She takes my hand and leads me out of the bedroom, through the hall I've never fully seen, past framed photos of her in arabesque, and I feel the floor change under my bare feet—linoleum giving way to hardwood, then to the sprung floor of a ballet studio. The room opens around us, all white walls and pale wood, and the mirrors.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors. They catch the late afternoon light slanting through the high windows, and for a moment I see us doubled, tripled, infinite versions of two girls in sheer tights standing in the middle of a dance studio. My buzz cut, my lean shoulders, my small breasts bare and peaked in the cool air. Her honey hair still messy from the day, her slender frame, the way her nipples brush against the air as she breathes. We're both still wearing only the tights—hers fresh but damp at the crotch, mine still carrying the ghost of her scent where I pressed them to my face hours ago. The mirrors catch everything.
"This is where I practice." Her voice is soft, almost reverent. She's still holding my hand, her fingers warm and calloused from years of gripping barres. "Every morning. Sometimes twice."
I can barely speak. The room feels sacred—the lingering smell of rosin, the faint salt of dried sweat, the wooden barre worn smooth by her hands. I see her in every corner. "It smells like you."
Lisa smiles, that slow, knowing smile she gets when I say something true without meaning to. She leads me to the center of the floor, where the mirrors form a perfect box around us. I can see my own reflection from every angle. My gray eyes look almost black in this light. My hands are shaking.
"I want to show you something." She lets go of my hand and steps behind me. I feel her breath on my shoulder before I feel her body. "Don't look away from the mirror."
I obey. I watch her reflection approach mine. She presses her bare chest against my back, her nipples grazing my spine, and I feel the heat of her skin through the thin air. Her arms come around me, her palms sliding down my ribs, my hips, coming to rest on my thighs. She's so much softer than me. Her fingers trace the edge of the nylon where it stretches over my quadriceps.
"You're beautiful in these." Her voice is a murmur against my ear. "The way the fabric clings to you. I've been watching you in them all day."
My throat tightens. I watch our reflection—two bodies fused in the glass, her honey head tucked into the curve of my neck, her hands moving slow and deliberate over my thighs. I watch my own face, the way my lips part, the way my eyes darken.
"You watch me all the time," I manage. "Through the window."
"I do." She doesn't deny it. "But this is different. This is seeing you the way I imagine you when I'm alone. When I'm stretching in here, holding a pose, and I close my eyes and pretend you're watching me from the mirror."
I feel her hands press my thighs apart, just a little. My knees part wider on their own. The mirror shows me everything: the way my hips tilt forward, the way my cunt presses against the damp nylon, the dark shadow of my arousal showing through the sheer fabric. I can see her watching it in the glass.
"You get wet for me," she breathes. "I can see it. I can smell it."
Yes. God, yes. I'm soaked. The fabric is translucent with it. I watch her hands slide down from my thighs, tracing the inside curve, until her fingers rest at the edge of the wet spot. She doesn't touch me directly—just the nylon over me. But I feel it like a brand.
"Keep your eyes on the mirror," she says. "Don't close them. Don't look down."
And then she sinks to her knees behind me.
The reflection shifts. I see myself standing, legs apart, hands gripping my own hips. And behind me, Lisa kneeling, her honey head level with my ass, her face tilted up toward me. The sight of her there—this beautiful dancer I've watched for months from my driveway, who I've wanted with a desperation that felt like drowning—kneeling between my thighs, looking up at me like I'm something holy. I almost break the command and look down. But I don't. I watch.
Her hands come up to my hips. She turns me slightly, adjusts my stance, until I'm facing the mirror directly, my reflection staring right into my own eyes. She kisses the back of my thigh, just above the knee, and the heat of her mouth through the nylon makes me gasp. Then she shifts, kisses higher. The inside of my knee. The back of my thigh. The curve where my ass meets my leg. Each kiss slow, deliberate, her lips pressing through the sheer fabric, her breath hot against the wet nylon.
"You've wanted this so long," she says, her voice muffled against my skin. "I know you have. I've felt you watching me, and every time, I got wetter, thinking about this."
Her mouth finds the edge of the wet spot. She presses her lips right there, over my cunt through the tights, and I see my hips jerk in the mirror. My hands fly to my own waist, gripping, holding myself still. She licks. The fabric drags against my clit, rough and wet and perfect, and I hear a sound come out of me I don't recognize.
"Look at yourself," she whispers against me. "Look at what I do to you."
I force my eyes open. I'd closed them without realizing. In the mirror, I see a girl I almost don't recognize—mouth open, eyes dark and glazed, cheeks flushed, head thrown back. The reflection shows every detail: the way my chest heaves, the way my nipples are hard and aching, the way one of my hands has come up to grip my own breast. I watch my fingers curl into my own flesh, squeezing, needing something to hold onto.
Lisa's tongue works through the nylon. She's slow, methodical, like she's tracing a line she's studied a thousand times. She finds my clit through the fabric and presses her whole mouth over it, sucking gently, and I watch my hips grind against her face in the glass. I watch my belly tighten. I watch my thighs tremble.
"Oh, god." It's not a prayer. It's a confession.
She pulls back just enough to speak. "You're so wet the fabric is transparent. I can see everything. I can see your lips, your clit, the way you're opening for me." Her thumb presses against the wet nylon, right over my entrance, and I feel the fabric push inside me just a fraction of an inch. "I can feel how much you need me."
I can't stop watching. My own face in the mirror is a map of everything I've never let anyone see. The hunger. The need. The terror of being wanted this much. My hand is still on my breast, and I watch my fingers pinch my nipple, rolling it hard, trying to ground myself. The pain helps. The pleasure is too big without it.
Lisa's tongue returns to my clit, faster now, harder. She's eating me through the nylon like she's starving, like the fabric is just another layer of my skin, and she wants to taste every inch of it. I feel the seam of the tights pressing against my slit, the double layer of fabric over my clit, and the friction is unbearable. I'm going to come. I can feel it building, a pressure behind my belly, a heat spreading up my spine.
But before I can fall over the edge, she stops.
I cry out. Actually cry out. The loss of her mouth is physical pain.
"No," I gasp. "Please—"
"Watch." She stands up behind me, her body pressing against my back again. Her arms wrap around me, one hand coming up to my throat, gentle but firm. She tilts my head so I'm staring straight into the mirror. "Watch what you look like when you're right on the edge. I want you to remember this."
I see it. My lips are wet and parted. My eyes are wide and dark. My whole body is trembling, poised, waiting. The girl in the mirror is desperate. She's beautiful. I never knew I could look like this.
Lisa's hand slides down my belly, into the waistband of my tights. Her fingers find my clit directly—bare skin on bare skin—and I almost come right there. She circles me slowly, watching my face in the mirror, watching the way my mouth falls open, the way my eyes lose focus.
"This is how I see you," she whispers. "Every time I do yoga in the yard. Every time I touch myself in here. This is the image I hold in my head. You, undone. You, needing me. You, so beautiful it hurts."
She sinks to her knees again, and this time she pulls the crotch of my tights aside. The nylon snaps against my thigh. I feel the cool air on my bare cunt, and then her mouth—her tongue, flat and hot and wet—against me without any barrier. The sensation is so intense I almost fall forward. I catch myself with a hand on the mirror, watching my palm press against the glass, watching my reflection brace itself.
She licks me slowly, deliberately, like she's memorizing the taste. Her tongue traces my folds, circles my clit, dips inside me. I watch myself shatter in slow motion. My hips rock against her face. My hand on the mirror slides down, leaving a sweat mark. My other hand is still gripping my breast, squeezing hard enough to bruise. And through it all, I keep my eyes open. I watch.
She pulls her mouth away and looks up at me, her chin wet with me, her eyes bright. "I want you to come looking at yourself." She slides two fingers inside me, slow and deep, and I feel the stretch. "I want you to see who you are when I make you come. I want you to know."
Her fingers curl inside me, finding that spot, and her mouth returns to my clit. I watch. I watch my back arch. I watch my mouth open in a silent scream. I watch my hand slide from my own breast to my belly, pressing down, trying to hold myself together. I watch the girl in the mirror become something else—something raw and animal and utterly, completely seen.
The orgasm builds like a wave I can't outrun. It fills my whole body, my legs, my chest, my throat. I hear myself say her name. "Lisa—Lisa, I'm—"
"Look at yourself." Her voice is a command against my skin. "Look."
I look.
I see my eyes lock onto my own in the glass. I see the moment they widen, the moment the wave crests, the moment I let go. I see my face contort with pleasure, my jaw dropping, my eyes rolling back before I force them open again. I see my hips grind against her face, my thighs shaking, my whole body clenching around her fingers. I see myself fall apart, and I don't look away.
And in that moment, looking into my own eyes in the mirror, I understand. This is how she's wanted me all along. Not just to touch me. Not just to make me come. But to make me see myself the way she sees me. To make me watch and know that I am beautiful, that I am wanted, that I am the girl she's been dreaming of in this room, on this floor, in front of these mirrors. She needed me to see it to believe it.
I come with my eyes open, watching myself in her reflection, and the understanding hits me like a second wave.
When it's over, I sag forward against the mirror, my palms flat against the cool glass, my forehead resting against my own reflection. My breath fogs the surface. Behind me, Lisa stands up, wraps her arms around my waist, and presses her lips to the back of my neck.
"Now you know," she whispers.
I nod, still staring at my own eyes in the mirror. I look different. I don't know how, but I do. Like someone finally turned on a light I didn't know was off.
"Thank you," I say. My voice is hoarse. "For making me watch."
She kisses my shoulder. "I've been waiting a long time to show you."
We stay like that for a long moment, our reflections embracing in the mirror, two girls in sheer tights, bare-breasted, the afternoon light catching the sweat on our skin. I don't look away. I don't want to.