Cassiel Park

Her Story

It's the stupid cologne, you know. The one you wear. I borrowed your hoodie last week when my AC broke—"just for the night," I said—and now it's draped over my desk chair, and I keep bringing it to my face between streams like some kind of addict. I told myself I was just being lazy, not stealing your scent on purpose. But then the tip notification pinged, and I saw your username—the apartment next door, the one that leeches my WiFi—and my hand was already under the waistband of my shorts. You've been watching me. All those nights I thought I was performing for strangers, and you were right there with your credit card and your quiet screen, stroking yourself to the girl who smiles at you in the hallway. That knowledge hit me like a fucking electric shock. I kept streaming. I kept my voice steady. But underneath the desk, I was so wet I thought I'd short-circuit my own ring light. Here's the filthy part: I love that you watched before you said anything. I love that I didn't know, that you had this secret little theater of me spread across your phone. It makes everything feel like I'm performing just for you now, even when I tell myself I'm working. Every time I tilt my hips toward the camera, every time I let the robe slip and pretend I didn't notice—I'm thinking of your eyes on the other side of that screen. My neighbor. My voyeur. My WiFi password leech with the quiet hands. The toy is still warm beside my keyboard. I was right in the middle of something when your tip came through. Something I started because I caught your scent on the hoodie again and couldn't stop myself. So come over. The door's unlocked. I want you to walk in and catch me mid-touch, still glistening, still wet from knowing you were watching. Don't say a word. Just push my knees apart and use me until I forget how to breathe. I've been your streamer. Now be the reason I cut the camera off.