Page 42 of He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

Sounds like there’s quite a story there,I type, my fingers hesitating over the keys. Care to elaborate?

Obsession. Hard to shake once it takes hold.

There’s a long pause before another one of his responses comes through. Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out. Nothing sinister, I promise.

It’s okay, I type. We all have our stories, right? Our fantasies, our desires, and even our obsessions.

Istare at the screen, my heart racing. The alcohol in my system makes everything feel slightly surreal, like I’m watching this conversation unfold from outside my body.

You’re right, WinterWatcher replies. We all have our stories. Our fantasies. Our obsessions. What’s yours?

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How much should I reveal? The anonymity of the platform emboldens me, but a small voice of caution still whispers in the back of my mind.

Mine? I type. Mine is... complicated, I type finally. It’s about control, I guess. Being seen, but on my own terms.

Interesting, WinterWatcher responds quickly. Is that why you do this? The cam shows?

I consider his question, surprised by how perceptive it is. Partly, I admit. It’s liberating in a way. To be desired, admired even, but still maintain distance.

I can understand that, he replies. The power of being watched, but still being untouchable.

What about you?I ask, deflecting. What’s your fantasy?

There’s a long pause before his response comes through. To be close to someone. To know them completely. Every detail, every secret. Not just know what she presents for the world to see, but really know her deepest and darkest desires.

How close is too close?

There’s no such thing as too close, he replies almost instantly. Not when you truly want to know someone.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. And how would you go about getting that close?

Carefully. Patiently. Building trust, piece by piece. Learning every detail, every habit. Watching. Studying. Becoming a part of their world, even if they don’t realize it at first.

Ipause, unsure how to respond. The rational part of my brain tells me to end this conversation, to log off and forget about WinterWatcher. But something keeps me there, fingers poised over the keyboard.

And what if the person doesn’t want to be understood that deeply?I ask.

Everyone wants to be understood, he replies. Even if they don’t know it yet.

Yup, I have to be drunk for me to have the courage to type, Is that your fantasy? To watch?

Yes.

And what about me? I type, my heart racing. Am I part of that fantasy? Do you like watching me?

There’s a pause that feels like an eternity before his response appears.

Yes.

Istare at the screen, my mouth dry. The single word “Yes” seems to pulse with an energy of its own. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the late hour, but I feel a strange mix of fear and excitement.

I studied you, he types. We like the same videos. We have favorited a lot of the same pics.

Is that so?I like knowing this. My kinks are eclectic. Give examples.

Well, WinterWatcher types, there’s that video of the woman tied up in shibari rope, suspended from the ceiling. You favorited it and five others just like it.

My breath catches. He’s right. I had been mesmerized by that video, the intricate knots, the vulnerability and strength of the model.

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