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Trojan Horse

by Josh Whiteman

                “What exactly is a Trojan Horse?” I slurped through a cognac haze.

                “Well, they’re all around us. Very mysterious, very dangerous. You see, a Trojan Horse appears as one thing on the outside, yet its true nature, hidden on the inside, is very different indeed.”

                “And what does it have to do with the Internet?”

                “Normally, a Trojan Horse appears as one of those advertisements that pop up when you’re surfing…”

                Kate was a close friend of my daughter Jessica. She was a whiz at University so I hired her for my office to help out with what the young people called ‘IT’. She was the kind of nubile, bright-eyed young thing that old men can’t help but stare at, like a homeless person at a cake shop window. She was pretty, naïve, altogether perfect, and I always enjoyed our discussions after a hearty Sunday Night supper.

                “…So what happens is, the ad arrives on your screen and looks completely innocent. But inside is something far more sinister.” Maybe it was the cognac but I was filled with genuine concern.

                “Inside is a program that infiltrates your computer. It tracks the sites you go to on the net, how long you stay there, all of your patterns. Then it sends that information back to a bigger computer that creates a profile of your personality and sends you emails targeted directly to that profile. Stock options, job offers, junk mail. That’s why you have to clear your history and delete your cookies every day, so the Trojan Horse’s can’t read them’.

                “Cookies?” I asked, confused.

                She giggled innocently, obviously feeling pity at my ignorance. “Anyway, it’s all just technology. What I’m really into is politics.”

                “Politics?” I asked with interest. “Maybe you should start pursuing that as your career?”

                “Maybe” she said, like it was of no consequence one way or the other.  Then again, at that age, nothing is.

                The next day I was sitting at my desk, thinking about the previous evening’s conversation. The idea of someone profiling my personality had a strange attraction. For years I had simply accepted that I had no discernible personality. People who didn’t know me assumed that I was boring. People who did know me were in no doubt. Every single day I wore a grey suit, a blue tie and combed my hair in a style reminiscent of a 1950’s sitcom. All quite depressing really.

                Then a thought occurred to me. It was obvious that I was unsuccessful at creating my own individual personality, so why not let a computer do it for me?

                I decided to NOT clear my history and NOT erase my cookies. I would go about my daily work, surfing the Internet for international news, stock prices, gifts for my wife and eventually, enough information would accumulate to send the little Trojan Horses into overdrive. The emails would start arriving and I would finally know who I REALLY am, determined by the best technology available.

                The weeks passed and I tended to my normal business, the days blending into each other as they normally did. Kate would happily remind me to maintain my vigilance in clearing my history and deleting my cookies and I would happily reply that I was “on top of it”.

                Then, it happened. An email in my inbox from a person I had never heard of. Lisa 69 was her name, although you’d have to assume it was an alias. I opened the message and…

                ‘DO YOU WANT YOUR DICK SUCKED TONIGHT?’

                I nearly fell off my chair. Do I want my what sucked tonight? I panicked, immediately erased the email, then nervously looked around my large office to make sure no one had seen.

                That night, I went to bed early, afraid to make eye contact with my wife and daughter for fear that they might see IT written across my face. That I was offered oral sex over the Internet. Or worse still, that I actually might want it.

                The next morning, I slipped into work early, beating even my over-ambitious secretary to the office. I sat at my desk and looked nervously at my computer. There was nothing to do but dive in the deep end. I mean, how bad could it really be?

                “You Have 34 New Messages” my inbox proudly announced. I looked on in horror as they unrolled down my screen;

                ‘Do You Want To Cum On My Tits?’

                ‘Feel Like A Beating Naughty Boy?’

                ‘Her Dripping Lips Can’t Wait To Wrap Themselves Around Your…’

                Shocked? Shocked is not the word for it. My Gosh, I was disgusted!

                Then it hit me. I’m a pervert. The best technology available has taken all of the information available and decided that I’m a pervert. A cold sweat broke out over my worried face. How could this happen? And to a man in my position? I’m important. I’m reliable. And above all else, I’m Conservative with a capital C.

                My anxiety attack worsened until something took my attention. At the bottom of the screen, the last message on the list…

                “Do You Like To Have Your Leather Clad Butt Slapped While Fucking Young Girls?”

                I had never really thought of it. I guess it had never come up in general conversation…

                “Dear, do you want a banana with your All Bran? Oh and by the way, do you like to have you leather clad butt slapped while fucking young girls?”

                But now that I thought about it, the answer was… yes, and not just to the banana. I think I would like to wear leather and have my butt slapped while fucking young girls. Yes, I most definitely would.

                So, filled with terrible guilt, I clicked on the message and waited for the it to fill my screen. What I got was a fifty-year-old man dressed in a leather Gimp suit, being whipped by a naked blonde Girl Guide in Lederhosen.

                Strange, but strangely titillating at the same time. I began to wonder what a leather Gimp suit would cost. Probably better to start slowly though. Maybe a G-string, just to get the ball rolling.

                Later that day, I was stuck in a mind-numbing meeting regarding a set of figures that I had no idea about, when my mind began to wander. I thought about the man in the photo. I wondered what it would be like to BE him, my arse red from whipping…

                “Your thoughts Boss?” came the call from the other end of the table. I quickly back peddled. “Those figures sound about right Johnson”.

                “It’s Bradworth sir”.

                “Of course it is.”

                I couldn’t get to the adult supermarket quickly enough. I borrowed one of the cars from work, put on some sunglasses and wore an extremely ugly baseball cap given to me by an American friend so as not to be recognised.

                Once inside, I prowled the aisles, searching for that perfect little something. A g-string was quickly followed by full briefs, a studded vest, a dog choker, three whips of differing size and a mask with zippers over the mouth and eyes.

                The sales assistant didn’t blink an eye when I arrived at the checkout, even having the audacity to ask whether I wanted to pay with cash or card. I assured him cash was the most convenient option and waited impatiently while he scanned each item. The trench-coat clad man in the next lane gave me a suspicious look and for a moment I thought I had been recognised, but he then gave every other person in the line a suspicious look and I relaxed.

                Upon arriving back at work, I stashed the purchases in my desk and decided to sleep on my office couch, thereby avoiding the suspicious stares of my wife and daughter at home.

                Work the next day was a joy. Dressed on the outside in my usual grey suit and blue tie, I was indeed hiding a dark and delicious secret underneath. The feel of the leather against my skin was exhilarating and it soon became too much to bear.

                I excused myself from an important trade meeting and retired to my office, instructing my secretary to hold all calls and not disturb me for any reason.

                Once inside, I accessed my email and began to scan through the dreadfully enchanting smut that was now being sent to me on a regular basis. I ran my hands over the soft leather, surprised every now and then by a spike catching on my fingers. Soon I was so aroused that I had no choice but to pleasure myself, reaching climax in record time. I felt a bizarre mix of contentment and shame, but was certain that nothing would stop me now.

                These… indiscretions carried on daily for the next two or three weeks. The emails doubled, then tripled in volume, gradually becoming more and more explicit in nature.

                I grew increasingly bold, sometimes pleasuring myself to the sight of Russian Lesbian sites just minutes before a significant meeting with visiting dignitaries. They would smile politely as I served them biscuits and tea, unsuspecting that their esteemed host was wearing leather chaps and a chrome cock ring underneath his Hugo Boss Single Breasted. But it was never enough.

                More trips to the adult supermarket. New discoveries in what was an increasingly amazing world of perversity; Pregnant Teens On Heat, Naked Cheerleaders, Urine Drenched Exhibitionist Fetishists, all sent to me personally based on my profile, created by the best technology available.

                Of course there was the danger that I would be caught, but that threat soon became part of the excitement. I would leave my office door slightly open while I sat at my desk, masturbating into a battery operated synthetic vagina. I would moan loudly at climax, explaining later to my secretary that I had received a particularly nasty paper cut.

                Of course I had quiet moments, where I would wonder whether I liked the new me. But the fact remained that I couldn’t stop, and up to this point, I had gotten away with it all.

                Until one day, when ‘it all’ came crashing down.

                I arrived back from lunch, keen to get some research done for the big meeting I had scheduled that afternoon. As usual, my thoughts quickly turned from work to the next thrill I would find in my daily pile of emails. I sat back and unbuttoned my shirt, running my hands over nipple clamps attached to a leather corset. I opened my inbox and took my cock in my hand, ready for the latest batch of filth designed specifically for my own brand of perversion.

                “You’ve been a naughty boy haven’t you?”

                I jumped in fright, causing one of the nipple rings to painfully snap off and fly half-way across my office.

                Turning in panic, I found young, innocent Kate emerging from my ensuite bathroom. As I sat frozen in a combination of embarrassment and fear, she gave me a wicked smile that immediately told me she knew everything.

                “How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

                “Long enough, I guess.”

                I took a deep breath and braced myself, ready for the tirade. But young, innocent Kate did something completely unexpected. She turned and bent over, her short skirt riding up to reveal that she was indeed wearing no underwear.

                My pulse truly began to race as she ran her hands over her soft, smooth behind, then stood back up and walked towards me, suggestively licking her lips.

                “I have a very important meeting in five minutes so maybe now is not the best…”

                “Cancel it” she demanded. Arriving between my legs, she ran her hands over my leather corset, sending a shiver down my spine the likes of which I had never before experienced.

                “Stand up” she said, so I quickly did what I was told, lost in the moment. She draped herself over my leather chair and again lifted her skirt. I didn’t hesitate in taking her from behind, running my hands over her beautiful back,  grunting like a primal beast.

                “You know something?” she panted between thrusts, “I’ve been watching your movements on the Net pretty closely now for the last couple of months. To be honest,  I‘ve been absolutely disgusted at what I’ve seen.” 

                “You were watching me?” I asked.

                She laughed. “Watching you? You’re on a secure server that can’t receive porn from an exterior source. I was the one who sent you all the emails. ”

                “What?”

                “It would be devastating if news of your little hobby ever got out, don’t you think?”

                My world suddenly droned into slow motion and everything became appallingly clear. Although physically unable to stop myself from thrusting away, I was completely horrified as the implications of this single moment in time ran through my head. Newspaper articles, television stories, the inevitable sacking, divorce, eternal shame for myself and my family.

                “Excuse me sir?” filled the office as my intercom sprang to life. I ignored it, caught in my own little nightmare, but my secretary was insistent.

                “Sir? Hello, are you there?”

                I leaned over and hit the button, never missing a beat as Kate continued to moan away in pleasure.

                “What is it Marjorie?” I managed. 

                “Sir, they’re ready for you at the Press conference.”

                “Tell them to wait five minutes would you Marjorie?”

                “Yes Sir.”

                And so, as I banged away at my daughter’s best friend, resident office computer whiz and expert blackmailer, I resorted to the only kind of conflict resolution suitable in such a situation.

                “Perhaps there’s a way we could work this out?”

                “I thought you’d say that.” Kate turned and gave me a fiendish grin. “I think I would like to be an Assistant to the Ambassador to the United Nations. Yes, I would like that very much.”

                “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

                “Then we have no problem, do we Mr. Prime Minister?”

                “Right, no problem, oh… God…”

                With renewed gusto, I came intensely, my loud moaning reverberating off the sculptures at the back of my office, given to me by the President of Indonesia.

                Kate stood up, adjusted her skirt and was once again transformed into the innocent ingénue I had always known.

                “See you on Sunday night for dinner, Mr. Prime Minister” she said, giggling as she skipped out of my office.

                “Yes, see you then” I mumbled to myself as she disappeared down the hall.

                I fully expected a dreadful ball of sickness to form in the pit of my stomach, a mound of guilt that would consume me. But it never came.

                Instead, I was strangely at peace. Maybe even complete.

                In the warm afterglow of animal sex, I walked to my press conference on Internet censorship and thought about my new personality. I decided that I actually liked it very much. Very much indeed. It was truly a gift… from a Trojan Horse.!