The water sprays to life, striking the tiles before your feet with a hiss that steams hot in seconds, putting your shower at home to shame. Your shower at home also doesn't have such a nice, neat, white wire-shelf hanging below the nozzle, one you’d brought in especially and arrayed with choices of body lotions, moisturisers, massage oils, lubricant. The fact that this criminally obvious selection is still here is your daily proof that no-one ever comes in here but you. Except - you stare back at the strange black hole. Why?
It's weird now you came to look at it with eyes unclouded by panic, really look at it. The hole is perfectly round, a smooth window of black centering four, uncracked and unchipped tiles. You’d expect to see the tile-edges around the inside edge of the hole, a manmade strata of porcelain, grout, and wall, but all you can see is an amorphous dark that seems to stare back at you, waiting.
The steaming is starting to fill the cubicle. You move to turn the boiling water down, stop, and instead lower the shower nozzle so it sprays against the wall, letting the steam continue to fill the space and keep you warm. This is the time when you’d usually be making yourself… excited, selecting a lotion or oil with which to deliberately enjoy the shower as much as the actresses in shampoo commercials always seem to do. But between the adrenaline and then relief from before you’re already very excited, your heart still racing, breath deep and adamant. You’re even more than a little hard, as you stare at the hole, and imagine.
Now you've proven to yourself there's no real danger, it feels safe to imagine a little. In the past you’d imagined many things – someone walking in to hear you, find you, someone peeping through a window, someone behind you watching every move with wanton attention. Last time you’d even propped the cubicle door open so you could see yourself the whole time, staring into your own reflected eyes as you tried to stay upright against the wall – where the hole now is, still watching you. And good as they all were, none of those fantasies ever got your heart racing half as much as just remembering the last few minutes, now made exciting from a vantage of safety. Tapping a little into that previous fear, turning it into thrill, you imagine someone, an eye, watching from the hole.
You imagine them seeing your nude form, not all of you, just your thighs to the underside of your chest, the view cutting off tantalizingly close to your nipples. You imagine the watcher straining to see higher, only able to see the separate pale swells of the undersides of your breasts, the skin glistening in the steaming air, the smooth shapes moving slightly inwards as your fingers rise beside them, then flattened as your palms push back down into a breathy moan, coming into view as your back curves only to be obscured by your hands pressing into the soft skin. You imagine the watcher holding their breath as your hands unclasp, palms and straightened fingers drawn over the hidden nipples until only the fingertips remain to hide them, revealing the first hints of pink, as they rise back up out of view. A moment of disappointment, only to turn to thrill as the hands descend back into view, sliding easily down the glistening skin of a toned stomach, the fingertips tense with anticipation as they glide lower.
You can almost feel the desperate gaze on your body, descending with your fingertips down your chest, past your navel, inwards down the fall of your hips, closer, closer.
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