The masturbation frequency dropped too. Used to be four, five, six times a day.
Now it's once. Maybe twice if she's working on a particularly filthy scene.
But the last few days, something shifted.
She's writing faster again. Stops every twenty minutes to slip her hand beneath the waistband of my sweatpants.
Sometimes she stares directly into the camera mounted in the tent's corner. Holds eye contact with the lens while she rubs her clit. Mouths words I can't hear because this feed has no audio.
Sometimes she closes her eyes and pretends I'm not there at all.
The Watcher.
Her Watcher.
I unbutton my jeans and pull my cock free. Already hard. Already leaking.
On screen, Scarletta's fingers pause mid-keystroke, hovering over her laptop's keyboard for just a moment before her hand abandons the keys entirely. She shifts in the camping chair—that restless, telltale squirm I've come to recognize—and slides her palm beneath the soft black cotton of my Harvard shirt.
The fabric bunches and lifts as her hand travels upward. I can't see the exact moment her fingers find her nipple through the camera's angle. Can't watch her pinch it, can't observe whether she uses her thumb and forefinger or just rolls it beneath her palm.
But I know.
I know because her head tips back slightly. Because her lips part on an exhale I can't hear but can imagine perfectly—that soft, surprised sound she makes when sensation spikes through her body.
Because her free hand grips the armrest of the camping chair, knuckles whitening as she braces herself against whatever she's doing to her own breast beneath my shirt.
I wrap my fingers more firmly around my shaft, adjusting my grip with practiced precision, and stroke myself with slow, deliberate pulls as her other hand disappears into her sweats.
Mysweats.
My rhythm matches the restless shifting of her body on screen—each subtle movement of her hips translating directly to the tightening pressure of my fist. My thumb swipes across the head, spreading the bead of moisture gathering there, and I suppress the urge to speed up.
Control. Always control.
But fuck, she makes it difficult when she touches herself like this—when she forgets the camera exists and surrenders completely to whatever fantasy is playing out behind those closed eyelids.
I zoom in on the laptop screen visible over her shoulder in the feed. The keystroke logger runs separate from the camera feeds—background process she still hasn't detected—but I prefer watching her type in real time when the camera angle cooperates.
The document title sits at the top of her screen.
The Watcher - Chapter 11
My cock jumps in my hand.
She's been working on this for weeks. I've watched the word count climb—twelve thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty-three thousand. Currently sitting at thirty-one thousand, four hundred and seventy-two words.
Not published. Not posted to DarkDesires. Saved locally in a folder labeled "Private - DO NOT UPLOAD."
I read every word the moment she types it.
The Watcher is about a man who surveils a woman through hidden cameras. Studies her routines. Learns her patterns. Breaks into her apartment to touch her things, smell her clothes, read her writing.
The Watcher orchestrates situations. Creates problems. Offers himself as the solution.
The Watcher eventually takes her. Keeps her. Makes her understand she was always meant to belong to him.
It's about me.
