The Opportunist

I've always known that I am a voyeur. Not one of those creepy types that hides behind bushes and peer into windows. No, more of an opportunist. Given a respectable situation, one that won't label me as a pervert or get me arrested, I like to watch.

A recent situation gave rise to an opportunity. I live in a small condo garden apartment, three stories, with two apartments on each floor - on the right and left side of the stairs. My neighbor Diana and I are on the top floor. Diana is an attractive young woman with whom I've been friendly. We exchange pleasantries when we encounter each other. She was at my apartment early on after she moved in, as I cooked a meal for her. But nothing progressed as it wasn't clear we had much in common. Anyway, she had a boyfriend.

One Monday morning, after her morning jog, which she did every day, Diana knocked on my door. With sweat on her face and on her running clothes, and towels in her hand, she informed me that she just realized that her hot water heater had died. And she had meetings that morning. Could she shower at my apartment? I said, of course, so long as she didn't mind if I shaved and brushed my teeth while she was using the shower; I had to get to work soon too. She gave me a quizzical look, like, are you serious? I anticipated her thoughts by saying, "Don't worry, the shower has an opaque shower door; I won't be able to see you." She later told me she never heard anything so outrageous and agreed only because she was stuck. And a little curious.

Diana went into the bathroom and I waited until I heard the water running. I went in. I said the shower door was opaque. Sort of. It's not clear glass, but it's not a barrier either. In the mirror above the sink as I shaved, I could see the outline of her body as she showered - the shape of her breasts, of her hips, her behind and legs. I watched her turn and bend, washing her top, her middle, all of her. When the water stopped, she pulled two towels into the shower stall and dried herself. I watched every movement. (It takes me a long time to shave.) She came out with one towel wrapped tightly around her body, and a second towel wrapped around her wet hair. She looked at me warily, mumbled a 'thanks', and crossed the hall to dress at her apartment.

She knocked at my door the next morning. It was going to take several days before the new water heater could be installed and I guess she decided yesterday hadn't been horrible. It wasn't the shower scene from Psycho and she still needed to wash after her run. When the water in the shower began, I entered to shave. I saw in the mirror that she turned in the shower to look at me. No words were spoken. We both knew it wasn't credible that I "needed" to shave every day at exactly the same time she took a shower. There was at that instant a psychic understanding, an agreement. She knew I was a watcher. She was the watched.

She dried in the shower but this time when she exited, she held the towel in front of her body. She thanked me. I saw her naked back and buttocks as she left.

I could hardly wait for Wednesday. It went the same as the day before, only this time Diana exited the shower to dry herself in the bathroom. She chatted breezily about something as she dried her chest, her legs, her back. I could observe her lovely breasts and nipples and curves without the obstruction of the clouded glass. She had pubic hair, unlike so many girls today who shave there. It was like we were roommates. Just one of us happened to be naked.

Day four was a repeat of day three, only she lingered longer in the bathroom while we chatted, with a towel wrapped around her waist, her top bare. Then she used my hair dryer to dry her hair, lifting her arms in the air, stretching her body and her breasts. Was she deliberately exposing herself?

On Friday she didn't go to work. Her new hot water heater was being installed. I felt a pang of remorse observing the appliance truck in the parking lot. There would go my lovely morning ritual, that titillation of seeing her wet naked body.

Diana sent a text inviting me to have dinner with her Saturday night, to thank me, she said. When I knocked at the door with a bouquet of flowers, she was wearing a loose fitting top with shorts. We talked pleasantly for a while. Conversation was easy; she was nice. Then she excused herself to go into her bedroom. She returned wearing only a bra and panties. Upon seeing my surprise, she said "We both know what you like. And until this week, I didn't know what I liked." She slipped off the bra and, topless, went into the kitchen to check on dinner. We talked as I stared at her beautiful body. Then she removed the panties. She continued to prepare dinner, acting as if things were perfectly normal. She moved, turned, bent down to get some bowls, each time giving me different view of her body. Finally, there were no towels, no opaque glass, no pretenses.

She served dinner. I ate only a little, with my eyes fixed on her nakedness, a nervous flutter within me. It was too much. I went to her. She removed my clothes and we were naked together. I explored and caressed the body I had been watching but had never touched. I massaged the breasts, then let my hands glide down her front to her stomach. I teased her, rubbing the stomach, the abdomen then the thighs. Not touching the center of her passion. At least not at first. Then I entered her with a finger, rubbing against the clitoris as the finger probed deeper and deeper. She moaned and stretched her midsection higher, toward me. She clutched onto my neck as the pleasure throbbed through her body. Then it was my turn, as she cupped my testicles, and slowly dragged her hand upward toward the tip of the penis. She circled the penis with her hand, exciting it to its full length. When I couldn't take much more, I entered her and we made love.

We have a wonderful relationship now. She often spends time in my apartment wearing little or nothing. She'll sometimes wear enticing clothes so I can watch as she strips them off. She loves to be watched. We have so much in common.

And that boyfriend? He's history.