Alexis Adams puts on a show behind the shower glass – POVD
Title: The Glass Enigma: Alexis Adams’ Intimate Shower Shenanigans
As the showerhead throttled to life, the mirror-finish glass fogged into an opaque, milky film. But who needs an unobstructed view when the main attraction is mine for the masturbatory taking? The very human-shaped silhouette behind the frosted barrier was enough of a tease to get my heart racing and pulse pounding.
Pause. Rewind. Commit the alluring enigma to memory: curvy silhouette, full chest, hands roaming, steam rising, rivulets trickling down the glass like an erotic map of what’s to come. Just the outline of her was enough to stoke the flames of imagination, the mind’s eye filling in lurid details hinted at by the barely discernible motions. Those bountiful breasts surfing the foam of soap suds, pert nipples stiffening to aching points under her fingertips as she massages in slow, sensual circles. That taut, toned tummy rippling as water cascades down her smooth skin. The delicate touch of feminine hands gliding across thighs, high on the tension and anticipation. All this engaged in the privacy of an intimate sanctuary, blissfully unaware of the unseen eyes drawn to her through the looking glass.
Play. Resume. The current scene is no less intriguing: a silhouette stands poised at the vanity applying layers of colored cosmetics with the confidence of an artist. But the mind lingers on the far more tantalizing tidbits of flesh recently displayed in the Pac-Man hover of shower steps. Glossy hair slicked back into a high ponytail. Dehydrated skin glistening with bursts of lotion squeezed into the creases and cervices. Rubbery flip-flops beaten against a mat. Alexis Adams, queen of subtlety, ascending from her plain ablutions like Botticelli’s Venus, resurfacing to greet a new day.
I am struck by the obsessive curiosities inspired by this ritualistic voyeurism. Which brands of cosmetics nourish and perfect her visage? Safari Orange eyeshadow or Flash Purple liner? Razr Ballroom or Blazin’ Saffron matte lip? What concoctions does she brew for her bidet? Tokyo Milk or Chantecaille? How delicious would the soap suds taste on her flesh? No detail is too miniscule, too mundane to not imagine in lurid detail.
Focus shifts again cruelly, back to the mirror’s reflection. A woman contorts her features, testing the angles, putting her war paint to its test. Flourishes here, deemphasis there. A tight little O accentuates the pout, and cheeks are sucked in in a fish face. All is aesthetic calculation, preparing for a presentation… but to whom? To what debauched purpose does a girl primp for hours in her bathroom sanctuary? I picture her eyeing me through the looking glass, one hand arched on a cocked hip, the other crooked into a “come hither” beckon. Crook one finger, then two. Shimmy closer, closer, closer until the glass between us cakes with moisture and the cloying scent of arousal. My nostrils flare to inhale every saturated shard sprinkled between those two magnetic spheres.
Is that… jasmine? The aromatic notes promised escort me through the spectrum of her intimate bouquet. Sweet and velvety with refreshing undercurrents of nervous energy. I push my nose to the glass to take it all in, inhaling the musty human musk blooming beneath the hygienic scent of lavender shampoo and honey almond husk body wash. All traces of soap bubble and kink eiused have been wiped away, replaced by a wake-up-in-my-knickers scent so potent I can taste it.
I am beyond fixated, having achieved a near-meditative state in my worship of this woman exercising her bare-naked feminine mystique. She works the angles, making each calculated face an art form unto itself. Foxy saucer eyes flashing beneath dark lashes damp with mascara. Playfully pursed rebellious lips glossed to maximum pop. Snarl of perfectly sculpted eyebrow accentuating one brow in devilishness while its partner remains arched in angelic innocence. Duck lip (not duckface) with enough pout to make Cupid jealous. Goofy skeletor grin.
It is then that she happens to see me, and not through the looking glass. The facsimile is reflected back at her as she turns to clear the vanity, bending at the waist, glutes bisected by the crease of her favorite ice blue towel. Her arrangement in the mirror takes on new meaning, and both of us melted adequately, her with arousal, me with nervous delight. For in the full reflection, I now realize she did not just copy a face, but rather imprinted it on the glass, identical in every detail from arch of cheekbones to flecks in the eyes.
We both stare into the mirror for the elongated beat of a shared realization, and then she winks at me, blows me a kiss, and sashays to the shower, retreat complete, the fogged glass once again concealing her charms. But it is too late, for the veil has been lifted. The lady has revealed herself in everything but the flesh. She knows I return to her reveal with each replay. She revels in my worshipful glances and buttons pulled with Chinese burns. What she does in the privacy of her wet room, whether waxing aloof or waxing girl up, revelations of women’s pride and endless delighting themselves, all this is now mine to follow, inhabit, explore… own.
