Note: This story was writen in 2001, so the AI aspects are prescient but now seem dated.
A lazy Saturday afternoon. October, 2017. Jason sat on his couch, grateful for the two day respite from work. He was surfing the net, watching the images stream across the wall sized screen in his apartment. He contented himself with pointing and clicking at his favorite bookmarks with the remote. He didn't feel like talking to Ariel, the AI assistant that kept track of the apartment's intranet of macro, micro, and nano-sized computers. Ariel could have done the net surfing for him in response to voice commands, but Jason had grown up back in the Seventies and Eighties, before such things were possible. Using the point and click method brought him back to the golden age of his youth, when all he did was wield the remote to watch re-runs of Star Trek, Charlies's Angels, Battlestar Galactica, the Six Million Dollar Man, and Wonder Woman.
At the moment he sat in a semi-trance, while on the wall screen Captain Picard and Commander Data had their usual conversation about the meaning of humanity. Jason's younger co-workers never understood his fascination with pre-millennial television. But he didn't particularly care.
Then Jason noticed that a little line of text had appeared in the upper right hand corner of the screen. It was from his AI. It said: Adobe Movie Generator 7.0 now available for download.
Oh, that's right, Jason thought. He had completely forgotten that the new version of Movie Generator was coming out this weekend. It was supposed to be dramatically improved over the old edition. He pressed a button on the remote to enable the AI's voice interaction feature. Sometimes talking was the easier thing to do, he had to admit.
"Ariel," Jason said, "how much would it cost to download the new Movie Generator software?"
The AI scanned Adobe's Internet site in less than a heartbeat and came back with the answer, its voice pleasingly feminine: "Thirteen hundred eleven dollars and twenty one cents, after appropriate taxes and other fees."
Oh, God. That was pretty steep. Jason wasn't sure he could afford it before his next paycheck.
He posed another question to the AI. "Ariel, if I buy this thing, can it be configured so that you would do most of the work of generating a movie?"
"Yes," she said, "I could construct movie with only general verbal guidelines from you. If you didn't like it I could make modifications."
What the hell, Jason thought. It's the weekend and I'm bored. "Alright, Ariel, download it for me and then install it, if you would."
After about thirty seconds, Ariel reported: "Adobe Movie Generator 7.0 now available."
Jason had always known exactly what he would do when he bought this particular software package. Time to explore a little fetish of his that he'd managed to keep hidden -- with the aid of some expensive privacy protection software.
"Ariel, I'd like to build a short scene based on the Lynda Carter Wonder Woman TV series. Do you think I have enough stock footage in storage to do that?"
"Yes, I'm sure you do," said the AI with a hint of mischief. Jason knew they didn't really have emotions ' yet -- but the effect was still something he'd never gotten used to. He pressed the button on the remote that disabled the AI's voice transmission feature. He could still speak to her, but she would respond with text instead of voice. He would feel too uncomfortable having a conversation, given what he was about to do.
"Okay, then," Jason said. "I also want you to draw on my collection of chloroform fetish videos in making this scene. They're, uh, going to come in handy for source material, I think."
He paused, thinking it over. What kind of scene to build? Just something quick and easy to start with. Stick to testing the software, see how good it is.
"Okay, I want a scene where Wonder Woman is walking down a dark alley, looking for a back entrance to a building, let's say. A criminal is hiding in the shadows nearby but she doesn't see him, then he jumps her from behind and chloroforms her into unconsciousness. I want Wonder Woman dressed in the costume used during the CBS seasons. The skimpy one. Oh, and throw in a little element of sexuality, too. Have the bad guy do a little breast fondling. Does all of that sound doable?"
Text on the screen: Yes.
"Okay, run the program."
Nothing happened for about five minutes; the screen just displayed the Adobe corporate logo. It seemed like forever. Jason sat on the couch the whole time, his heart beating faster with anticipation. Erection straining against his pants.
Then the screen came to life. There was a youthful Lynda Carter in her spectacular Wonder Woman outfit, sleek and shiny, displaying her voluptuous, breath-taking body in all its glory. Mountainous, mouth-watering breasts jiggling as she walked, shoulders bare, long silky legs striding gracefully, high-heel boots clacking against concrete. The mighty Wonder Woman moving confidently through a shadowed alley, her expression resolute, determined.
The overall effect was stunning. The program generated the footage artificially, but it looked exactly like the "Wonder Woman" show produced in the 1970s. As if he'd found a long lost episode.
So Jason watched in perspiring fascination as Lynda Carter's ageless, 1970s version of Wonder Woman lived again on the screen. On the prowl for thugs and henchmen, not knowing that this all-new edition of the show would have a very different outcome.
The camera angle switched to the stalker's point of view, the audience looking through his eyes, observing the magnificent Wonder Woman from behind. Her costume gleaming in the murky night. An undercurrent of ominous music began to play as the stalker moved closer to the unsuspecting crimefighter.
The camera returned to Wonder Woman, who found what she'd sought. A large steel door. She stood in front of it, hands on hips, lips pursed, a classic Lynda Carter pose from the CBS series.
Stalker's POV. Moving behind her, closer. The dark music starts to build in intensity, informing the audience unmistakably that this time the invincible Wonder Woman is in dire peril, all the more so because she doesn't even know it.
Wonder Woman sees something on the ground, her expression growing quizzical. It's an envelope, lying just in front of the doorway. Writing on the front in jagged scrawl says: FOR WONDER WOMAN.
Cut to the stalker's POV. He pulls a white, folded handkerchief and a brown bottle from his jacket. Starts dousing the handkerchief with liquid from the bottle. He has Wonder Woman in his sights. Moving closer, closer. Music mounting in intensity, deep throbbing tones of menace.
Wonder Woman squats down to grab the envelope, opens it while resting on her heels. Pulls out the sheet of paper. In the same jagged scrawl it says: "SWEET DREAMS." The music builds to a pulsating, pounding climax. Wonder Woman's expression is quizzical. The audience can see the stalker, clad in black body suit and ski-mask, kneeling silently behind her.
The trap is sprung. Background music exploding as he wraps one arm around the heroine's chest, pinning her arms at her sides while the other presses the cloth over her mouth and nose. The camera records Wonder Woman's expression of bewilderment and shock. She "oomphs" in surprise, eyes wide, the stalker holding her arms pinned while he presses her body against his chest. He manhandles his curvaceous victim, wrenching her body to the side, trying to keep her from gaining any leverage. Wonder Woman sheds her paralyzed surprise enough to start straining and squirming in her attacker's grip, moaning into the handkerchief. Her struggles have no effect. She's already too weak.
Jason is transfixed. After all these years of fantasizing, decades and decades, he's watching Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman, being subdued by the all powerful cloth.
She writhes and strains in her attacker's embrace, chest heaving, hips bucking. But it's no use. The camera shows the hoodlum's eyes narrowing as he presses home the assault. The view switches to Wonder Woman's face, mouth and nose under the suffocating wad of anesthetic, her eyelids starting to sink. Expression pleading, desperate.
A medium shot of Wonder Woman's magnificent Amazon physique, sprawled awkward on the ground in the stranger's grip, torso writhing, her legs plowing feebly, arms pinned to her side as they grasp at nothing.
Close-up on the attacker's face as he speaks to his captive in a heavy Russian accent: "Breathe deeply, Wonder Woman. Let the chloroform give you peace."
Music on a downward slide, camera on Wonder Woman's face. Her moans growing soft, eyelids fluttering, expression becoming a vacant stare.
View switches to the medium shot again, Wonder Woman in the thug's arms, her squirming subsides, arms going limp, gyration of her sensual legs slows, slows and stops. A long moan from the shapely heroine fades to a sigh, her head twitches a couple of times, the sigh drifting away. Then she goes limp.
Close-up on her lovely face as she surrenders to the fumes, eyes still open just barely but they roll upwards for a long moment. And then close.
For the first time in more than forty years, TV's Wonder Woman has been chloroformed. She's out cold. Helpless.
Music fades out, leaving only the sound of the stalker's heavy breathing.
The camera pulls slowly away from Wonder Woman's face, the angle widening to show her inert form still wrapped in the enemy's muscle-bound clutches. The thug lets his handkerchief fall to the ground, releasing the heroine's head to roll loosely onto her shoulder. Her jaws slack, lips parted. The man surveys his prize, drawing long, deep breaths as the camera switches to an extreme close-up of the eagle's golden wings over her bulging cleavage, then moves slowly down to the gleaming fabric of scarlet red and star spangled blue. The drugged beauty lies still, lost in anesthetic slumber.
Switch to a new close-up: the eyes behind the ski-mask of Wonder Woman's captor. They're wide and trembling. Wild.
He reaches behind the crusader's back, searching for the zipper of her costume. He finds it and tugs roughly downward, breathing getting rapid. His hand slips inside the opened garb, fingers pressing against flesh. They move around her body without resistance. Slide along underneath the costume, enfolding the soft flesh of her massive breast. Sinking into the succulent, enormous mound. Tremulous groan of pleasure from the ruffian as he squeezes and massages at will.
It's right there on the screen of Jason's apartment. Crisp and clear, larger than life. Not a fantasy in his head any more. Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman, unconscious and molested.
The lecherous thug props his limp plaything up against his chest, slipping another hand inside her costume. Groping both of her breasts as she slumps against him. He paws hungrily. Like an animal. Working himself into a growing frenzy, the costume loose and askew on his victim's body'
And then the scene fades out.
Jason sat on the couch, sweating and quivering with lust. He held back the urge to relieve his desire. That would wait until he'd designed another scene. Longer. More intense.
He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling and closing his eyes. When he looked at the screen again the text from the AI said: Ready for a second run.
What would we ever do, he thought, without technology?