After a few hours that each seem longer than your life up to that day, the gadgets recede. "BREAK" flashes on the VR screen. You fall limp in the "couch," hyperventilating. Soon, your breathing slows again, your muscles all relax, and you feel you're ready to move on. And... nothing happens.
You've experienced sleep paralysis before, and that's not what this is. Your connection to your muscles is there, it's just not... listening. The screen starts to flash red. Drool trickles from your mouth. A deep female voice comes over a tannoy.
"Employee three-two-nine-eight-eight-six."
Of course, you don't respond. The same voice again, louder.
"Employee three-two-nine-eight-eight-six." You still don't respond. A sigh comes over the loudspeaker. "Well, that's what they're for, after all."
After a moment, a man comes in, really more muscle than man, in a latex vest and skintight black pants that show off a tight ass and massive codpiece. He removes your headset and with one arm throws your limp body onto his shoulder.
He takes you into another room, where a woman is waiting, and sets you in a soft chair beneath some sort of machinery; he leans it back and props your arms up over the sides, so your slump vaguely resembles being seated comfortably. "Thank you," says the woman, whose voice you recognize from the tannoy. She walks over and begins to strip you of your telemetry catsuit, talking as she does so.
"Okay. So what we've decided is the kindest thing to do in cases like yours is turn you into a hyperrealistic love doll and send you back to your partner. You'll still feel like flesh; you'll be warm to the touch. You'll feel your surroundings as though you were flesh, too, and hear, and see them. But what you won't have is any bodily functions. Your mouth, throat, and vagina will be lubricated, but in a cleaner way than now, and they won't really lead anywhere, nor will your anus." By this time, she's got the suit off - she stands. "You'll even have some reflexive motion - your new form is meticulously designed so that with enough presence of mind, more than you need and lack now, you may one day relearn to speak. We'll also send your partner instructions for what to do if that happens... but it hardly ever does." With a roll of her eyes, she makes air quotes as she asks, "do you object to any of this?"
You continue to sit and drool. The woman sighs again as she drapes the catsuit over a beam in the machine's frame. "Hardest part of my job."
"I dunno - I'd love to have this job," says the man with a smirk. The displacement of his codpiece speaks to his sincerity.
"Which is exactly why you don't have it." She walks over to a button and presses it. Your entire body jerks, your first motion since you collapsed. The trickle of drool at the corner of your mouth ends, only its remnant on your face. You feel your insides melt into something warm, something magical, as your breathing stops, your throat closes, your urethra melts shut. Now your inability to move feels more like sleep paralysis, or really, total paralysis - now you know, except for some faint feeling in your mouth and throat, that you genuinely cannot move, and bar magical intervention, never will again.
After flicking the remaining drool from your face, the man again lifts you over his shoulder, carries you out of the room, and plops you down in a cardboard box, hamhandedly squishing your body into the fetal position to fit. He crams a booklet and a check under your boobs, between your ribs and legs, and tapes you in.
You spend the next day or two being tossed around like a basketball, rather than the human woman (and man) you no longer are. At last you see light again, a face you remember from the world-that-was: your girlfriend.