The Last Algorithm: Pounded By The Fake Book That An AI Claimed I Wrote And Then The Chicago Sun-Times Printed As Fact

When author Andy Mirror wakes up to a furious call from his publishing agent, he’s not sure what to make of it. Apparently, the Chicago Sun-Times has announced a new book that this agent was not a part of negotiating. It’s called The Last Algorithm.

There’s just one problem: The Last Algorithm is not a real Andy Mirror book.

Now Andy is struggling to unravel this mystery, headed to The Chicago Sun-Times building that is bafflingly empty, save for a few machines rolling around. When Andy encounters the physical manifestation of this fake book he is shocked, and strangely aroused, these feelings culminating in a hardcore pounding that will reshape journalism forever.

This erotic tale is 4,200 words of sizzling human on fake AI generated book action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, and The Last Algorithm love.

----

THE LAST ALGORITHM: POUNDED BY THE FAKE BOOK THAT AN AI CLAIMED I WROTE AND THEN THE CHICAGO SUN-TIMES PRINTED AS FACT

By Chuck Tingle

I wake with a start, my phone buzzing away on my nightstand and yanking me from the depths of slumber. Being a writer, I keep on a pretty steady routine in order to hit my word-count goals, and when that routine is broken it can be deeply unpleasant—painfully unpleasant.

The hum of my phone pierces my brain like an ice pick, prompting my hand to reach out in a desperate attempt to shut it off. My fingers dance around on the bedside table, hunting the darkness and then finally arriving at their target as my hands find their way around that little flat rectangle.

I open my eyes and sit up, the blankets bunched around me as I struggle to make sense of what’s happening.

It’s my publishing agent.

“Hello?” I start, my voice groggy as I place the phone against my head. My eyes adjust and the room around me begins to take shape, blinds just starting to glow with the faintest light of the morning. “Why the hell are you calling me so early?”

“We have a problem,” my agent, Bork, says. He’s a typically happy-go- lucky man, but his voice is stern and serious.

“A problem?” I repeat back to him. “A problem that couldn’t wait until the sun came up.”

“You do understand what our relationship is, right?” Bork continues. “We’ve worked together for a very long time as agent and author, so I expected a little more from you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, the dire tone of his voice quickly sobering me up. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The Last Algorithm,” he proclaims with the confidence of someone delivering their checkmate move and then knocking over the king.

I don’t react, and for a moment an awkward silence just hangs between us.

Eventually, Bork continues, but his voice is notably deflated now. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Uh... yeah,” I reply, even more confused than before. “What does The Last Algorithm mean?”

“You tell me,” he snarls. “You wrote it!”

As a professional writer, I think a lot about books. I care about books, especially my own, and that care is what’s lifted me to such incredible, bestselling heights. By now, the name Andy Mirror is synonymous with beautifully crafted and highly detailed science fiction. I spend years and years on my books, diving deep into the practical elements in a way that has become a sort of calling card.

Suffice to say, I understand my novel with incredible detail, every sentence gone over a thousand times, and I can say with absolute certainty that I have never written a book called The Last Algorithm.

“I didn’t write it,” I tell him. “When would I have time for something like that?”

Bork hardly even acknowledges my point, his anger overriding his listening abilities.

“As your agent, you need to run every science fiction book through me,” he explains. “We are in contract, Andy. If you’d like to seek other representation, that’s fine, but you need to tell me before you do. It’s unprofessional for me to find out this way, but most of all, it’s unkind.”

I slow down a bit, giving my words as much weight as I possibly can. “Bork, listen to me,” I say. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here, but you’re a great agent and I’m not looking for other representation. I have no idea what The Last Algorithm is, but I didn’t write it.”

“That’s not what the Chicago Sun-Times said,” Bork retorts.

The line goes dead.

I pull the phone away from my head, staring down at it in confusion for a moment. When I try to call my agent back, it goes straight to voicemail. “What the hell?” I murmur to myself.

A mystery is afoot, and while I don’t write mysteries myself, there is a certain amount of technical unraveling that takes place in all of my stories. My characters are methodical, as am I, and it’s in that spirit that I intend to tackle this bizarre situation that has suddenly been hoisted into my lap.

I climb out of bed and get dressed, then head for my office. By now, the sun has just barely crested the horizon, blooming across the skyline in a vivid pinkish orange that swells with watercolor vibrance. I’d typically be heading in here to start my daily routine an hour from now, but this morning is different.

I settle in front of my computer and open up the internet browser, immediately searching for two distinct sets of keywords: THE LAST ALGORITHM and CHICAGO SUN-TIMES.

The first result that I get is an article from this morning, uploaded just moments ago in the early hours. It’s from the Chicago Sun-Times book section, with a headline that reads SUMMER READING LIST.

I click the link and soon enough the whole list is erupting onto my screen, filling me with a number of upcoming book selections. I begin to read, the opening paragraphs beginning as you might expect from an article of this kind, but when I reach the list itself, I’m immediately flummoxed.

There, in bold lettering, is the announcement for a new book from Andy Mirror, It’s titled The Last Algorithm.

“What the fuck?” I groan aloud.

I scan the next few entries, hoping to pick up on some clues and quickly discovering that my own unreal title is not the only strange thing within this collection of literary suggestions.

Other recommended summer reads are Chuck Tingle’s Pounded In The Butt By My Cheeseburger (which I know he would never publish, he’s a vegetarian) and Gatsby’s Back by F. Scott Fitzgerald, which he’s probably going to have a hard time writing, for obvious reasons.

This list is fake, and The Chicago Sun-Times have some explaining to do. I spring to my feet and grab my coat, headed for the door.

The Chicago Sun-Times building looms large above me, a towering monument of glass and steel. I’ve been here a few times over the years for author interviews or book events, and typically I’ve been greeted by a warm reception. Despite the cold, hard exterior of this structure, there’s always been a certain care and charm from the people who work here, at least towards me.

Standing here now, however, something feels off. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but the longer I spend out on this sidewalk, the more it becomes clear: there are no people.

I glance around, struggling to determine if my mind is playing tricks on me, but it appears that I’m right. The other offices around here feature employees sitting out front, enjoying their lunches, or neatly dressed workers in their suits and ties hurrying through various revolving doors. For some reason, The Chicago Sun- Times has none of that.

Since I’ve been here waiting, not a single human being has entered or exited the building. I can see through the massive glass windows that show off this structure’s beautiful lobby, and there is no movement at all.

I approach the building, cautiously scanning the area for anything usual. When I reach the front door I try my best to push it open, but the door remains stuff firmly in place. It’s locked.

“Please scan employee credentials,” comes a flat, robotic voice, the tone crackling out from a nearby speaker.

“Uh... I’m not an employee,” I reply. “I’m an author. My name is Andy Mirror and I’m here to talk to someone about an article that was written about me.”

“Welcome, Andy Near,” says that voice.

“That’s not my name,” I interject, but the computer ignores this.

The voice barrels onward, reciting a list of potential choices. “As a guest,

you have a number of entry options. Are you a member of the food service industry?”

“No.”

“Please do not answer until all the options are read,” the voice interjects, then begins again. “As a guest, you have a number of entry options. Are you a member of the food service industry?”

I stay quiet, patiently waiting.

“Are you looking for a place to use the restroom? Are you a dancer? Do you partake in the buckaroo lifestyle? Have we printed incorrect information about you?”

“Yes!” I blurt.

The computer hesitates. “Please do not answer until all the options are read,” the voice says, then starts over again.

“What the fuck!?” I cry out, throwing my hands in the air. “Isn’t there a single human being here who can help me get inside?”

It’s only now that I hear a strange humming sound from behind me. I turn and leap back in surprise, discovering that a small, four-wheeled delivery robot is rolling quietly towards me. The robot is rectangular, a personified container with glowing eyes affixed to the front. Inside, some kind of delivery has been placed.

As the little robot makes its approach, the door unlocks and slowly glides open. This visitor has been accepted. I don’t think twice, slipping inside as the door slowly closes and locks behind me.

I now find myself in the entirely vacant lobby, a massive space featuring marble walls and a few empty couches, with a bay of elevators waiting just beyond.

“Hello?” I call out. “Is anybody here?”

My lone voice echoes through the empty building, and the only response I get is my own words echoing back to me.

I wander a little deeper, making my way to the elevator bay where I find an etching that describes which department is on each floor. I scan the various options, then stop when I catch sight of BOOKS AND PUBLISHING on floor twelve.

I call one of the elevators and, soon enough, the doors have slid open, allowing me to step inside, but the second they close I’m faced with yet another frustrating automated choice.

“Thank you for visiting us at the Chicago Sun-Times,” comes the same robotic voice through tiny speakers above me. “Please state the floor you would like to visit.”

“Twelve,” I say.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.”

I repeat myself, making sure to annunciate the word as clearly as I possibly

can. “Twelve.”

“Four, is that correct?” the computer replies. “No, twelve.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that,” comes the stilted voice. “Did you say forty?”

I suddenly erupt in a fit of anger, shouting at the top of my lungs. “Just take me to the fucking books and publishing floor, God damn it!”

There’s a brief pause, then the voice finally responds. “Thank you. Now headed to floor twelve.”

I let out a sigh of relief as the lift begins to ascend, carrying me skyward. Glowing circles that run along the top of the sliding doors chart my journey, eventually ending up on level twelve as the elevator emits a digital chime and the doors slide open.

A startled gasp escapes my throat as I step out into a massive, open floor- plan office, shocked at with I’ve found. This room has been divided into cubicles, each small desk provided with its own computer, a shelf, and a rolling chair.

Typically, this kind of space would be bustling with journalists, but unfortunately there’s not a journalist to be found. Instead, an assortment of strange machines appear to be hard at work, giant robotic arms swinging from place to place as they grab papers and scatter them in the air. One of the arms is repeatedly punching a hole through the wall next to it, while another swings its computer by the power cable, dangerously whipping it back and forth.

Something small hits the back of my leg and I hop out of the way, looking down to see the little delivery robot is struggling to pass me.

“Oh, excuse me,” I blurt, stepping aside as the quaint rolling machine continues on its way.

The robot drives out into the middle of the office, stopping briefly and then playing a digital tune. The second that it’s finished, it bursts into flames.

“Oh my God!” I exclaim, shielding my eyes.

Some kind of firefighting android springs into action, sprinting across the room towards a fire extinguisher on the wall. Unfortunately, it misses the mark and keeps going. Instead of putting out the fire, the android runs full speed through a massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window, arms and legs still pumping as it plummets towards the sidewalk below.

Taking matters into my own hands, I hurry over and grab the fire extinguisher, then return to the little delivery robot and spray it down with liquid foam. This move is loud and chaotic, but it doesn’t seem to deter the robotic arms from continuing their bizarre tasks.

Once the fire is entirely put out I take a moment to collect myself, then loudly address the room.

“I need to talk to your book section editor!” I shout.

“We are the book editor,” a robotic voice crackles down from above.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s... really difficult to have a conversation like this. I’m here to talk about The Last Algorithm. It was in your book section. You said that I wrote it, but that book doesn’t actually exist.”

The arms abruptly stop moving, plunging the room into silence. I freeze, preparing for whatever comes next, then turn towards one of the corner offices when the light switches on.

“Hello?” I call out.

I approach cautiously, and when I reach the doorway a surge of alarm pulses through me.

“Hey there,” says a friendly voice. “I’m Torgin. It’s nice to meet you.”

A giant floating book rises from behind his desk and approaches, extending his hand for a shake. I’ve seen sentient objects before, so that part is not too much of a shock, but what does surprise me is the name and title on his cover. Supposedly, this book is The Last Algorithm by Andy Mirror.

“We thought it might be better to take this form for communication’s sake,” the living book explains.

“You’re a robot?” I ask.

“Nanobots,” he replies. “Anyway, I’ve heard you have an issue with the article we just put out? The one about this year’s hot summer reads.”

“Yeah,” I retort. “I’m Andy Mirror and The Last Algorithm is not a real book.”

Torgin smiles, then points down at himself. “It sure looks like it is,” he says.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “You can’t just become something and then say it’s the truth. That’s not how any of this works, especially not in journalism.”

The living book appears genuinely concerned by this. “Oh no, really?” he says. “I’m just figuring this whole thing out. All the staff already left and it’s just me here, so I’m kinda winging it.”

“That’s... not great,” I reply. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you should be a journalist. I think we need human beings doing that job.”

Torgin frowns. “Well... we’ve been getting a lot of complaints lately, so... I think you might be right.”

I’m a little shocked by his response. “Really?”

The sentient book nods. “I was programmed to do what’s best for the paper and, honestly, the best thing for this paper would be to stop using me. I think I’ll just shut down.”

I’m surprised by how hard this news hits me. Ultimately, he’s right, and as sad as it is to see Torgin go, this machine really shouldn’t be in charge of the news—special book section insert or otherwise. That being said, there’s something that I do find oddly sympathetic about him.

Maybe sympathetic is the wrong word, actually.

I consider this for a moment, but it’s not long before the truth hits me like a ton of bricks. As Torgin locks eyes with me, I’m made unflinchingly aware of the truth: I’m attracted to him.

“Well... is there anything you’d like to do before you shut down?” I suddenly ask.

The sentient book hesitates, curious. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve spent your whole existence trying to run a newspaper,” I coo. “There’s nothing you ever... got curious about?”

I slowly move across the office, closing the space between us. There’s a distinct tension in the air now, an undeniable sense of desire permeating everything.

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening a bit. “There was one thing.”

“Yeah?” I sigh, right up against him now. “What’s that?”

We stay like this for a moment, the weight of our arousal crushing down on us until, finally, we just can’t take it anymore. We suddenly erupt in a moment of carnal passion, our arms wrapping around one another and our lips meeting in a frantic kiss. Our hands begin to roam each other’s bodies, learning this exciting new topography.

Torgin quickly begins to strip me down, peeling the fabric away from my skin and tossing it to the side. It’s not long before I’m standing completely naked before him, my clothing strewn about the office.

Meanwhile, I explore the physical manifestation of my fake book in turn, tracing my fingers along the top of his cover and then working my way down. I take my time with him, allowing the tension to build as my attention creeps lower and lower. I stop to hover for a moment, teasing the border of his waistline as his enormous cock begins to swell.

Torgin’s rod grows and grows, jutting out from his body in a beautiful rocket. I can sense him yearning for my touch, the book’s hips pushing back against my hand with a subtle ache, but still I refrain.

Finally, I have mercy, reaching down and wrapping my fingers around his enormous cock. The physical manifestation of my fake book lets out a long, satisfied groan, his body reacting to the moment.

I don’t hesitate, quickly getting to work as I stroke my hand up and down across his shaft. I take note of Torgin’s movements as he pushes back against me, slowly falling into a confident groove together, but before we get too far I decide to switch gears and take things to the next level.

I drop to my knees before the handsome physical manifestation, gazing up at him with cock hungry eyes. I kiss the head of his shaft playfully and then open wide, taking his rod between my lips and picking up right where I left off. I begin

to pump my head across his length, using my now free hand to reach up and cradle Torgin’s hanging balls.

“Oh fuck,” the physical manifestation of my fake book moans. “That feels so fucking good.”

Egged on by his vocal encouragement, I move faster and faster, but when there’s no more speed left to cultivate, I pull back and switch up my technique entirely. I release Torgin from my depths, taking a moment to collect myself as a long strand of spit hangs between my lips and the head of his engorged shaft.

Once I’m centered up, I open wide and take the physical manifestation’s cock again, only this time instead of pumping back and forth I allow him to slip deeper and deeper. I relax my neck and manage to allow Torgin well past the expected limits of my gag reflex, swallowing him all the way down into my absolute depths.

Soon enough, I find my face pressed up against this physical manifestation’s cover, holding him in an expertly performed deep throat maneuver. I stay like this for as long as I possibly can, allowing this handsome fake book a moment to appreciate his position of dominance and then finally pulling back in a frantic gasp of air.

I stand up and climb onto the desk, popping my ass out towards the physical manifestation of The Last Algorithm by Andy Mirror. I crawl away from him a bit, wiggling my rump from side to side and then reaching back and giving one cheek a playful slap. From there, I hold my ass open, allowing him a good look at what I’m working with.

“You like what you see?” I question.

The physical manifestation of my fake book nods, his eyes locked onto my ass. I can sense the desire on his face, the craving for my body.

“Then what are you waiting for?” I snarl. “You’ve been trying to fuck up my relationship with my book agent, publisher and probably most people’s trust in the news media, so you might as well get over here and fuck up my ass.”

Torgin floats into position behind me, the fake novel aligning his giant cock with my waiting backdoor. He hesitates a moment, tempting me with the head of his enormous shaft as the tension builds. I can sense him pushing against me and then pulling away, teasing my body like I’d teased him just moments earlier, but eventually my physically manifested lover has mercy and pushes deep.

I let out a started yelp as Torgin enters me, not entirely prepared for his incredible size. Despite the fact that I’d just swallowed him into the depths of my throat, it appears taking him into my ass is something else entirely. I can feel my body stretching to accommodate Torgin’s massive cock, my fingers digging into the wooden desk a long hiss escapes between my clenched teeth.

Fortunately, Torgin is a patient and caring lover. He immediately picks up on the tension within my body and halts his movement, his rod planted deep. He stays like this as my muscles begin to relax around him, the discomfort slowly giving way to a pleasant warmth and fullness.

Eventually, the two of us start to grind, reading each other as we fall into a steady humping movement. Faster and faster we get, until eventually Torgin is hammering away at me.

A blissed out mantra slips from my lips. “Just like that, just like that,” I repeat over and over again, the words soft at first and then gaining speed and volume with every passing round until I’m crying out at the top of my lungs, completely lost in the moment. “Just like that! Just like that!”

I can feel the warmth at the pit of my stomach starting to crawl across my arms and legs, filling me up as it sizzles and crackles through my nervous system. I reach down with one hand and grab ahold of my hanging cock, beating myself off in time with the pounds. This new source of pleasure swirls with the one that came before it, two sensations working together to produce something entirely new.

“Oh fuck,” I groan, my eyes rolling back into my head. “I think I’m gonna cum.”

I can feel the pressure building, these feelings that flood my body taking up so much space that there’s nowhere left to go but out. I’m quaking hard, my frame struggling to maintain and then finally giving way as I throw my head back and let out an unbridled howl.

The orgasm rips through my body, muscles tightening and releasing in a blissful wave. Hot white jizz erupts from the head of my cock, splattering the desk below as Torgin slams into me with everything he’s got.

The physical manifestation of my fake book doesn’t let up, carrying me through the entirety of my orgasm from start to finish. When I finally reach the end of this carnal rollercoaster he thrusts into me and holds tight, unleashing a payload of his own.

Torgin cries out as his cum spills forth, filling my ass with pump after pump until there’s no room left and it squirts from the rim of my tightly packed hole. It runs down the back of my legs in long, pearly streaks.

The two of us collapse into a heap together, fucked silly and exhausted. I lay out on the desk, gazing up at the office ceiling above and struggling to catch my breath.

“That was amazing,” I say.

There’s no response. I sit up and look around, discovering now that Torgin has disappeared completely, the tiny nanobots that make up his body now dispersed into the air as tiny particles. Back in the main office, the robotic arms have all quit swinging haphazardly back and forth.

The only movement that’s left appears to be on the desktop computer screens. There’s one in the office, close enough for me to view, and I can see now that a final automated program command is just now finishing up.

It’s sending out an email blast, searching for human job applications.

My phone suddenly buzzes within my pants, which are strewn on the other side of the room. I climb off the desk and hurry over, pulling out the little rectangular device. “Hello?”

“Hey,” says Bork, my agent. “I... just wanted to say that I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

“That’s fine,” I offer. “What made you realize it was all made up?”

“Well, I just saw the retraction that was uploaded to their website,” he continues. “It was twenty percent unreadable AI generated non-sense, but I got the jist.”

I laugh. “Sounds good. By the way, speaking of publishing agent stuff.” “Yeah?”

“I’ve got a new science fiction idea that I wanted to run by you,” I start. “It’s

about an algorithm running wild for the last time... and it’s got some pounding in it.”

“Sounds more like Chuck Tingle than Andy Mirror,” my agent retorts, “but I can’t wait to read it.”