Ciaran had, of course, installed a small camera in the office Alison was to occupy, and he was therefore able to see everything that she did – or rather, didn’t do – for the rest of the day.
He watched from the comfort of his own office as she entered the small room on the third floor of the building, placed her bundle of documents on the desk, and sat down.
The seat was of the same variety as the one in Ciaran’s office. Alison grimaced as she felt her ass slide forward on the chair, pulled by gravity, and arrested only by the uncomfortable moulded bumps that pressed against her pussy and anus.
He watched as she tried several different ways of sitting, unable to find any way of using the chair that didn’t rest her weight on her cunt. She briefly tried moving the chair away and kneeling in front of the desk – and although she looked *very* good on her knees, she was just too short and the desk too high, so in the end she resigned herself to sitting in the cruel “ergonomic” chair.
Thus ensconced, she started her computer. She stared at the screen as it booted, fiddled with the mouse – and then looked at her watch.
There was a bright pink flash from the face of her watch. Then another.
Alison stared at her watch. It flashed again. And again.
Time passed. Nothing happened. Alison stared blankly at her wrist.
Then, suddenly Alison blinked, and went back to her work. She turned to the computer and opened her email. She diverted her attention to her folder of papers, and took out some documents. Then she looked back at her watch – and it flashed again. And again.
Alison gazed at it, dreamily, for nearly ten minutes. Her body slumped slightly, letting even more of her weight rest on her cunt. Ciaran could see her lips twitch, as if she were repeating words to herself quietly.
Finally, she jerked, shook her head, and returned to her work, apparently unaware of her daze.
Ciaran grinned in satisfaction. This was the program he had uploaded to her watch – the outdated, insecure “Q-Star” brand that she insisted on wearing. The flashes were hypnotic – designed to trigger light-sensitive parts of the brain, causing something like a minor epileptic seizure, interrupting the link between the conscious mind and the subconscious.
The video didn’t show the face of the Q-Star, and so Ciaran didn’t need to see the words and images that were unspooling themselves across the small screen as Alison stared at her wrist. Nor did it carry sound, so there was no hint of the barely-perceptible white noise blasting at sub-audible frequencies from the watch’s speakers – noise that carried words and ideas. When fully conscious and awake, Alison couldn’t even hear them – but with each pink flash, a crack opened in her mind, letting Ciaran’s poisonous ideas inside.
There were two key sets of ideas contained in the hypnotic material. The first was designed to increase Alison’s level of self-doubt and insecurity, and it was made up of constant variations on six central phrases:
i) “Dumb big-titted baby.”
ii) “Perverted little slut.”
iii) “You can’t do it.”
iv) “You need a man.”
v) “Girls deserve rape.”
vi) “Pleasing men feels good.”
The second set of ideas was a simple erotic fixation. Whatever Alison was looking at and thinking about as the flashes opened up her mind would slowly become the center of a powerful sexual obsession.
And what Alison was looking at and thinking about at work, all day, every day, was the sexual harassment and rape of women.
Ciaran waited until the next series of flashes from the watch. As Alison spaced out again, he sent her an email. He watched on the video as the “ding” of the message in her inbox momentarily woke Alison from her trance. She opened her email, looked at his message – and then her Q-Star flashed again, and she once again went blank.
The email was one she had requested from him. It was the full account of the incident that had prompted the firm to hire Alison in the first place. It was a very graphic, visceral account of the blackmail and repeated rape of a young woman – and now Alison was staring at it, in a hypnotic trance, as the white noise whispered in her brain that what she was looking at was deeply, powerfully arousing.
Alison’s eyes had stopped blinking. Her mouth was open slightly, in a pout that Ciaran found intensely erotic. Her cheeks were flushed and there was colour in her neck. He could see the hard buds of her nipples poking against the fabric of her blouse (which had by now, sadly, dried).
She was reading about the real-life violation of a woman, and she was becoming sexually aroused. If she had realised what she was doing, she would have been wracked with guilt and shame – but she just kept staring.
After a while, her left hand crept to her breast, and began to tease her nipple through the fabric. She was breathing heavily. Her right hand was on the mouse, still scrolling through the vivid account of a young woman’s rape.
Then she started to bounce – a small, almost unconscious movement, but one clearly designed to push the moulded bumps in the chair harder into her fuckhole and ass. She squeaked a little on each bounce – just quietly, which made it all the more adorably pathetic.
He watched her reach down and pull her business skirt up to her waist, bunching it at her hips so it wouldn’t get between the moulding of the chair and her eager holes. He watched her hand return to her tit, squeezing it – hard enough to hurt – as she hunched forward toward the computer.
And then, just like that, she orgasmed. Her body shook, and shuddered, and twitched, and then it was done. She had cum. She had cum from reading about a girl being raped – a violation that she had been specifically hired to prevent.
As she slowly descended from the erotic height of the orgasm, and the chemicals of arousal flushed out of her system, a delightfully erotic expression appeared on her face – or at least, erotic to Ciaran. It was an expression of pure horror and shame. It was the knowledge of what she had just done – that her very first act in a new workplace had been to masturbate to orgasm in her office while reading about a rape.
She looked like she wanted to throw up. She looked like she wanted to slap herself in the face. She looked like she wanted to run home and hide and never come back.
She might have actually done that last – the shame on her face was so overpowering – except that she made the mistake of looking at her watch, and when she did, it flashed pink.
Her eyes went blank. He watched her lips move. He could see what she was saying, now.
“Dumb big-titted baby. Perverted little slut. Girls deserve rape.”
And, slowly, in a trance, Alison turned back to the screen. As if moving in a dream, she scrolled the email all the way back to the top, and began to read it again.
And after a while, she started to moan, and bounce, and squeeze her tit.
There was a lot of reading for Alison to do. And she had all day to do it.
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