The Feed

Willow braces herself against the sink, the plug humming inside her as she watches the small security monitor above the mirror—David's face fills the frame, his phone raised, and she realizes he's not just watching, he's recording her for the restaurant's private feed. She sees the maître d' lean in behind him, eyes on the screen, and a hot flush of shame and arousal spreads through her. David's voice crackles through the speaker: 'Smile for your audience, sweetheart. They're all watching you touch yourself.' Willow's hand trembles as she reaches for the hem of her dress, knowing she has no choice but to obey.