You think I don’t know you’re there, jerking off to the sight of me making out with my boyfriend? This time, you’ll be nothing more than a fly on the wall, quietly allowed to spy on us as we kiss and touch each other’s wet skin in an incredibly hot, steamy bubble bath. You’re so hard it hurts, aren’t you? I know you’re aching, desperate to join in, craving even the smallest touch from me. But what is it about this that makes you so desperate? Is it the humiliation of knowing you’ll never be enough? The thrill of being so close to my perfection, yet so painfully far away? Maybe it’s the realization that you’re powerless, that your only purpose is to watch, obsess, edge, and suffer for me.