The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

View Through a Window

There’s an old movie about a guy who’s sick, can’t go out of his room for some reason, and he spends all his time looking through the window, hoping for something interesting to happen just so he won’t be so completely bored. It being a story, and a suspense story if I remember right, something does happen, and his life’s suddenly full of more drama than he could ever have imagined.

But this is the real world, not some old novel, or movie, or whichever came first. Looking out of my apartment window would show me nothing but an empty alleyway, and if I lean over the desk, a little sliver of the main street. Canny shoppers, getting their Christmas presents in before the rush starts in September, and the long-suffering City Council men in their puke-green uniforms, the thin green line that’s all that stands between our fair city any an apocalyptic swell of litter. Occasionally a young woman sitting on one of the roadside benches, staring off into space or quietly masturbating. Maybe old women, too, not that you can tell the difference any more. The feminists said its discriminatory for the Visors to only work on women, and the men’s rights brigades said pretty much the same thing, but if you follow the view from my window, there’s nothing like equality in the world any more, and it’s hard to know who got the worse end of that little deal with the devil.

Three years ago now, the Visors appeared. The electronics in them is complex, but the components are cheap enough and easy to obtain. The magic’s in the programming, my speciality as it happened, so I earned enough money to get this comfortable place paid for up front. I’d never have to work again, or go anywhere, if I didn’t want to. I made some of the sequencing code behind the OpenVisor chi-rhythm system. But even I don’t know where the chi-lambda equations came from. I know how to use them, probably better than anyone else in the world, but my employers over the last few years never told me where that peculiar bit of maths came from. The equation that can change your brainwaves in a few minutes, and somehow make you immune to disease, stronger and smarter, age slower or even get younger, and not need to sleep. People are amazed when they hear that I worked on it, but it’s as much an obscure miracle to me as it is to anyone else.

When I tell people, they always ask one of the same few questions. Women want to know if I’m some kind of pervert; why the Visor has to program their subconscious minds to make them insatiable nymphomaniacs. I’ll admit to being a pervert, but I had no hand in that one. It’s almost like whatever benevolent god placed this ability in the human brain, or whatever genius came up with that mysterious equation to unlock the easter egg, has a real sense of humour. They can be the smartest person in the world, and live two or three times as long, but then they spend more than half that time unable to think of anything beyond a desperate need for sex. A woman with insight, wisdom, and eternal youth enough to snare any Mister Right ends up controlled by hormones telling her that Right Now is all that matters; and all the wasted time they’ve saved by cutting out sleep and sick days just turns into wasted time indulging in sex (casual, solo, or whatever is convenient) for eight hours every day.

The other question they ask is whether I’ve got a Visor of my own. Well, of course not. It’s not me who decided it only works on women. That just seems to be one of the rules, and even with all my programming skills, I know nothing about the part of the process between those blinking lights and your brain.

My mind jumped back to the present as I saw a woman sit down, one eye twitching nervously as she looked around, checking that nobody’s watching before she takes out her Visor. This one is simple and discreet, a black band two inches wide, only broken by indentations in the bottom edge to rest comfortably on her ears and nose. The electronics is inside the band itself, but even so it’s barely a quarter inch thick in the centre. The faintest blur of coloured light was visible around the edges of the black strip, illuminating her features, but I couldn’t see the mesmerising swirls or hear the strange warbling tones from here.

I glanced out of my window for a moment, on the off chance anything interesting was happening down there in the city, but as always it was quiet. The action these days, the interesting dilemmas, were through a different window altogether. This one on my computer screen, a single 21-inch display among a video wall of 17. I may not have been responsible for any of the disturbing, sadistic, and perverse quirks that everybody deplored when the first Visors had hit the market, but I’m no saint. I wasn’t above installing my own backdoor in the software women could use to change the intensity or duration of their spiral sessions, or select a slight variation of the programme to carry a different balance between the available benefits. My algorithm quickly identified those customers who were in the habit of sitting in front of their computers while their brains were coloured in by the Visor, and when I wasn’t actually working most of my screens cycled through live feeds from those who were active right now.

The woman who’d caught my attention today was in the bottom left window on monitor 1, right in the centre of my desk. She looked about 21, though the customer profile she’d filled in said 35. She must have been a pretty heavy user to have such smooth, almond-coloured skin, sparkling green eyes, and a gentle smile that didn’t lead to any trace of laughter lines. She was slim but not emaciated, and her flat stomach showed the shape of toned muscle. Her fingers were graceful as she adjusted the Visor, and I could make out intricate designs in lilac and indigo painted on each inch-long fingernail, though her webcam wasn’t a high enough resolution to show me what the tiny paintings were of. She was wearing a white tank top and tight denim shorts that left her thighs on full display, barely two inches of faded blue fabric above her hips. As I watched, her mouth gaped open to reveal a row of perfect white teeth, and her legs moved gently apart without any conscious prompting. She was asleep now, if you wanted to think of it like that, though the neurologists always insisted that being ‘coloured in’ was very, very different from normal sleep.

I wasn’t too interested in watching women sleep, though. I’m not some kind of pervert – or at least, I’m not that kind of sick pervert. My interest is more in the sleepwalking. I pulled up the control panel for her system and confirmed that just like every other user, and completely against the guidelines in the manual they never read, she had her Visor in fast sync mode. The programme of lights, swirls, colours and auditory pulses being pumped into her brain was being generated on her computer and being relayed to the headset in real time. Perfect, if you wanted to change the programme while it was running. I looked at her selections, calling up the list on my phone’s screen so I didn’t have to look away from the enthralling video for more than a moment. She wanted to enlarge her breasts from a C to DD, which made me smile. It was my friend Melvyn who’d figured out that should be possible, and suggested I experiment with the parts of the formula that seemed to deal with hormonal adjustment. I still felt a tiny glow of pride every time I saw the results of such a transformation, though this young lady had only been on that path a few weeks, and such a fundamental change in physical makeup would probably take at least a couple of months to come to fruition. One of her longer standing adjustments was healthier skin, which led me to suspect she’d sunbathed a little more than was healthy in her youth and come to regret the long-term effects. The tan she’d chosen gave more weight to that suspicion. She’d also set the programme to change her hair from glossy, auburn curls to a straight blue-white. That had never worked for anyone, and I continued to believe that it never would work, no matter how many new, more complex sub-options they added to it in each successive version of the software.

I didn’t know why she’d want to change it anyway. Her hair was beautiful, and perfectly framed her heart shaped face. I could just imagine looping those curls around my fingers to maneuver her head where I wanted it. And thinking of that, I tapped the icon to add one more adjustment to the strobing flashes of colour that were currently rewriting her self-image.

Arousal=7/10. Sequence of Instructions begins « Flat 37, Park Hall, 7 Newbridge Avenue I typed. Horny. Need. Itch→Naked

This girl – Amy, the customer data sheet said – gasped a little as her mind began to take in the new pattern I was giving her. As usual, I felt a little uncomfortable. It felt like some kind of abuse, but I pacified my subconscious by remembering that I’d given her the fountain of youth, and cured her of whatever ailments she might have suffered to get a Visor on prescription. I deserved something back, and if she’d ever bothered to read the license agreement she’d know that she had already consented to this treatment on page 27 of the contract.

My thumb tapped the button again, and the keyboard appeared in the corner of my phone’s screen. Arrive. Arousal=9/10. Strip. Obedient. Compliant. Arousal=15/10. Obey. Dismissal→Return home. Arousal=8/10. Masturbate. Orgasm=Forget sequence. » Accept sequence of instruction. Obey. Orgasm. Obey now.

Amy twitched, I could see her head roll back and her mouth open wide as she came. Not limp any more, her whole body writhed. I could see her feet come into the camera’s field of vision for just a moment, clad in uncharacteristically cute ankle socks bearing the face of a popular cartoon character. I’d have to do something about that later, I liked my girls to arrive barefoot. I couldn’t hear her scream of bliss, either, though from her expression I was sure all the neighbours would have. I guess her computer didn’t have a microphone hooked up, but that wasn’t too much of a loss. I could imagine it, but I wouldn’t have to imagine for long.

She stood up and picked her visor from the floor, hanging it on the coat rack like she must have done a hundred times before. A true addict this one, but if her fix kept her young and healthy, who was I to judge? Her skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat. The top was damp, and clung to the curve of her breasts. Her shorts were soaked, but she didn’t seem to care. She threw a bag over her shoulder and slipped her feet into thin-strapped sandals, a normal routine for leaving the house, followed through force of habit. She was acting completely on autopilot now, and didn’t realise there was anything unusual at the actions she was following on instinct. The unthinking way she drifted around the room did remind me of a sleepwalker, and I’m not embarrassed to admit that’s something I find very enticing. My little perversion, so unusual and yet so tame, compared to the things we all took for granted now that so many women had chosen to become our immortal, majestic, perfect, desperately obedient sex-slaves.

I could imagine her striding through the streets, the residual chi-rhythms in her brain changing hormones and metabolic levels to dispel the winter chill. Visor users didn’t feel the cold, but their increased sensual acuity often led to an uncomfortable itch wherever clothing touched their skin. I’d known Amy was a long term user even before I opened her file, simply from her choice to wear the absolute minimum of clothing acceptable in society. She would have stripped before sitting down, if she hadn’t been so desperate for a fix right now. Without an expert hand to tweak her programmes, she’d probably be reduced to carrying a portable Visor with her, colouring her mind over her lunch break, and then at every comfort break, in the park on the way home, until she had no will to resist any addictive or carnal urge. Lucky for her she’d been saved, been lucky enough to come up on my screen.

As she came ever closer, that relaxed drowsiness must be giving way to a craving, an aching need to come here, to strip for me, and to obey whatever I told her. She could see it coming, and that just made her more excited. Every breath of anticipation would be deeper than the last, linking obedience with pleasure so deeply in her brain that even thinking of obeying would thrum through her nerves like an all-day, whole-body orgasm. I continued to watch her room, an empty flat. I wondered who had bought her that red scarf hanging by the door, a decadent luxury item quite at odds with the conservative decor. A generous aunt, maybe, or a former lover? And who was the girl beside her in a framed photo on the wall, smiling in front of a college building. I wondered what she might have studied, and how she had seemed to her friends before she traded hard work and training for the Visor’s quick fix.

Maybe it was a voyeuristic thrill, but I didn’t see it like that. When I looked into their homes, more often than not I saw musical instruments, canvases, or sports equipment coated with a fine layer of dust. Not because they didn’t have time to clean, or didn’t have motivation.Those were problems that the Visor user never had to worry about. But they simply didn’t care about those items, had no use for their old hobbies. The Visor was their source of entertainment now, sex their recreation. Nothing else could compare to that ecstatic thrill, and their former lives seemed to be buried and neglected. I was saddened by that, because I could always imagine just how interesting these beauties would have been with a wide range of hobbies, and new things to show me.

Now, I looked into their lives through the window my computer provided, and made a mental note of the clues I saw. I wondered about who they had been, and sometimes checked the computer records to see the truth, simply because the chance of anyone else caring was beyond remote. I wanted to remember who they had been, and remember what our society had lost through our mutual obsession with looking perfect, and my greed for the paycheck when I hadn’t even taken time to understand what I was working on.

Amy’s lust would be unbearable now, but my curiosity remained unsated still. I looked through my window into her life, just looking around the room for what mementoes she had once thought worth preserving. There were two diplomas on the wall, which momentarily caught my attention. The first was a doctorate in ancient history. She had been an archæologist once, and travelled all over the world to explore lost ruins. A noble profession, but many less modern cultures wouldn’t allow the Visor within their borders. She had probably lost that job as soon as they found out. The other diploma turned out to be no college relic after all, but certification as an Alpine Ski Instructor. This girl had so many hidden depths, it was astounding, and for a moment I was dumbstruck at the thought that nobody else would see this side of her again. Could I possibly set her back on the path to her old life? It never seemed to work, no matter how hard I tried to save these addicts. Maybe because on some level, they didn’t want to escape. Who could know what lies in the deepest crevices of the human psyche, until you’ve tried it for yourself and been there.

Then my attention was caught by something else, a newspaper clipping wedged behind the diploma where it hung on the wall. It must have been taped to the back of the frame, and had worked itself loose with every little traffic vibration until one corner was legible even through the tiny webcam’s lens.

“–es linked to Visor deaths”

My eyebrow jolted upwards involuntarily. Even the conspiracy theorists who occupied most of the Internet hadn’t claimed Visor-related death. They were all about declining morals, and mind control. They were crazy (and right, but only through chance), but they at least were usually consistent. I wondered where that clipping had come from, and why I hadn’t seen it. Why the legal team at Barcode Corp hasn’t been in a frenzy, why they hadn’t asked me to debunk some crazy tabloid rumour.

There was a knock at the door. Amy, of course.

“Come in, it’s open!” I called over the intercom.

“I’ve come to…” she gasped, realising she didn’t know why she was here, before she couldn’t resist the itching and scratching from her clothes any more and tore them off where she stood. I rose to meet her and she rushed forward to press her naked body against mine. As she sat in my lap, though, I couldn’t stop wondering about that newspaper clipping. Where it had come from, and what it had meant to a woman as talented as Doctor Amy Mellishaw. As I used her, and as I gave her what she wanted, and as I tried to save her, the questions wouldn’t stop darting around in my mind. I had to ask her, I knew, and I had to find the truth behind that report.

But not tonight. Tonight was all about Amy, and the path that led from the genius she had once been to the perfection she might become with my expert help.