The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Voyeurs and Victims

By Captain Eazy

(mc, ma, mf, md)

4

On Thursday afternoon, Blair came home from the gym to find a 6 x 9″ manila envelope in the mail, with the return address for Issues in Social Science Education in the upper left corner. Her heart pounded madly. This is crazy, she told herself, but she felt exactly the way she had years before, the first time she had dared to display herself naked to a boy: excited as hell, and turned on and ready. She fumbled her key into the door lock, got inside, dropped everything else she was carrying except for the envelope, and ripped it open.

The program was a professional job, ninety-six pages long, with a heavy cardstock cover of glossy paper printed in four colors. The list of attendees in the back took up forty-one pages, even though each entry was in tiny type and only two lines long, the attendee’s name and institution. The first one read:

Dr. William Aamis
Gowart College

Blair bit her lip. Forty-one damned pages! But maybe, just maybe. . . .she went to her desk and took out a steno pad that she normally used for grocery lists and then dug out a pen. Sitting at the dining-room table, she first wrote out a list of all the colleges and universities in the city:

  • Cit. College
  • Branch of the State U.
  • Menomee U.
  • Wexler Commun. Coll.

She looked at the list, got the telephone directory, and added two that she had never heard of: Buseid Women’s College and St. Xavier’s College. Six institutions to scan for, then. With a sigh, she picked up the program book, turned to the list of attendees, and began with the A’s.

Three hours later, with her eyes feeling grainy and a dull headache throbbing in her temples, Blair asked herself if it was worth this aggravation. So far she had twenty-seven names (she was in the long list of O-names). The secretary she had spoken to had estimated there were forty attendees from the city. She still had. . . umm, eleven pages of tiny type to read through. But then that meant she had already worked through thirty-one.

And yes, it was worth it. She needed to know what that man had done to the couple. So she could. . . could what?

Ask him to do it again!

There was nothing like it, nothing to match the strange, nasty, illicit thrill she had felt and now summoned up in dimmer, less effective memories. She needed the keen flash of orgasm she had experienced right after the interlude in the park. She could fantasize, right enough, of seeing other couples clamped in passionate embrace in public places—the park, on a commuter train, maybe, even on the sidewalk in front of her office building—but imagining wasn’t the same as, as seeing them, scenting them.

Blair rubbed her aching eyes and went back to the program directory.

* * *

Forty-three names in all. Nineteen of them from the State University, thirteen from Menomee, a private university, three from City College, three from St. Xavier, three from the Community College, and two from Buseid. Of the forty-three, twenty-six were unambiguously women. Blair crossed their names off her list. Seventeen left, and of them three might be female: Chris Keppelmeyer, A.W. McNair, and Pat Oleson. Blair glanced at the clock: seven-fifteen, too late to do any calling. But she could get ready for tomorrow.

The pattern more or less held as she looked up and wrote down the telephone numbers of the five schools remaining on her list (Burseid’s two attendees had both been female). Seven of the seventeen names remaining, including the androgynous A.W. McNair, taught at the local branch of the State University. Six taught at Menommee, including the Oleson person. Two, including Keppelmeyer, taught at St. Xavier, and one each at City College and the Community College.

Hmm. Blair decided she would have to sleep on the problem.

But first her big, warm bathtub waited.

And the bath oil that would make her sleek and slippery as a seal.

Would he like her that way?

Shit, maybe he couldn’t even have normal relations with a woman. Maybe he had to beat himself off while witnessing others having sex. There was a name for perverts like that: voyeur.

But if he’s a pervert, what does that make me?

Blair’s fingers stroked her aching clit. After a time, she got out of the tub and stood glistening and naked before the sink counter, staring at herself in the mirror. She stood on her left leg and lifted her right high, resting her foot on the counter beside the sink. Oh, she had a good body, her tits were full and (just now) sharp-pointed with desire, the nipples and areolas a deep pink coral. Her pubic bush was dark, plastered down now by water, but through it her sex peeked, wet and inviting. She stroked herself, saw her image’s teeth clench in a grin of embarrassed excitement.

Does it make me a voyeur if I only watch myself?

“Yeah, stroke it,” she told her reflection. “Mm, yeah, baby, rub it. Make me come.”

She felt her leg beginning to tremble, and she rushed to the bedroom, fell on the tumbled bed, and grabbed the vibrating dildo. It plunged right in—she was slick, she was ready—and she humped it, wriggling its length inside her to find the g-spot. “Oh, fuck!” she panted. “Oh, yeah, oh, fuck me, harder!”

She heard the slushing sound as she frantically pounded at her pussy with the vibrator. Oh, god, if she could only see. Maybe a mirror—beside the bed—the gym had a whole mirrored wall—god, if she could have some of the girls and guys there get it on, while she sprawled on the floor and—oh, god, it was good! The couple in the park, her pert ass—the guy’s great, springy cock in his caress as he watched them—

Pleasure exploded in the center of her, and she rode the wave over and down, down, down. As her heart found its normal rhythm, she switched off the vibrator.

What’s happening to me? What am I becoming?

—Doesn’t matter, an inner voice told her.

No, no, you’re right. . . it doesn’t matter. . . .

Because, no matter what she was becoming. . . .

I like it!

5

Menommee University had a downtown campus ten blocks from the office where Blair worked, so the next day she hopped in her car at noon and drove over. She had never been on the campus before. The place had a faintly Medieval air, the buildings all gray stone and arched windows and a green rolling quadrangle shaded by old oaks. She found the library, and a helpful, attractive librarian wearing half-spectacles (Blair could picture her sprawled on a library table, screaming as some lucky guy screwed her) found last year’s college yearbook for her. It was as big as a major city’s phone book. “How many students do you have here?” she asked.

“A little over twelve thousand,” the librarian said. “I know, everyone’s surprised. But we only have six dorms, and all the other students commute.”

Blair took out her list of names. All of the professors had been photographed for the annual (and Dr. Patricia “Pat” Oleson turned out to be a sixty-something woman who looked as though she had been weaned on a dill pickle).

None of the faces was that of the observer in the park.

Driving back to work, Blair consoled herself that at least she had reduced her list of suspects down to eleven. She caught an elevator and found her boss in it. “Hi,” Judith said. “How’s things?”

“Okay,” Blair said with a sigh. Then a sudden inspiration took her. “Listen,” she said, “I’m all caught up. Mind if I take off early this afternoon? I’m coming down with a bad headache.”

Ortiz thought about this for two floors. Then she said, “Okay, but remember next Friday afternoon’s our big staff meeting. I’ve got some personnel announcements to make, and I don’t want you to miss that.”

“I won’t,” Blair promised. She got her stuff from her desk and rode the elevator back down. The State University was the next best bet, and it was miles away, on the outskirts of the city, beyond the beltway. It was larger than the private Menommee University, but it lacked the visual flair. The state had paid for utilitarian brick boxes with horizontal windows. The place looked like a minimum-security prison.

It was emptying out fast on a Friday afternoon, and Blair got directions from a tanned young campus cop (she imagined directing him in a sex scene with the librarian from Menommee, yum!) and found a primo parking space next to the huge library building. Again a helpful librarian fetched her the yearbook.

But Blair couldn’t find two of the teachers in the book at all: Dr. Edward Feggles and Dr. Richard Kant. She returned the book to the reference desk and said to the little old lady, “Excuse me, but I need pictures of two faculty members, and they don’t seem to be in the book.”

The woman couldn’t help her, unfortunately. The University was so large, she said, that she couldn’t possibly remember all the faculty. However, she found a faculty directory. Dr. Feggles’s office was in Young Hall, the Social Sciences building. Dr. Kant was no longer listed. “He may have moved on,” the lady offered helpfully. “Academics tend to be nomadic, I’m afraid.”

The walk to Young Hall was something of a hike. A young man was at the reception desk, probably a student aide, she thought. When she told him who she was looking for, he rang Dr. Feggle’s office, but got no answer. “He’s probably gone for the day,” he told Blair. “He’s winding down to retirement, and he’s only teaching like two courses a semester.”

“Oh, is he an older man?”

“Yeah, pretty old,” the college boy said. “Maybe fifty-five.”

And what about Dr. Kant?

“No, he’s a young guy,” the receptionist said. “Well, comparatively. Thirty-five or so. But he left last June.”

“Is there a picture of him anywhere handy?” she asked. “Because I’m looking for someone and he may be able to help me, if he’s the one I’m thinking of.”

“Umm.” The boy scratched his chin. “Let me see. He was the advisor for the Forensics Club. They won, like, an award or something last spring, and there was a picture in the campus paper.”

That took her to Jacobs Hall, where the campus newspaper office was closed and locked, but a helpful secretary opened it and found the previous spring semester’s papers for her, bound in a tall, thin green volume. Blair leafed through the issues, finally taking in a sharp breath as she came to page B-1 of an early April issue: There he was!

In the foreground of the black-and-white photo three girls and five guys clustered around a trophy. In the background, looking diffident and uncomfortable, was the masturbator from the park. No doubt about it, it was the same guy.

She studied the face. He was better-looking than she remembered, with high cheekbones. There was definitely something elfin about him, those impish eyebrows and that mop of curls, that sharp chin. But he looked ill at ease in the photo, as though uncomfortable with the camera’s glassy stare.

Dr. Richard Kant.

Now I’ve got you.

* * *

Except she didn’t.

The executive assistant of the Psychology Department, a hefty woman in her forties, offered no help and no hope. “Federal and state regulations prohibit our giving out that information,” she said sternly. And no amount of arguing swayed her. A mousy-looking little fellow came into the office with an envelope and stood by while Blair tried her best, but her requests failed to move the rock of a woman at the desk.

Frustrated, Blair turned on her heel and stalked out. She was striding down the hall when she heard the patter of hurrying feet behind her. She turned. The mousy guy, about fifty with enormous round glasses giving him the eyes of a lizard, said, “Glad I caught you. Did I hear right? Were you asking about Rick?”

“Dr. Richard Kant,” she said.

“Yes, Rick,” the older man huffed. “He left us early last summer. It must be nice to come into money like that! I’ve got another three years before I can retire—”

“Dr. Kant came into money?” Blair asked.

The man nodded. “I’m Jim Presswell,” he said. “Comparative Religions.”

“Hello, Dr. Presswell—”

“Mister, Mister,” he said mournfully. “I’ve just got a Master’s Degree.” He offered her a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll never be promoted past what I am now, a lowly Associate Professor.”

“Hello Professor Presswell, then,” said Blair with a smile that seemed to cheer the man up. “I’m Ann Baker.” Well, if she was going to choose an alias, she thought, it would be best to choose one she could easily remember, A-B. “I used to know Dr. Kant, and I’m trying to get in touch with him again. It’s been several years.”

“Miss Baker.” Presswell nodded toward an open doorway. “May I offer you a cup of coffee, or perhaps you’d prefer tea?”

In the empty faculty lounge he fussily prepared her a cup of green tea, filling a mug with coffee the color and viscosity of used motor oil for himself. As he did so, he chatted: “Rick never let on that he was any relation to the Cranfords, none at all. It was a real surprise to us when his aunt died.”

“Cranford?” Blair asked. “I don’t know that name, either. Well, aside from the department stores, of course—”

“That’s it!” Presswell said excitedly. “Rick’s aunt, his mother’s older sister, had married into the department-store family, married one of the Cranford brothers, an elderly man. He’d been dead, oh gracious, twenty or more years I suppose, and his wife inherited all his shares and holdings. Then she passed away last spring, out in California, I believe, and Rick suddenly found he’d inherited an estate worth five million dollars after taxes. You couldn’t earn that as a psychology professor!”

“How nice for him,” Blair said. “So he simply retired, then?”

“At the age of thirty-six.” Preswell’s smile was rueful. “Imagine! Well, he had fifteen years in as a teacher, so he’s eligible for a pension. I don’t know what use he’ll make of it. Maybe buy gasoline for his limou.” He sipped his unspeakable brew and sighed. “I’ll have thirty years in in three more years, and I still won’t be able to afford to retire. I suppose I’ll jog along in the traces until I’m eighty, and then just drop dead in front of a class one day.”

“Is Rick still in the city?” Blair asked.

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t stay here, not if I had that kind of money.” Presswell shook his head. “No, I’d move out for parts unknown. I did like Rick, though. Most of his colleagues in psychology didn’t really have an appreciation for my field—I specialize in Eastern Religions, you know—but Rick had done intensive work in the psychology of religion. Did you know him when he went to India?”

“Um—no, that must have been after I knew him.”

“Probably. He was thirty, I think. Took a summer and a sabbatical semester and spent time in India and Nepal. He had some fascinating things to say about some scattered Buddhist sects and beliefs he’d found there, especially the Tantric and Hindu influences on Buddhist thought. He’s a brilliant young fellow.”

“Professor Preswell, do you know how I could get in touch with him? It’s really important.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Baker, I don’t.” Presswell’s mobile face expressed disgust. “The office probably has the information, but it’s practically under lock and key. If you send a letter addressed to him at the department and mark it ‘Please Forward,’ though, I’m sure it will get to him.”

“Thank you,” Blair said. “That’s a good idea.”

Except that it was, in fact, a lousy idea.

Dear Dr. Kant, Hi, I’m the girl who saw you controlling that charming couple who fucked so prettily in the park that day. . . .

Letter like that, he’d take off. For parts unknown, as the mousy Professor Preswell had suggested.

But the son of a bitch was a rich son of a bitch. Interesting.

And the afternoon was still young.

Blair went back to the library, borrowed and checked the phone book, and found no listing for a Richard, Rick, or R. Kant, none that were possible at all. She moved to a quiet carrel for privacy, called 411 on her cell phone and was informed that the customer’s number was not listed. Well, damn. Sitting in the library, she started to think. No one could simply fade away, not even in a large city. Everyone has ties, umbilicals that hook him or her into the systems. There had to be a way.

Cable TV.

The city had four providers, and Blair copied down all four Customer Service numbers. The first one was a washout. The second one—

“Clairty Commercial Cable.” The voice was bright and unaccented, so maybe someone in the city, not in Bangladesh, was working customer support. “How may I help you?”

“Hi,” Blair said. “Listen, this is Mrs. Richard Kant, and I think you forgot to bill us this month. Could you check?”

“Yes, I can. What’s the address, please?”

Blair laughed in an embarrassed way. “I don’t remember!” she said. “Isn’t that awful? We got married last week, and I moved in with Rick here just last Monday, and I’m just blanking on the address! I came from New York, you see—oh, well, I suppose you couldn’t look it up by the name?”

“Let me see.”

“Only Rick wants me to take care of paying the bills, and I haven’t seen the cable bill, so I was wondering if you’d sent it.”

“Checking. . . Dr. Richard Kant, 1771 East Park, Apartment 69?”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Blair scribbled madly in the margin of the phone book.

“My records show you’re current, Miss Kant. Dr. Kant pays online.”

“Oh, I wish he’d told me! Well, thank you so much.”

“Not at all.”

Precisely, with her heart fluttering, Blair tore the small strip of paper with the address from the phone book. She did it quietly, and no one in the library heard or noticed. She read the address silently, with a feeling of triumph.

Now I’ve got you!

* * *

The Crescent, the apartment house called itself, and Blair guessed that the newly rich Dr. Kant had not yet moved up in the world. It was a good enough place, with a view over the park, but it wasn’t as upscale as the ones on the east side of the park. It looked to be just about the kind of place that a single man could afford on the salary of a college professor. No doorman.

And of course she didn’t want to call Dr. Kant on the intercom to be buzzed in.

Surprise was better.

She went to a fruit stand near the park that she sometimes patronized while out running and bought a basket of apples, a basket of peaches. Then she waited in her car until she saw a couple unmistakably heading for the front door of the apartment house. Blair climbed out, knocked the front door shut with her hip, and hurried after them. “Could you hold the door please?” she asked.

The man, a heavyset guy in his forties, did, with a smile. “Healthy snacks,” he said, nodding toward her burdens.

“Thanks,” she said.

They took the same elevator. The man punched four and raised his eyebrows. “Six, please.”

Then they stepped out at the fourth floor, the elevator doors closed, and Blair fought that wild hammering of her heart again.

The doors hissed open. Apartment 69 was the last at the end of a long, curving hall. She set down the fruit and rang the bell.

For a few moments she thought no one was home. Then she heard the soft pad of footsteps on carpet, the latch clicked, and the door swung open, and there he was.

Blair put the flat of her hand on the door, prepared to push back if he tried to slam it, but the man stood there, his elfin eyebrows raised, his eyes round in shock.

“Dr. Kant,” Blair said in a voice that trembled with eagerness. “Remember me from the park? We’ve got to talk.”

6

He sat slumped in an armchair, his hands limp in his lap, his head down. “Are you going to turn me in?” he muttered.

“Turn you in? For what?” Blair asked. “For jerking off in the park?”

“How did you—how did you find me?”

Blair filled him in. He stared at her in frank surprise. “You tracked me down from the damn canvas bag? You must have a first-rate mind.”

“I don’t think so,” Blair said slowly. “It’s just that I got a bit, well, obsessed. You’ve got something that I need. Something that I . . . want.”

“What do you want?” Kant asked, his face flaming red. “I can give you money.”

“I don’t want money,” Blair said comfortably. She reached for one of the fruit baskets, now resting on the coffee table. “Have an apple?”

He looked at her with troubled eyes, eyes that she now saw were a peculiar shade of green. “Are you mocking me?”

“Eve tempted Adam,” she said lightly. She slowly, teasinglypolished the apple on her breast. He watched her curiously. Blair slipped from her chair and knelt on the rug in front of him, her knees between his feet. She held the fruit up. “Have a bite?” she whispered.

Kant groaned. “Don’t,” he begged. “Please. I know I’m a freak.”

She put a hand on his thigh. “What was going on in the park?” she asked in a husky voice. “I’ve got to know. I’ve never been so—so turned on. And I admired you—” she stroked his thigh. “Well, I admired your—your handling of yourself.”

He gave her a miserable stare. “Please. Don’t touch me like that. I—look, sit back where you were, and I’ll tell you.”

And so Blair reluctantly got off her knees—I would have sucked him, fucked him, anything—to sit almost primly in the chair opposite Kant’s.

And he began to talk.

* * *

It had started, he said, with his mother’s death. He had been a toddler of four. Cancer, one of the nastiest kinds. His dad had been devastated. They lived in an old, rambling house that had belonged to Rick’s grandparents. It had fifteen rooms, and all sorts of nooks just meant for hiding. For a couple of years Rick’s dad raised him, and the two led lonely lives.

And then one day Rick’s dad had come home with a lady.

“She was a hooker, of course,” Rick told Blair. “I was six, what did I know? Dad told me to go and play in the yard, and after an hour or so, they came out and he drove her into town.”

There had been more, one a month. And of course the young Rick, consumed with curiosity, had found a way to spy on what his dad did on these occasions. He’d climbed a tree that gave an excellent vantage into his father’s bedroom. And he’d seen plenty.

“It screwed me up,” he confessed.

In high school, while he felt the normal masculine urges and admired the girls, he found himself incapable of making advances to them. “I couldn’t imagine, you know, touching them,” he admitted. “Only—only watching them do it with someone else. While I masturbated.”

And he’d found ways of doing that, too, spying on couples who thought themselves completely alone. He hated himself for it. He wished that he had the nerve to approach some of the girls, but he didn’t. And then one day he’d discovered something unique about himself, an ability that he’d never even guessed at.

“I was hiding in some bushes,” he told Blair. “A couple from school were screwing out in this remote picnic area. They were screened by brush, they were lying on a beach towel, really going at it, and I was . . . touching myself. And then I felt a terrible pain on my leg.”

He had crouched on a nest of fire ants. Desperate to get away, he had jumped right out into the open. The couple froze—

“I just said, ‘Don’t see me!’”

—and went back to screwing. Kant had slapped the ants off him. Convinced that the couple was showing him the ultimate disdain, showing him that he was nobody, he was nothing, he said bitterly, “You should fuck her tits!”

The couple stopped what they were doing. The girl unimpaled herself, giggled, and then mischievously pulled the guy up until his cock rested beneath her breasts. She pushed them together, kneading them around his rod, and said, “Fuck my tits!”

And the guy had started to do it. Kant, mesmerized, whispered, “Tell her you want to come on her face. You tell him it’s okay.”

“I wanna come on your face,” the boy gasped.

“Okay,” the girl cooed.

“Do it,” Kant had said.

The guy groaned, his dick jerked, and a jet of thick white goo hit the girl’s lips, cheek, and temple.

“Wipe it off,” Kant had told the girl. “Suck it off your fingers.”

And she had done so. . . .

* * *

“I don’t do it in the open much,” Kant said. “But that couple—I had seen them in the park, I kept thinking they’d be good to see, and so I worked on them.” He coughed. “I’ve practiced. I’ve learned. I’m good. Nobody can see us. Or they do but don’t register us.”

“Why did I see you, then?” Blair asked.

“I don’t know. You’re only the third person I’ve met who seems immune. One was a kid that I think was retarded. Another was the wisest man I’ve ever met, a ninety-year-old Tantrist monk in Nepal.”

“Have you—have you done another couple? Since the one in the park?”

Kant shook his head. “The shock when you found us was unsettling.” He looked away. “I’m disgusting.”

“No,” Blair said. “You’re exciting. Haven’t you ever slept with a woman?”

He shook his head again.

She stood up and reached for his hand. “Then it’s time,” she said.

His bedroom might have been a monastic cell: the twin bed, a table with a reading lamp, no other furniture. She stripped him. His cock, even in repose, was impressive, a thick curve of meat. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t even get it up.”

“Leave that to me,” she purred. She took off her clothes. “Like me?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Then just put yourself in my hands.”

She lay reversed to him on the narrow bed, stroking his flaccid cock. “So pretty,” she murmured. “So nice.” She leaned forward and started to run her tongue over the veined rod. “I like it,” she said. “I like it a lot.”

Rick’s breathing was shallow.

“Just imagine,” she said, breathing warm over the round head of his cock, “that you’re watching this. Just look at my round ass and my tits. Let yourself just look. Mmm.” She swirled her tongue over the helmet of his cock, feeling its smooth, springy surface. His dick twitched beneath her fingers. “Yeah, that’s right,” she said happily. “Let’s make it hard.”

She stroked his cock and sucked its tip, and nature began to take its course. She felt the shaft throb in her light grasp, felt the head engorge. She took her lips away from Rick’s cock. “You can finger my pussy if you’d like,” she murmured, opening her legs obligingly, showing him her wet pink slit. She sighed as she felt the flutter of his fingers on the tender inside of her thigh, then the brush of his fingertips against her welcoming labia.

She sucked him again. His cock rose to the occasion, became the memorable member she had glimpsed in the park. He was driving her crazy. He tasted wonderful, his precum slippery and salty under her tongue, and his tentative brushing of her clit had her wet and ready. She gasped, “I want you inside of me.”

He started to move, but she rose instead, her hand on his chest. “Let me,” she said. “You watch. Watch my tits. Do you like my tits? Watch ‘em and I’ll make ‘em move for you, lover.”

She had one hand on his shaft. She steadied it and sank onto it, moaning in pleasure as it filled her, deeper, better than the dildo she had used. “Ohh, that’s so good,” she cooed. “Fuck me, darling. Fuck me!”

She rode him, her tits bouncing with her efforts, and he arched his back, pumped his hips, and fucked her. “You’re doing it,” she assured him. “God, you’re a good fucker! Give it to me, fuck me deep, fuck me hard!”

She could tell he was on the edge. She was close, but not there yet, not there yet—

“Tell me I can come!” she gasped. “Oh, God, I need to come! Tell me to come, darling!”

“C-come!” he groaned. “Come for me now!”

And she did, she shuddered, and inside her at the same moment his wonderful dick throbbed and shot a scalding load of cum into her depths—

She screamed in sheer pleasure.

There was not room for both of them on the bed. They lay on the floor instead, on the shag carpet. “That was—wonderful,” he gasped.

“Yes,” Blair said. “It was, except—”

“Except? Didn’t I do it right?”

She patted his now-flaccid cock. “You were wonderful,” she said. “But I know I’d get off better if we did it while watching someone else.”

He shyly caressed her tit. “Really? You—you’d want to do that with me?”

“Is it disgusting?”

“No, I think it’s wonderful.”

“Pervert.”

He laughed. “So are you!”

She laughed, too. “Worn out?”

“I don’t know. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, this is Apartment 69. That’s my favorite number.”

“I like the way you think.”

She straddled him and bent her head, but before she took his cock into her mouth again, she said, “Lover, I’m gonna think up some great things.”

TO BE CONTINUED. . . .