Annika’s Bathroom Glass Wall Showed Everything

I was very eager to accept Annika’s invitation and go over to her place as soon as possible, but it wasn’t to be right away: a last-minute business trip came up and everything was left hanging. During the time we spent alone at the airport, she told me she was “sort of seeing” a coworker from the IT company her brother ran, although it was almost impossible to coordinate our schedules with hours as irregular as ours.

We also talked about how we had both started uploading photos. Almost all of hers had been taken with the self-timer, apart from a few taken by a boyfriend she’d had in Denmark, before moving here. I confessed that mine were the same, all taken with a timer, except for a series I’d already shown her, which my own mother had taken without really knowing what for.

We both liked the same thing, although neither of us ever said it outright: that game of knowing someone on the other side of the screen was looking at our tits, our cunts, our asses. We had met precisely that way, in a private group where people shared photos without showing their faces, and from messages we had moved on to meeting in person during that conference in Stockholm. On the last night, at the hotel, she had left me her panties as the forfeit in a stupid bet, and I had kept them without thinking that one day they would find their way back into her hands. I still remembered the smell they had when I put them in my bag.

Since then, something had settled between us that neither of us ever quite managed to name. It wasn’t friendship, or not only friendship. It was that tension that appears when two people know they like each other and still haven’t found an excuse to fuck.

“We have to swap the Stockholm photos,” she reminded me. “I have yours on my phone and you have mine on yours. Another day, when we have time, we’ll trade them.”

A few days later I called her and she sent me the location of her new apartment.

“Come whenever you like,” she wrote. “I have to stay here for at least an hour. My brother is bringing me the last boxes of clothes, and once that’s done I’ll consider the move finished.”

I deliberately chose a yellow dress I knew suited me, picked up a housewarming gift, and headed over, my heart beating a little faster than I wanted to admit. Under the dress I had put on a tiny pair of almost-lace panties, and no bra. I didn’t yet know what for, but I did it.

When I rang the bell and she opened the door, I felt something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. She was beautiful, incredibly beautiful. It was the first time I’d seen her with her hair down, because we both usually wore it tied back out of habit from work, and she had put on just the right amount of makeup for someone who wanted to look beautiful at home without making it seem like an effort. She was wearing a short, cheerful dress almost the same shade as mine, as if we had coordinated without saying a word.

And then, both at once, without thinking, we leaned in to kiss on the lips. Long. Deep. Nothing like the greeting between two friends. Her tongue entered my mouth without asking permission, and mine went out to meet it with the same urgency. We devoured each other’s mouths right there on the landing, while one of her hands squeezed my waist and the other slid up my back, looking for the clasp of the bra I wasn’t wearing. When she realized I was naked beneath the dress, she let out a low, hoarse moan straight into my mouth, and I felt her breathing grow harder.

I had never done this with a woman before.

I completely lost control of myself. The only thing my mind managed to register while we held each other was what I could see in the hall mirror behind her: when she stretched toward me, her dress had ridden up over her back, and I saw that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her entire ass was visible, white and firm, along with the beginning of her crack. My mouth suddenly watered.

“Come on, get inside and close the door,” she said, barely pulling away, her voice still thick. “I’ll show you the apartment. I’ve got almost everything put away. Only the three boxes my brother’s bringing are left.”

I loved it at first sight. It was a modern, highly functional loft. An open kitchen with a large window and, at the far end, an entire wall made of two wooden panels with slats, behind which I assumed the bedroom and bathroom were. There wasn’t time to see more, because the bell rang again.

It was Mikael, Annika’s brother, and Daniel, the guy she was seeing. They were carrying the last boxes, all of them destined for the dressing room. Mikael didn’t resemble his sister at all: he lacked her freshness, dressed in an old-fashioned way, and spoke with an affectation that made me feel a little weary. Daniel, on the other hand, struck me as more modern and easygoing. Neither of them stayed long; they had things to do, and Annika made no effort to keep them there.

“While you put your things away, I’m going to look for something of yours I have,” I told her when we were alone.

“Okay. I’ll finish up here. I still need to get the towels and a couple of other things out. Take the keys and let yourself in when you come back.”

***

I went down to the car, picked up the package I had prepared for her, and went back upstairs. I opened the door with her keys and froze on the threshold. The loft had changed completely in those few minutes.

The wooden panels that had formed a wall before were folded halfway back, shifted toward the terrace window, functioning almost like a blind. And what the wood had hidden from view was another wall, this one made of glass, completely transparent. Behind it was a bathroom: the toilet and sink, separated by another glass partition, just as transparent as the double shower, with a handheld and a rain head, which connected on the inside to the dressing room and the bedroom, where there was a large bed.

I stood there for quite a while looking at that wall, suddenly understanding the kind of home she had chosen. A home designed for looking and being looked at. A home that was, in itself, a declaration.

I thought about what might lie behind that choice. Annika could afford any apartment, and she had chosen one where nothing was safe from the eyes. I imagined her moving naked through that space, knowing she was visible, drying her hair in front of the glass while the guy she was “sort of seeing” watched her from the bed, his cock hard in his hand. And I was surprised to discover that, far from bothering me, the image made me want to join in: I wanted to be part of the audience too, and I could already feel my panties wet against my cunt.

Annika had already put everything away. When I finished taking in the glass with my eyes, I handed her the package.

“This is yours,” I said.

She had no idea what it could be. She opened it with a child’s excitement, carefully unwrapping it. Inside was a Nordic designer vase, one of those almost symbolic pieces, and inside that, another tiny package. When she opened it and recognized what it was, she burst out laughing: it was the panties she herself had left me that night in Stockholm, washed and folded, returned as a private joke between us.

She set the vase on the table and, this time on her own initiative, kissed me again. I answered with even more heat than the first time. I swear I had never felt anything so intense, so physical, with another woman. It was as if each time we pulled apart to breathe, the air grew a little heavier. Her hand slipped beneath my dress and pinched one of my nipples, making me jerk and bite her lower lip unintentionally. She laughed into my mouth, bit mine in return, and her other hand was already heading straight for my crotch. She touched me over my panties, felt the puddle I had going, and whispered in my ear, “You’re soaking wet, you filthy slut,” and I almost came right there, standing in her living room.

“All that moving around has made me sweat,” she said when we managed to calm down. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll pee first. Do you want me to close the panel?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She pulled her dress slowly over her head, then took off her bra and sat down. She did everything with such naturalness that I didn’t know where to put my hands. I was still dressed, standing on the other side of the glass, watching her the way you watch something you know you shouldn’t and can’t stop looking at. I saw her tits hanging loose, white, with pink nipples already hard, and I saw her completely shaved cunt, very pale against her skin, her lips slightly swollen. When she sat down, she spread her legs wider than necessary and looked me in the eyes through the glass while she peed.

When she finished, she turned toward me with an open smile, without a trace of embarrassment.

“I like being watched too,” she said, and stepped into the rain shower.

The water began to run over her shoulders and down her back. She picked up the soap and slowly soaped herself, taking her time, perfectly aware that I wasn’t looking away. She ran her foamy hands over her tits, pinched her nipples and pulled them until they were truly hard, then lowered one hand to her cunt and soaped it, spreading her lips with two fingers so I could see it properly. The afternoon light entered through the window and passed through the steam, and every drop sliding over her skin seemed calculated to drive me crazy. It wasn’t a perfect magazine body; it was better than that, a real body moving for me behind a pane of glass. She turned her back, leaned slightly forward with her hands against the wall, and showed me her spread ass, glistening with water, that line of her perineum running down to her cunt. I had one hand beneath my dress, touching myself over my panties, without realizing I had already started.

That was when I understood what the wall was really for. It wasn’t an architect’s whim or an eccentricity. It was exactly what we were both looking for without daring to ask for it: a stage where looking stopped being something done in secret and became part of the game. She exhibited herself because she liked being watched. I watched because I was incapable of doing anything else. And the glass, cold and clean, gave us both permission.

Annika lifted her face toward the rain, closed her eyes, and ran her hands through her wet hair. She knew she was performing for me, and I knew she knew it, and that shared certainty was more exciting than anything we could have said aloud. The steam gradually covered the glass, blurring her outline, until looking at her was no longer enough.

I lasted a minute. Maybe less.

I didn’t ask her anything. I took off my yellow dress, slipped out of my soaked panties, and pushed open the shower door. I joined her beneath the water with a lack of self-control I didn’t recognize, thinking of nothing but having her close. We soaped each other, slowly at first and with very little patience afterward, exploring every inch as if we had been waiting months for that permission. I soaped her tits with both hands, tugging her nipples until she moaned, and she did the same to me. Then she turned me around against the glass and soaped the crack of my ass, running her fingers very slowly, squeezing me there, and I spread my legs on my own without realizing it. She slipped one hand between my thighs from behind and searched for my cunt, finding it already open and slipperier than the soap. Two fingers went all the way in, and I threw my head back against her shoulder.

“I knew you’d come in,” she whispered in my ear, just as she had known I would go to her place, that I would open the door myself, that I would stand there watching. And as she said it, she fucked me with her fingers, slowly curling them inside me, her thumb making small circles on my clit. I pressed my palms against the fogged glass and watched our blurred reflection: her pressed against my back, her tits against my shoulder blades, her mouth at my neck, biting me. I reached backward for her cunt with one clumsy hand and pushed two fingers into her as well, and heard her moan seriously for the first time, a filthy, long groan from deep in her throat.

We came out of the shower dripping wet and barefoot, without bothering to dry ourselves completely. We crossed the dressing room, leaving a trail of drops on the floor, and collapsed onto the bed without saying another word, searching for each other’s mouths as if we were short of breath. What the glass had let me look at a moment earlier was now between my hands, and there was no wall in the way anymore.

She climbed on top of me and sucked my tits, one and then the other, not neglecting either of them, biting my nipples just enough to make me arch. Then she turned me over and got on top, opening my legs with her knees, and lowered herself, kissing down my stomach until she buried her face in my cunt without any warning. Her tongue wasn’t timid or curious: it was a tongue that knew exactly what to do, going for my clit in broad circles, then slow ones, then fast ones, slipping inside and out and back up again. I grabbed her head with both hands and pressed her mouth against me without the slightest shame, and she put in two fingers, then three, while she sucked me, fucking me as she licked me. I came screaming within minutes, my legs closing around her head and my ass lifted off the bed.

She didn’t let me catch my breath. She moved me up the bed, straddled my face, and lowered her cunt onto my mouth. I opened as best I could, still trembling, and stuck out my tongue blindly. I heard her moaning above me, felt her moving over my face, searching for the angle, and grabbed her ass with both hands, the same ass I had watched behind the glass, pulling her against me. I licked her without really knowing what I was doing, imitating what she had just done to me, moving up her lips to her clit, sucking it, pushing my tongue inside as deeply as I could. Above me I felt her tits swaying, heard her panting harder and harder, and felt her cunt growing wetter against my mouth until her thighs tensed on either side of my head and she came too, thrusting her pelvis against my face and never stopping saying my name.

We tangled together again, mouth to mouth, each one tasting herself in the other. We rubbed cunt against cunt, sweaty and still wet from the water, our legs crossed in a scissor position so we could rub against each other where we wanted. Looking into each other’s eyes and calling each other sluts between laughter and gasps, we both came almost at the same time, holding hands like children, our bodies convulsing and our mouths open in soundless cries.

We stayed that way for an amount of time I would have been unable to measure, until we were both exhausted, tangled together and laughing softly, still wet. The last light of the afternoon entered through the glass wall, and I thought that this house, made for looking and being looked at, couldn’t have had a better opening.