You Don’t Even Get to Look At Me

He wanted the fantasy. The full date-night dream.

He said it wasn't about sex. "I just want to know what it's like to be out with you. To be near you."

How pathetic.

So I let him find out.

Sort of.

He didn't get a heads-up. No invitation. Just a video file dropped into his inbox at 2:17 AM, titled:

"Date Night POV: For the One Who Watches"

The video opens from the perspective of the man who actually got to take me out. He's wearing sleek black frames--ones I slipped on him at the start of the night. Inside? A discreet little camera. Perfectly positioned to catch everything he saw. Everything she did. Everything you'll never touch.

Except I'm blurred out, of course.

Every inch of me--pixelated. Untouchable. Even in 4K.

But the sound?

Oh, the sound is crystal clear.

The clink of our glasses over oysters. My voice--teasing, smoky, playful. Me laughing when he tells me I look like trouble, and me agreeing.

You hear the flirtation crackling. You hear me tell him where to rest his hand under the table.

You hear the sigh I make when he actually does it right.

Then we're outside. The buzz of the city. My heels clicking as I lean into him and whisper something filthy just off-mic.

And then--the cab.

The camera shakes slightly as he opens the back door. You see him glance toward the driver--a quiet man in his late 40s, bald, trying so hard not to look in the rearview. But you can tell he does.

He sees the blur that is me sliding into the back seat.

He hears the soft gasp from my date.

And so do you.

I start sweet. Murmuring about how good dinner was. How bold he was for touching me like that at the table. How most men don't have the guts to reach between my thighs in public.

And then I go quiet.

You hear the rustle of clothing.

You hear my breath quicken.

You hear him try to stifle a moan--and fail.

And then, my voice:

"Keep your hands still. Let me do the work. He's going to hear every second of this."

The cab driver doesn't say a word. But you can hear the air change. The tension. He knows. And you know he knows.

The only thing more humiliating than not being in the cab... is realizing two men got to experience me that night, and neither one was you.

At one point, I whisper, "He's watching this part on loop, isn't he?"

And my date laughs.

Back at his place, the footage is grainier--darker lighting. You hear the music. The ice clinking in glasses. My heels dropping to the floor.

And then me... slowly mounting his lap.

Moaning into his ear.

Making him moan louder.

The final line of the video?

My voice, cruel and soft:

"You'll never know what I look like when I come... but you'll always know what it sounds like."

The camera lingers.

Not on me, of course--just on his face. Flushed. Lips parted. Eyes wide. A man undone.

You hear the sheets shift. A gasp. My voice again, lower now, taunting:

"You're rewinding this part, aren't you? Trying to time your breath with his? Hoping this is the moan you can pretend was meant for you."

A pause. And then my laugh--soft, amused, cruel.

"But it never is."

The audio continues, each sound intimate and devastating. My nails against his chest. My breath catching as I ride him harder. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. A headboard thudding faintly in the background. The exact sounds your fantasies try to recreate--but never quite get right.

You hear me praise him. You hear me degrade you.

"You earned me tonight," I whisper to him. "He earns nothing."

Then silence. Just for a second.

Until I ask:

"Did you finish already?"

No answer, of course. But the implication is brutal.

"Pathetic."

There's a soft chime as the video ends... but the screen doesn't go black. Not yet.

Because there's a bonus file.

It's labeled: "Message. mp4"

Shorter. Simpler. Just me, from the neck down--still blurred, of course.

I'm standing in heels, lingerie half-askew, one hand holding a wine glass, the other resting on my hip.

"I know what you're doing," I purr. "You're watching this alone. Lights off. Cock out. Acting like you're part of it."

Another sip.

"But you're not."

Another step closer--only my heels and legs in view now.

"You're the one who begged for a night out... and this is the only version you get. A fantasy someone else got to live. A memory you weren't invited to."

I let the words hang.

Then, with a smirk in my voice:

"And if you're watching this on your knees like I told you to..."

A pause.

"Stay there."

Click.

End of file.