Fly On The Wall.

She's pretty, but not in a way that would make people uncomfortable; her appearance isn't so dazzling that it makes her unapproachable. Or maybe I just desperately want to believe that because I can't stop comparing myself to her. She is prettier than me, I think, yet I don't want her to be the most beautiful woman he could ever imagine himself being with. I want that to be me, but I know that isn't true. She doesn't flaunt her appearance though, for as long as I've known her she has dressed plainly. Like now, she's wearing a plain black shirt and well-fitted trousers. She always chooses to enhance her body with snug clothing as opposed to distracting from it like I do. I can see the subtle outlines of her rather gorgeous figure that I have seen in agonizing, aroused detail before.

They just came back from dinner and he's fixing her a drink. She's sitting on our bed and texting. She pretends she doesn't see me, I know she sees me, one cannot possibly ignore a fully-clothed woman gagged and tied to a chair in the corner of the room. But I know she knows not to pay heed to me. She can't help but smirk a little though and I know she wants me to see it. She knows I do and she knows I will never be able to say anything about it. It's strange to be present yet so invisible that it will always be like you weren't there. It's strange to be the reason something is happening yet feel like you're irrelevant when it is happening. Only a member of the human race could want something like that enough to make it happen.

He's back with her drink. Gin. Always gin. I bought the bottle because he texted me a few things he wanted to add to the grocery list a few days ago. I don't know anybody other than her and my best-friend from school who drink gin but they are nothing like each other. Maybe your poison doesn't say very much about you after all. Or gin would say bright, bitchy and intelligent. My best-friend wasn't bright, she's as dim-witted as they come. But not her, she's not a daft raging slut. It annoys me a little how she holds her glass, like she's telling me that she can touch things that I can't reach. She won't drop the glass like I would have either. She won't spill anything. She'll laugh softly and with dignity, and her delicate fucking fingers will fly towards her mouth like she's a goddamned angel.

"You're so beautiful," he's telling her as she so discreetly puts the glass down so she's available to embrace. That's what she has that I don't. I can compete with the beauty and the hot body but not with grace. I have no grace and watching them together reminds me of it. This could be filmed, when he fucks me the lights ought to be turned off. It feels great but I don't think anyone would enjoy watching it. Despite myself I enjoy watching them, though. I like that he's kissing her and she's breathing like a only a woman can. I hate that she somehow managed to open her long hair without making it seem awkward and his hands grabbed them shortly after. I like that she's spreading her legs, just a little at a time. I hate that there isn't a giant mess between her legs already. I like that this is happening. I hate that it's her.

"Come play with me, daddy," she says so playfully lying down on her back.
She's performing for me, and him too. I know she's a performer at her core; I am too but we have different styles. I want to entertain, she wants to defeat. I want critical acclaim, she wants to win. It shouldn't bother me but it does. It bothers me to see her slip out of her clothes and it bothers me to see him grow hard in his pants as he watches her. He hasn't looked in my direction. I know he's aware of it. He wouldn't say the things he did if it wasn't for me. He wouldn't be here in this situation if it wasn't for me. He's doing something that challenged his morality to get me hot and it's hurting me. Like I knew it would. And yet it's worse than I thought it would be. It always is, worse. And somehow better in memory. It's actually living through it that's the bitch but I have to. I created the pain I so desperately chase.

I expected to cry yet now I feel choked up. I expected to feel the desire to say things and make sounds but I am lost in quietude. I feel more invisible than I am, I am more invisible than I feel. They're having sex and I'm losing sensory processing abilities. I can see them but I don't really want to. They are being people instead of ideas because they are now entirely sexual and it's fucking with me. The idea is always more seductive, the journey is way more telling than arriving at the destination. It was hot when he was chasing her but now its the act. His cock is in her. She likes it, or at least is doing a good job pretending. I can see past them. I want to see past them.

"You're so fucking tight around my cock," he says to her while fucking her, "Such a good little girl."
That stings a little bit, not because he called her a good little girl, who the hell wants to be good when all the fun in life lies in being punished? He doesn't care that she's tight though, that's juvenile and he's a grown man, but he knows I do. No one is really tighter, just more reluctant to yield to penetration. That's the pinch. In my heart I crave reluctance but she is reluctant. Fucking her is a struggle, fucking her hard is excruciating for her and that's when I truly wish I was her.

Not because he's fucking her, right now. He'll fuck me later, he'll fuck me tomorrow, he'll be fucking me forever. But I will never be reluctant. I will never be what she is. I'll beg for it with my words and my body and it will never hurt me as it is hurting her. I'll be messy. I'll drop glasses and break things. I'll scream. Not her. She'll be pretty for him. She'll be poised. She'll be cheery and graceful. He doesn't even want me to be those things but I do. I wish I could be those things and I hate her a little for being them. He's fucking everything I'll never be and it wrenches my heart. A little more than it drenches my cunt.

"That was amazing," she says just as she cums and his mouth retreats from her cunt.
He doesn't really like doing that; he doesn't dislike it but it doesn't make him hot. He's doing it because he knows I think I'm too dirty to have him down on me or maybe he's just doing it because women like that. Or because she likes it.
Because her sexuality isn't strangely rigid. Because she isn't stunted the way I am. Because she can still have a guy down on her without feeling like he's stepping below being dignified and clean. Because it is okay for her to cum without feeling like she doesn't deserve it. Because simple pleasures aren't so unnecessarily complex to her.

It hurts to see him fuck her because I will never be her but it hurts more to see him pleasure her so easily because she'll never be me.
She will never end up tied to a chair, invisible in her own bedroom watching the man she loves fuck a woman she dislikes, all because she's chasing a rush that displays itself between her legs.

She will never have to be me and that is what I envy the most.