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.
