Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
He earned it. They always do.
I replay a little of it, but mostly I'm thinking about her.
I'm always thinking about her.
So I get out and walk back inside through the mudroom. My cock is half-hard from the temperature shift. I ignore it. Shower in the master bath using the handheld to blast away anything the hot tub missed. Dry off, then pull on grey sweatpants and a black thermal henley.
Downstairs I grab a whiskey and my laptop and hit the couch. The screen glows to life when I open it—sixteen camera feeds load automatically.
Scarletta sits cross-legged inside the glamping tent I set up, laptop balanced on her thighs, wearing my fucking clothes.
Black Harvard t-shirt. Black sweatpants. She wears them at least once a week.
Every time I see that shirt stretched across her tits, something tightens in my chest. Possession mixed with satisfaction. She's marked herself with me and doesn't even realize it. Or maybe she does.
I take a long pull of whiskey and set the glass down.
She never disabled the cameras. Never changed her passwords. Never followed a single instruction I gave her for removing the surveillance.
I discovered this three days after I dropped her off. Opened the feeds expecting static or black screens—evidence she'd yanked the hardware, wiped the software, reclaimed her privacy like any sane person would.
Instead I found her bent over her laptop in that tent, typing.
Wearing my shirt.
I pulled my cock out right then. Came all over my hand watching her existence continue like I hadn't just fucked her unconscious, drugged her, and confessed to murder.
It's been seven weeks. She hasn't touched the cameras once. Hasn't even tried to disable the keystroke hack. Hasn't even changed her fucking bank account password.
I don't understand it. Pleased, yes. Intrigued, absolutely. Aroused every single night when I load these feeds and watch her pretend I'm not watching.
But what's her motive?
Does she want me to keep watching? Is this permission without words? Or is she performing now, aware of the audience, giving me a show?
She's different than she was before the auction. Cleaner. Her hair's shorter—professional cut, layered around her face. New clothes that actually fit instead of drowning her. I've seen her paint her nails twice. Makeup appears some days, subtle but present.
Still writes, but the frantic pace is gone. Before, she'd lose herself for six, eight, ten hours straight. Emerge only to piss, or shove food in her mouth, or fuck herself with her fingers before diving back in.
Now she writes in controlled bursts. Two hours, break. Three hours, break.
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.
My sweats.
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.