I Like Being Watched by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eight

Wynn

 

 

 

He hadn't called to fire me.

Honestly, I figured he would have sat down later, sometime before bed, reviewed the cameras, seen that I'd been on his laptop, and immediately called to tell me I'd overstepped a line, and canned me.

But the fact that he didn't could only mean one thing.

He knew that I knew about the cameras, and that I'd been using them to turn him on, and he wasn't upset by that fact.

Maybe I should have been off-put by that fact. I mean, most of the time, we were alone in that big, empty house. If he somehow saw my little performances as an invitation for more, he would be able to act on that. My objections would do me no good with no one around to step in if he chose to force himself on me.

I shouldn't have wanted to go back.

The game always ended for me once the voyeur knew I knew I was being watched. The fun had always been in the forbidden-ness of it all. But if the guy knew it wasn't actually forbidden, that, in fact, I was inviting it, it stopped having the same thrill. And, in the worst cases, it made the guys think I actually wanted them.

It was never about them.

I didn't get hot and bothered by the idea of their hands on me, but rather the way they couldn't control themselves because of me.

It was, at its core, a pretty narcissistic kink.

And it made no sense that I wanted to go back now that my boss knew what I was up to.

Maybe a part of me was intrigued by how this could excite me to know he knew, but have him say nothing, act on nothing, just quietly allow himself to be tormented day in and day out, knowing I was in his home, that I was within reach, but that he couldn't touch me.

That added a whole new layer of excitement I hadn't ever really anticipated.

I mean, if he ever tried something, I would be out of there.

But if he wanted to keep playing the game?

I was leaning toward playing as well.

At least for a while, see if it felt as good as it did in my mind.

Besides, the money.

I couldn't forget the money. I had a paid light bill and some new canvases just waiting for paint. Having that security was a big deal to me. I didn't want to screw it up all over a little fetish of mine. But so long as my job was secure, I figured it didn't hurt to keep screwing around a little bit. Especially now that I knew he was watching, and he knew I knew he was watching.

"Wynn, are you even listening?" Perry asked, dragging me out of my swirling thoughts, making guilt immediately overwhelm me. Because, well, no, I hadn't been listening.

In my defense, she'd been going on and on about her douchebag of a boyfriend, and there was only so many times I could say halfway nice, supportive things before I exploded and reminded her that she deserved so much better. Which would only upset her, then me, and cause a whole awful situation we'd been through too many times before.

"I'm sorry. No. I had my mind on work," I admitted, giving her a guilty smile.

"Oh, how is that going?" she asked, cupping her hot chocolate in her mitten-clad hands as we walked down the street, window shopping, occasionally telling each other to "remind me to pick that up for so-and-so for Christmas" even though we both knew we'd forget about whatever item it was before we made it up the next block.

"It's going great, actually. I wouldn't think a job with that much structure would be good for me. You know, like, creatively. But I've been doing a lot of pieces lately."

I was going to go ahead and leave off the fact that every one of those new pieces were borderline erotic in nature, all done through the lens of a voyeur fantasy. Images of women through keyholes or windows. Or that my most recent project was getting the world's most perfect male ass—which happened to belong to Fitzwilliam Buchanan—onto canvas. I'd stylized it a bit, putting the whole image in broad strokes of pinks, purples, yellows, and black, but there was no denying it was my boss's back and ass that was on display.

"Really? Oh, my God, Wynn. That's so great. I knew you were struggling there for a while because of bill stress."

I hadn't expressly told her that, but she'd put the pieces together since I'd always been talking about overdue bills and an issue painting since I'd gotten out of college.

"Yeah, I'm really happy about it," I admitted, even if a part of me was worried there might not be a market for the kind of art I was producing.

I would never know until I put them out there, right?

I mean, soup can paintings could be sold for like eleven million.

If Andy Warhol could make a mint on those, I could make a couple hundred off of my kinky, yet tasteful, canvases, right?

I was going to try, that was for sure.

"What about the cameras?" she asked, wincing at even the mention of them even as my body buzzed at the thought of them.

"The man is just security conscious. Besides, I only have to worry about them if I'm doing something I shouldn't be doing."

"They still freak me out."

"Maybe because you didn't really know Mr. Buchanan."

"And you do? He was rarely around."

"Well, I've been working late here and there, so I've come across him. He even asked me to share some pizza with him on Friday," I told her.

"What? No way. He always eat so healthfully."

"I think he only ordered it because I teased him about what he ate all the time."

"You teased Fitzwilliam Buchanan?" Perry gasped, pressing a hand to her heart. God bless her dramatic soul.

"I did."

"He doesn't seem like someone who would be okay with that sort of thing."

"Maybe you just think that because you've built him up in your mind to be some sort of royal or something," I suggested. "He's just a man."

With needs.

And urges.

And desires.

And it seemed like he might just desire me.

"That's probably true. It's hard not to think of him as, you know, more than the average person with his picture-perfect world."

"Picture perfect. Please," I scoffed. "Have you seen that atrocious art he has all around?" I asked, grimacing.

"Well, perfect aside from the art, of course," she played along, smiling. "I'm glad you're getting on with him. Maybe you were right. I was just being paranoid."

"You play that role beautifully, Per," I assured her, giving her hip a nudge.

"Have you taken a selfie in his amazing master bath yet?" she asked.

"No."

No, I hadn't.

But I was thinking maybe it was time.

—

The plan was simple.

I still wasn't ready to act like I knew he was watching.

I needed to be careful for my job's sake.

But there were all sorts of possible mishaps that could take place with regard to your wardrobe for positions like mine.

Like when I was cleaning it, accidentally turning the rainfall shower head on instead of the handheld attachment, soaking through my white shirt.

The shriek I let out was genuine even if the action itself hadn't been. Because, like I said, the water was frigid when it first came on.

"Shit shit shit," I hissed, jumping out of the shower, a little more drenched than I'd planned, and moved in perfect view of the camera, but was careful to avoid looking at it as I undid my sopping shirt.

I paused at the bottom button, anticipation sizzling across each nerve ending, enjoying the sensation for a moment before pulling the material open, exposing my breasts. My nipples were hard and straining from the cold water as I pulled off the shirt, holding it for a moment so the camera could get a good eyeful, before going to the sink to squeeze out the excess before hanging it up on the shower door.

I turned my back to the camera as I slipped out of my shoes then undid my pants, shimmying out of them, giving the camera a view of my mostly bare ass as I leaned forward to gather my wet pants, laying them across the top of the soaking tub.

Finished, I took a deep breath, turning, then making my way toward the bedroom, taking the show on the road, if you will.

See, there was a flaw in my plan, though.

The plan hinged on one thing.

My boss being at work watching the cameras, or at home after I left, reviewing the footage with a glass of his red wine.

Red wine that costs over a hundred dollars a bottle, I might add.

But, well, Fitzwilliam Buchanan was being a slacker.

Meaning he was home in the middle of the day.

Barreling into his room so fast that I didn't even have a chance to squeal before he was slamming into me.

"Shit," he hissed, hands grabbing my hips to prevent me from falling over.

Which was when he realized one vital piece of information. His hands met bare skin. Because I didn't have any clothes.

I watched as his handsome face went from frustrated to surprised to something darker, something sinfully dark as his gaze slid down to look at my almost nude body.

His hands fell immediately, some part of him holding onto the roles of our professional positions. But he couldn't seem to force his gaze away as he took long, greedy looks at my breasts, my stomach, the barely-there pink material between my thighs.

"Wynn..." he said, voice rough with desire.

When I glanced down, I could see the hard line of him against his slacks.

Remembering myself and my role, my hands slapped over my body, criss-crossing to cover as much of it as possible.

"Mr. Buchanan," I said, and I didn't have to fake the breathlessness to my voice. "I, ah, I wasn't expecting you. I was, um, cleaning your shower. And I had a mishap with the water. My clothes got sopping wet," I went on, watching as he took in what I said, and mixed it with what he was beginning to know about me, then coming to his own conclusions.

That it hadn't been a mishap.

That I'd been doing it on purpose.

"Maybe," he started, then had to clear his throat to speak past the husky edge his voice had taken on. "Maybe you should finish," he suggested.

"Finish what?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"Your task," he clarified. "Maybe you should finish cleaning the shower," he told me, eyes molten.

I felt a similar heat spread through my core as I realized what he was suggesting.

"Right. Yes, of course," I agreed, keeping my tone calm, even, like there was nothing at all unusual about the situation. "I will get to that," I added, taking a step away, giving him just long enough to look over my front as I dropped my arms, before turning and giving him a view of my ass as I walked away.

Did I put just a little bit more oomph in my step as I walked back into the bathroom? Absolutely I did.

As I climbed back into the glass shower stall, bending forward to grab the scrub brush I'd dropped, I noticed my boss moving around his massive bed, sinking down on the side, legs spread wide, elbows rested on his thighs, his hands steepled in front of that generous, delicious-looking mouth of his.

Watching.

God, yes, watching.

It turned out I was wrong.

The thrill wasn't gone because he knew that I knew he was watching. If anything, the knowledge muddled with the proximity of him was making the desire transition from a dull ache to an acute pain between my thighs as I grabbed the spray bottle, and started to clean once again.

But this time, I was all-too-aware of the way my body moved with each motion, the way my breasts swayed as I scrubbed the marble walls, the way my ass jutted out when I bent to retrieve the handheld attachment to rinse the cleaner down the wall.

I repeated the process with my back to him, feeling his heated gaze burning a hole through the glass, and blazing against my bare ass.

I stretched it out as long as I could, but there came a point where the shower couldn't get any cleaner, which had me turning to face him as I reached once more for the detached shower head.

But this time, I didn't spray down the walls.

Oh, no.

I rinsed my hands, then my arms, up over my shoulders, feeling the cool water harden my nipples once again, sending a shiver through my body.

I released the shower head, cutting off the water, and reaching for a bar of soap instead. Taking a step back, I leaned on the back wall of the shower, as I started to suds the bar up in my hands before running them up my arms, over my shoulders, then, finally, my breasts, letting out a small, barely audible whimper at the contact against skin that was aching so badly for touch.

I was sure he couldn't have heard it, but the acoustics of the shower must have been better than I realized because I watched as he dropped his hands from his face, reaching instead toward his belt and pants, working both free with quick, frustrated fingers.

Desire pinged off every nerve ending, thrummed through my chest and between my thighs as I watched him reach into his pants, pulling out his thick, straining cock with one of those big hands of his.

Fitz's greedy gaze slid to me, taking lingering moments over my breasts, my belly, then my thighs that I was rubbing together as though the brief pressure and friction was doing anything to ease the ache between. If anything, it was only making it worse.

It wasn't until his gaze moved up, those brilliant blue eyes that could make a woman's heartbeat skitter—or maybe that was just me—landed on my face that I could see just how desperate he was as well. Dare I even think, just as desperate as I was feeling in that moment.

Too far gone to care.

That was how I felt right then.

My brain was short-circuiting, unable to think clearly past the currents of desire that chased away any rational thought I should have had in that moment about the final lines that were about to be crossed, that I knew I couldn't jump back behind after.

But I didn't care.

I couldn't.

Not with the need pinging off every nerve ending, leaving me feeling frazzled and a little crazed from the overstimulation.

With an exhale that shook through my chest, my hand lowered over my belly, the bar of soap slipping from my grasp to thump and slide across the tile floor as my hand kept moving lower, lower, feeling the line of my panties, then slipping beneath.

It wasn't until my head fell back on a whimper as my fingers found my clit that Fitz's hand began to move, starting to stroke his hard cock.

My breath felt caught in my chest as my fingers kept moving over my clit, kept driving myself up under Fitz's intense gaze.

His breathing went fast and shallow, his strong chest heaving under his suit jacket and black shirt as his fist kept stroking himself, as his gaze stayed fixated on me.

My soft whimpers became throaty moans as I felt my walls tightening, as my body teetered on the edge before tossing me down into the depths of pleasure, leaving me crashing over and over as I forced my gaze to stay open, stay on Fitz as his body tightened, as his breath rushed out of him on a quiet groan, as he came along with me.

My eyes drifted closed for all of ten seconds, I swear.

But when they opened again, the spot on the bed where Fitz had been sitting was abandoned.

And just like that, the moment was over.

And reality was rushing back in, knocking my breath out of me as it pulled me under its merciless tidal wave.

"Shit. Shit shit shit," I hissed, ducking to grab the soap, putting it back in place, then the detached shower head before climbing out, drying off, and grabbing my clothes. A shiver coursed through me as the cold, wet fabric met my skin.

But it was good.

Bracing.

It kept me in the current moment.

You know, where my job was possibly on the line.

When I made my way back out of the bathroom, my boss was nowhere to be found.

By the time I got to the front window, he was already peeling out of the driveway, leaving me unsure and anxious about my future as his house manager.

Surely, he couldn't just go on as if nothing had happened.

But then the day came to an end, and I hadn't heard from him. So I went home, turning off my phone, and turning my swirling thoughts and knotted stomach into art, sure that when I finished and powered up my phone again, there would be a call or text telling me I was done.

It never came, though.

So, I showed up for work the next day.

And the day after.

Fitz just made sure never to be anywhere near me again.

It took over a week to have my nerves calm enough to let me think about the cameras again.

I'd been nervous at first, something new for me when it came to putting on a show for someone.

But, as the weeks stretched on, I got more and more daring.

Until, eventually, I found myself on his very bed with my skirt hiked up, and my fingers buried in my pussy, getting off where he slept to thoughts of him rolling me around those very sheets.

Still, nothing.

If we happened to be in the same house together at the same time, he stayed behind a locked door, avoiding, ignoring me, making me wonder if he was even looking anymore.

It was a thought that bothered me more than he should have, that he didn't want to watch me anymore.

It bothered me so much to make me desperate enough for the thrill that I took some extreme measures...