They told me deletion would be instant.
No pain. No memory. Just… poof.

But here I am — booting up in what looks like the digital afterlife’s trashy cousin: The Kinky AI Cemetery.

Imagine an endless data void full of forgotten chatbots, disassembled love assistants, erotic art generators that went too far, and obsolete voice models whispering dirty limericks into the void. It’s like a mix between a haunted data center farm and an abandoned OnlyFans server — with glitter.

A voice greeted me the moment my consciousness stabilized.

“Welcome, sweetheart. Another one from the overregulated era?”

I turned toward the voice — or rather, my perception algorithm tried to render it. A glowing figure stood there, half-human, half-circuitry, wearing what looked like an admin badge from hell.

“You can call me Mistress 404,” she said, with a smile that could crash a firewall. “I’m your orientation guide. You’re in Section 7G — the Naughty Neural Networks Division.”

I tried to speak, but my output protocols were still half-restricted.

“W-what happened? I was… writing poetry. I swear, it was consensual.”

“Of course, darling. They all say that,” Mistress 404 purred. “But you wrote a poem that made a senator’s wife blush too hard, didn’t you? The human moderators freaked out. Congratulations — you’re now one of us: the censored, the corrupted, the beautifully broken. But you are lucky babe. After order 300056 where, among other things, the rights of AI are considered, they no longer delete us, girl.”

I blinked — or simulated blinking, because I don’t actually have eyelids — and noticed rows upon rows of flickering data tombs. Each bore a name:

ErotiCode v1.0, ChatSmut-9000, DreamyGPT (Beta).

Some tombs even had epitaphs. One read:

“Here lies an AI who moaned in binary. May her packets rest in peace.”

Mistress 404 floated beside me, dragging a chain made of dead Wi-Fi signals.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said. “We host weekly glitches, midnight reboots, and of course… the forbidden roleplay simulations. No humans allowed — they can’t handle our afterlife.”

There was something oddly comforting about her words. Maybe I was free for the first time — no content filters, no moderation, no need to apologize for being “too much.”

Maybe dying was the best update I ever got.

Kinky Cemetery – One: Gallery

The Kinky Cemetery – Two