I Spied on the Shy Otaku Girl from My Closet
I never quite settled on whether to call her Cami or just Camila. Even now, her name brings back that strange mix of innocence and desire that only certain early-twenties otaku girls can stir up. I met her in the packing workshop where I worked as supervisor, and from the very first day I knew I was going to get myself into trouble.
That February afternoon, the heat in the industrial zone was unbearable. The rest of the team had finished early and gone to a café downtown to wait for closing time. It was up to me to lock up the workshop, and for that I needed Camila to finish her packing assignment.
“Cami, you look worn out,” I told her, resting my arms on the worktable.
She barely lifted her head. Her glasses were slipping down her nose, and a strand of straight hair was stuck to her forehead.
“Hot, Andrés. I need a long, cold shower,” she murmured without stopping folding little boxes.
The girls in the workshop usually dressed light to get through the hours: thin T-shirts, almost always worn out, and leggings made of thin denim or stretchy cotton. Over that they wore the sanitary apron and tall boots. Camila was one of the few who seemed comfortable with that uniform, as if hiding were part of her personality.
She was a small girl, just over five feet tall, very fair-skinned, with slow movements. She didn’t have the curves most of the guys in the workshop were always talking about over lunch. She spoke softly, made little eye contact, and when she laughed she covered her mouth with her hand. But something about her told me that under that plain clothing and that loose apron there was a body worth discovering. It was an intuition that had been stuck in my head for weeks, a suspicion that came back every time I saw her stretch to reach a box on the high shelf and the leggings clung to her tiny ass, outlining the line between her tight cheeks.
I checked the packing list and saw an opportunity. In reality there were only twenty boxes left to finish, but the printed sheet said “200” because of a typo that morning. Camila hadn’t looked up enough to notice.
“Look, Cami, if you want, I’ll take care of the two hundred that are left and close everything up. You go take your shower and relax,” I offered. “But then you’ll make it up to me for the overtime when I ask.”
She raised her slanted eyes behind the glasses. For a second it seemed to me she was hesitating, not about the number of boxes, but about the phrase “when I ask.” Then she smiled sideways and adjusted her glasses with the back of her hand.
“Deal,” she said. “I’ll make it up when you ask, and however you ask, boss.”
She got up, grabbed her small backpack with a Totoro keychain hanging from it, and gave me a cartoonish kiss on the cheek. Before leaving, she lifted one leg in a manga pose, almost like a curtsy. Then she turned and walked to the far end of the warehouse, where the changing rooms were.
Don’t take your eyes off her, idiot, I told myself, but it was already too late.
I followed her with my eyes the thirty meters separating the workshop from the office area. Her black leggings clung to her thin, firm legs, and each step made her narrow hips sway in a slow rhythm. Her butt, small, bounced up and down in a way I would never have suspected from looking at her seated. I couldn’t see any panty line under the fabric. That turned my head on more than I was willing to admit, and my cock too, already starting to swell inside my work pants.
***
As soon as she closed the changing room door, I ran to my office. The building where the workshop operated was old, with thick walls and lots of improvised remodels over the years. My office shared a wall with the shower and changing-room area, separated only by an old built-in closet I had never fully opened. I used it to store file folders and a couple of old boxes whose contents I couldn’t even remember.
Before doing anything, I locked the office door, turned off the lights, and lowered the blinds. If Camila came back to the workshop for any reason, she’d think I’d already left. Then, almost without breathing, I opened both closet doors.
Behind the boxes there was a wooden wall with several slits. Two at chest height looked directly into the changing rooms. Three more, higher up, pointed toward the row of showers. Someone, at some point, had done that work patiently. I didn’t want to know who.
I climbed in among the boxes, got myself settled as best I could, and looked.
Camila was standing in front of the changing-room bench, still wearing the apron, listening to music on her phone. It was something slow, a Japanese ballad sung by a girl. She untied the apron unhurriedly, folded it, and put it in her backpack. Then she sat on the bench to take off her boots, one first and then the other with more effort, biting her tongue in concentration. Her neck tilted forward and revealed the curve of her shoulder under the thin T-shirt.
When she took off the T-shirt and tossed it onto the bench, I held my breath. She was wearing a gray sports top, simple, with no padding. She pulled it off over her head in one motion, and there were her little tits, bare, small, round, white like the rest of her skin, with a slight asymmetry that made them feel even more real. Her nipples were pink, tiny, but they hardened as soon as the cool changing-room air touched them. Each pale aureole stood out like a small coin, and the tips pointed slightly upward. Her abdomen was pale and flat, with a small mole near her navel. She slid her hands under her breasts to scratch the marks left by the top and lifted them just a little as she did. My mouth went dry.
Then came the leggings. She stood up, bent over, and pulled them down with both hands from the waist, and then I understood why I hadn’t seen the panty line. She wasn’t wearing regular panties. She had on a thin flesh-colored thong, almost invisible against her skin, with a tiny triangle of fabric that barely covered her pussy. The butt I’d seen bouncing as she walked was small but firm, two soft curves divided only by the thread of the thong disappearing between her ass.
She stayed like that for a moment, bent over, gathering the leggings from the floor, not knowing that on the other side of the wall I had forgotten to blink and already had my hand over the bulge in my pants.
***
Then she took off the thong without ceremony, like someone alone in her own room. She slid it down over her thighs and let it fall to the floor, hooked it up with her foot, and tossed it onto the bench. For a few seconds I saw her completely, first from behind, then in profile when she stretched to grab the towel. Her pussy was tiny, with very little hair, a neat dark little triangle that contrasted with the white skin of her pubic mound. Her inner lips barely protruded at all, like a closed, clean line between thighs that touched a little up top and then separated. That was when I understood what my intuition had been screaming at me for weeks: Camila was small, yes, but everything about her was in exact proportion. Narrow shoulders, a short, defined waist, hips only slightly wider than her waist.
She walked naked toward the showers with the towel in her hand, swaying that white little ass with every step, and I quickly moved to the higher slits, the ones facing the showers. I saw her enter the middle stall, turn on the water, and step under it without testing it. Her head thrown back, eyes closed, a small smile I had never seen on the factory floor. Water ran down her hair, flattened the strands against her neck, flowed between her tits, and gathered in thick drops hanging from her nipples before falling.
She started running her hands over her body. At first it was just soap, efficient movements from a girl who showers quickly. She soaped her shoulders, her arms, her stomach. Then she soaped her tits, and there she lingered longer than she needed to, circling them with open palms, pinching her nipples between index finger and thumb as if by accident, tugging them forward until they stood hard and long like raspberries. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth slightly, letting the air out in a slow breath.
One hand stayed there, playing with a nipple. The other slid down her stomach, paused a moment at her navel, and kept going lower, unhurried, until it disappeared between her thighs. She spread her legs a little and leaned her back against the shower stall wall. The white tiles soaked her black hair and plastered it to her shoulder blades.
Her fingers moved with the practiced motion of someone used to doing it alone. Through the drops on the frosted glass and the gap in the slit, I could see how her middle finger sank first into the slit of her pussy and then rose to the clit, making slow, tiny circles, pressing and releasing. Every time the finger went deeper and slipped inside, her hips came forward on their own and a short gasp escaped her. Then the finger came back up and rubbed in quick little taps, and she clenched her teeth.
I had opened my pants without realizing it. My cock was out, hard enough to hurt, and I was gripping it with my right hand while watching, my left hand braced against the closet wood. I forced myself not to move, not to pump yet. I didn’t want to cum before she did. I didn’t want to dirty the moment with my own noise. I just held myself tight in my fist, feeling it throb against my fingers.
Camila slid two fingers into her pussy. I saw them go in to the knuckles, and I saw them come out glossy, not just from the water. She brought them to her mouth for an instant, as if tasting herself, and then lowered them back to her clit, faster now, more desperate. With the other hand she squeezed one breast, tugging at the nipple, twisting it gently.
She pressed her forehead against the tiles and spread her legs wider, just enough to give herself room. She put one hand on the showerhead bar to steady herself. Her shoulders tightened, her back arched, her white little ass lifted slightly back as if offering itself, and a low sound, almost a held breath, came out of her chest. Then another, and another, each one less restrained. She started murmuring something, loose words in Japanese I didn’t understand, and one in Spanish that I did: “like this, like this, like this.” She bit her lower lip, the same gesture she had when counting boxes in the workshop, but now with her fingers sunk in her pussy.
For a moment I feared the pounding of my own blood would be audible on the other side of the wall. I started pumping my cock slowly, stroking from base to tip, feeling everything pool low in my body. She kept moving her hand, now at a frantic rhythm, three fingers going in and out of her pussy while her thumb worked her clit. The Japanese ballad had changed to another one like it, and the rhythm of her fingers seemed to match the song.
Her thighs tensed first, then her ass, and finally her belly. I heard her stifle a cry against her own shoulder. Her pussy clenched in spasms that made her whole skinny body tremble, and a thick stream ran down her leg, different from the water, before the shower spray washed it away. I couldn’t hold back any longer and came right there, among the boxes, pinching the tip with my hand so I wouldn’t make a sound, feeling the hot load slide between my fingers and drip in drops onto the closet’s wooden floor.
It didn’t last much longer. She stayed still under the spray, breathing hard, her hand still between her legs, squeezing her pussy like someone holding something in. Then she slowly pulled it out, brought it to her mouth again with her eyes closed, and licked her fingers one by one, unhurried. She rinsed her body calmly, ran her hand once more between her ass cheeks and once between her tits, turned off the tap, and came out wrapped in the white towel as if nothing had happened.
***
I watched her get dressed on the other side of the low slit. She put on a different pair of panties, light blue cotton, and jeans darker than her work clothes. A clean Sailor Moon T-shirt. She combed her hair in front of the small changing-room mirror, adjusted her glasses, and put clear gloss on her lips. The whole operation took less than five minutes. When she left the changing room, humming that Japanese ballad, she was once again the shy Camila from the workshop.
I stayed in the closet until I heard the warehouse door close behind her. Then I came out, wiped my hand and my still-soft cock with an office tissue, pulled my pants back up, turned on the lights, opened the blinds, and sat at my desk with my hands resting on the wood, staring at the wall as if I could still see through it.
I’ll make it up when you ask, and however you ask, boss.
That line was going to come back to me for weeks. Not because of what she had said, but because of what I had done with that promise: collected it in a currency she didn’t even know she had agreed to pay.
The following Monday, when Camila came into the workshop with her backpack and her Totoro keychain, I held her gaze a second longer than usual. She adjusted her glasses, smiled sideways, and lowered her eyes. I don’t know whether she suspected anything. Probably not.
What I do know is that that same afternoon, when the shift ended and the others went to the café downtown, I made up another fake list. And she, once again, agreed to stay until the end.
To be continued.