The Cleaning Girl and the Glass That Separated Us

The year everything stopped caught Marina and me just as we’d settled into Valencia, in a small apartment with a decent rent and the feeling that things were finally falling into place. In January I’d been confirmed for a promotion and, after a long time tightening our belts, we were starting to breathe again. What we didn’t know was that that same year had other surprises in store for us.

The complications all arrived at once. I was on a work trip when my boss called to tell me we were suspending all travel until further notice and that I should get back to the office as soon as possible. A few days later, the landlord called too: he’d sold the apartment and we had two months to move out. What had seemed like a good year suddenly turned into a race against the clock.

We managed to get through it, and in no time we ended up living in a quieter apartment, away from the bustle of the center. The building had been built on an old corral, so the whole block was arranged around an inner courtyard. From that courtyard you accessed the different homes, which opened both onto the shared space and onto the streets outside. After a dizzying move, that was where we learned to live with the new routine.

Remote work was here to stay. I worked from home full-time, and Marina combined her studies with a half-time job. The room we used as an office looked directly onto the courtyard, so we saw the neighbors whenever they passed by. Right on the other side of the window, over my desk, ran the corridor they used to enter or leave the building. Ours was the second-to-last door in that row. In no time we established a cordial relationship: a greeting, a couple of words through the glass.

The mornings were the same. We worked until eleven thirty, when Marina would leave for her job. By the time she came back, I was already done. The neighbors disappeared early and didn’t reappear until well into the afternoon, in that trickle of people returning with their shoulders slumped.

The only person moving around in the mornings was the girl who came three times a week to clean the building: the entrance, the courtyard, the corridors. From my desk I watched her move along without stopping, starting on the top floor and going down until she finished right on the other side of my window.

She was Latina, Colombian as I later found out, about twenty-seven years old. Brown-skinned, slim, average height, always with her hair tied up in a bun so it wouldn’t get in her way. She wore comfortable clothes: a loose T-shirt that hid her figure and very tight dark-blue leggings that outlined her legs and an ass impossible to ignore. She finished the whole look with a face mask in the same color.

When she reached the area in front of my window, it was impossible not to look at her as she leaned over the railing to clean it thoroughly. Those leggings offered a view that took your breath away.

She usually showed up around eleven, when the neighbors had already left, and her job kept her busy until two. Concentrating on work during those hours took enormous effort, especially after eleven thirty, when Marina left and I was left alone with that silhouette moving behind the glass. By pure chance, three times a week I found myself at my desk right on time between one thirty and two.

She was shy. When she passed near me, she only gave a small greeting, which I returned, and went on with her work. But from the way she moved on the other side of the glass, it was obvious she enjoyed knowing she was being watched, even if she never quite overcame that shyness that kept her from exchanging a single word.

Little by little I grew more confident with her. We didn’t talk, but we both enjoyed that strange closeness, separated by little more than a thin pane of glass.

So the days passed until the heat arrived. Thanks to remote work, as the temperatures rose I could afford to lose more and more clothes. First a mid-season pajama set, then the summer one, then the T-shirt, until I ended up working in boxer briefs. As long as I didn’t have a video meeting, of course.

She changed too. The shirts remained loose, but the leggings gave way to even tighter shorts that left little to the imagination.

It was curious to see how, with each day, we greeted each other more naturally, how she looked at me more and more while she worked. She knew perfectly well that I never took my eyes off her, and she made every effort to adopt that suggestive posture over the railing, keeping her ass at eye level for me. In that position, the shorts clearly showed her underwear. That I was on the other side, seated in boxer briefs and watching her, not only didn’t bother her: she was delighted.

After several days like that, I decided to take a step further. A Monday in July came when she showed up right on time. I was at the desk beside Marina, wearing boxer briefs. But as soon as she left for work, I took the garment off and stayed seated.

The girl had, as always, started on the top floor. By the time I stripped, she was already on the third, across the courtyard. From there she couldn’t see me well; she only knew that, once again, I was shirtless.

The morning went on until she reached our floor. She started at the far end. When I saw her getting closer, I moved a little away from the desk to make it easier for her to see. That was when, as she came nearer, she saw me completely naked, with a considerable erection, while I pretended to be absorbed in the screen.

Her first reaction was one of confusion. But she quickly recovered and continued with her task, approaching the window slowly. The morning went on, only this time she was giving me much more frequent looks.

When she finished, she stood there behind the glass for a few seconds, watching me, her weight resting on the broom. I took the opportunity to put my hand between my legs and start stroking myself. We stayed like that for a moment, until she became aware of what was happening, got all her shyness back, gathered her things and left. She needed time to think about what she’d seen and how to respond.

Wednesday came, and I decided to repeat it. The only change was opening one of the sliding window panels, the one separating us. Again she started at the top, but now she already knew I was naked, with the window open, massaging my groin. I made sure to place myself in exactly the right position so she could see me at all times.

She didn’t take her eyes off me all morning. She kept turning around to confirm that I was still there. When it was her turn to clean under my window, she no longer limited herself to a gesture: she let out a shy “Hi!” while blushing and lowering her gaze to the floor. I greeted her back without stopping stroking myself.

She carried on with her work, even more timid now, while the massage turned into something more. This time she didn’t look at me again until she was done; shame won out over arousal for a while. But when she finished she remained standing on the other side, leaning on the broom, and now she looked at me openly while I masturbated in full view.

After a while like that, I asked her:

—Do you like what you see?

She gave a little start and, for the first time, moved her gaze from my sex to my eyes. She didn’t answer. I kept going for a few more seconds, then stood up and went around the desk. When I reached the open window, I insisted:

—Would you like to touch?

She still didn’t answer, but she changed position and moved even closer. She rested her right hand on the sill, a few inches from me, without deciding. I didn’t stop masturbating.

That was when I understood something. It was obvious she was burning to reach out her hand, but it had to be her decision, and at that moment she was too uncertain. The best thing was to ease the tension and offer her a more comfortable way out.

I gradually slowed down until I turned it back into a gentle massage. And I spoke to her.

—I know you want this, but I also know this whole situation embarrasses you. You don’t have to decide right now. On Friday you’ll be back here, and I’ll be exactly where you saw me today. Think it over until then. But if you don’t decide on Friday, it’ll be your last chance. You won’t see me like this again.

I went around the desk again and sat down, closing the window. She came out of her stupor and, without a word, gathered her things and left. Friday promised.

***

When I saw her appear on Friday, I knew immediately what she had decided. She had traded the loose T-shirt for a low-cut tank top, and the shorts for a very short denim skirt. It was clear she had carefully prepared herself for that workday.

Everything unfolded like Wednesday until she got close to the window. She greeted me again with her timid “Hi!”, but this time she didn’t lower her gaze: she kept watching as I moved from rubbing myself to masturbating. She worked while glancing at me from the corner of her eye every so often, to see how I was doing with my own thing.

Then she started cleaning the railing and, to my surprise, as she bent over she deliberately lifted her skirt, leaving her sex at eye level for me. We were a meter and a half apart. If it hadn’t been for the desk and the glass, I would have thrown myself at her.

When she finished with the railing, she turned and looked me in the eyes. I couldn’t see the smile under her mask, but I could feel it in her gaze, that mix of shyness and mischief. She went on sweeping under the window, the task she usually ended her shift with. Only that day she added one more.

She came up to the sill and leaned over it to clean it thoroughly. I was still on the other side of the desk, so our eyes were almost at the same height. That was when I realized she wasn’t wearing a bra either. The tank top was entirely intentional: what was already a generous neckline while standing up, in that position showed absolutely everything. She kept cleaning as if nothing was happening, knowing perfectly well I could see her breasts without difficulty, while she watched me.

Then she locked eyes with me and asked:

—Do you like what you see?

I caught the game instantly. I smiled and didn’t answer. A few seconds later she added:

—Would you like to touch?

I didn’t need any more invitation. I stood up, went around the desk and moved closer without stopping masturbating. I positioned myself beside her, my cock just inches from her face. With one hand I kept doing what I’d been doing; with the other I slipped it down her neckline and started caressing her breasts. I felt how hard her nipples were: it was obvious she’d spent two days thinking about this and that all the accumulated excitement was paying off now. She kept cleaning for a couple of minutes, letting me do it.

At last she decided it was her turn. She straightened up, dropped the cloth and moved in as close as she could. Her right hand sought out my cock, pushed mine away and gripped it firmly. I slid one hand under her skirt. Just as her nipples had answered to the built-up tension, her sex was so wet that I slipped two fingers into her almost without meaning to.

We stayed like that a little over two minutes. The excitement of several days, the turn-on of the situation, and the risk that any neighbor might look out made us both come sooner than we would have liked. They were silent orgasms, betrayed only by the tremors running through our entire bodies. She made sure to direct everything toward the sill she had just cleaned.

When we were done, I moved away and sat back down behind the desk. She readjusted her skirt and top, leaned once more over the sill with her best smile in her eyes, and cleaned the fresh stain again, giving me one last view of her breasts without ever taking her eyes off me.

All this happened some time ago, and we haven’t seen each other again. The following Monday, another woman came in her place, also Latina, around forty. I don’t know what became of her; I hope it was only a temporary replacement and that, after a few days off, we’ll meet again through the glass.

Now all that’s left is to tell Marina everything. Maybe it would be a good idea to write it up as a story and see how she reacts.