Violet the Voyeur Pt. 03

If you're reading this, you know who I am: the infant terrible that has taken VoyeurWorld by storm. Forgive me, Comrades, for I have sinned again; it has been six months since my last confession, but I have not been idle. My last adventure, exhilarating though it may have been, taught me many things: the joy of the hunt and a job well done, and painful memories of failure that still burn me inside. I learned that voyeurism is power, and I learned that power can be easily lost by the careless. I would nowhere be careless again.

But how would I achieve this total control? What new game would I forge, one that I could not lose? What did I hope to get out of it? Who did I want to watch? And as always, the original question: what kind of voyeur am I?

I played a thousand scenarios over in my head, searching for the right one. Whether I found it or not, I leave up to you -- my Comrades, my confidantes -- to decide. As is my wont, here is the accompanying backstory. I hope it will be as pleasing as the videos themselves.

---

"Good morning!" smiled Emily as she greeted the boy entering the office. "Have a seat, we'll call you in, in a sec." She halfheartedly fixed her hair from behind the desk as she grinned at him matronly.

Trevor politely smiled, adjusted himself, and had a seat. "Oh," she blurted out, "Would you mind taking this form? Just one more thing to fill out." He nervously smiled some more, arose, and took the clipboard and pen, reading it carefully, and then signing it. He sat back down and took out his phone out of habit, constantly looking at everything but: at Emily, at the empty chairs, and behind him, where there was nothing to see. His leg bounced.

I watched from behind my monitors. Two cameras captured him -- one from the front and one from the side, both hidden by two-way mirrors. Below medium height, thin wrists. His dirty brown hair was a week past haircut day, and under it, a smattering of adolescent acne on the bridge of his nose; he wore a free t-shirt from a campus event, and beige pants cinched too tightly by a cheap black belt. I found myself liking him in that way some girls like their friends' younger brothers, despite that fact that he was eighteen and exactly my age.

After twelve minutes had passed, I spoke into the microphone, telling the Good Doctor to have Emily send Trevor in.

The front desk phone buzzed; Emily picked up the receiver. "Let me walk you back," she said pleasantly and clicked a button by her desk. I wondered whether she believed it really unlocked the door.

Trevor followed her to a door labeled 'Examination #2', which she opened. He nodded to her, and sat on the exam table, as per request. The office was spacious, but spare; the floor was unpolished concrete, the ceiling high, and there was only one table in the room, with some medical supplies atop it.

"If you can just remove your shirt, the doctor will be in shortly," Emily smiled once more and left. After the door closed, I watched on my primary monitor as Trevor pulled his yellowing shirt over his head. He was dreadfully skinny, ribs protruding on the sides. He had no muscular definition in the arms or chest, and his collarbone stuck out like the horns on a steer.

Seven minutes later, the door reopened. "Hello again, Mr. Roth!" The Good Doctor's voice reverberated off the walls. Trevor blinked. She wore an ivory-colored business top with two buttons undone, a pressed black skirt, and black leather heels. She had pale white skin; the only colors on her were red nails and redder lips. Her black hair fell long over her shoulders; her glasses rested low on her nose, and she carried a clipboard under her left arm. Two steps behind her followed a tall young woman in dark blue scrubs.

Dr. Lillian Rochester stood over him, jutted out her hand, and grabbed his firmly. "Thanks so much for participating! Don't get up. Yet." She flashed a toothy smile and shook vigorously with the grip of a man. "This is my assistant, Anya."

Trevor sheepishly smiled. Anya nodded. She had creamy skin the color of caramel, silky dark brown hair, large feminine eyes, bright and brown; shiny nose, soft lips, and full breasts, noticeable even underneath the unflattering scrubs. Anya seemed to me to be about five foot ten: still shorter than the statuesque Dr. Rochester but a good three inches taller than Trevor. She had the robust vigor and presence of an athlete, which for all I know she was.

"Now, Trevor -- may I call you Trevor?" spoke Dr. Rochester in her sharp voice, folding her hands in front of her, "I needn't remind you that you have signed a waiver and given permission for the behavioral tests we are about to perform, so this shouldn't even be an issue. However, it is imperative that the work not be interrupted or delayed by any sort of distraction. I cannot stress this point enough: because of the unique nature of this exam, all of the work we have done up until the testing phase depends on the following: you must --" She put her finger down hard: "Must do exactly as I say, understood?" Trevor nodded, eyes wide. She talked like a buzzsaw. I unwittingly chewed my nails while she spoke. "This study requires a strict attention to detail and succinct compliance. It is essential that our time is not wasted here."

She continued: "No questioning, no second guessing. If you cannot adhere to these simple rules, you forfeit your participation with the study and you will promptly be asked to leave. That is to say, you won't be compensated for your time. Have I made myself absolutely clear?" He stiffened.

Dr. Rochester seemed to notice; she eased her face, smiled, and patted his hand. "Sorry to be such a hardass. I'm not gonna lie: some of the test may seem strange to you. But I can't explain what we're doing, and I can't tell you why. That's probably little consolation, but that's what the money's for!" This relaxed him, and he was able to laugh a bit. "Don't worry, everything's going to be just fine."

Trevor grinned stupidly, like a child. Thinking of the money, no doubt. How long before his smile would fade? I wondered in anticipation. What new form of displeasure would his chapped lips convey?

"Let's begin then," she started. "Please stand up, over there." Trevor walked over toward the middle of the room; Dr. Rochester and Anya remained where they stood.

I took the opportunity to zoom one camera into his face, and another into Anya's, hoping to capture the best possible reactions.

"Now, if you would be so kind," continued the Good Doctor, looking at her clipboard: "Take your pants down."

---

Some months back, during Intro to Psychology, while I was daydreaming about stripping, filming, and using the rugby player seated next to me in the dark, baroque dungeon of my twisted fantasies, the professor started a detailed lecture about something called the Milgram Experiment. In it, volunteers who believed they were assistants in a memory experiment were told to send electric shocks to another volunteer every time they answered incorrectly. Despite knowing in their hearts it was wrong, people would shock other people, at times to fatal levels (so they believed), just because a guy in a white coat told them to.

Eureka, I thought.

To do it right, I knew this would require patience, meticulous planning, and extensive resources, all of which I have. Furiously, I began to scribble in my notebook his lecture points, coupled with loose and vague ideas of how I would go about this ambitious and ludicrous project. So intense were my efforts, my professor must have thought I actually started caring.

Even then, I envisioned a rough picture of what would ultimately stand before me: a gorgeous and intimidating femdom doctor, her lovely ingenue assistant, and a powerless and naked little freshman, unsure of what his immediate future holds. To manifest one's own imagination is truly a magical thing.

---

"I - I'm sorry?" he stammered. Anya looked at the doctor, calmly but quickly. She was a hell of a poker player.

"I'm going to need you to take your pants down," Dr. Rochester told him. He declined to respond, staring into the wall like a doomed cow. Anya's eyes widened, and she instinctively looked at her feet.

"Did you hear me?" The doctor leaned in, intruding his line of vision, a look of concern on her face. "I need you to remove your pants. We can't proceed if you have pants on, if you have clothes on." Still no response. Dr. Rochester sighed. "Trevor," she said reproachfully, "No questioning, no second guessing."

Anya inhaled, and did not exhale. Her eyes sparkled and the corners of her lips lifted upward.

He nodded, red-faced and silent.

She took a step back, smiling brightly. "Okay then."

My heart fluttered, my gut churned, and I sat closer onto the edge of my swivel chair, nose inches away from my screen. He didn't want to do it; that much was clear. His eyes scanned wildly without focus as he undid his belt and the button of his khaki pants. He slipped off his shoes, using one foot to push off the shoe of the other, and took the pants by the cuffs, pulling them off over his feet.

"Anya, could you give him a hand and take his pants for him?" Anya approached, standing in front of him. She smiled, like a stewardess, and extended her right hand. Trevor swallowed and passed her the khakis, which she draped over her left arm.

"Your underwear too. You need to be naked, do you understand?" repeated Dr. Rochester. "You can't have anything on. That goes for the socks, too. Please take it all off."

Trevor looked at her, then at Anya, who hadn't moved, and who wasn't averting her eyes. She was less than a foot away. The red in his face deepened, a ruddy mix of shame and contempt. He nodded curtly.

Anya placed her hands behind her back, still holding his khakis. Her facial expressions were inscrutable: calm eyes, no smile, insouciant; yet with a softness, almost a glow, as if content from a good meal. Perhaps I was projecting? Perhaps it was just her radiant beauty? I suppose you can judge for yourself.

And so, my dear Comrades, what came next? I suppose you know. And I suppose you also know by now that this is the moment I both crave and dread, just as you yourselves must have some moment like this that goads you forward to do what we do. That moment that I live for, that makes my palms sweat, my mind swim, my pussy swell. This time was no different, and yet . . . it was. Before, my victims were blissfully ignorant of any female gaze, or of my camera. Today, the boy was all too aware of the sets of eyes that took him in, even if unaware of mine.

And so, today was special. I wanted to ingest fully his mounting shame: all the little facial tics, eye shifts, and breathing irregularities. I could feel his acute discomfort, his peak humiliation, the stuff of nightmares; the desperate reluctance and the intransigent pressures that compelled him to act against his will. It made my chest hurt and my sinuses pinched. I felt an inclination to sob.

Dizzily I watched, with eyeballs desiccated from want of blinking, as he lowered his white boxers down, stepped out of them, pulled his socks off one by one, and attempted to straighten his spine with something approximating confidence. The whiteness of his skin momentarily blew out the color contrast of my shot before I could get a proper look at his body.

The lens adjusted. I then understood better the fear emanating from his eyes. Incredulous, I zoomed in to study it better, and my own mean laughter shocked me. His penis was indeed small: not abnormally so, but proportionate to his slight frame. It wasn't long, not at all, nor was it thick, and his balls were hard to see, despite the complete lack of hair. Nothing a boy would be proud to show to a woman. It felt wrong looking at it, almost illegal.

His nakedness underscored how small he was as a whole: his tiny nub, framed by his narrow thighs; his bony chest and arms; his pelvis visible under his taut pink skin. I felt both sorry for him and infinitely more aroused by his justifiable embarrassment. What was he thinking at this moment? I wondered. Was this the first time a girl had seen it? Was he aware at how disappointing, how undesirable, how inherently funny it was? Did he find this sexual, in spite of the shame, or perhaps because of it? Would this experience ruin him forever, or maybe awaken him to another, more deviant world of sensuality, not unlike the world that I had found? I was dying to know the future.

Anya waited patiently until he gave her his shorts and socks, coolly passing her eyes over his body. He turned them over with a shaking hand. She took two steps back, aligning herself again with Dr. Rochester -- never turning her back to him, as if to keep the pressure of her gaze on him completely, or so I imagined, as it is what I would have done. I still believe, if you watch closely enough, hers was a look of malicious amusement, of the cruel babysitter forcing her charge to be bathed by hand under protest. She was glad about it, I was sure: glad that it was small, glad that he was ashamed, and glad that her presence made it all the worse. Are you enjoying this as much as I am? I wondered. Are we all deep down the same?

Trevor's uncertain hands nervously veered toward his crotch, cueing the doctor to speak up once again: "Please put your hands in the air for us."

He did so. Dr. Rochester carried herself well: both professional and sultry, aggressive and comforting. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"Interesting," said the doctor, as she approached him. "You don't have any body hair." She bent at the waist, full bosom on display, and inspected his genitals. "Is that natural?" He looked down, nodding. She squinted and shook her head in disbelief. "You are eighteen, correct?" Absolutely crimson he continued to nod, unable to speak, eyes moist with tears.

"Fascinating. Well, this is excellent. We won't have to shave." She stood upright and ran her fingers across his chest and under his left armpit. Trevor flinched.

"Ticklish?" she chuckled. "I'll be more careful." From the wide angle I had the camera on, I noticed the stirrings of movement down south. I believe Anya saw it too: her eyes quickly looked to the ceiling and her lips drew inward, as if trying not to laugh.

"Could you grab the topical cream for me, dear?" the doctor directed at her assistant. Anya smiled agreeably at her and grabbed the cream off the table at once.

"Now, Trevor, we're going to apply this cream all over your body. It has to go everywhere. From head to toe. Does that make sense? That means we're going to place our hands on you and rub the cream in all the parts. I mean all over. Do you understand what has to take place?"

Trevor appeared as stupefied, either at the situation or the density of Dr. Rochester's redundant questioning. I knew she was doing this on purpose, the evil bitch, but for whom I can't exactly say. For herself? For me? Or for Anya, who hopelessly fought to maintain her indifferent composure? It didn't matter. It made everything more wonderful.

"I'll get the back; you get the front." The doctor passed her assistant a box of latex gloves.

For the first time, I saw Anya blush. She opened her full lips partly, as if to respond, then pursed them together in what looked like self-doubt.

---

After locating an office suite for rent near campus, I rigged it with surveillance equipment. In the back corner of the office, where a storage closet must have been, I built my command center: ten monitors forming a semicircle that played the closed circuit feed. I set up a customized CPU and my own in-house server. The live streams were recorded onto the server for later viewing and editing.

What was next needed was the right cast and crew. I held auditions at the office, but advertised for the roles in town. I didn't want a lot of university people to see me there. More than jail time, I fear expulsion. Hashtag trust fund baby problems.

It was a challenging casting. I wanted clean-cut, girl-next-door types, but I felt they had to be morally bankrupt enough to carry out the assignment. At first, I targeted strippers and high-priced call girls. I figured they would work well enough.

They did not. After a week of tryouts, I grew discouraged. The camera doesn't lie, and the test videos captured their nasty vibrations, reptilian and world-weary. The only thing that excited them was cash. It didn't feel right. What I wanted was real degradation, humiliation, titillation. Profound and extreme.

I wasn't sure how I would capture the vision I saw in my head so clearly — until I had a breakthrough. The whole key to this caper was the human reflex to capitulate to authority. It was how I came up with the idea in the first place. I realized that if I expected the victims to do so, why wouldn't I expect the same from my assistants?

The decision of casting went from four actresses to one. And I believed that role would be far easier to fill.

On campus, I put up two different sets of flyers: the first one was green, and there were dollar signs on the top. 'RESEARCH STUDY' it read: "Looking for Men Ages 18-22 for a Clinical Research Study. $1,500 for 1 Day! Inquire at Address Below." The second was printed on pink paper, with an official-looking seal: "Looking for Paid Assistants for a Clinical Research Study! $2,500 + Experience." Why more for the assistants? I assumed women were innately more skeptical, and money erases doubts.

I posted the green flyers near the rec center and the gym, and near the on-campus housing where all the financial aid kids live. For the pink ones, I put them next to the bulletin boards of classes such as: "Understanding Intimate Relationships" and "Feminist Film Theory in the 1960s," and around the women's dormitory. Within days I had a multitude of candidates to pick from.

As for "Dr. Lillian Rochester," I found Goddess Kayla on a dominatrix website. She lived about thirty miles away; I made an appointment with her and took an Uber there. Her place was in a paint-chipped duplex at the bottom of a hill, a dirt road passing by the front, leading to a state road entrance ramp. There were red velvet drapes covering the windows, and a black heart hung on the door. I knocked.

Kayla opened, and looked me up and down. "Hey, hon," she smiled quizzically with a square jaw, towering over me. Her narrow eyes sat behind butterfly glasses with zebra print frames, her thick eyebrows high above them in bemusement; clad in a black skin-tight top with long sleeves, unzipped to the middle to her navel, a black mini-skirt, and thigh-high boots. She was big, beautiful, and scary. Perfect. "What can I do for you today?"

---

Anya slowly and awkwardly pulled the latex gloves onto her hands. Dr. Rochester took a generous scoop of the white cream from the container with her fingers and then passed it back to Anya. The girl studied it before taking a much smaller amount. I was beginning to get a read on her body language. I imagined she was contemplating how much she needed twenty-five hundred dollars. I imagined she needed it and then some.

"Start with his face," Dr. Rochester directed as she slathered the lotion onto Trevor's neck and shoulders with two hands, rubbing it in circularly in two different directions. Anya stood in front of Trevor, taking care to look him in the eyes, which he then closed, perhaps to assist her or perhaps to go inside himself, to convince himself that this was not happening. She began to gently apply the cream on his forehead, then his cheeks. He grimaced as his small penis perceptibly rose. If Anya noticed, she pretended not to.

The doctor and assistant synced into a rhythm, moving down his body inch by inch, together. Dr. Rochester smoothed the cream into his sides, pressing her thumbs into his lower back, while Anya gingerly painted his abdomen with four of her right hand's fingers. Dr. Rochester arrived at his cute little butt, palming his cheeks as she went.