"Thanks for coming over, Johnny. Do you want a Coke or anything?"
The house was exactly as I remembered it, right down to the smell of the potpourri, and the rustling of the new carpet. I recognized Ms. Carter's dress as one she actually wore, the furniture was right, the magnets scattered on the fridge, even the dishes were the right department store print that my family wouldn't have been able to afford. Her appearance also fit my memory. Tall and curvy, long, thick, black, wavy hair with streaks of grey, light olive skin, and a faint smell of vanilla. One thing that seemed new was just how attractive I found her. I didn't really pay much attention to her back when I was a teen, but reliving the memory now that I was her age, she was a knockout.
"I'm okay, but thank you," I replied after a delay to take everything in.
She sat down across the marble kitchen island from me and held her Diet Coke with both hands. "I don't want to be having this conversation."
On a wave of shame and dread, I suddenly remembered this exact moment from my past. I lowered my gaze to break eye contact. By happenstance I looked directly at a folded newspaper. The headline read, "JOHN! SOMETHING IS WRONG!" Below, text trailed on, "We can't disconnect you. Working on a fix. You should be safe, but..."
"Johnny, this is really important, are you here?"
"Uh. Sorry. It's just," I pointed back at the paper, and the headline addressed to me had been replaced with one about George Bush vomiting on a Japanese politician.
"Oh, I know. What a goober." She took a sip of her Diet Coke, leaving a lipstick smear on the rim. "I want to talk to you about our daughter."
"Yeah, I know."
"With your birthday last week, my husband and I don't think it's appropriate for you two to spend time together right now." Even now at 45, reliving this moment from right after I turned 18 hit me like a brick to the gut. I remembered leaving and feeling like I was dirty or inherently a bad person after. Her daughter and had never even done anything, but the shame of that moment lingered in me for a long time.
I lowered my gaze again, and said, "I see."
"I'm really sorry, Johnny." In my memory, that's where the conversation ended. I sullenly left, and after a couple years, found a girlfriend my age and forgot. In the simulation though, she continued, "But so long as you stay away from her, I'm prepared to blow you once a week."
"Wait what?"
She smoothed the lipstick at the corner of her mouth with a fingertip, and said, "Just don't tell my husband."
The cognitive processing device we were working on was meant to be a tool for exposure therapy. It worked from brain scans to find traumatic events, and recreated similar circumstances with positive outcomes using a full sensory override. Basically, it beamed created experiences straight into your brain. You would experience them and interact with them in real time, just as if they were real events. In practice it was meant to highlight with simulated experiences how heavy events can distort perceptions even long after the events end, and to be used as tool in therapy to challenge those distortions after. I wrote code for the device's UI, and didn't fully understand what it did, or it's intended usage, just the boilerplate, "this is what we want it to do," and my small piece of that. At present (and in the present) we were at the, "will this thing even do anything?" stage of its development. I hadn't had an awfully traumatic past, so I was picked to relive a past memory just to test out the sensory override. They hooked me up to it, and shortly after my high school girlfriend's house dropped around me, and now the simulation had gone astray.
Panic flittered in my chest a little. What had gone wrong? Was the device scrambling my brain? Would I be a vegetable when they finally got me out? I silently damned that I hadn't been able to read the entire article warning me of what was happening. It said I was safe, BUT. But what? Maybe they could get another message to me later?
Ms. Carter stood up on the other side of the island, and said, "Don't just sit there blinking, get it out for me hon," while she walked around to my side.
A confused stare was the best I could manage. "What?" `
She stood next to my stool, set down her Coke, and swiveled my stool to face her with a hand on my knee. "Don't worry sweetie." Her hands moved to my belt, "I'll get it for you."
The panic in my chest was replaced with a different feeling entirely. I stared into her face, but she was looking down at her hands working my belt and zipper. I felt her hands work into my boxers, and then the cold air of the kitchen on my dick.
She looked back into my eyes and with a wicked smile said, "my work is cut out here, huh?"
I looked down, and it seemed the situation wasn't the only place the simulation had gone awry. I was averagely endowed in real life. Around 5 inches, and a decent thickness, but the dick she had found in my pants was at least twice the size in every way. She lowered to her knees keeping one hand on the counter and the other on the massive cock that was apparently mine and started slowly stroking it to hard.
"My God," she muttered, "it's beautiful." She looked up at me like a kid looking at an Easter basket. With glee in her voice she said, "thank you for understanding about our daughter," and took me in her mouth.
At that point in my life, I had kissed a couple girls, but that was the furthest I had ever gone. Chronologically though, I was 45, and compared to my past experiences, I never would have known it was a simulation. For the first several minutes my brain searched every stimulus for how it was not actually happening and came up empty. Eventually I gave up on trying to think of it as faked somehow, and just enjoyed it. She didn't take it very deep, but worked her tongue on the underside constantly, and pumped the shaft with her hand. I didn't know how long I would be stuck in the simulation, but as I neared orgasm, I hoped it was more than a week and she kept her word.
