Ai Era: a Nerd Girl's Story

Chapter One

Gracie leaned back in Damian's easy chair— or maybe his name was Devon— and lifted her legs up wide for him to get better access to her pussy. He was pretty good. He licked all over, getting her wet and hot before he dove onto her clit, and now he was doing her button very nicely. She took his head and rubbed him up and down a bit, giving him the idea of what she wanted, and he responded to her targeted input with max output. She wrapped her legs around his head and squeezed in pleasure, oohing and humming. "More," she directed between groans. "Don't stop."

He was great. This new version of her video, 1.1, was definitely successful and worthy of its version number. Unlike the previous version she'd experimented with, this one was slowing the man down, encouraging him to explore, to mix things up.

He reached inside her short skirt, which she'd pulled up to give him access, took hold of her by her butt, and pulled her to him. She liked that. She liked men and she really liked this one. She pressed the heels of her Converse Chucks into his back to let him know, rubbing them against his white shirt in rhythm with his licking. She felt her orgasm begin to rise.

But then she seemed to plateau. She mashed the rubber heels of her Converses into his back, encouraging him to go harder, trying to focus on how good he'd looked in his suit. She liked her boy toys to look good. And when she'd shown him the video, he'd reacted immediately and enthusiastically. There was nothing wrong with him, nothing at all. His user interface— he was still wearing the cyan silk tie that had first attracted her— was first rate; his process, especially his tongue, exceeded her quality standards; he passed all the regression tests, regularly stroking up and down her slit. But she could tell she wasn't going to get off this way.

Maybe she was getting bored. Devlin— Donan? Whatever. Gracie was no good with names. He was her third this week. Or fourth? No third, but she'd had that tall guy with the shoulder-length hair do her and then had gone back later and had him do her again, which was fun, just to see if she could get him to do it. Anyway, poor Doonan wasn't getting the job done despite his best efforts. She looked around his living room while he licked around her labia.

The drinks he'd made for her when she'd first entered his place sat untasted on his coffee table— she'd had enough alcohol at the bar where she'd found him. After a stroll around his living room, checking his furniture for a comfy landing spot, she'd settled casually into the plush chair she was in now, sagged into a lazy slouch, opened her legs a little, and said, "Let me show you something."

He stepped between her knees, looking good in his tie and the suit jacket he hadn't yet removed, and stared down at the spot between her legs barely covered by her short skirt, confident he would soon see what was underneath. And he wasn't wrong. But first she took out her phone, held it at her crotch pointing up at him, and ran the video.

When the video had finished its job, she pulled her panties down and her miniskirt up, and spread her legs. Just the sight of her pussy was enough. His jacket slipped off, his knees slipped to the carpet, and now here they were. What could she do?

The drinks gave her an idea. "Devon, dear," she said, pulling her feet off his back and pushing his head off her mound, "I bet you've had some really hot pussy-eating fantasies, haven't you?"

He looked a little stunned at first. "Uh, Damon," he croaked. He swallowed down some pussy juice. She did produce a lot when she got really turned on, and his extended licking, keeping her right on the edge, had made her very productive in that department. His chin was soaked and her fluids had dripped down on his nice shirt and tie. She had to suppress a laugh. She'd forgotten to tell him to take his tie off. Oh well. He did look good in it.

"Damon, yes, didn't you have some fantasy you wanted to try? With ice?" She'd heard some girl recently, not a girlfriend, brag about what her boyfriend had done for her once. She tilted her head toward the drinks.

He misunderstood and retrieved her drink. She took a tiny sip. It wasn't bad, some kind of bourbon. Sweet. She preferred scotch. She drank it down. "Here," she said. She took an ice cube into her mouth to get off any remaining liquor, then spit it into her hand. She pushed it between his lips, gave him back the empty glass, and lifted her legs up again. He got the idea.

"Oh! Oh yes! Yes!" she exclaimed up at the ceiling as his cold, wet lips met her hot, wet lips and his clever tongue resumed its work on her swollen clit. "Yeah, yeah. Eat me, Davon, I mean Damon. Do it, boy. Yes. Don't stop. Do it, do it," and on and on. She grabbed his head in both hands and used him like a massager on herself, the way she used to with a vibrator before she'd started making her videos, and soon her orgasm was building and building and then she was coming and coming in giant gasps and lunges that forced gargle sounds out of him, until she was fully satisfied.

Then she just held his mouth on her. "Don't move," she told him. She relaxed. Another good one, though it had taken some effort. She released him after a few lovely minutes of afterglow and he sat back on his knees. He was a handsome guy, she had to give him that, especially with his chin and cheeks shiny and his lips puffed up. And the tie.

She found her phone, which she'd kept ready on a side table in case he needed more video, though it hadn't been necessary. He really had been fun. She opened a ride app and called for a car. Damon tried to get back between her legs, but she was too sensitive and she had to push him away. She felt bad. Her old boyfriend had never had this problem. He'd always come so fast, no matter what they tried, though they didn't try much, and he never ate her.

She petted Damon's head, which seemed to calm him, and slipped away. The video was still having an effect on him. He was playing with himself through his suit pants while he rubbed his head on the edge of the chair. She found her backpack. When her ride was coming around the corner she backed away, moving as quietly as she could toward the front hallway, and stepped silently out his door.

Outside in the back seat of her ride, her phone beeped. It couldn't possibly be from Damon, who right now had to be masturbating or something, maybe in his pants. She was getting lazy. She could have had him undress, or even open his shirt and do it onto his chest. But it was kind of hot to think how she got a man to stain his nice clothes just from imagining sex with her.

The text was from Noah:

When are you free?

She ignored him.

Which one was Noah? She scrolled back through his message thread and was able to find a selfie he'd insisted on at that comics store where she'd thought he looked good in a T. He did, especially wearing it while he had his head between her legs in a changing room of a nearby boutique. He hadn't been that great. But he had got her off, so there was that.

She took out her tablet. While the ride navigated her through the city traffic she wrote a quick ML routine to scrape her texts, notes, emails, Slacks, everything, into a database, then did some prompt engineering to sort through the disordered mass to filter the relevant wheat from the non-sexual chaff. She had it coded and running by the time she was back home and fired up the thin client in her office to see what her server had put together. She studied the small table it produced.

Six. She had six boys. She immediately deleted Jason and David. Jason had been inept and David just looked but wouldn't touch. Then she undid the delete and just used a strikethrough. If she happened to meet either again, which she hoped would never happen, she wanted to keep in mind that she shouldn't engage. The tall one (she'd added a perceptron to flag physical descriptors) was Ethan. She kept him. Damon, of course. Paul, the guy at the University computer center, was listed, which was curious because she hadn't done him, hadn't even thought about him in that way. Tracing back through the log, she saw that he'd been shyly flirting with her. She'd been oblivious, nerd that she was, but the machine learning network had picked up on it. Interesting. She liked Paul. He did favors for her at the computer center.

The last one was Antonio. Who was Antonio? She couldn't remember. She checked the dates. Only a single message, on the same date and nearly the same time as the conversations with Paul. Strange. And the message was only that, the single word, all caps, "ANTONIO".

She went to bed and fell asleep rubbing herself and enjoying the memory of her evening with Damon's icy tongue.

But she was a little distracted. Who was this Antonio?

# # #

The first time she'd tried out the video, it was almost as a joke. She'd been sitting at the pub near the campus, at her usual spot at the bar, minding her own business, sipping her scotch, typing notes in her tablet on a new algorithm she was developing, when a guy approached her.

She didn't get hit on that much, not compared to other women her age, if she was to believe their stories. She wasn't that good looking with her dirty blonde hair and skinny frame; and she gave off a default don't-fuck-with-me vibe that usually worked like a force field in Halo.

"So, what are you working on?" he said.

Gracie wanted to just ignore him, but he was already in her personal space. Gracie's personal space extended out further than most people's. If she could have, she would have extended it out to the diameter of the Earth. But there he was. So she told him: "I'm working on accelerating a tensor multiplication package by applying an indirect product to sparse matrices using tail recursion. The overall goal is to prove I can do the recursion without gobbling up memory. It's a core call in a generative process."

"Oh," was the best he could emit as a reply after an awkward moment of dead air. "I . . . ah . . . I'm Jason." Maybe he said that. Or maybe Jalen or Jaden. Whatever. "You're drinking Jack? That's cool."

He meant Jack Daniels. "Laphroaig," she corrected. She took a sip. The smoky, peaty taste helped to make this guy's distraction not quite a total waste of time. It was also an assertion of her personality. Twenty-something women, especially small women like her, weren't supposed to be able to handle scotch. And Laphroaig was a Scotsman's scotch.

He gestured toward her tablet. "I'm pretty good at Fortnite."

Every ten-year old was pretty good at Fortnite. She saw that she'd made the mistake of keeping open a small window on her tablet to watch an E-game tournament while she worked. "DOTA," she again corrected him. She might have ignored him and returned her attention to her work, but she liked the way he looked, even though she didn't like the way he acted. He had a strong jaw line. She liked strong jaw lines. She wished men were more like software so she could keep his user interface but modify his code.

Then, in a moment of brilliance, she realized she could. "Would you like to see a demo video I made?"

Of course he would, probably thinking it was for some kind of game, probably not caring what he was going to watch, just so he could keep hitting on her, maybe get in her panties. That was fine. She took out her phone and showed him what she called her "video", though even then, version 0.7, it was far beyond a simple video. It was the first full-featured sequence she'd assembled, its crudeness downright embarrassing, just an exercise to prove to herself that she could create ones like the neurology research group's. It wasn't wrapped in the adaptive pattern management she would later use in the app. It was just the image flash system the researchers used on their subjects, except instead of the geometric patterns they input, for her own amusement she'd inserted images of pussies. Why not? Better than their stripes and checkerboards. She was very fond of her own. Pussies specifically wet and ready to be eaten, and pussies just after they'd been eaten. She'd been a bit self-indulgent, trying to amuse herself during drudge tasks.

But crude as it was, it worked! That strong jaw line sank down almost to his manly pecs as his mouth sagged open and the slight creepiness in his stare changed to rapt concentration. When the video was done— it was only slightly over a minute long— he stayed that way. She laughed at him, the way he kept staring at the phone. He didn't react to her laugh, which had been at his expense. So just for fun she showed the video to him again. He continued staring.

She realized during the second viewing that his attention had shifted. It was no longer on her phone. It was on her crotch. She got wet. She was horny. She hadn't had a man in nearly two years, since she'd gotten bored with her one and only boyfriend and broken up with him; she was also bored with her vibrator.

"Do you live nearby?" she asked. No way she was going to take this guy home.

"Um, no, I . . ." he couldn't stop staring at her crotch, as if he had X-ray vision that could see her moist panties through her jeans . . . "I drove."

"Okay, that'll do."

She drank down her scotch, packed up her tablet, and had him lead her out back to his car. In his cramped back seat she took off her Converse sneakers— all she wore back then— pulled down her jeans, and leaned back.

"I, uh, I don't usually . . ." He started to tell her.

She pulled her panties part way down.

That's all it took. One sight of her light brown bush was enough. He dragged her panties completely off, spread her legs, and dived in.

He wasn't very good, no better than her old boyfriend, who only tried it once. But his jaw line was very strong and she was

very

horny and with a little help on the back of his head she was getting something close to the right stimulation on her love button and soon she was coming in his handsome mouth.

He backed off as soon as she let him go, a bit puzzled, more than a bit stunned at what he'd just done. He licked his lips and wiped his chin. But then he grinned. His hands went to his own crotch and he began to undo his belt.

Nope, that wasn't going to happen. "That was great," she said. "You should eat more pussy." He nodded vaguely.

She quickly pulled her jeans back on and got out of his car, carrying her sneakers, and walked in her socks back into the bar and into the ladies room, where she could put herself back together. And where she could discreetly wait if he decided to follow her back in.

That night in bed she used her vibrator. That one orgasm hadn't been enough. She relived the evening's fun while she pretended it was Jason's tongue instead of mechanized latex on her clit. Two breakthroughs occurred while she made herself come: first, she saw that if she partitioned the central tensor multiplication function into two functions that called each other, the mutual tail recursion would obviate the extra memory use; and she also saw, laid out plain as day as if diagramed on a whiteboard, the app with the adaptive pattern transformer and facial recognition classifiers that would make the video, expanded into a tree of adaptive video cues, a much more potent experience.

The Physics Department was going to love the new tensor package. And she was going to really love the series of great pussy lickings she would soon be receiving.

# # #

She'd been skeptical about this new research project, but Dean Weiner had insisted she take it on. "It's a very sexy project," he said to her, which she immediately bristled at. "High priority. Major University money in it. And it's a practical application of what you published." He continued on, mansplaining portions of her own PhD thesis back to her, getting it wrong, until she just stood up to leave and told him to Slack her the contacts.

Her first reaction to the project had been a hard pass. It was a neurobiology investigation— that is, icky brain stuff. The group called it VICTOR: Visual Cortex Translational Operand Research.

Their concept of an operand was far from the precise mathematical definition she used, something she found aesthetically offensive. But the Dean had been adamant that she take the initial meeting with them in meat space, so she dragged herself to their facility, thinking to shoot them down with a dozen deal breakers. But she'd been pleasantly surprised. Not by the tour of their lab, full of stinky monkeys and rats and special setups where they could monitor human brain activity at high resolution in multiple "modalities", as they called their data sources. Especially creepy was one of those doctor's office exam chairs with a kind of overgrown helmet like VR goggles on steroids. They invited her to try it out. That was a clear NFW.

But the data! She was seduced by the data. And the funding.

They called the dataset VADIM: Ventral and Dorsal Intraocular Model. Terabytes of data tracing images their subjects viewed, starting from the photons incident on the retina, following the signal through the different layers of the visual cortex, all the way to self-reporting audiovisual recordings of the subjects, with polygraph metadata. It was one of the biggest and most diverse mountains of data she'd ever encountered, just the kind of vast, complex dataset she loved to throw herself at, like the lead hunter hurling herself against a mastodon in prehistoric manga. Plus she had a fat quiver of arrows, like Hawkeye, to use on the monster.

And the funding! Millions she could tap to buy time on a big cluster, decades of compute time at her fingertips.

The dataset was totally overwhelming the biologists, they were drowning in it, but it was straightforward for her. And they had a big problem, so big it was threatening to shut down the whole research program: the input images, mostly geometric patterns and all of very short duration, millisecond-length flashes, were somehow persistent with some of the subjects, who were complaining that they kept seeing the images long after the test had been run. The research team had labelled the effect 'imprinting'.

They'd traced the cause of imprinting to an area in the thalamus, which was some little blob down under the cortex. There was some kind of dorsal/ventral split in the neural path that Gracie didn't bother trying to understand. The information flowed normally along the ventral pathways, which were involved with memory. That was totally fine. The problem was that, due to whatever was going on with what the precisely timed flashes did to the pathway, the dorsal side, which was involved with actions, also let the signal leak through, triggering actions associated with the image.

This was really bad. Even when, after a time, the images themselves faded from memory, the subjects reported that they found themselves recreating the images, laying down objects around them, for example, in stripes because that simple geometric image was imprinted on their consciousness. It was an unacceptable, disastrous side effect. The group had been forced to pause the experiments until they could figure out a way to prevent imprinting. They didn't know what to do.

But Gracie knew. After she'd trained a model based on the data, which ate up a humongous amount of cluster time, a straightforward analysis showed that the input images, when diffused and transformed into point clusters in a high dimensional parameter space— SOP in AI— could be represented as a mathematical group.

"It's easy to see," she said, standing before the researchers at a meeting, at the head of the long conference table and pointing to the graph representation she was displaying on the room's big screen, "that your images form a finite non-Abelian group, which is cool and great news."