Attuned
A short story from my sci-fi erotica book "Pink Mirror"
Clair had expected an art studio.
What she found was an old warehouse filled with steel and glass, vaulted ceilings and metal beams, the air sharp with recent varnish. She was welcomed by a young assistant that led her across the space to a large stage at the far end. On it was something that looked to Clair like a futuristic greenhouse; a transparent cube made entirely of thick speaker panels. He was there too, on the other side of the room, conducting a discussion over a desk covered in knobs, sliders, and wires. A week ago she hadn’t even known his name. Now, her heart beat a little quicker at the sight of him.
Verne Kessel.
Sound artist. Tech mogul. Genius.
Or so they said, anyway.
“You must be Clair,” he said, approaching her with his arm outstretched. “Thanks for making the time.”
“Of course,” she replied, thinking that she’d have made the time for anyone who was offering $10k for a few hours of work. She was a dancer by trade, but the job offer–Movement-Based Installation Performance–left a lot to the imagination. After her agent reassured her of Verne’s prestige and the suitably elevated compensation package, she had researched him online and been undeniably impressed. It seemed that every link she clicked was a glowing article or a gushing review. He even had his own TED talk on Frequencies, Waveforms, and Psychoacoustics.
Whatever that was.
“Really interesting space you have here. Looks great.”
“It will when we’re finished with it,” he said, following her gaze to the stage. “Still waiting on some low-end traps to be mounted behind the subs, otherwise the standing waves just smear everything below 80 Hz.”
She smiled politely, unsure how to respond.
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Boring stuff, I’m sure.”
She laughed politely. “Not at all! I’m looking forward to being able to start my own preparations. My agent was a little vague about what you were looking for exactly…”
He nodded, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Ah, yes, of course. It’s the case so often that language must catch up to new concepts...” He seemed to drift elsewhere for a moment. “Anyway, come with me; let me show you the performance area and explain a little more about it.”
They made their way up to the stage together and stopped in front of the large cube that filled the space. To Clair, it looked like someone had cross-bred a speaker system, a greenhouse, and a supercomputer. Whatever it was, it was impressive-looking. But Kessel scratched the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed.
“So, this is the Aural Array. During the show, you’ll take position inside it whilst I modulate frequencies and wave patterns from an external unit. These frequencies and wave patterns will reverberate internally to create shifts in pressure, resonance, and tension. Think tuned vibrations. Infrasound. Bi-neural haptic responses.”
“Like music?”
“Sort of.”
Her eyes moved across the unit. Transparent panels were slotted together with sharp precision, each one threaded with cable clusters and mounted with strange black hexes that looked like sensors.
The whole thing hummed faintly.
“Will it be loud?”
“Not at all. In fact, a large portion of the spectrum will be subsonic, so you won’t even hear it. Well, technically your body will, but you won’t perceive it.”
“I see…” she said, but she didn’t. Not really. “So, do you have a choreographer attached to the project?”
“Oh no, no. It’s nothing like that. You’ll be free to move, or not, as you see fit. It’s about whatever your body does naturally. The piece, if you decide to perform it, must be completely improvised; it’s about response.”
“I see. Are there any other dancers involved?”
Verne shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s you that I’m interested in.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Yup. Believe it or not, I’ve been following your work for a little while. Your performance at the Itsuz Gallery was incredible. I’ve never seen the Fourth Symphony quite like that.”
She nodded. Praise for her dancing was nothing new to her, but to know that someone of Verne’s stature and wealth had taken note of her career was slightly shocking. “Thank you.”
“To be honest, you’re the centerpiece of this installation.”
She looked up at the cube once more. “That’s very sweet, and I don’t want to talk myself out of a job, but…I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”
“I know,” he nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s going to require a leap of faith on your part, hence the compensation package. As I say, the piece is improvised, so I need your reaction to be as genuine as possible. That means no prep, I’m afraid.”
She looked at the cube again, its presence seeming to loom more menacingly now she knew she couldn’t prepare. “I see.”
“But don’t worry. It’s nothing sinister. And want to reassure you that you can stop the performance at any point. If that’s the response the piece causes, then so be it.”
“You’ve tested this on people before?”
“Yes, of course. In private.”
“And do people usually want to stop?”
He gave her a grin. “No. Not at all.”
***
The venue was sold out.
The house lights went down ten minutes ago, and she stood at the side of the stage, watching it all, the familiar cocktail of nerves and excitement that flowed through her body before any performative piece. This time, however, looking at the box, illuminated in white light, she felt an extra level of anxiety. Deep breaths, she reminded herself. You’re a professional. Trained, capable, and confident. You’ve improvised pieces before. It’s going to be fine.
A woman with a clipboard touched her earpiece and then told her that it was showtime. Verne met her at the side of the stage with a steady look.
“Ready?”
She nodded, following his lead and stepping barefoot onto the stage. Cameras were raised and flashes went off. Clair was under no illusion that it was all for Kessel, but it still felt exciting to find herself under the temporary spotlight of celebrity, and gave the crowd a few small and friendly waves on her way to the Aural Array. Kessel split off from her and took his position behind the mixing desk, already fiddling with buttons and sliders and knobs. Clair stepped into the cube and closed the door behind her, realising as she did so that she had just executed the only move she had been allowed to practice in the run up to the event.
Now she was on her own.
The soft light hit her skintight bodysuit from every angle, making her outfit appear as if it was glowing. The cameras, attached to each corner of the cube, projected several images of her onto screens around the venue.
There would be no hiding.
The light inside the box shifted from white to pink to blue and the sounds began to play. Immediately, she knew that Kessel was right; it wasn’t music, exactly. Instead, it was a slow, teasing frequency that flowed like cool water across the soles of her feet, reminding her of something primal and terrestrial, despite its technological origins. It felt electric, exciting, and a little bit ‘tickly’. Interesting? Sure. But she had a job to do.
And so she began to move; one foot arched forward, toes grazing the invisible current before settling back into it. She bent, tracing the frequencies with her fingers in slow, exploratory lines. She pivoted gently, her weight shifting from ball to heel, spine coiling, testing the air pressure inside the box, rolling her shoulders back in slow suspension, fingers unfurling, then drawing close again.
She was starting to understand what she was supposed to do here, and she dipped slightly at the knees, the frequency rising and the current dissipating into something larger and more dispersed. She lost herself in it, her body responding to the sounds of the not-quite-music. The room fell away, just as it always did when she performed, the flow-state taking over. She moved confidently but experimentally, finding forms with her body, every movement attuned to the waves of sound flowing through her. There was no beat, no time signature, and no choreography she could relax into, but it didn’t matter anymore. It felt good to move like this, engaging with something less formal than arranged music, something sensual and avant-garde, like she was dancing with a lover made of pure vibration.
That’s when the first pulse hit.
It landed just under her tailbone, deep and slow. A frequency that made her thighs tingle. She staggered slightly, laughing under her breath, letting the sound carry her into a slow rotation. Her hips began to circle, responding to it, gyrating slowly and sensually. It felt natural and it felt good.
Another pulse. This one brushed her ribs and nipples, electric and teasing. She sucked in a breath and held it, the pleasure holding her longer this time. Her hands rose without thinking. Her body swayed. Then it let her go, her body unclenching.
What the fuck?
Another frequency. Higher. A flutter across her collarbones and throat, chasing up through her jaw to the roof of her mouth, exploring her tongue, inner cheeks, and then her throat, filling her. And then it was gone again, leaving her bereft of it.
She had little time to process the feeling before another pulse hit her and she moaned, swaying again, staggering slightly, hips circling tighter, faster. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her leotard. One hand drifted to her stomach, lower, hovering just above her lips. She felt heat rising under the fabric, wetness slicking the insides of her thighs. Her mouth parted. Her eyes fluttered shut.
Fuck.
She was just here to dance. That was all.
Stay focused.
She spun gently on the ball of her left heel, raising her arms over her head in what ballet dancers call third position. As she did so, the frequency changed again.
It was like nothing she had experienced before in her life.
Everything she had heard and felt so far, she realised, was little more than a teaser for what had just arrived; something greater, something stronger, something more powerful. This time, it started directly at her clitoris; tight and precise, tuned like a laser. Or a vibrator. The box trembled faintly as her hips rolled into the sound, grinding against invisible rhythm.
She moaned again.
Her eyes opened and she forced herself to look at the crowd. They watched her, hundreds of them. Hypnotized. Phones raised. Light glinting off lenses. She gasped, looking at the door, considering it. Another pulse hit her and she convulsed with pleasure. Her nipples ached, and she swore she could feel fingertips tracing the insides of her thighs, the backs of her knees, the hollow of her spine. Only they weren’t like fingertips at all. They were more like tendrils, snaking and curling around her, targeted undulations of sound that worked her body from the inside and out.
She looked at the door again, but she knew she wasn’t leaving now. She was too far gone. Too deep into the pleasure. Another indescribable resonance swept through her belly, rising in speed and pitch, snaking deeper inside her, impossibly deep, finding unexplored corners of her skin and lingering there, delivering pleasure, wave after wave, like a full body fucking. The pulse at her clit intensified. It circled. Stroked. Backed off. Returned stronger. Every nerve in her body pulled toward orgasm. A memory of Verne telling her she could stop the performance at any time…
Why the fuck would I want to do that?
Her thoughts turned wild, feral, and she was struck with an irrepressible urge to show everyone what was happening to her body, to share it with them, to invite the crowd inside the cube with her, for them to experience what she was experiencing, to be fucked by sound, to be owned and controlled by the pure vibrating frequencies of the universe.
She pulled at the fabric, the seam of the bodysuit stretched thin over her pussy, soaked and visible. Her breasts bounced with every jolt of sound as she moved. Her thighs twitched. Her lips moved in silent words. She was crying, she was laughing, she was a waveform in a body, overloaded and overflowing. She opened her mouth to yelp but only light came out. Her hips rose off the floor, bucking, riding nothing but the impossible arc of frequency as it vibrated through her from every angle, every plane.
Time dissolved. There was no audience. No performance. No Clair.
There was only the sound.
She started to cum.
***
The lights changed.
Applause, muffled like light through fog.
She blinked.
Her body was wet and trembling, still humming.
The door hissed open.
Cool air. Hands helped her sit.
Someone wrapped a robe around her shoulders. Her hair clung to her face. Verne knelt nearby, keeping a respectful distance.
She looked out at the crowd.
They were standing. Applauding. Phones still in hand. Some of them had tears in their eyes, others looked flushed, shaken. Moved. She took a breath, the air vibrating in her lungs like she was still inside the box.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. Her throat was dry. “I didn’t…what happened?”
“It’s over,” Verne said, his voice clear despite the applause. “You were incredible.”
“What?” she whispered. “I don’t…How long was I in there for?”
Kessel looked down at his watch and grinned. “Forty-three minutes. My longest ever. You were incredible, too. Come on, it’s time to take a bow.”
***
Resonance of the Body: Verne Kessel’s Attuned - A Review
It is rare that a work so confidently straddles the boundaries between sonic architecture, corporeal language, and pure erotic gesture without collapsing into pastiche. But Verne Kessel’s Attuned, which premiered last night in the converted vaults of the Meridian Depot, achieved just that: a sublime fusion of technology and flesh, perception and pleasure.
Described in the programme only as “a real-time exploration of resonant response,” Attuned places a single dancer–performed with astonishing control and surrender by Clair Eve–in an Aural Array: a transparent, speaker-sculpted cube that becomes less a stage than an instrument through which her body is played.
What unfolded over the next 45 minutes was nothing short of alchemical. Frequencies–inaudible to most–teased movement from the performer, coaxing shapes and moments that were primal, cerebral, and intimate. Eve’s ability to maintain composure while appearing utterly overwhelmed is perhaps her greatest strength. One had the uncanny sense of watching someone mid-reverie, or mid-ecstasy, while still in complete choreographic command. Her physicality–arching, trembling, collapsing–combined with her nakedness, was somehow both gratuitous yet appropriate, and rarely does an installation piece feel so alive.
Verne Kessel’s Attuned it a must watch - ★★★★★
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[This is a short story from my book "Pink Mirror”, available on Amazon and Smashwords soon. Thanks for reading! Oh, and subscribe for more stories!]
Loving these stories! The concepts are really interesting
Yay, for the book being released soon. This is another well written story.