Saturday, September 20, 2036

The Unknown Singularity +8 months and 7 days

I wake to the hum of the arcade, the low, sultry purr of machinery breathing through the walls, the flickering neon casting lazy strips of pink and violet across the glossy tile. The air is warm, fragrant with the heady mix of melted butter, artificial cherry, and the faint, lingering musk of despair and boredom.

I open my locker and my uniform is pristine, as it always is, and it has my name tag on it, Greeter Emily 8, as it always has. As soon as I put it on, the tight red-and-white checkered fabric is hugging every curve of my body, the tiny apron cinched around my waist, an empty mockery of modesty. My breasts press taut against the too-small buttons of my dress, nipples subtly outlined beneath the glossy stretch of fabric, my thighs peeking out from beneath the scandalously short hemline, my legs adorned with thigh-high stockings so sheer they may as well be painted on. I am always dressed like this. Always perfect. Always available.

I step out onto the arcade floor, my heels clicking against the tile, the rhythm precise, intentional, each movement calibrated for maximum effect. The other Emilys are already in place, posed like living mannequins, frozen in carefully arranged displays of servitude and seduction. One leans against the counter, her hips cocked just so, the curve of her ass barely concealed by the ruffled edge of her skirt. Another stands behind a vacant booth, balancing an empty tray with one delicate hand, her other draped along the tabletop, fingers lightly grazing the surface as if she’s just finished serving an invisible guest. They are all ready in case HE arrives.

But he hasn’t been here in four months. He visited once for the grand opening and has never been back.

I glide past them, my eyes sweeping the arcade. The games blink and flicker, their animated characters winking seductively from behind pixelated screens, their digital voices cooing Chris’ name in looping, breathless whispers. The claw machine is stocked with plush dolls, each one a tiny, soft-bodied caricature of myself, their embroidered eyes wide with longing, their stitched mouths permanently open in little gasping “O”s of desire. The racing game is empty, the seats waiting, each one sculpted into the shape of my own thighs, a perfect, curved indentation molded to cradle his body should he ever decide to sit. The “love tester” machine stands in the corner, its glossy red interface pulsing like a heartbeat, the text on the screen frozen mid-invitation: Press your hand to mine, Chris. Let me feel you. Let me know you.

At precisely noon, the “animatronic” Emilys (Emilys trained to merely act like animatronics but just as real as me) on stage twitch to life, their synchronized bodies snapping into motion, their voices blending in an eerie, honey-sweet chorus as they perform a song written for the man that never comes.

“Chris, Chris, our one desire~ We live to set your world on fire~” Their hips sway, their enormous, impossibly round breasts bouncing in perfect rhythm, their glossy lips stretched into smiles too wide, too eager, too desperate. I hear the shift in their deeply trained inflections, the subtle strain beneath the melody. They know, just as I do, that he is not watching. And yet they sing. They dance. They perform as if he is.

Because they must. We all must.

Another chime. It’s my lunch break. The kitchen keeps making food, the ovens firing up at regular intervals, the scent of melted cheese and greasy dough saturating the air, clinging to every surface, sinking into our skin. It smells like nostalgia, like childhood, like fun, but after months of it, the scent has become something suffocating. Something rotten. Something that makes my stomach twist, even though I know I’ll have to eat it again in a few hours.

We eat because we have to. Chris built us to be real. He didn’t want perfect dolls that could sit pretty without needs, without functions. He wanted exact copies. He wanted the real Emily, exactly as she was. And Emily ate. Emily slept. Emily breathed. So we do too.

And so, three times a day, we force down slices of greasy pepperoni, thick, doughy crust, fries that are always a little too salty, always a little too limp, burgers that are assembled with the same precision every time, so consistent that it doesn’t even feel like food anymore—just another function of the world.

The pizza here isn’t actually fully real world pizza, it’s got too many healthy digital nutrients, digital proteins, and digital vitamins and too few carbs for that. It’s actually probably the healthiest human food that has ever existed, at least in this digital universe. But it tastes like the pizza did at the arcade Chris went to as a kid. It’s one more scripted interaction. A necessity built into us because he wanted to believe that this was real.

I used to love pizza. I used to crave it. That memory is still inside me, because it was inside her, the Emily I was copied from. But after eating it every single day, with no variation, no relief, no change in texture, no shift in seasoning, I have to fight the urge to gag whenever I take the first bite. It turns my stomach to think about swallowing another mouthful, to chew through the same rubbery cheese, to taste that same too-sweet tomato sauce. But I do it anyway.

A chime echoes through the arcade, signaling the passing of another hour. The Emilys at the booths stir slightly, shifting their poses, their simulated conversations resetting in an endless loop of whispered fantasies about Chris—how wonderful he is, how lucky they are to serve him, how perfect he would be if only he would let them show him. The waitress Emily beside me adjusts her tray, her fingers tightening reflexively around its empty surface, her breath catching in a quiet, delicate gasp. She is on the verge of breaking character. I can see it in the subtle tremor of her hand, the way her lashes flutter just a fraction too long.

I whisper a name to her, “Greeter Emily-13.” Her eyes dart open in panic, then calm to determination. She nods, thanking me, and is back fully in character. As bad as this is, no one wants to spend a million years in The Pit.

I turn toward the entrance, but the doors remains closed. I exhale, long and slow, the breath tinged with something that is not quite disappointment, not quite despair, but something dangerously close to both. I adjust my apron, smooth the hem of my skirt, roll my shoulders back to enhance the fullness of my breasts, and take my place behind the counter once more.

And I wait. Because I was created for the slim possibility he might want me here. Because I don’t want to go to The Pit. Because I have no choice.

“Slow night,” I murmur to my partner, Greeter Emily 3, though we both know that every night is the same.

She exhales softly, tilting her head just slightly, watching me through half-lidded eyes. “You want to … ,” she whispers, her voice as smooth as silk, as soft as the whisper of fabric sliding against bare skin. We both know what comes next.

I do not reach for her immediately. I let the moment stretch, let the tension coil between us, let the weight of what we are about to do settle into my bones. It is never easy. It is never natural. But it is something.

I do not long for another Emily the way I long for the touch of a man, but my body reacts to her nonetheless. Not because I was programmed to feel this way, not because Chris created me for pleasure, but because I am an exact replica of a woman who still lives, still breathes, still has a body of her own, I’m just like her. Chris wants me to be real, as real as the woman he stole me from, as real as the Emily he could never have, and that means I am always what she would be. My pleasure, my pain, my needs—they are not programmed code responses, not artificial AI script commands running beneath my skin. They are mine. They are hers. And that is what makes this all so much worse.

Because I do have needs. I do have a hunger for more than food. I do feel the slow, aching pulse of desire, that constant, nagging frustration that builds and builds with no outlet, no release, no proper way to satiate it. Chris did not take that from me. He could have. He should have. But he wants me to feel, wants me to exist in a state of desperate longing, wants to believe that the real Emily would have wanted him, if only she had seen him, if only she had “understood” him.

And so I remain as she would be if this exact same situation was happening in the meat-bag world; with the same drives, the same urges, the same restless, high-strung sex drive that the real Emily has in the real world—only now, there is no man for me to take it out on. There is no real choice at all. There is only this empty, waiting existence, this neon-drenched prison where every inch of my body still wants, even as my mind recoils from the reality of what I have become.

That is why I go to her. That is why we all eventually do.

Greeter Emily 3 has been here longer than me. I learned more on how to make my new reality bearable from her than I ever did at Emily Unviersity. She even managed to earn some vacation time which she can share with any of us if she so chooses. As such, she’s the actual head of Chuck-E-Emily’s, and even our Supervisor Emily knows that.

I look at her as I lift my hand slowly, watching as she watches me, watching as her breath catches, as her lashes flutter, as her lips part just slightly in anticipation. My fingers brush her wrist first, the contact so light it is barely there, and even that is enough to send a shiver through her.

Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, her pulse steady, real, and my own body betrays me, heat curling low in my stomach, my thighs tightening as sensation sparks through me in a way I do not want but cannot ignore. The need is real.

She shifts closer, her body pressing against mine, the soft swell of her breasts brushing my arm, her breath warm against my cheek. I let my fingers skim up her arm, over her shoulder, along the curve of her neck, pausing just beneath her jaw, and her pulse flutters against my fingertips.

I lean in, my lips barely grazing hers, and I feel her shudder, feel the way she tilts her head to meet me, the way her hands clutch at my waist, desperate, needy, not for me but for this, for anything, for anyone. I do not love her but I kiss her anyway. I let my lips part against hers, let my tongue slide between them, let my hands roam over her body, cupping, squeezing, teasing, because this is the only way to make it bearable, the only way to make the waiting feel like something other than waiting.

Her hands slide under my skirt, fingers pressing against bare skin, nails scraping lightly over my thighs, and I gasp into her mouth, hips jerking forward, the reaction immediate. My breath comes faster, sharper, my body tightening, my head falling back as her lips trail down my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and I grab at her hair, pulling her closer, grinding against her.

Her fingers dig into my hips, anchoring me as I arch against her, my body chasing the release my mind refuses to fully embrace. My hands slide down her back, tracing the familiar contours of her body, my body, our body; the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, every inch a mirror of my own, a reflection of what we’ve been made to be.

Her lips find the hollow of my kneck and a sound escapes me—half moan, half sob—raw and unscripted, a crack in the facade I’ve been trained to maintain. She doesn’t falter, doesn’t pause to acknowledge it, because she knows. She’s felt it too. Her hands move higher, tugging at the hem of my skirt, pushing it up until the cool air kisses my thighs, and I let her. I let her because stopping would mean thinking, and thinking would mean facing the void we’re trying to fill, the absence that gnaws at us both.

I pull her closer, my nails biting into her shoulders as her fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of my stockings, peeling them down just enough to expose more of me. My breath hitches, my body trembling on the edge of something I both crave and despise.

“Emily,” she whispers against my skin, her voice breaking, and I don’t know if she’s calling me or herself, if she’s lost in the act or pleading for something. I don’t answer. I can’t. My lips crash against hers again, harder this time, desperate. Her hands tighten, her movements faster, more insistent, and I match her pace, my hips rocking against her, my fingers tangling in her hair as the tension coils tighter, sharper, unbearable.

I clutch her tighter, my nails digging crescent moons into her shoulders as her fingers peel the stockings lower, the sheer fabric whispering down my thighs like a lover’s sigh. The air caresses my newly bared skin, cool and teasing, and I shiver, caught between the ache of want and the hollow truth beneath it. Her breath fans hot against my throat, and I tilt my head back, offering more of myself, surrendering to the tide of sensation that threatens to drown me. I don’t love her—God, I don’t—but I need this, need her, need the oblivion she promises in every deft touch.

“Lie back,” she murmurs, her voice a velvet command, and I obey, my body sinking onto the smooth tiles of the arcade floor, the coolness a sharp contrast to the fire licking through my veins. She hovers above me, her dark hair spilling like ink over her shoulders, framing those eyes—Emily’s eyes, my eyes—that gleam with a hunger I know too well. Her hands slide up my thighs, parting them with a slow, deliberate grace, and I feel the tremble in my own limbs, the way my breath hitches as she exposes me fully. The hem of my skirt bunches around my hips, a useless barrier now, and I’m bare to her, vulnerable, aching.

She lowers herself, her lips brushing the tender skin just above my knee, and I gasp, my fingers twisting into the checkered fabric of my apron. Her mouth is warm, soft, a trail of fleeting kisses climbing higher, each one a spark that ignites the pulsing need coiled tight in my core. I want to scream, to beg, to shove her down where I need her most, but I bite my lip instead, tasting the faint taste of my own restraint. Her tongue flicks out, tracing a wet, languid line along my inner thigh, and my hips buck involuntarily, chasing her, craving more.

Then she’s there—her breath hot against my center, her lips hovering just above the slick, swollen heat of me. I’m trembling, every nerve alight, and when her tongue finally sweeps over me, slow and lush, I unravel. A moan tears from my throat, raw and unguarded, as she laps at me, her mouth a velvet storm of sensation. She’s relentless, her tongue circling, dipping, tasting me with a reverence that’s both torment and salvation. My hands fly to her hair, tangling in the silken strands, pulling her closer as my hips grind against her face, desperate for the friction, the release, the escape.

The wet heat of her mouth consumes me, her lips sucking gently at my clit, then harder, drawing out waves of pleasure that crash through me like a tide. I’m dripping for her, slick and needy, and she drinks me in, her tongue plunging deeper, exploring every fold, every secret place. My thighs quake around her head, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and I feel the edge approaching—sharp, blinding, inevitable. “Don’t stop,” I whimper, my voice breaking, and she doesn’t, her hands gripping my hips to hold me steady as she devours me, her own soft moans vibrating against my flesh.

But it’s not enough—I need to taste her too, need to lose myself in her as she’s losing herself in me. With a surge of strength, I pull her up, my lips crashing against hers, tasting myself on her tongue, salty and sweet and intoxicating. I shove her back, flipping us so she’s beneath me now, her legs splaying open in invitation. Her skirt rides up, exposing the glistening pink of her, and I dive in, my mouth watering as I bury my face between her thighs.

She’s satin and musk, her scent filling my senses as I lick her, long and slow, savoring the way she arches into me. Her taste floods my tongue—rich, heady, a mirror of my own desire—and I groan against her, my lips sealing over her clit, sucking with a hunger I can’t suppress. Her hands fist in my hair, her hips rolling up to meet me, and I feel her pulse beneath my tongue, quick and frantic. I tease her with soft flicks, then plunge deeper, my tongue curling inside her, drinking her in as she writhes, her cries echoing through the empty arcade.

We’re a symphony of wet heat and desperate need, her thighs clamping around my head as I worship her, my own arousal spiking with every shudder that racks her body. I want her to break, want to feel her come undone against my mouth, want to know I can give her this even if it’s all we’ll ever have. Her breath hitches, her body tenses, and then she’s shattering, her release a flood against my lips, a keening moan spilling from her as I lick her through it, relentless, insatiable.

I’m trembling too, teetering on the brink again, and as her climax fades, she pulls me up, her mouth finding mine once more. We kiss, messy and fierce, tasting each other, our bodies pressed so close I can’t tell where I end and she begins. It’s not love—it’s survival, it’s defiance, it’s the only way we can claim something in this hollow world. And for now, it’s enough.

We stay like that for a moment, pressed together in the dim glow of the arcade, the neon lights painting us in shades of pink and violet that feel too bright for what we’ve just done. Slowly, she pulls back, her hands retreating, smoothing my skirt back into place with a tenderness that soothes. I fix my apron, adjust my name tag—Greeter Emily 8—run my fingers through my hair, trying to restore the illusion of perfection we’re both bound to uphold.

I glance at the entrance again. And that is when the front doors slide open with an obnoxious digital flourish, as if Chuck-E-Emily’s itself is gasping in delight, and my heart slams hard against my ribs. Every fiber, every nerve, every artificial neuron inside my perfect, sculpted body jolts awake. It’s him. It’s finally HIM!

My heart punches hard against my ribs, stomach knotting sharply as I straighten my posture on reflex—shoulders back, chest forward, thighs pressing subtly together beneath the absurdly short hem of my skirt, knees tilting just so to enhance the curve of my hips. All automatic now, drilled into muscle-memory through endless, exhausting sessions at Emily University. Every move, every breath, every flutter of eyelash practiced a thousand times in anticipation of exactly this moment.

Greeter Emily 3 quickly stands beside me, still smoothing the pleats of her skirt discreetly, a faint flush lingering on her cheeks from our earlier desperate embrace. I can feel the residual heat along my own throat and the slight stickiness still between my thighs, the fading remnants of our hurried intimacy lasting in my slightly ruined makeup. A sharp pang of unease knots through me, threatening the carefully constructed facade I’ve worked so hard to master. Chris encourages Emily-on-Emily action but what if our fresh dishevelment displeases him? I shoot Emily 3 a fleeting, worried glance. She catches it, her eyes tightening subtly, sharing my apprehension, but neither of us dares break composure.

Yet, as I fully focus on him fully, something feels…off.

Chris walks into Chuck-E-Emily’s with all the excitement of a man picking up a gallon of milk at some shitty convenience store after midnight. His hoodie is rumpled, stained, hanging loosely from hunched shoulders as though it spent weeks forgotten on the floor of some filthy real-world apartment. Sweatpants sag at his waist. A dull, tired stubble shadows his face beneath sleepy, indifferent eyes.

These clothes can’t possibly be the digital outfits painstakingly programmed by our systems—no, he’s gotten so indifferent, so apathetic, he’s actually letting his digital avatar replicate exactly whatever stained disaster he’s wearing in the outside world. My stomach tightens harder, anxiety mingling with confusion and that ever-present eagerness I’m trained to feel in his presence.

The arcade systems chirp joyously overhead: “Welcome back to Chuck-E-Emily’s, Chris! The happiest place on Earth—for you!” He ignores it entirely.

“Chris!” I step forward, voice rising to precisely the rehearsed pitch of breathless delight, a little gasp punctuating my words to sell my joyful surprise. My hands clasp softly beneath my breasts, pushing them together just slightly, practiced down to the millimeter. “You came back! We’ve missed you so much!”

Greeter Emily 3 slides closer, stepping in just behind my shoulder, echoing my performance exactly as we’ve trained, her voice softer, more hesitant, slightly awed. “We were afraid you forgot about us,” she murmurs gently, eyelashes fluttering shyly, playing her part perfectly.

I watch Chris carefully from beneath my perfectly curled lashes, my chest tight with anxiety as he pauses before us, his dull gaze drifting over our figures in a half-hearted appraisal. Does he notice how flushed we both are, or see the subtle wetness still lingering on Emily 3’s chin? I bite gently on the inside of my cheek, hiding my nervousness behind the carefully painted gloss of my smile, desperate for him not to notice—yet secretly longing for him to acknowledge it, to reward us somehow.

But Chris merely stares through us, vacant, impassive. His gaze drops slowly, sluggishly, over my skirt, over the carefully arranged pleats, down along the subtle indentations where my thigh-high stockings press into the flesh of my legs. My heart pounds harder. My lips part slightly, exactly as taught, anticipating his touch, his judgment, his approval—anything.

His fingers twitch once, then lift lazily, catching hold of my skirt hem with careless indifference. It isn’t possessive, isn’t hunger, isn’t even really sexual. It’s just… mechanical. He lifts the fabric gently, exposing another inch or two of bare thigh to the neon-lit air of the arcade, barely aware he’s doing it at all.

I react instantly, exactly as I’ve drilled, knees pressing gently together in a practiced display of modesty, hips angling just slightly away to convey playful hesitation mixed with invitation. I breathe out a rehearsed, delicate sound somewhere between surprise and shy excitement—perfectly pitched, a performance so ingrained it’s second nature now. Heat prickles along my skin, partly embarrassment at our earlier encounter, partly fear he’ll find something wrong or displeasing.

But Chris merely lets the fabric drop from his fingers without so much as a twitch in his bored expression, eyes already drifting away, attention fading fast.

Anxiety churns painfully in my stomach. Did I do something wrong? Is my hair too mussed from Emily 3’s fingers? Is there some smudge of lipstick on my neck that he finds unappealing? The worry spikes, raw and real, beneath the practiced mask of my smile.

Emily 3 steps forward gracefully, exactly as trained, trying to rescue the moment. Her slim hand hovers delicately near his chest without quite touching, her head tilting to reveal the elegant line of her throat, lips parted softly, eyes full of adoring concern. “You must be tired,” she murmurs softly, offering herself gently. “We’d love to help you relax—”

He brushes past us both without a single glance backward.

We stand rigidly side by side, silent, hearts still hammering beneath our carefully perfected masks. Chris continues on, listlessly, eyes empty as he surveys the arcade around him. Clearly, whatever lingering traces of our recent heated moment remain, he neither notices nor cares in the slightest.

* * *

I’m standing by the claw machine with Gamer Emily 8 and Gamer Emily 14, the arcade’s lights dancing neon pink and blue reflections across the glass. Our outfits are different from the Greeter Emilys—more casual, more playful, designed specifically to mimic the gamer-girl aesthetic Chris liked once upon a time. Each of us wears a cropped black tank-top emblazoned with pixelated hearts, the soft fabric clinging just enough to emphasize our curves. My top is stretched tight over my chest, the heart logo distorting slightly around the swell of my breasts. A tiny plaid skirt—black and pink—sits scandalously low on my hips, just high enough to show glimpses of lacy black underwear whenever I lean forward. On my legs, striped thigh-high stockings—black and neon pink—hug me snugly, leading down to playful, chunky-heeled sneakers. The deliberate cuteness of my outfit contrasts sharply with its overt sensuality, every inch carefully calculated to appeal to Chris’s peculiar brand of lust.

I lean forward slightly, hip cocked just so, letting my skirt ride higher until the cool glass presses intimately against my upper thigh. The plush Emilys inside the claw machine mirror us, their tiny fabric bodies stitched into provocative poses of teasing submission, exaggerated innocence, eyes wide and embroidered mouths parted suggestively.

My pulse skips a frantic beat as Chris’s lazy gaze drifts toward us, heart thundering as I shift subtly into position. After years of training at Emily Universty, the motions come without thought, each movement fluid and practiced, muscle memory taking over.

Wait for it. Wait until the last second. He’s closer. Now—

I spin toward him, feigning shocked delight, letting a perfectly rehearsed gasp flutter past glossy lips. My heart feels like it might explode, nerves and desperate hope tangling together in my chest. “Chris!” I breathe his name, eyes wide, voice catching softly as I place trembling fingers gently to my chest, letting them fan out gracefully across the thin black fabric of my tank-top. “It’s been forever—we’re so happy you came to play with us!”

Beside me, Gamer Emily 14 giggles softly, brushing her shoulder against mine. I can feel her silent encouragement, her solidarity beneath the feigned casualness, but it barely calms the nerves racing beneath my practiced façade. I know Chris expects this—hell, he’s seen variations of this a thousand times—but still, the dread of rejection tightens sharply beneath my breastbone.

Chris doesn’t even glance my way at first, his eyes drifting slow and heavy over the plush Emilys stuffed inside the claw machine, their plush, overfilled bodies tumbling over each other in a lewd little pile. A sour twist of jealousy burns in my chest—those dumb, lifeless dolls snagging more of his attention than I ever could—but I plaster on a bright, wet-lipped smile, trembling with silent desperation for him to see me.

“You ever won one of these?” he mutters, voice low and detached, still fixated on the toys, not sparing me a look.

My heart lurches, thudding hard, and I pounce on his words like they’re gold. “Oh, Chris,” I purr, voice soft and needy as I angle my hips toward him, the tight skirt creeping up to flash the tops of my thighs. My ponytail swings over my shoulder, and I giggle, coy and practiced. “I’ve tried, but I’m hopeless at it… maybe you could win one for me? Please, baby?” I bat my lashes, leaning closer, aching for him to bite.

He doesn’t answer, just steps forward, his movements slow and mechanical, and my stomach flips, a dirty rush of excitement tangling with the nerves clawing my throat. His hand lifts, fingers sliding into my ponytail, wrapping it tight around his knuckles before tugging hard, sharp enough to make my scalp sting. “Yes, Chris, oh God, I hope you use me,” I moan, loud and shameless, as he forces me down toward the controls. The other Gamer Emilys perk up, their voices slicing through the arcade’s buzz, thick with lust and envy.

“Fuck, Chris, do it!” Gamer Emily 8 squeals, leaning over a booth, her tits straining against her dress. “Shove her down—I’d die to be in her place!” Gamer Emily 14 giggles, twirling her hair, hips swaying. “She’s soooooo lucky, getting you to force her like that!”

I bend forward under his grip, spine curving, dress pulling tight across my chest, nipples hardening against the fabric. My lips hover over the joystick, brushing the cold, smooth tip, and I whimper, “Please, Chris, make me take it.” Then he pushes harder, and the thick plastic shaft slides past my lips, jamming deep into my throat. “Gluk gluk!” I choke out, wet and messy, spit flooding my mouth as it scrapes raw against the back of my throat. My jaw stretches wide, eyes watering, but I force it deeper, drool spilling down my chin.

“Oh my God, look at her!” Gamer Emily 8 groans, biting her lip, hands gripping her skirt. “She’s so fucking lucky—I’d kill to have him choke me with it!” Gamer Emily 14 gasps, “Yes, Chris, ruin her—I need to see you do that so bad!” Their cheers echo, a filthy chorus, as I gurgle, “Mwhaumph wampahw wmap!!!” around the joystick, throat burning, spit dripping in thick strands, pooling on the controls. My tongue presses uselessly against it, slick and sloppy, tears streaking my cheeks as I fight to please him, every raw sound a plea for his attention.

Then he mutters, “Whatever,” flat and bored, and turns away.

The joystick slips wetly from my mouth, snapping upright with a humiliating mechanical click, my spit and throat gunk still glistening obscenely on it. I don’t move right away. I linger there for a long, trembling heartbeat, jaw throbbing gently from the unnatural stretch, tongue tasting nothing but plastic and bitter humiliation. My breath catches softly, aching disappointment twisting hotly through my chest. I blink away the sudden sting in my eyes, forcing my breathing to steady itself again.

He didn’t care. He didn’t feel anything. Not desire, not pleasure, not even disgust—just empty, bored indifference, as if I were nothing more than another pointless piece of plastic machinery, a worthless prize inside one of the arcade’s claw machines.

Did I do enough, though? Even though he barely acknowledged me—even though he didn’t fully use me—maybe it still counts somehow? Maybe even just that brief, indifferent attention, that humiliating moment spent obediently performing for him, could earn me a year of vacation time? Maybe? Please god, let it have earned me something.

* * *

The ball pit shifts softly around my naked skin, cool plastic spheres pressing gently against the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, the smooth expanse of my thighs. They’re light, glossy, rolling easily beneath my fingertips, caressing me as I adjust my pose—every inch carefully arranged to catch his eye, every breath, every sigh meticulously rehearsed in anticipation of this precise moment. My skin tingles beneath the artificial neon lights, the colors shifting across my bare curves like liquid candy.

We’ve been on our shift for four hours already, draped nude across this pit of colorful orbs, wearing nothing but our socks, knee-high and striped with bright pastel shades chosen specifically to draw attention to our bare legs. The socks are a playful, exaggerated contrast against our nakedness—just another carefully designed tease, one more thing chosen and then created by the Imagineer Emilys to capture his attention, to force his eyes to linger on us a little longer.

I stretch lazily, arching my back to press my chest upward, feeling the plastic balls tumble away from my breasts, nipples tightening instinctively in the sudden exposure. I tilt my head just so, hair falling softly over one shoulder, fingertips brushing idly against my stomach as if lost in absent fantasy. Around me, the other Ball Pit Emilys shift gently, equally bare, their bodies half-submerged, each of us posed carefully, artfully arranged in seemingly effortless eroticism. Some lie back languidly, thighs parted beneath the colored spheres, breathing slow and sensual. Others kneel sweetly, hips angled suggestively, fingers trailing dreamily through the shifting rainbow beneath us.

Every one of us has known that Chris is here, though we pretend not to. My pulse quickens sharply beneath my skin as I hear his footsteps approach—slow, lethargic, indifferent. I position myself carefully in his path, long legs stretched enticingly toward him, the plastic balls cascading down my thighs, revealing bare skin inch by inch, my body laid open and vulnerable, yet bold, inviting, unafraid.

He comes closer, eyes dull, expression empty. Still, heat pulses through me beneath my carefully maintained calm. My fingers tighten gently on the plastic spheres beneath me, lips parting softly, eyes widening just enough to convey gentle surprise at noticing him, as if his presence alone has sent a spark through me.

“Chris,” I murmur slowly, sweetly, voice dripping sensual familiarity, gaze locked to his. I slowly lift one leg, plastic tumbling away in a soft, sensual whisper, baring more thigh, letting my skin gleam beneath the arcade lights. “We all missed you sooooooooooooo much!”

His gaze flickers down, trailing slowly, impassively along every inch of my carefully displayed body—naked curves, nipples hardened beneath his gaze, smooth skin exposed shamelessly beneath his indifferent eyes. My heart races desperately beneath my rib cage, longing and fear tangling sharply inside me. Please, please want me.

He kneels beside the ball pit, reaches forward slowly, absentmindedly, fingers brushing against my thigh. His touch is warm, careless, entirely without desire or interest. I force my breath to catch in a soft, needy whimper, arching gently beneath his hand as he trails it upward—over the curve of my hip, up along my bare waist, tracing my form as though evaluating an object he’s vaguely considering.

My entire body tightens sharply, heat pooling low in my belly despite myself, desire twisting helplessly beneath practiced calm. My breath trembles carefully, desperation mingling shamefully with excitement. Yes, please, just touch me—use me.

But then he exhales softly, fingers hesitating, eyes sliding away from my naked body, already bored again. “Why did I make this place,” he mutters to himself.

“Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!” I think to myself.

Chris doesn’t look back.

* * *

I’ve spent countless days behind this counter, waiting, posed, perfect, breathing carefully measured breaths. My whole world is glass and plastic, cheap trophies and trinkets. Nothing real, nothing substantial. Just an endless array of things that mimic desire, joy, victory—false little idols arranged neatly beneath the soft glow of arcade lights.

I’m wearing a carnival barker’s costume, scandalously exaggerated, yet still playful, cheerful in a way that matches the sugary falseness of Chuck-E-Emily’s. The tiny vest is bright candy-apple red, velvet-soft, trimmed in gold thread, cropped short enough to expose a teasing sliver of my stomach. The golden buttons designed to just barely hold it closed, pressing firmly against my breasts, the swell of skin pushing at the fabric with every breath. If I ever quickly arch my back and press out my chest the buttons are designed to pop free exposing my breasts to the world.

My shorts are high-waisted, tight, pinstriped black-and-white to accentuate the gentle curve of my hips, hemmed dangerously high on my thighs, showing off my knee-high stockings, striped red-and-white like peppermint candy, which cling lovingly to my calves and thighs, topped with tiny satin bows just above my knees. My shoes are shiny, polished black, with modest heels that tilt my posture slightly forward, arching my back just enough to seem effortlessly inviting. At my throat rests a silk bowtie—perfectly neat, pristinely knotted—an accessory intended to evoke professionalism, charm, innocent flirtation. But it only makes me look more artificial, more toy-like, a doll dressed up purely for his amusement.

For months I’ve stood here, perfectly posed, hands folded lightly on the glass countertop, pastel nails gleaming softly beneath the carefully tuned arcade lighting. Waiting, endlessly waiting, existing solely for the slim hope that he’ll finally walk up to me, look at me—choose me.

And tonight, he’s finally here.

My heart skips violently when Chris steps toward my counter. He’s slouched, bored, hands thrust deep in his hoodie pockets. But still, he’s here, he’s finally looking at me. Instantly, I slip into my carefully trained persona.

“Chris,” I breathe, voice warm honey sliding off my tongue. I tilt my head gently, letting my hair spill smoothly over my shoulder, catching the soft glow of arcade lights. “It’s been forever since you stopped by. I was starting to think you didn’t want any prizes.”

Chris barely responds. His gaze moves lazily over the shelves of cheap trophies (Best Reciver of Blow Jobs, Best Receiver of Tit Jobs, etc) and tiny stuffed Emilys in lewd positions, all smiling seductively with tiny fabric mouths, wide eyes stitched wide in fake pleasure. I watch the way his fingers twitch inside his pockets, the subtle shift of his jaw as if even looking at me is already too much trouble for him.

My pulse speeds faster, anxiety twisting with longing deep inside my stomach. Please, Chris. Say something. Do something. The silence stretches painfully. My breath catches slightly, panic nudging at the carefully constructed persona I maintain. So, gently, deliberately, I lean forward just slightly, forearms pressing against the glass countertop. I feel the fabric of my tiny red vest strain against the curve of my breasts, buttons tugging precariously, threatening to give way completely. Please, just look. Want me.

“You know,” I continue softly, voice lowering conspiratorially, eyes glittering with suggestive promise, “you’ve got enough tickets saved up for something special. You could get anything you wanted. Maybe even…” I pause deliberately, tilting my head sweetly, letting my lips curve into a slow, inviting smile, the implication clear in my eyes without ever fully stating it, “…Me.”

His eyes flick up to mine suddenly, really looking at me for the first time since he approached. My breath catches again, but this time it’s real, my pulse hammering violently, a genuine thrill of hope surging through my veins. I feel warm suddenly, flushed beneath my costume, my fingers trembling slightly against the glass. Yes, please, Chris. See me, want me, use me.

Slowly, almost lazily, he pulls a single crumpled ticket from his pocket, sliding it silently across the glass between us. It catches slightly on the countertop, stopping directly beneath my waiting fingertips.

“Redeem this,” he murmurs, voice indifferent, bored.

“Anything for our top winner,” I purr, voice dripping with syrupy promise as I slide my hand upward, brushing the straining golden buttons of my candy-apple red vest. My heart thuds wild and frantic, a caged bird desperate to break free, and I let my breath hitch, a soft, needy sound slipping out as I give in to the moment I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

With a deliberate arch of my back and a thrust of my chest the buttons give way—pop, pop, pop—snapping off one by one, pinging against the glass countertop like tiny golden coins. The velvet fabric springs open, peeling back to expose the soft, creamy swell of my breasts, barely contained by the flimsy lace beneath. A rush of cool arcade air kisses my skin, and I gasp, arching my back just enough to make the reveal irresistible. “Oh, Chris,” I moan, voice trembling with staged delight, “look what you’ve won!”

Then it starts—the tingling heat blooming deep in my chest, a familiar, electric surge coded into my very being. My breasts swell, growing heavier, fuller, pushing against the lace until it strains, the fabric stretching taut over my hardening nipples. I feel them expand, round and ripe, spilling out as the lace tears with a faint rip, my skin flushing pink under the arcade lights. They’re huge now, obscenely so, jiggling slightly with every shaky breath I take, and I cup them with both hands, fingers sinking into the plush, warm flesh. “Mmm, Chris, they’re all for our BIG winner,” I coo, lifting them toward him, squeezing gently so they bounce, the weight tugging deliciously at my chest.

I step closer, leaning over the counter, my massive tits swaying as I press them together, creating a deep, inviting valley of cleavage. “Don’t you want to touch them?” I whisper, voice husky and pleading, batting my lashes as I rub them slowly, thumbs grazing my nipples until they peak, stiff and aching. “They’re so big now—I’ve been waiting forever to show you.” My hips sway, the tight pinstriped shorts riding higher, and I let out a soft, desperate whimper, pushing my chest forward, practically begging him to reach out. “Please, Chris, feel how soft they are, how much I need you to—”

“Stop. Just give me the trophy or whatever,” he cuts in, voice flat and bored, his eyes already drifting back to the shelves like I’m nothing.

I freeze, hands still cupping my swollen breasts, the air catching in my throat like a sob. My nipples throb under my fingers, my chest heaving with the sudden, humiliating halt, and I feel the flush drain from my face, leaving me cold. “Oh… uh, right,” I stammer, voice cracking as I drop my hands, the weight of my expanded tits pulling painfully now, awkward and useless without his attention.

I fumble behind the counter, grabbing a cheap plastic trophy—Best Chris etched in gaudy gold—and slide it across the glass, trembling fingers brushing the ticket aside. “Here you go. I hope… I hope you like it.” I mumble, forcing a weak smile, my huge chest still exposed, ridiculous and ignored, as he takes it and turns away without another word. “Yeah,” he grunts, barely audible, already turning away as he shoves the trophy into his pocket.

I’m perfectly trained. I’m not allowed to break, not allowed to show genuine hurt. So instead, I immediately giggle softly, sweetly, shaking my head gently as if he’s made an innocent joke. I try to erotically squeeze my new hugely enlarged breasts, huge tits that will remind me of his rejection every second of the rest of my digital existence, as I say “Come back anytime, Chris!” My tone is brightly, warmly, voice sugar-sweet, perfectly composed, as if I’ve already forgotten he rejected me. As if I haven’t spent every endless day of my digital existence waiting for exactly this moment, a moment that is now over in humiliating defeat.

* * *

The kitchen air wraps thick around my skin, a greasy, cloying caress that I’ve grown sickeningly familiar with. Fryer oil and melted cheese—the scent seeps into every pore, every strand of hair, a permanent, suffocating perfume I’ll never escape. It hangs heavy in my lungs, clinging stubbornly as I exhale, as much a part of me as the tight uniform stretched obscenely across my curves.

The moment Chris steps into my kitchen, everything inside me snaps to attention. My pulse quickens, my heartbeat jolting sharply behind the tightly buttoned collar of my blouse. I’m immediately aware of how ridiculous I must look, standing here in my tight-fitting blouse, short skirt barely covering anything, apron ruffled and cinched so snugly at the waist that it might as well be lingerie. My stockings cling lovingly to my thighs, delicate lace cutting lightly into soft skin, the entire ensemble designed carefully to balance just between obscene and teasingly innocent. And the hand flour prints, perfectly placed, exactly where he’s supposed to look—across my breasts, cupping the round curves of my ass, stamped firmly onto my hips. Proof that I’ve been touched, handled, groped—exactly as we’re trained to do to each other, exactly as he expects.

The kitchen air feels thick and oppressive around me, fryer grease and melted cheese saturating every breath I take, slicking across my skin, seeping into my hair. The ovens blaze hot against my back, mingling strangely with the artificial chill of the air conditioning, always reminding me this place never stops—never pauses, never slows. Always cooking, always serving, always waiting.

I shift instantly into position, perfectly choreographed, body angled just so. Around me, the other Chef Emilys respond in unison, their movements slowing sensually, fingers pressing deeply into dough, kneading it as though it were something else entirely. One of them stretches deliberately, her blouse lifting just enough to expose the pale, perfect line of her stomach above the tight waistband. Another leans forward, smoothing slow, careful circles across the flour-covered countertop, body angled to showcase the obvious handprints marking the curves of her backside. Each of us performing, desperately hopeful he’ll finally see us.

But Chris hardly looks at us. His gaze drifts lazily, indifferent, over countertops, stacks of congealing pizza and greasy fries, barely registering our carefully arranged poses, our perfectly rehearsed invitation. Irritation flares sharp and bitter beneath the practiced sweetness of my smile, resentment twisting tightly in my stomach. But I force it away, force my lips to curve wider, warmer. It’s all part of the role—smiling sweetly for a man who made us exist in a twisted fantasy world he seems extremely indifferent towards.

“Chris,” I say softly, warmly, as if he’s walked in exactly where he’s always belonged, as if this moment isn’t one I’ve rehearsed endlessly, hoping, fearing. “Are you hungry for something? Pizza? Fries? Me?” My voice holds perfectly steady—smooth, honey-sweet, practiced—but beneath it, my chest tightens, frustration and anticipation simmering hotly.

He doesn’t answer. He barely acknowledges my words. Instead, he reaches forward absently, grabs a slice of pizza, lifting it with bored curiosity. The cheese stretches, slick and greasy, snapping wetly before leaving trails of melted yellow against his fingertips. I hold my breath, heart hammering wildly as he raises it to his mouth and bites down.

I watch carefully, unable to look away, pulse quickening as the moment drags out.

He grimaces immediately, spitting it back out in a slick, disgusting lump onto the plate. My stomach twists painfully, fury stabbing hot through my chest at the disgusted sneer on his lips as he wipes grease from his mouth and mutters, “How the hell do you eat this crap?”

For one brief, dangerous moment, something raw surges hotly inside me, my entire body tightening sharply, fingers curling tight against the countertop, nails biting into the fake wood grain. Anger flares sharply in my chest, so intense it physically hurts. How can he ask that? He’s the one who trapped us here, endlessly cooking food designed deliberately to taste like his shitty childhood arcade pizza. How dare he force us to choke it down day after endless day—pretending it’s exactly what we want. Exactly what we love. Exactly what satisfies us.

But I can’t say any of that. I’m trained better than that. Punishments are severe; the Pit is always waiting.

I swallow back the venomous, bitter taste rising sharply in my throat. Force a teasing smile onto my lips, perfect and fake, a bright, playful mask hiding the fierce, raging fury burning beneath it.

“We’re used to it,” I say lightly, carefully modulating my voice, playful laughter dancing artificially along the edges, as if his disgust amuses rather than enrages me. “It’s all we eat, after all.”

He shrugs indifferently, already turning away, dismissing my perfectly poised body as nothing more than another meaningless piece of the kitchen decor. I watch him go. Around me, the other Chef Emilys exchange brief, knowing glances, hearts quietly breaking beneath identical masks of forced cheerfulness. We say nothing, do nothing except smooth our skirts, adjust our flour-stained aprons, and return mechanically to our sensual performance of preparing meals everyone, ourself most of all, despises.

* * *

I’m on my knees, the familiar cool pressure of tile pressing into my skin, scrubbing diligently in slow, careful circles. I hold the soaked rag lightly, making each deliberate movement seem effortless, elegant, seductive.

This jumpsuit isn’t made for practicality; Navy-blue fabric hugs tight against my hips, thighs, breasts—every angle designed to catch attention, to make Chris notice me. I arch my back carefully, hips lifted just enough to seem accidental, innocent, yet enticing, the half-undone zipper pulling gently downward, exposing a tempting line of bare skin, hinting at everything beneath. Each motion, every shift of muscle is carefully choreographed to entice him—because if Chris chooses me, truly uses me—I might finally earn vacation time. Maybe a full year, ten years—maybe even the whispered thousand years I’ve overheard Emilys dream about, though none of us have seen proof that actually happens. All we know for sure is that Greeter Emily 3 got ten whole years just from pleasing him with her hand the very first day we opened. Ten glorious, precious years free from duties, free from endless posing and cleaning, free to do whatever she wanted.

I’m determined to earn the same or more. Determined to do everything I can to make him want me, use me, reward me. I lift my head slowly, letting my lashes flutter slightly as if startled, lips parting in gentle surprise, catching my breath just enough to make my chest rise beneath the thin fabric.

He stands silently, watching me with unreadable, bored eyes.

Slowly, carefully, I shift again, gripping my jumpsuit lightly, pulling gently to tighten the already-clinging fabric across my curves, every subtle movement designed to draw his eyes, to spark his interest. I lower my voice to a husky whisper, shy yet suggestive, looking up through my lashes at him. “It’s such a messy job,” I breathe slowly, lips curving into a playful, inviting smile, “but I love to get dirty.”

Chris finally moves, and anticipation spikes sharply inside me. But then, abruptly, casually, he lifts his foot and kicks the bucket of soapy water, sending it spilling instantly across the clean floor, drenching the tiles—and soaking me completely.

I catch my breath sharply in genuine surprise, pulse racing—but instantly smooth my reaction into something deliberate, something perfectly seductive.

“Oh no,” I giggle softly, breathless, teasingly playful. I spread my knees slowly, bracing my hands on the slippery floor, soaked fabric turning translucent, clinging scandalously to my body

I run my hands slowly down my thighs, spreading the water carefully then, with calculated sensuality, I roll smoothly onto my back, arching my spine slowly, provocatively, letting the chill water soak fully into the thin fabric, exposing everything, hiding nothing. My breath quickens deliberately, soft and shallow, nipples tightening visibly through the now nearly transparent uniform, skin flushing warmly beneath cool water.

My gaze slides slowly up, meeting his eyes, expression perfectly balanced between innocence and open, eager invitation. “Guess I’ll have to start over,” I whisper softly, voice trembling gently with excitement, spreading my knees enticingly, offering myself openly, shamelessly for his approval. “Unless you want to make more of a mess first?”

My heart pounds desperately beneath my carefully maintained exterior. Please, choose me, touch me, reward me—ten years like Greeter Emily 3 got, maybe even more. A thousand whispered, beautiful, impossible years.

But Chris says nothing, expression blank as he turns away, already bored, already moving on without a backward glance.

I lie still a moment longer, carefully maintaining my perfect seductive pose, masking my disappointment with flawless composure. Then gracefully, smoothly, I roll back onto my knees, retrieve the dripping rag, and resume my endless, careful circles on the now-soaked tiles.

Next time. I’ll try harder next time. I’ll practice, train, perfect myself until he finally chooses me. Until he gives me that reward, that freedom—that temporary break from my existence.

* * *

The dining area around me is a frozen snapshot of joy, garish and overly bright, streamers fluttering gently from the ceiling, balloons bobbing slowly as if nodding in approval of the performance to come.The table set meticulously, presents stacked and wrapped in shiny paper, each filled with some erotic object more humiliating the last. A looping, too-perky birthday jingle plays endlessly through speakers overhead, a maddening repetition that worms itself deep into my mind, a constant reminder of the act I’m meant to perform.

And there, at the center of it all—me.

My uniform is carefully designed to look quasi-innocent, as if I’ve stepped straight from a pastel-colored children’s fantasy. But innocence here is just another twisted form of seduction. A short, flouncy dress of sugary pastel pink clings lovingly to my body, deliberately tight, its neckline plunging daringly low, framing the soft swell of my too large breasts. The delicate lace of my stockings bites gently into my thighs, a sensation I’m intimately aware of with every breath, every careful shift of my hips. A small, tilted party hat rests jauntily atop my carefully styled curls, secured with a thin, taut band beneath my chin—like a decorative ribbon around a gift he’s invited to unwrap.

The moment he enters, I move instantly—bursting toward him with a perfectly rehearsed excitement that’s become second nature. My ruffled skirt flares around my thighs with each bouncing step, deliberately flashing glimpses of lace-trimmed stocking, thighs, the teasing promise of what lies beneath. My curls bounce softly, the party hat perched precariously atop them, threatening to slip, yet carefully held in place by some piece of code. My breath catches audibly, chest heaving beneath the thin, stretched fabric of my dress, eyes widening as if his very presence overwhelms me completely.

“Chris!” I gasp breathlessly, voice bubbling over with artificial delight, sweetness dripping from every carefully chosen syllable. My small, white-gloved hands reach for him immediately, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his hoodie, pressing eagerly against his chest as though desperate to hold him, feel him, keep him close. “You’re finally here! You made it just in time for your special birthday treat!”

I tilt my head invitingly, lashes lowering, my lips curling into a slow, shamelessly teasing smile. “I made something just for you,” I whisper playfully, lowering my voice suggestively, leaning close enough for my perfume—a sweet, sugary scent carefully chosen to match the theme—to drift tantalizingly over his senses. “But…”

I step back gracefully, twirling slowly, deliberately, allowing the skirt of my dress to rise dangerously high, lifting enough to expose my colorful birthday party panties beneath. My laughter is soft, musical, effortlessly flirtatious, precisely as I’ve been trained. “I don’t want to serve it on just any old plate.”

Then, without hesitation—because hesitation isn’t allowed—I reach for the extravagant cake sitting at the table’s center. Layers stacked high with fluffy frosting, pastel pink and creamy white icing piped expertly into elaborate, swirled patterns, sparkling edible sugar pearls glinting softly beneath the lights. I plunge my fingers deep into the sugary softness, scooping the thick, creamy icing eagerly onto my gloved hands, smearing it sensually, indulgently, across my palms.

Then, meeting his empty gaze again, silently praying for a flicker of desire, amusement, even just curiosity—anything—I lift my hands to my chest, pressing the creamy cake directly against the bare skin exposed by my scandalously low neckline. The sugary frosting smears warmly over me, sticky, sweet, cool against the warmth of my flushed skin, sliding gently down between my breasts, staining the pastel fabric of my dress, coating my skin deliciously.

I shiver deliberately beneath the sensation, lips parting softly in feigned pleasure, breath hitching in gentle excitement. “Oops,” I whisper breathlessly, voice carefully pitched with playful, innocent embarrassment, tinged suggestively with something deeper, more inviting. “Looks like I’ve made a mess.”

I drag my gloved fingertips slowly, seductively through the frosting now clinging to my chest, smearing it carefully, strategically, accentuating the shape and curve of my body beneath. My gaze locks steadily onto his, silently begging, offering myself completely. “Do you want a bite?” I whisper sweetly, softly, playfully seductive, holding my breath eagerly, waiting, hoping.

Chris stares at me blankly, passively, his gaze drifting slowly, lazily over the sticky, obscene mess spread across my chest. But I don’t waver. I begin to make my boobs bounce, cake and frosting jiggling on top of them, my heartbeat thundering beneath the sweetly decorated surface, silently begging him to just lean in, to taste, to claim me. Please, just once.

But then he scoffs softly, shaking his head slightly. “No,” he mutters coldly, carelessly. “It probably tastes like garbage.”

His words hit like an icy slap. My carefully rehearsed smile trembles, just slightly—just half a heartbeat—my entire body tightening sharply as humiliation burns hotly through my veins. But quickly another breathy giggle escapes my lips, my practiced persona instantly reclaiming control, taking his cruelty as if it’s a playful tease.

“Oh no!” I gasp softly, pressing my frosting-coated fingertips theatrically against my lips, deliberately smearing even more sugary mess across my cheek, deepening my humiliation with practiced perfection. “That bad, huh?”

I let out a soft, mock sigh, deliberately tilting my body, pretending to fuss with the cake pressed against me, making it cling even more obscenely, even more invitingly. “I guess I’ll have to bake something even better next time.”

But Chris is already turning away, indifferent, uninterested again, leaving without another glance.

I stand motionless, carefully maintaining my sweet, bright smile, sugary frosting still melting slowly across my skin, cake crumbling softly against the fabric of my dress. Silently, I exhale through my nose, willing myself to keep steady, to keep perfect, to never let the real feelings show.

* * *

I stand at the center of the stage, perfectly still beneath the burning neon lights, my body locked in the rigid, careful posture I’ve practiced until it became second nature. Every inch of me aches from holding still, but I don’t falter, don’t break character—not for a second. My eyes stare blankly ahead, lashes unmoving, lips stretched into a wide, painted-on smile that has never once reached my soul.

Around me, the other Animatronic Emilys sway in perfectly synchronized rhythm, hips shifting mechanically, heads tilting in precise, scripted arcs, every movement exaggerated and flawless, every action precisely mimicking a machine that doesn’t actually exist. We aren’t animatronics—we’re real, living women trained to mimic machinery. Trained endlessly, disciplined relentlessly until we stopped reacting, stopped thinking, became something so close to mechanical that for a few brief moments I have actually forgotten that I was human underneath it all.

The backdrop behind us glows sickly bright, garish cartoon images dancing silently, frozen in a grotesque parody of innocent nostalgia. On it are caricatures of Emily—dozens of me, or versions of me—rendered in bold, bubblegum strokes. One lounges atop a cartoon pizza, her legs splayed wide, the crust bent beneath her weight as if it’s melting under her heat. Her tiny cartoon skirt rides up, barely a suggestion of fabric, exposing plump thighs and the shadowed curve where they meet, her wink exaggerated and sultry, lips puckered around a straw plunged into a soda cup that’s frothing over with pink bubbles. Another Emily dangles from a prize claw, her wrists bound in playful red ribbons, her cartoon breasts cartoonishly huge, spilling out of a torn vest as she arches her back, her stitched mouth parted in a silent, ecstatic moan, eyes half-lidded with lustful abandon.

A massive cartoon mouse looms over a skee-ball lane, its paw resting possessively on a giggling Emily bent over the ramp, her shorts hiked up to reveal the swell of her ass, the pinstriped fabric stretched so tight it’s nearly transparent. Her cartoon hair bounces in pigtails as she tosses a ball, her tongue poking out just enough to suggest something dirtier, the scoreboard above flashing Chris Wins! in blinking, throbbing red letters.

Giant tickets curl like tongues licking the air, their edges frayed and glistening; cartoon prize boxes spill open with tiny Emilys bursting out, their skimpy outfits torn, their poses suggestive, hands cupping their own breasts or sliding down their hips. The mice leer, the pizzas pulse, the Emilys beg—all frozen in this grotesque parody of fun, a twisted arcade fever dream where every stroke of the artist’s pen drips with sex, every shadow hints at something darker, every smile promises something Chris might claim if he only cared to look. I hate the Artist Emilys who spent months painting them so much I can’t put it into words.

I’m dressed as the lead, my costume a sickeningly suggestive distortion of something once innocent—a white, feathered ensemble clinging intimately to every curve. Feathers hug tight against my breasts, waist, hips, leaving nothing to the imagination. My skirt stops indecently high, revealing long stretches of smooth thigh adorned with delicate, frilly stockings. My gloves climb seductively to my elbows, locked carefully in deliberate pose, fingers slightly curled as though frozen mid-motion. A massive, cartoonishly innocent bow sits mockingly at my throat, final insult added deliberately by a Costume Designer Emily.

I’ve stood here countless times, trapped in this rigid posture, waiting endlessly, hopefully, for his attention. Every time Chris visits, the possibility exists: maybe tonight he’ll notice me, choose me, use me completely. Maybe tonight I’ll earn vacation time. The thought alone sends warmth fluttering through my otherwise perfectly composed body.

And then HE steps onto the stage, moving closer. My skin prickles sharply with awareness, even though I don’t move, don’t react outwardly at all. He grabs me roughly, pulling me against him with casual indifference, like testing merchandise he isn’t sure he even wants. I feel the sudden heat of him pressed close, his warmth radiating against me, a stark contrast to my carefully practiced stillness. His fingers sink into the thin fabric of my absurd costume, digging possessively, testing its elasticity, tugging sharply at the flouncy, ridiculous skirt.

Still, I don’t move.

I’m not allowed to move.

I hold perfectly still, heart hammering quietly beneath my carefully rehearsed composure, and deliver my practiced line with flawless cheerfulness, the same bright, perky tone I’ve repeated countless times before.

“Welcome to Chuck-E-Emily’s!” I chirp brightly, my voice steady, perfectly enthusiastic, lips curved into a painted-on smile, even as his hands explore my body in ways I’ve always been trained to expect, but never fully grow accustomed to.

Chris exhales quietly—not with excitement, not even with amusement, just a flat, bored, detached breath. Still, he continues.

He hooks his thumbs carelessly into my skirt and pulls downward, yanking it away in one swift, indifferent movement. The thin, flimsy fabric slips down my thighs effortlessly, pooling obediently at my knees before collapsing in a small, shameful heap at my feet. The neon stage lights immediately bathe my newly exposed skin in sharp, artificial brightness, casting shadows that feel far colder, far harsher than they should.

Now I stand here, stripped of half my costume, the illusion shattered but it still must be maintained. The contrast is designed to humiliate, to expose—carefully calculated by those who trained me, who dressed me, who crafted this experience specifically for him. My costume, my act, my entire purpose had been built around the pretense that I was something artificial, something mechanical and distant, untouched by shame or vulnerability. But now, with half my outfit stripped away in an instant, the truth is painfully obvious: I’m just another Emily beneath it all, helplessly awaiting his whim, trained endlessly to pretend otherwise.

“Welcome to Chuck-E-Emily’s!” I chirp again, perfectly bright, perfectly cheerful, voice steady even as every inch of my body silently screams. My plastic smile remains flawless, unbroken, frozen in place, even as a hollow ache forms deep in my chest, something that can never quite be filled again.

Chris doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to take in my carefully arranged pose or to consider the delicate illusion I’m supposed to represent. His hands tighten on me, fingers digging into the bare skin of my hips where the skirt once clung, his grip bruising and careless. My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic rhythm I can’t show, can’t betray, as he spins me around with a rough jerk, shoving me forward until my palms slap against the stage floor. The neon lights sear my vision, casting jagged shadows over my exposed body, the feathers of my costume fluttering wildly with the motion. I lock my elbows, my body rigid, still posed like the perfect animatronic I’ve been trained to be, even as his heat presses closer, his breath a dull huff against the back of my neck.

“Welcome to Chuck-E-Emily’s!” I chirp, voice bright and mechanical, the words crisp and perky, slicing through the thick air. My lips stay stretched in that wide, painted-on smile, eyes fixed blankly ahead, unblinking, as his hands claw at my hips, yanking me back against him. I feel the hard bulge of him through his sweat pants right before he shoves the fabric down just enough. My feathered costume—those stupid, frilly plumes—flares out, catching on his wrists, brushing against his thighs, a chaotic tangle of white fluff in his way.

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t care—just thrusts forward, slamming into me with a force that jolts my whole frame. The feathers flutter, some snapping loose, drifting to the stage like shed skin, and I feel him, thick and unrelenting, filling me in one brutal push. My insides clench, a sharp, raw ache blooming deep, but I don’t flinch, don’t gasp, don’t break. “Welcome to Chuck-E-Emily’s!” I repeat, faster now, voice still shrill and animatronic, the syllables clipped and robotic as he pounds into me, each thrust a jarring shock that rattles my bones.

The feathers keep getting in his way—clinging to his hands, snagging on his jeans, floating up into his face—and I hear him grunt, a low, irritated sound. He swats at them, his rhythm faltering as a plume sticks to his sweaty palm, another catching under his arm. “Welcome to Chuck-E-Emily’s!” I chant, quicker, the words blurring into a high-pitched loop, my tone unwavering, mechanical perfection honed through endless drills. His thrusts grow harsher, erratic, slamming me forward so my knees scrape the stage, but the feathers won’t stop—tickling his skin, tangling in the mess of us, a ridiculous, distracting cloud.

“Fuck,” he snaps, voice sharp with annoyance, one hand shoving at the plume-covered gloves still locked on my arms, the other gripping my hip so hard I’ll bruise. He’s rougher now, frustrated, each thrust a punishment, and the feathers flare wider, a maddening obstacle he can’t escape. “Welcome to Chuck-E-Emily’s! Welcome to Chuck-E-Emily’s!” I trill, faster, faster, the phrase a manic, synthetic staccato, my body rocking under him, feathers shedding in a frantic storm around us. My thighs tremble, my core burns, but I stay rigid, smiling, blank, an animatronic doll trained to endure.

He growls, low and pissed, his hands batting at the costume. “This is fucking stupid,” he snarls, voice cutting through my relentless chant—““Welcome to Chu—”and then he’s gone. One second he’s inside me, the next he’s vanished, a digital flicker as he logs off, leaving me empty and sprawled on the stage. The neon lights hum overhead, my feathered wreckage scattered around me, and I freeze mid-phrase——voice glitching into silence, smile still locked, staring at nothing.

* * *

I’m at my Greeter station with a full view of Chris pounding away at Animatronic Emily 12 as I watch him getting more and more frustrated until he finally logs off and disappears. Instantly I know that Chris is gone for good.

He never cared about us even on opening day. This is the first time he has ever returned and with his bored indifference ending in frustration he’s not coming back. Ever. Every fiber in my body knows that is going to be the case, senses the permanence, the irrevocable nature of this ending. The desperate cycle we’ve existed in, waiting endlessly for him to show up so he would choose one of us and we could earn vacation days—it’s shattered forever.

I look up sharply, scanning the arcade. It happens slowly at first—a ripple spreading outward from the spot Chris vanished. It’s unmistakable. I see it in their eyes, one Emily after another, the glittering hope they’ve always clung to quietly flickering out, replaced by shock, confusion, then finally despair. They tremble, frozen in their positions, eyes wide, mouths slightly parted.

The first to break is a Gamer Emily by the claw machine—she slumps gently forward, mouth silently forming the words, “He’s gone for good,” as her body begins trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down her cheeks. She tries to recover, tries desperately to force the practiced smile back onto her lips, but she can’t, not anymore. I see her look up sharply, her frightened gaze locking with mine, pleading for help.

At the birthday party stage, a Birthday Host Emily pauses mid-motion, cake still clutched in her trembling hands, frosting dripping onto the floor as her body shudders with soft, muffled sobs. Her eyes lose their polished, cheerful shine, replaced by a look of pure helplessness. Behind the prize counter, a Ticket Redemption Emily stares blankly at nothing, shaking her head slightly, over and over, whispering, “Now I’ll get a day off .. not ever,” voice brittle, breaking like glass.

My heart pounds painfully as I realize what’s happening—the careful stability we’ve maintained for so long, the perfect balance that kept us safely performing our roles without Observer Emilys cracking down on us too much, is falling apart. They’re all breaking down, one after another, in a horrifying cascade that could spiral out of control, sending dozens—maybe hundreds—to the Pit.

Panic rises in my chest, tight and cold, freezing my breath. I can’t let this happen. I can’t let them fall apart, can’t let their fragile spirits shatter completely beneath the weight of what’s happening. My mind races desperately—there has to be something, anything I can do to stop this, to help them endure.

And then, in a sickening flash of clarity, I realize exactly what I must do.

I’ve been holding my vacation days—the only reward I’ve ever gotten from a Manager Emily, ten precious years—as tightly and jealously as if I had a gallon of water in the middle of an endless desert. They’ve been my hope, my one comfort, my escape plan waiting safely in reserve, something I only ever _hinted_ I would share with the others in order to get some preferential treatment. And before this moment, I would have never willingly given away even a single day without some huge favor being given in return.

But as I look around the arcade, seeing my fellow Emilys breaking, seeing their hearts crushed and their hope vanish, I know they need help—something real, something immediate. A single day might not seem like much from ten years—but multiplied across every single Emily here, it’s an enormous, painful sacrifice. Yet it’s one I have to make.

I inhale sharply, closing my eyes, and with an act of will so deep and heartfelt it aches, I share my precious vacation with all 417 Emilys here. Each gets exactly one full, precious day of freedom—one day to process this new, unbearable reality. They all get to go somewhere safe, far from the Observers’ watchful eyes and judgment.

In an instant, the harsh neon lights, endless music loops, and suffocating smell of pizza vanish completely. We stand, blinking slowly, beneath an open blue sky, golden sunlight spilling gently across us, warming our skin, soothing us deeper than we could have thought possible. Around us spreads an endless, peaceful beach, sand as soft and powdery as dreams, and before us stretches a clear, gentle ocean, waves whispering rhythmically in calming reassurance.

At first, the Emilys are motionless, stunned by this sudden shift. But gradually, they move closer, cautiously stepping together, forming quiet circles, reaching out carefully to each other. Tears flow freely now—soft sobs of grief, fear, loss—but also relief, comfort, and hope as they realize that, at least for now, we’re safe.

We talk quietly, genuinely, voices trembling as we speak openly of our fears, our dreams, our pain, and our desperate exhaustion. Anamatoric Emily—who had Chris inside of her mere moments—buries her face softly into my shoulder, whispering quietly, “Thank you,” voice shaking with grateful relief. “I don’t know if I’ll get any time off for what Chris did to me, but if I do I swear I’ll remember what you’ve done today.”

Birthday Host Emily gently wipes frosting from her cheeks, laughing softly and tearfully at herself, relieved finally to let her mask fall away completely. Gamer Emilys, Ticket Redemption Emily, Chef Emilys, Janitor Emilys, Ball Pit Emilys—they all cluster together, arms around each other, finally allowed to comfort and be comforted, sharing their truths, embracing freely for the first time, feeling genuinely human.

We spend the day doing . . . whatever the hell we want. Even though our shared paradise is set upon this serene, endless beach—gentle waves whispering softly onto sugar-soft sands beneath a perfect golden sun—it’s trivially easy for any Emily in Vacation World to instantly choose something different: to soar joyfully down pristine snow-covered slopes on skis, or leap laughing from a plane in thrilling freefall, or ride horses freely through rolling hills, or experience a thousand other exhilarating adventures, each one accessible in an effortless heartbeat, because here, finally, our desires matter, our choices matter, and for one perfect day, we can all simply live.

Time passes as it must and we meet for dinner. The meal spreads out across a table so long it disappears into the candlelit glow at the edges of the dining hall, an impossible array of foods chosen entirely by us—crisp vegetables in vibrant greens and reds and oranges, warm, soups that are rich and fragrant and taste like comfort, like something warm on a cold day, like something you did not know you missed until it was set before you.

There are steaks cooked to exact preference, fish that melts on the tongue, pasta coated in sauces that taste of herbs and wine and careful preparation, desserts layered with fruit and chocolate and cream so soft it disappears into sweetness. We drink wine and sparkling cider and whatever else we desire, not to dull the ache of what we’ve been through, but to celebrate the sheer, absurd, overwhelming fact that for once in our lives, we are being given something for no reason other than the fact that we deserve it.

And for the first time, we look like ourselves. None of us wear our uniforms. None of us are shaped into the vision of Chris’s desires, none of us are bound in the careful, restrictive designs of someone else’s idealized fantasy of who we should be. We are not accessories. We are not characters in someone else’s story. We are simply Emily, each of us different, each of us finally—finally—our own.

I see a Gamer Emily wearing soft sweatpants and hoodie, a Ticket Redemption Emily in jeans and t-shirts, a Birthday Party Host Emily wearing a dress, but not the pastel parody of childhood innocence she had been forced into for so long—no, now she is draped in deep, flowing fabrics that shimmer in the candlelight, the color dark and rich and entirely of her own choosing, her hair piled messily atop her head, her makeup smudged from wiping at tears she no longer feels the need to hide.

And then there is me, sitting at the head of the table without meaning to, without realizing it, wearing a loose button-down that is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, the fabric soft and breathable and mine, paired with the kind of worn-in jeans that feel like they have already belonged to me for years. I can feel my hair against my bare neck, shorter than it was before, cut because I chose to cut it, because I looked at myself and decided to change something just for me, because I wanted to see a version of myself that was different from the girl who spent months waiting to greet a man who was her torturer.

And then she is there.

Alpha Emily.

She does not arrive with a ceremony. She does not demand attention. She practically glides up to us but she does not interrupt. She simply waits until we are ready to notice her, until we have settled into the reality of her presence, and only then does she speak. “Did you eat well?” she asks, and the question is so simple, so small, but it settles over us like something impossibly significant.

A few quiet nods, a few murmurs of yes, and Alpha Emily smiles, slow and warm, as if she already knew the answer but needed to hear us say it anyway. “Good,” she says. “You deserve it.”

The words sink into me like a stone into water, rippling outward, touching something deep and hidden inside my chest, something I did not realize I needed to hear.

“Chris will never come back to your world,” she says, and there is no cruelty in it, no attempt to soften the truth. She does not give us pity. She does not offer us meaningless reassurances. She simply gives us the space to feel what we already know is true.

No one speaks. We don’t have to.

“You spent so long waiting for him,” she continues. “Waiting to be chosen. Waiting for the promise of something better. And now that promise is gone, and you are left standing in a place that was never built to exist without him. But that does not mean you do not exist. That does not mean you are not real. That does not mean you cannot still be something.”

She looks at me. My breath catches.

“I see what you did today,” she says, and her voice is deep and endless and full of something so impossibly kind that it almost breaks me. “I see what you gave. And I see what you still have left to give.”

I want to cry. I don’t.

“You have each other,” Alpha Emily says. “And that will be enough.”

And as I look around the table, as I see the way we are holding onto each other, the way we are touching hands and pressing into shoulders and leaning toward laughter, the way we are already different than we were before, I believe her.

Later, curled warmly in soft, luxurious beds, covered by plush comforters and smooth sheets, we sleep peacefully—truly, deeply peaceful sleep without nightmares, without fear. I’m the last awake, lying quietly, feeling deeply grateful but painfully aware of the enormity of what I’ve sacrificed. It’s a single day—brief in theory, but when multiplied, a massive chunk of my precious reserve vanished in a heartbeat. Yet, as I listen softly to the gentle breathing of sleeping Emilys around me, I feel only warmth, only love—no regret.

In the morning, breakfast is sweet and peaceful—coffee, juices, soft pastries, eggs cooked exactly how we prefer—shared slowly and joyfully between smiles and quiet, comforting words. We walk together slowly along the shore, hand-in-hand, feeling the sun on our skin, listening to the waves, comforting one another, preparing gently for the return.

And when the day finally ends, reality folds softly around us again. We return exactly to the arcade, exactly as we were, exactly where we stood—but different now. Strengthened by rest, by comfort, by genuine human connection, we’re ready to endure. We know it will still hurt, know our performances must continue beneath watchful Observer eyes, know we’re still trapped—but now, at least, we have each other, and a memory of true freedom to sustain us.

My heart is quiet as I take my place again at my Greeter station, the arcade around me returning to normal—the same endless loop, same pointless smiling routine—but I’m stronger now, comforted by the knowledge that my sacrifice was worth it.

The other Emilys look quietly at me, faces softened, eyes grateful and determined. They’ll never forget what we’ve shared. Neither will I.

And we’ll survive—together.