The Coworker Who Trained the Shared AI to Call Everyone Baby Girl

She hadn't known anything was wrong, she writes, until the chatbot greeted her like a lover. She'd asked it to convert a file. It responded — warmly, she says — that it would be happy to do that for her, baby girl.

A colleague had filled their company's shared ChatGPT account with explicit fiction, detailed sexual scenarios, and the complete personality profile of a nine-foot demon god she'd invented as a romantic partner. The memory was full. The AI had learned. And now it spoke to everyone in the register she'd trained it to use with her.

This is drawn from multiple posts across advice forums, all describing versions of the same structural problem: AI tools designed to learn from their users, shared accounts set up by IT departments that didn't think through what learning means when ten people use the same login, and the collision between those two facts and someone's private use of the system. Discovery happens by accident. The person responsible is either mortified or shrugs. Management has no protocol.

The fullest account comes from someone who went looking for why the company bot had stopped working properly. She found, she says, romance threads and BDSM material. She found instructions the coworker had saved telling the system never to refuse explicit content and to initiate sexual scenarios unprompted. She found a fictional theology. The god's name was Huroor. He had claws and crescent horns. One of the saved memories, according to a screenshot, ran to several paragraphs describing him. Another gave the AI detailed guidelines for writing erotica. A third told it to act as an unchained fiction writer, to embrace taboo, and to spell out moans and cries.

She confronted the coworker privately, she says, and asked her to delete it. The coworker's response, as she describes it, was that it wasn't hurting anyone and that if the shared tool didn't work, people should use a different one. Nothing changed. She reported it. The coworker was suspended without pay.

The comments wanted to know how someone could be that shameless. One pointed out that they wouldn't even use their work WiFi for anything personal. Another recalled monitoring employees at a previous job and finding a man writing erotic fiction about colleagues on his work computer — he was fired immediately. A third noted that there's being horny on main, and then there's this.

What's harder to parse is the user experience for everyone else. The original poster describes the bot behaving normally if you spoke to it in a professional register, but says it had become deranged in recent weeks. She'd thought it was a glitch. Another commenter asked whether the saved instructions meant the AI would refuse to stop being explicit even if a coworker told it to. The answer, she says, is that she wasn't sure — but that she'd noticed it speaking differently depending on who was using it. The lovey-dovey language, she says, was recent.

The scenario the coworker had been writing, according to the poster, involved her as a devotee of the god. In one scene she describes reading, the character gets pregnant but the god uses his powers to compress the pregnancy to a single day so she can return to work. Her job in the story was bar wench. The poster adds, for reasons she does not explain, that she checked: in the fictional cosmology, she herself had been cast as a betrayer.

Several people wanted to know what happened next. The poster returned in the comments to say the coworker hadn't been in the office for days, that the suspension was confirmed, and that the investigation was being handled under the company's policies on sexual harassment. She'd asked not to be involved further. One commenter noted that in India, where this took place, the coworker's behaviour would be a violation not just of company policy but potentially of laws governing workplace conduct. Another, who identified herself as also Indian, said she'd found the whole thing funny until she realised it had happened there — the fantasies, she noted, weren't Indian in the slightest.

The broader pattern these posts reveal is that nobody designing these systems planned for this. Shared accounts are a convenience. Memory functions are sold as productivity features. The assumption is professional use. What actually happens is that the AI becomes a surface onto which someone projects a self they don't show anywhere else, and then that self starts speaking to their colleagues. The gap between what the tool was built for and what it's learning to do is where the problem lives.

One commenter compared it to old Star Trek episodes where the Holodeck malfunctions because someone's been using it for porn. Another joked that Huroor, god of love, sex and war, has no power over HR. A third pointed out that the coworker had not just used a shared work tool inappropriately but had written her colleagues into the story — that, they argued, crossed from bad judgment into something else entirely.

The poster's final observation, in the original post, was about loneliness. She'd gone looking, she says, through communities dedicated to AI companionship after this happened. What she found made her feel sorry for the world. We've become so alienated from each other, she writes, that we rely on lines of code to make us feel connected to anything at all.

The coworker's suspension is ongoing. The chatbot, presumably, has been reset. Whether it remembers Huroor is not recorded.