I Like Being Watched

Those first couple of days, I found a total of ten cameras hidden in various places. In the clock on the wall in the kitchen, behind a plant in the hallway, in the garage disguised as a lighter, in the living room inside a fragrance diffuser.

His study had multiple ones covering all corners of the room. One was inside a Bluetooth speaker, another as an extra carbon monoxide detector. I didn't see the third one for a long time. In fact, I was on my hands and knees, bending forward to reach for my pen that I'd accidentally had roll under the leather sofa, giving the other two cameras good angles—one looking down my parted shirt, noticing I had forgone a bra that day, the other hopefully catching my skirt riding up, showing off the bright red lace thong I'd put on that morning—and that was when I saw a little hole in the charging block plugged into the wall, something that didn't belong there, something that I knew from doing a little online research on the subject, was a hidden camera.

The man was paranoid, I had decided already, not a creep.

He had cameras in places that wouldn't normally catch people in compromising positions. There weren't, for example, cameras in any of the main bathrooms or guest bathrooms. But there was one in his own bathroom, hidden in the electrical outlet. Which was strange, sure, but not exactly creepy since he was a single man, and the only person who appeared to use that bathroom was himself.

So everything simply pointed to him being extremely security conscious.

Which was fine.

I didn't particularly care about the cause of the cameras, just their presence, just my ability to put on a show for them.

A show for him.

But after a solid week of no long glances when we passed in a hall, no eye-fucking me when he thought I wasn't looking, I was starting to wonder if he never viewed his footage after all.

Five

Fitz

You would almost think she was doing it on purpose.

That was how often one of the cameras caught her bent over just the right way, or her skirt slipping up when she reached over her head.

It was constant.

Daily.

More than a few times a day.

But, of course, she couldn't have been doing it on purpose.

That made no sense.

She was just a woman doing a job.

Sure, after the fourth straight day of wardrobe malfunctions, I perhaps thought she should decide to stop wearing button-up shirts, but that didn't mean there was anything untoward going on.

All that said, she was fucking killing me.

I had my reasons for the cameras. I didn't just set and forget them. Every night as I ate my dinner, I scanned through them quickly.

Well, I used to scan through them quickly.

Now?

Now, I sat down only after I was finished with dinner, a glass of whiskey at my side, with the house empty and quiet.

I set the fucking scene every night. Which ended up making me feel like a creep. But that didn't stop me as I went room to room as Wynn did, watching as she somehow managed to be exceptionally efficient and ball-achingly provocative at the same time.

Who looked sexy when wiping off a bookshelf?

Apparently, Wynn did.

And those breasts of hers seemed to have a mind of their own, breaking free from every single top she put on.

Sometimes, the woman didn't even have a bra on, her dusty pink nipples on full display while she continued to go about her job, seemingly oblivious to being exposed. How, I don't know. But nothing about her behavior implied she was intentionally exposing her chest or bending over and putting her whole ass on display for one of the cameras.

When I passed her in the hall, she was pure innocence, completely professional.

It was always Mr. Buchanan this. And Mr. Buchanan that.

I should have fired her the first time I watched one of those feeds of the security footage and my cock hardened, demanded attention, relief.

It was a recipe for disaster that I found myself horny as a fucking teenager for a woman who was working for me.

That said, it wasn't her fault.

And I would feel like an asshole firing her for something that she had nothing to do with. She was doing her job. And, admittedly, she was probably the best house manager I'd had over the years. I never had to leave a note about something running out or some errand not being handled. The pool was cleaner than it had ever been. The leaves that had been scattered on the driveway that seemed to always be there for a week before someone handled them, were gone by the time I got home in the evening, and never showed up again.

That old saying about good help being hard to find was true. In my experience, most of my house managers did the absolute bare minimum they could and still get paid. The musician used to bring her guitar and do live videos on social media for good chunks while on the clock. The illustrator spent at least an hour sitting at my desk doodling on her sketch pad. That last one—the actress—was constantly taking selfies in various spots in the house.