Becoming A Voyeur

Elsa cracked one eye open to an empty pillow. Same story. Charlotte ghosted the way she’d arrived—sudden and soundless, like a door slamming in a dream. Steam from the shower still clung to her skin when she stepped back into the bedroom, towel wrapped tight. She grabbed her uniform, eyes on the clock, already rewriting the day into something safe. Then India’s reflection slid across the mirror like a shadow behind a lamp. India offered to help. Elsa said yes before thinking. The mattress dipped as India sat, fingers fiddling with buttons and straps that didn’t need it. “Sorry about last night,” she said, soft and sorry. “Hope we weren’t too loud.” Elsa’s gaze skated away, cheeks hot. A twitchy nod. “How’d you even know?” Elsa heard herself ask, voice barely there. India started the story she’d told a hundred times, something about a party and a girl with black nails, but it cut short when Charlotte’s face winked back at them from the glass. Elsa stood too fast, smile slapped on crooked. “Thanks, India. You can go now.” Polite, final, no room. When the latch clicked, Charlotte’s laugh slipped under it like perfume. “Cute—still blushing for the newbie,” she teased, teeth bright. She offered the invite: textbooks, Ana’s room, company. Elsa waved it off, talked about lectures and alarms, but Charlotte’s eyes stayed stubborn and warm. In the end, Elsa said yes because no one else had reached for her since she walked through the front gate. Meeting people, Charlotte called it. Safety in numbers. Ana’s dorm smelled like old paper and something sweet. Elsa claimed the couch. On the bed, Charlotte cracked open her book while Ana studied the side of Charlotte’s throat instead of the page. The distance between them shrank breath by breath. Ana’s finger trailed up Charlotte’s wrist and gooseflesh raced in its wake. Charlotte tried to keep reading. The book trembled anyway. Ana lifted her wrist, brushed her lips once, twice. Charlotte’s breath hitched, knees tightening. She dropped the pretense—book sliding, mouth seeking Ana’s. Tongues slid, wet sounds filling the quiet. Elsa felt heat flood her own belly and stayed exactly where she was. They didn’t bother closing the curtain. Ana lay back, Charlotte climbed over her like she’d rehearsed it. Elsa watched every flick of that tongue between Ana’s darker folds, heard the needy pitch in Ana’s voice when Charlotte sucked her clit. Then Ana flipped them, pushing two fingers deep into Charlotte while Charlotte’s thigh shook around her wrist. Elsa’s own pulse matched the rhythm, cunt tightening around nothing. Charlotte came hard, breath punching out in sharp little gasps; a moment later Ana followed, hips stuttering against Charlotte’s mouth. The sound of them—slick skin, broken moans—painted the room. Elsa’s knuckles whitened on her knee and she still didn’t look away, still didn’t move, and she liked how filthy that felt.