A Doll's House

One of the things he loved about secretly watching her was how her pale, slim-fingered hands moved as she worked at the sink, each item she washed holding her attention as she ministered to it briefly. His secret vantage point looked straight down from the window of his second story hallway into her tiny, immaculate kitchen, and as he climbed the stairs this morning, he welcomed an increasingly familiar thread of guilt-tinged lust at the thought of finding her standing at her kitchen sink where he could watch her hands in private. God, those hands.

He had first stumbled across this sweet and sudden intimacy a month ago while searching the upstairs closet for an extra three-pronged extension cord. With the neatly coiled cord in his hand, he had swung the door closed and caught movement through his upstairs window overlooking the first floor kitchen of the house next door. He turned his head to follow the movement and saw the lovely, soft skin of his neighbor for the first time. Her arms were immersed in a dishtub full of water so liberally doctored with soap that it was as though her hands ceased to exist past the thick, white scrud of suds at her wrists. She pulled them from the depths just then as he watched, and he saw between her palms a delicate and slender vase of pale blue glazed ceramic. For a moment she held the vase at the neck and base, her fingers shiny with what he had imagined to be water just past warm enough to be comfortable, judging by the slight rosy glow of her wet skin. He turned to fully watch her for the first time then, thoughts of the extension cord suddenly forgotten as he quickly became mesmerized by the sight of her bare hands moving deliberately over the vase as she washed it with agonizing care.

For a week or so after that first chance encounter, he had trouble focusing his attention at random times. Images of her hands would appear in his mirror when he was shaving in the early afternoon in preparation for work, or insinuate themselves into his mind's eye later to keep him company while preparing his solitary late-evening dinner. He found his own hands becoming unusually busy at night recently, right before he fell asleep in the center of the bed he and his ex-wife had shared until she left him almost a year ago.

Lately, he had begun to think that this new found interest in his neighbors hands was more than just a slight deviation from the middle-of-the-road fantasies that normally held his attention adequately during those times he needed to get rid of an unwanted erection. He had also begun to think that he didn't mind this new deviation the slightest bit. It seemed harmless to him.

He eased himself slowly into his usual position at the top of the stairs, the horizontal mini-blinds already having been spun downward to provide him with hidden cover against any prying eyes while giving him an unhindered view of her arms, upper torso and hands as she worked. As he looked down through the blinds, he felt himself begin to thicken in anticipation within the confines of his jeans, and he idly pressed a palm against his flat, flannel-covered stomach, aiming toward his groin and wishing uselessly for a moment that his hand was hers.

Every day he stood peering down through the blinds for long minutes while he waited for her to show up. She always did, and never came empty-handed. He had practically memorized the small slice of her kitchen that was visible to him through her window: the forest green countertop, the perpetual shine on the stainless steel of the single-bowl sink, the angled handle of the sprayer nozzle spouting upward from the right-hand side of the sink. The blindingly white plastic dishpan which rested upside down on the faucet, drying. He ran his eyes greedily over them all now, remembered images of her soapy fingers dipping and swirling into the tiny end of the blue vase she was washing the first day he saw her filling his mind.

He closed his eyes briefly, letting his lust wash freely over his flesh. He wanted to feel her slick hands on his cock, wanted to be under her scrutiny, however briefly. He realized then that he didn't know her name, and was surprised that it didn't matter to him at all. He thought of her as 'She' and for him, that was enough.

Leaning against the closet door, he slowly opened his eyes and looked down through the slats into her window. A momentary thrill coursed through him as he realized he had missed her arrival by a minute or so. He watched greedily as her darkly painted nails passed through the white froth of the running water, testing its heat as the dishpan quickly filled. She always seemed to enjoy the feel of the water, almost reveling in its liquid texture and heat as it passed across the skin of her hands.

He tore his gaze away from her hands and directed it to the area to the left of her sink, wanting to see what she would be cleaning today.

In the past, she had brought a amazing variety of items to her sink, some mundane and some exotic. All came dirty, and all left clean from her touch. The objects that most often played through his imagination late at night were the collection of light blue antique patent medicine bottles. She had brought them to the sink a week before in a large, dust-covered red wicker basket and proceeded to fill each in turn with the hot soapy water, capping the end with a thumb before shaking them vigorously to dislodge any resistant dirt. His cock throbbed as he remembered how her thumb had slipped once during the act, and a thick spume of soap had jetted from inside the bottle toward her right shoulder and landed on the front of her pale pink cotton blouse, soaking the material and revealing a black bra strap.

His hand dropped to the front of his jeans to caress his stiffened flesh as he watched her. He ran his fingertips firmly down across the swell of his aching cock, feeling sweat begin to form at the back of his neck from the sudden heat running through his body. Unbuckling his belt, he popped the button of his jeans and pushed down the zipper in one quick movement. He teased himself and watched her in secret silence, his heart racing as he saw what she would be tormenting him with today.

A collection of mirrors. In metal frames, flat, on stands, all kinds. All dusty.

She ordered them by size and slipped several of them into the depths of the soapy water in the dishpan. Pulling out each one, she held it up slightly to better see its progress as she ran her long fingers around each edge, across each flat surface, rubbing briefly at some tiny dried-on speck before she rinsed it and set it on the bare countertop to her right to drip into its own puddle of cooling water.

One after another, her beautiful hands moved across the warm glass of her mirrors. With his left hand, he slid his flannel shirt up and free of his jeans, impatiently touching the warm skin of his lower belly while his right hand pinched the deep red head of his cock and rubbed the tiny drop that appeared there. He stifled a slight grunt at the sensation of sudden slickness and moved his hand down the thickness of the shaft, shaking it slightly and testing its weight.

Bracing his feet, he leaned closer to the window and let his eyes slip closed for a moment. He felt the muscles in his thighs flex as he began to thrust easily and rhythmically into his right hand, images of her slender fingers and her faceless, nameless body churning behind his shut eyelids. The only sound breaking the silence of this room was the soft slap of skin against skin.

Not allowing himself to climax without having his eyes on her hands was a new habit of his. He opened his eyes slightly, peering down at her through slitted eyelids. She had finished with the small mirrors and was now in the process of cleaning a mirror too large to fit into her tiny dishpan, and it was lying flat across the top of it, her hands moving lazily over its wetly reflective surface, teasing dust from the edges. He was more than ready to fall off the cliff, and he gripped his cock tighter, driving toward the delicious rush he knew was coming.

The muscles of his ass bunched under his jeans as he felt his orgasm rapidly approaching. The unmistakeable sound of slapping flesh grew louder and more insistant as he eyed the rosy softness of her skin, imagining the puckered feel her fingertips would have after being in water for so long. A single trickle of sweat broke free from his forehead and ran down the side of his face from the effort of jerking his cock, but he ignored it and looked deeper into the mirror for one moment as the first powerful jet of semen arched from his manhood and forced him to close his eyes as his climax locked all his muscles in delicious agony. He didn't want to think about the sight that greeted him in the depths of that mirror, shocking him and violating his own privacy.

He saw her eyes reflected there, looking directly into his.