Mirror, Mirror

/NSFW. As always I write on the fly, on the bus and rarely edit. Imagine if I did! If you do read, thank you.

**

I’ve been placed here against the wall. Just between the full length mirror and the standard hotel desk. There’s enough room for me to stand and look like part of the decor. I’ve been set here like a painting. You picked my favourite dress for me to wear. You brushed my hair out like we like it, soft waves that fan down my back and around my shoulders. My makeup as requested is pale and only crimson lips, Dior 999. I’m all ready. So, I wait. 

I watch you check yourself in the mirror. I can see how nervous you are. Your work conference is a big deal. This year you get to make a speech, sit at the head table. I’ll have to watch you from the crowd. Sit with your coworkers. This makes you nervous too. But there’s nothing to worry about. Just like the mirror, I only have eyes for you. 

You fuss with your blazer. It’s tweedy and green. Makes your eyes more mischievous than usual. Makes me sweat in places only you get to know about. I’m so proud of you.

“I don’t like this tie,” you mutter. 

You loosen it and take it off. Throw it behind you on the bed. 

I dig my bare pink painted toes into the ply of the carpet. I want to give my two cents worth. Tell you I also packed the braces and bow tie. Want to ask you to wear those so I can snap them later while we’re plenty tipsy and dancing. But I can’t. I’m part of the background. The furnishings. For now. 

Turning away from the mirror you look through your duffel. I watch your strong shoulders flex. Gaze at the the back of your neck. Imagine tracing my tongue along the the place where your shirt collar meets your skin. I shuffle from side to side now. Oh hurry, pick a tie. 

Returning to the mirror, a new tie in hand, you catch me staring at your hands and pull the tie taught. I know why you’re doing this. It’ll all be better soon. 

“There, that looks much better. Smarter. Mrs. Livingston will comment on this one for sure.”

Mrs. Livingston. Ugh. Your bosses wife. Forever fawning over you. Flashing her phone and tagging you in her Instagram photos at every company party and function. I’d hate her if I didn’t know you’d never give her what you give me. I’d hate her if I didn’t know I give you what you need. 

“Is my masterpiece ready?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m ready,” I whisper. 

“Here now, my pretty picture. Here.”

I come alive. Feel prickly and warm all over. The best part happens now. 

As you stand in front of the mirror, I kneel in front of you. 

“Show me. Show me how to love you.” Your words are a caress and soothing to us both. Your fingers gently pull my tresses and dig into the right spot of my skull. Grounding me, holding me in place. 

My own hands are shaky as I negotiate your belt buckle, pull down your zipper and push aside the tuck of your freshly ironed shirt. 

“May I?,” I ask, and look up into your tense but warm face. 

You don’t respond. I know what the answer is. 

Through the slit in your boxer briefs I eagerly reach and lay hold of your dick. As your trousers slide a little lower on your hips I get a better grip. 

You’re hard. Not fully hard, yet, but a sweet drop of precum leaks on to the base of my thumb and I lick it up. “All for me,” I softly say into my hand. 

“Hands behind your back.” 

You tug at my hair and I take you into my mouth. You moan. I know my mouth is warm. I know you like the red rim look of my lips around you. I know you make incoherent noises when I look up at you from the top of my glasses. I know what kind of picture you see. I lick around the tip.

You pull my head back and forth. Not so fast at first. You want to luxuriate in feeling the full length of you slide in and out of my mouth. Feel the satisfaction of your cock hit the back of my throat. Again. And again. I gag slightly and from my vantage point work to catch your eye.

You’re not looking down at me. You’re watching yourself fuck my mouth in the mirror. Watching as I am held in place here on my knees by your skilled hands. Watching yourself be powerful. Be a god. Your grip is slight on my skull while the force of your thrusting cock buries my face where I can still smell the scent of your shower in your crotch.

You’re always very careful and precise at this point. I’m messy and drooling but you won’t give any quarter. You’ll take what you need now. Take what you need. The thought makes me hum, makes make panties wet.

“If you only you could see what the mirror sees,” you say, almost plainly. “You’re so good on your knees, pet. Your hair is so pretty. You make this feel so good. I’m showing you I love you.”

That’s all I can take. I flatten my tongue against the underside of your dick and open wide. As wide as you’ll let me. I’m trembling. I’m ready, is what I’m saying. Please give it to me.

And with one last thrust you come. Hard. You fill me. You fill my mouth until I dribble out the sides and under my chin. I feel so replete and happy.

Pushing me ever so, backwards, away from your dick the hands behind my back fall to the carpet. The crown of my head grazes the mirror behind me.

You inspect me now. Look across the wing of my eyebrows, the tip of my nose, the mess of my mouth. 

“I can see myself reflected in you,” gently, you say. “The pools of your eyes are the only mirror I ever want to look into.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

Waiting here now between you and the mirror you right yourself. Adjust your trousers and do your belt back up. Smooth your tie. You are so majestic. 

Task completed you bring me to my feet and ask me to help put the finishing touches on your outfit. 

Reaching under my dress I wiggle free of my panties. Silky blue grey ones with moons and stars on them. Soaked. Handing them off you fold a small corner and dab cum from my chin. You smile, and in a perfect fold make the panties your pocket square. The colour compliments your tie. How perfect.

You kiss the top of my head and turn me to face the glass. Enfolded into the crook of your arm we are complete. Safe. One picture. Together.

“Are you ready to give your speech now?”

“Not as ready as you are to shoot daggers at Mrs. Livingston.”

We laugh into the mirror.

K/ xx