“Come to my room,” I’d told him. “I have an entire mirrored wall. I sit before it, naked, my thighs spread wide, fucking myself with my fingers, imagining your reflection, your body, you fucking me from behind. I’ve brought myself to orgasm so many times like that, thinking of you fucking me and taking me that way.”
Knowing that had made him hard in an instant.
Later, thinking of my gleaming wall of reflection, of my wanton desire to use it with him, he sits at his desk and presses the nib of his fountain pen against the flawlessly white paper.
Then he begins to write.
I want you to come for me; to come for me now. Stop whatever you’re doing, I don’t give a damn what it might be, how important it is. Take yourself to your room, and lock the door. Now, stand before your gleaming wall of reflection and undress yourself, slowly. Let your fingers trail across the softness of your skin as you disrobe. Take your time. Allow your anticipation to grow, to simmer.
Once you’re wearing nothing but your panties, sit down before yourself. Watch as your doppelgänger continues to caress you, trailing her fingertips along your arms, across your breasts and your belly, down the insides of your thighs. Look deep into the mirror, and you’ll see that I’m there with you, behind you. I’m completely naked, though, and unmistakably aroused. Now, feel my fingers running down the sides of your face, brushing your hair to one side so that I can kiss the nape of your neck, down the line of your slender shoulders. Breathe in the scent of my cologne. Feel my body’s heat, radiating against you.
Is it enough to make you shiver expectantly?
Let me guide you onto the bed, positioning you so that you’re kneeling, your hands stretched out to support you. On all fours now, you can turn your head and see me in the expanse of mirror, poised behind you, my hard, thick cock reaching out to you, reaching for you.
You know how much my cock wants you, don’t you? How much I want you?
See and feel my fingers slipping into the waistband of your panties. Feel my strength and see the sinews standing out along my arms as I snap the fragile cotton on either side of your waist. Hear the flimsy material rend, and then watch as I draw it from between your thighs, unveiling you, allowing the air to cleanly kiss your burning sex. See me as I raise the torn remnants of your underwear to my face, so that I can inhale your secret perfume. Watch as my tongue laps at the cotton – tell me: how will your panties feel to me? damp? wet? sodden? – as I taste your essence.
Can you see me behind you now? Can you see me lifting my cock until the underside of my shaft rests against one of your taut cheeks? Can you feel its weight as I begin to thrust back and forth against your skin, as I draw it until it nestles against your arse, thrusting between your buttocks, my hands holding your flesh, squeezing it together to tighten the valley? Can you taste your anticipation as I draw the broad, burnished glans downwards, as it brushes against the plumpness of your labia, as it glides through the glistening pink-and-scarlet of your succulent cleft?
Confess: are you wet with anticipation? As wet as you’ll be when you actually see me reflected in your wall, poised to take you? What will you say to me? Will you say, “Fuck me, please”? Will you implore me with your words? Or will you simply wriggle yourself against me, your body begging me to fill you?
Look into the mirror. Watch and feel as I thrust my cockhead across your clitoris with such deliberation, my flesh barely glancing against yours, yet igniting it in an instant. Relish the exhilaration of being teased. Feel just how wet you are. Feel the torturous ache in your flesh, the ache that will only subside when I enter you, the craven need to be filled will only be banished by my cock.
Is that ache gripping you now? Does it consume you?
Now feel my glans nestling into your most intimate flesh. Feel the flower of your sex opening to admit me, and feel me entering, entering, slowly pressing myself into your oiled, velvet heat. Slowly; slowly; slowly. Watch, feel, as my flesh fills yours, until I’m inside you to the very hilt, my laden balls resting against the lips of your sex, against your clitoris.
Watch as I reach forward, my strong hands slipping about your waist, holding you in place as I begin to thrust, back and forth, back and forth. Lock your gaze to the mirror, and watch my hard cock as it merges with you, the most sensuous of magic tricks. See: now it reappears, the thick shaft glistening with our lust. And now it thrusts forward again, slowly, slowly, disappearing inside you once more, fusing with your flesh, the miracle repeated.
You’ll only be able to feel as I stroke the pad of my moistened thumb across your tightly closed rosebud, but you’ll see my nails as they draw parallel lines of sensation across the smooth tautness of your behind. You’ll only be able to feel my length growing stiffer within the sweet confines of your cunt, but you’ll see the lust in my expression, see that I’m drunk with it, drunk with you, intoxicated by the desire you’ve ignited within me.
Watch me fuck you, my thrusts still long and slow, giving you the chance to watch raptly as well as to feel. Lose yourself in the vista as you listen to the sound of my cock thrusting in and out of the wetness of your flesh. Reach down your body; slip your hand between your thighs and touch yourself, touch where we’re joined, where our flesh merges, becomes one. See lust consume our expressions, until there’s nothing etched on either of our faces but hedonistic need, but raw, naked desire. Stroke your clitoris in time with my thrusts; multiply your pleasure. Magnify it, until it explodes, until it detonates.
And now feel my arousal beginning to soar, my thrusts coming faster, harder, somehow deeper. Feel the kiss of my cockhead against your cervix, and watch your breasts sway, spurred on by my thrusts. See the reflected passion in your face, the animalistic desire, as you inhale the musk aroma of our fucking, as you feel the perspiration beading itself across your brow, pooling at the base of your spine. See my expression contort as my climax overtakes me, consuming me, and then watch as I wrench my flesh from yours, as I press the tip of my glans to your rosebud, so that you can feel my seed spurting against the forbidden entrance, hot jets that pulse, that run down your cleft and over the swollen lips of your cunt, lubricant for your fingers as they blur against your clitoris, propelling you to one last, shuddering orgasm.
He pauses, his hand aching with the fervour of his words, of his need to express them. His eyes run over what he’s written, and then, satisfied with what’s gone before, he puts the nib to the paper once more.
Do you still want to give me your body? Do you still want me to see your mirrored wall?
Satisfied, he sits back in his leather chair. After a moment, he pulls out a drawer to search for an envelope.
I read his letter alone in my room, my breath catching as his words pull me into the scene he’s painted. My skin flushes hot; my thighs press together instinctively. I glance at the mirrored wall he describes so perfectly—the one I confessed to him about—and I imagine him there, real this time, his body behind mine, his cock hard and insistent.
His words make me ache, make me wet, just as he intended. I touch myself lightly through my clothes, shivering at how easily he commands me, even from afar. I want him here. I want to lock the door, strip slowly in front of that gleaming reflection, and wait for him to make every promise in this letter come true.
Yes, I still want to give him my body. I want him to see my mirrored wall—and everything reflected in it.
