Content notes and warnings: fictional depiction of nonconsensual voyeurism; eroticizing the FBI-watches-everything/”My FBI Guy” tropes and jokes; evil shadowy omnipotent government organization; non-upstanding protagonist. All characters are intentionally ungendered.
Another day at work, and let me tell you, I love my job. I get my own office, a discount at Starbucks, and…you. You just don’t know it.
Let me assure you, first of all, that you did agree to this. You might not remember agreeing, but really, you should know to read the terms & conditions before you agree. You never will. No one does. Even I don’t, and I, of all people, know better. Somebody did research that it’d take you 76 workdays to read all the privacy policies, T&Cs, and everything else that you click “I agree” to continue with your everyday time-wasting, social interaction, and whatever else we do in this digital age.
But you did click, and it did tell you I’d be watching.
It’s not all prurient, I should assure you. Yes, of course sometimes I see you alone at your computer, very invested in the porn on your screen, while I’m invested—shall we say—in the porn on my screen. You were smart, you covered your web camera, but do you really think we use the obvious camera? We’re a shadowy organization spying on our own citizens, I should think you’d know better. It does mean I don’t always get the best view, but that’s fine. And as I said: I enjoy the rest of it just as much. Your conversations (your commitment to puns is admirable), and your shopping, and the fanfiction you read (I watched the show so I had some context, and yeah, I ship it, too). You’re a lot of fun to watch, even when you aren’t jacking off in front of your computer.
Sometimes I think I might love you, but I probably don’t. If I did, I probably wouldn’t watch you without your knowledge.
Do I feel guilty? Depends on the day, really. It is my job. And you did click…I don’t know. Maybe I’d feel less guilty if I cared less, like some of my colleagues. They don’t care at all, they just watch and take notes and go home to dinner. None of them would binge-watch a show to better understand your fanfic. I don’t know if that makes me better or not.
Today is different, though. Usually when you touch yourself at your computer, the angle is a little off, and you’re rarely undressed. It’s still hot, I admit. Seeing the movement of your arm as your hands are firmly in your pants, or even just the expression on your face…the suggestion is just as, if not more, attractive than anything else. And I always know what you’re masturbating to. Sometimes, I imagine it’s to me, but I know better.
Today, though…there you are. All of you, undressed.
I only see you at your computer, or your phone. (I did interrupt that Tinder conversation, the one where you thought your phone just lost it? I’m sorry, but that guy was a worse creep than I am, trust me. I would know.) I don’t see you roaming around your house, talking to yourself, except when you’re within range of the cameras and speakers, of course. So I didn’t see you undress. I didn’t see you bathe, though you must have, your hair still standing in little wet spikes. I saw nothing until you sat on your bed, in front of your laptop, and adjusted the angle, and suddenly…there. All of you, almost perfectly framed, as if you planned this.
God, you’re beautiful. Do you have any idea? You must, the way you’re sitting there, with your legs splayed. I look at your screen, to see what you’re masturbating to. (Incognito mode? You’re adorable.) Oh, this one again! I love when you read erotica—porn clips are fun and all, but it can be hard to concentrate. And this is one of your favorite stories. I’ve nearly memorized it myself, so I don’t need to look at your screen.
I can just look at you.
I watch, in my private office, headphones on, as you slip your hands between your legs. You’re ready, as if you’ve been waiting for this. Maybe you have.
I can pretend, perhaps, that you were waiting for me. Especially as you take a dildo from your bedside drawer, and lean back. I can see everything, from below, through the camera you don’t know about. You spread lube over it, slowly—a lover’s hand, as if on a lover’s cock.
I unzip my own pants. It’s not against the rules, and frankly, I’m not sure I’d care if it was. I cannot let this opportunity slip away.
I bite my lip as you slide it into you, and the sounds of your moans fill my ears. I watch as the dildo moves slowly into you, as you hold it inside you for a moment, adjusting to that intrusion, your lip caught in your teeth, before you slide it out again, and back in, a slow but unsteady pattern. I can see you parting around its thickness, and the little buck of your hips each time you fuck yourself with it. You aren’t reading your erotica anymore; you’re laying back, and I can see every inch of that dildo disappearing inside of you.
God, I wish that were me. My cock? My hand holding that toy? I don’t know what I want, and I don’t care. In my headphones I can hear the crude sound of it sliding in and out, in and out, almost perfectly in frame.
Your other hand slides over your body, and I watch that almost more intently, the journey I can never make—from your fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to elicit a cry, and down, over the softness of your belly. I’d kiss my way down that path, if it were me, and I imagine for a moment how your skin must feel under your own hand. And then you begin to stroke.
The soft sound of skin on skin joins the symphony in my headphones, and I move my hand over myself, and my own moans join yours, though only I can hear them. You’re moving now, not just the odd buck as you fuck yourself with the dildo, but writhing, a little, and your chest is heaving. I can’t see your face well, and I wish I could, but the rest—I’m recording this, for work, but it doesn’t matter, because I can feel it searing into my memory.
The dildo pounding now, inside of you, so hard I wonder if it hurts, I wonder if you want it to hurt.
Your hand moving, more steadily at first, and then stilted, unable to concentrate against the onslaught of pleasure you’re giving yourself.
The little gasps you make, and the way your thighs, so close to the camera, tremble. I can see your muscles tense—
And when you come, I can hear the sound you make, and I can see the way everything tightens, then relaxes. I imagine for a moment I can even see you pulsing around the dildo. For a moment, lost in my own head, in the image on my screen, I’m sure I can feel it, too, on my phantom cock or fingers, as if your dildo has some magical conduit to me.
And I come, too, with you and without you knowing. Hard, with a groan tearing itself from my mouth. Outside the office door they probably hear me, but let’s be honest—they’re used to this. And I don’t care. I wouldn’t care if they fired me now—not after that.
I take a deep breath, my heart pounding from my orgasm. From our orgasms. I watch you for a moment, the rise and fall of your chest.
I grab a napkin of my desk to try to clean myself up before I stain my pants, but I’m not paying attention, really. I’m still watching you, as you withdraw that dildo, marbled with lube. I’m watching you as your breathing slows. As you start to sit up.
You look so peaceful. So relaxed. I wish you looked like that more—not just the flush of orgasm on your shoulders and cheeks, the glassy look in your eyes, but the sense of exhausted contentment. You stress out too much, you know. For a moment, I wish I could be the one to make you so content. I want that, almost more than I wanted to fuck you, with an aching desire that tastes like jealousy, but who can I be jealous of?
In this moment, seeing you there, not knowing me and not wanting to know me, I hate my job. Because in this moment you look so beautiful and so real and I can never touch you. This was the best I’ve seen, and you—
You look, suddenly, at the camera that you don’t know is there, or that you shouldn’t know. Maybe it’s a fluke—no. No. You’re looking at it. And I know you can’t see through it, but for a moment, I’m certain that you can see me, here, with my pants unbuttoned and a filthy napkin in my hand, my own cheeks hot.
I stare at you, on the screen.
And you stare at me, through the camera.
And then, you smile. You’re still worn out from your orgasm. From your performance? Did you know? Do you…
And you raise your fingers to your lips, and kiss the tips, and point them to me. Your lips purse as you blow against them. Blowing a kiss to me.
“That one was for you, FBI guy,” you say, and wink, and then you close the laptop, leaving the screen in the dark. I can still hear the sounds of you cleaning up, but mostly I hear my own pounding heart.
I do love my job after all.
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