from the outset, because… if he was alone, his other fist was around his dick, period. And that was just the outward manifestation of his constant inner need for pleasure and release. His blood seemed to ceaselessly rush with hot, helpless arousal.

He repositioned himself in the beanbag again, not noticing the prepended “Like ten percent of uncircumcised guys” before the whole response vanished. He reestablished his usual grip around his thrumming, comfortably hard five-inch prick and waited for the new prompt.

He grinned as soon as it came up. “Hope you’re as horny as I am, little chat,” he said aloud. Now that he’d started thinking about sex his brain would be stuck there until he came. “Tell me a story about my big boner.”

The response that came up a moment later seemed almost eager: “Calvin’s boner is so big, when he’s alone he mostly breathes with his nose.”

“Huh?” Calvin blinked at the pixels, confused for a second, before the fat, leaky head of his wrist-thick erection smeared itself impatiently across his lips, demanding his attention. He laughed, enjoying the feel of his breath over the wide, red, extra-sensitive glans before he let the cockhead and a few inches of monolothic, slablike shaft slide into their accustomed sheath—also known as his warm and welcoming mouth.

He grinned around his rigid wang at the screen. Spot on, he thought. You may not be clever, little chat, but you are exactly right. He sucked a little on the head as he tongued around the upper shaft, enjoying the way his happy little moans hummed through the quivering flesh of his relentlessly randy steel-hard prick.

He let himself wallow in the self-sucking for a while, completely missing the “Like all gay men” prepend just before the whole response fell away and was gone.

He was so preoccupied, in fact, that when he looked at his screen again and noticed the blinking cursor he had to remind himself what he’d been doing. That happened a lot, of course—cocks were distracting fuckers—but he knew from long experience and practice how to get things done in short bursts, and beyond that he tended not to care.

What was this app again? Oh, right, one-sentence chatbot “stories.” So cringe. Maybe it could tell him how to finally get a boyfriend—a guy that wanted Calvin’s dick as much as he did his own for a change. Keeping his usual grip on his lower shaft, he used his other hand to type, “Tell me a story about dudes in love.”

He closed his eyes and pushed down gently on his mammoth cock, feeling the customary tingle of anticipation in his balls as he pushed the head past his tonsils and down his throat. He hadn’t always been able to do that, but after a lot of practicing in his teens he could do it now with a certain amount of ease. His balls loved it for some reason, and the first few times he had cum almost instantly. Now the challenge was holding back and not cumming. At least, not yet. After all—

“Save some for me,” an amused baritone voice said.

Calvin’s eyes opened and he saw his green-eyed personal trainer boyfriend, Phil, perched nearby on one of the barstools lined up along the passthrough into the kitchen of their little 20th-floor condo, his own throat-high monstercock poised inches from his soft, wet, blowjob-reddened lips. The way he was smiling at Calvin, his own neglected tablet in one hand and a glass of o.j. on the bar next to him, told a “one-sentence story” of its own: Phil had just been distracted, as he often was, from his pulpy orange juice and morning headlines by the sight of his tall ‘n’ lanky, big-feeted boyfriend deep-throating himself with practiced aplomb. His own feet were decently sized and equally bare, but there were lots of things Phil liked about Calvin’s size-17s and Calvin was not going to stop him.

Calvin winked at him and pulled off his long, immovably hard cock with an eventual pop. “Always,” he answered truthfully. Fuck, Phil was wearing that sky-blue long-sleeved compression shirt he loved, looking at Calvin like he wanted to eat him. If he hadn’t already been hard…

“What are you working on, anyway?” Phil asked, taking a slow lick around his cockhead that Calvin could not look away from.

When he forced himself to glance at his screen, he caught a blink of text—he thought it might have said “Like all humans, Calvin is so destined for love, his equally hunky forever-partner finding him was as inevitable as ice cream in summer” (or something equally nonsensical) before the words vanished completely. Then the tablet itself suddenly shut down and the screen went pitch black.

“Huh.” He set the tablet down and looked up at Phil. “No idea.”

Setting his own tablet aside on the bar, Phil stood and padded across the very nice, thick-pile (and very washable) carpeting to him, stroking himself casually with both hands. “When,” he teased in an exaggerated version of his usual drawl, standing over Calvin with an expression of mock disdain, “are we getting rid of your ridiculous beanbag?”

Calvin laughed. “Never!” he said. Seizing Phil’s wrist, he pulled him down onto him with a surprised squawk. They wriggled against each other and started making out in the traditional gay fashion, a combination French kiss and mutual blowjob. They brought each other close to the edge and then pulled back, panting happily at each other while their strong arms wrapped around long, tapered backs and their hands stroked along spines and napes.

Calvin stared into those mesmerizing green eyes, his cock as hard as it had ever been. He heard himself ask, soft and low, “Hey… we got any ice cream?”

Phil’s eyes darkened. Kissing Calvin’s cock wetly just under the head, he answered, “Absolutely.”

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