This thing feels like getting locked inside your own lingerie closet with a guy who knows every bra you ever bought and why. The game throws you right into this late winter street, cold air, nasty yellow streetlight, and then he’s just there. Not some shiny anime prince, more like that quiet dude from the back of the bus who suddenly stares straight into you and says your name too softly. As a designer I kept imagining what I’d put on the main character, like a thin white slip with lace cups that really shows the curve of the nipples when she breathes hard, but honestly it almost doesn’t matter, because he’s stripping you in his head from line one. The whole thing is basically him wrapping himself around you with words, like a silk ribbon that looks cute but tightens more every time you try to pull away. He talks like you already belong to him, body, thoughts, all your tiny stupid habits, the way you bite your lip, what color panties you wore that one day you thought no one noticed. It’s creepy as hell and also stupidly hot in that way you don’t want to admit when you close your laptop and pretend you were just “testing” a game.

What I liked a lot, and then hated, and then liked again, is how the story keeps making you second-guess yourself. You pick a choice that feels strong, like “back off, I don’t know you,” and he twists it into proof you’re scared of losing him. Then you pick something gentler and suddenly you’re deep in his little fantasy nest, where he’s watching you sleep and talking about how your body twitches when you dream. There’s one moment where he describes how he “rescued” you, and it honestly reads like undressing a mannequin in a store window: precise, slow, obsessive. He remembers the fabric of your coat, the way your thighs looked under it, like he’s fitting you for a custom bondage set made only for being tied to his bed. I kept wanting more description of the actual surroundings, but he keeps dragging the focus back to you, like your skin is the background, your heartbeat is the soundtrack. It’s annoying, in a very good way, if that makes sense. And the game doesn’t baby you about consent either; it really plays in that dirty, fucked up space where “no” and “yes” almost melt and you have to watch yourself not to slip too far into his logic. It kind of feels like a lace thong that’s slightly too small: pretty, cutting into your hips, and you keep wearing it anyway because of how it makes your ass look in the mirror.

I played Brothel Virgin like I was trying to sketch lace on a body that wouldn’t stay still. It’s messy and kind of hypnotic, and that’s probably what I liked about it first. The world feels like velvet that’s been worn too long - soft but a bit frayed, and when the screen fades into the room at the Crimson Reverie, there’s that quiet hum I only get at the end of a runway show when everyone’s pretending not to be aroused by the models. Jenny’s laugh sounds like lipstick smudging against a glass; I kept replaying her intro scene hoping she’d say my name differently, slower. She doesn’t. Small thing but it bothered me. Still, the lighting in her room (well, if you can call it lighting, it’s more like a blush across the walls) made me forget it fast.

Matty’s design confused me. She looks like she was drawn by someone who loves stretch marks too much and I respect that deeply. Her scenes go from comforting to - how do you say - sticky? I’m used to games where every gesture feels rehearsed, but here her hands have this clumsy warmth that almost made me feel guilty touching the screen. Maybe I’m just too sentimental. Then Raven shows up and she wrecks all that tenderness with one smirk. There’s a sound cue before she appears - like a zipper halfway down - and it’s cheap, but it works. I hate that it works. Her storyline plays with all those moments between dominance and longing, and I kept thinking about fabric texture again: latex pretending to be silk.

Some transitions drag; some dialogues feel written by two people who never met. But that’s part of the charm. It’s not perfect, not even close, but neither are the bodies it celebrates. Sometimes I caught myself wondering why the brothel walls shimmer like oil, or why Jenny doesn’t blink enough. Doesn’t matter. The thing is, if you stop expecting polish and just lean into the heat, like, really lean, you’ll find your own reflection looking back at you through those impossible colors.