History of Fantasy, Part 4.

It gets even goofier.

Because on the top floor of the sex tower, there is no horsefucking, no double fistrape, no cumbaths, just a little goofy sci-fi headset. Put it on, and you're in a five-sense ultra-realistic shared simulation... you're in the Matrix, okay? The Sex Matrix.

The benefits of the Sex Matrix are multifold. Lucky little Janelle can prostitute herself to anyone, anywhere, and be watched by everyone, everywhere. Nothing can harm her body. Scenarios can shift without logic.

And, more grimly than I intended, she can never truly get out. She can think she's taking off the headset, but... the headset can simulate that. As the world's first and most prolific virtual prostitute, she's far too lucrative to the tower's owners to be allowed to leave.

So this, bizarrely and almost not my idea, is what I fantasize about almost every night: a woman trapped in the Sex Matrix, forever subjected to bondage and torment and rape by utterly nondescript "clients", handsomely paid for it but unable to ever collect.

It's not that thinking about sweeter and more normal things wouldn't get me off; it's that I can't do it. My mind goes to the strange creepy Matrix butt-rape scenes and won't come back until it's good and satisfied. I don't seem to control it.

I shouldn't whine too much though. It does get me off good. It's just ludicrous to share.