The Girl In The Mirror
Fresh from the bath, Dacey stands before the high doors of the mirrored wardrobe in her bedroom.
A shrug of one shoulder and the silk bathrobe falls to the floor, leaving her naked. Watching her body, she bends to the little low couch she has placed behind her, facing the mirror, to pick up the black velvet choker she loves to wear at times like this. As she does so, she pauses with one hand on the couch, side-on to the glass now, and watches the way her breasts hang and her flat belly changes and curves out. This woman's body, she thinks. My titties. My little pot.
She takes the choker in her hand and stands, hands behind her neck. Breasts lifting and spreading as she affixes the single hook on the thin strip of material, making sure its onyx stone is centred.
Satisfied, her hands slide down over her breasts, palms brushing her nipples, which crinkle and thicken to the touch. My teats, thinks Dacey. She cups her breasts and offers them to her reflection. The girl in the mirror does the same, each thumb brushing a nipple, back and forth, back and forth as she does so.
Dacey sits on the edge of the couch and spreads her legs. She looks at the girl in the mirror, eyes roaming from her face past the heavy breasts to her vagina. "My cunt," Dacey says out loud.
She moves her bottom so that she can lie against the back of the couch without dropping too low and lifts her right foot up to rest there, flexing the toes against the material. My toes. Amber called them my little lollipops.
She stretches her left leg out, watching the muscle flex, and points those other toes at the mirror until they reach the glass and she flattens her foot against it, cold for a second. Now I'm open, thinks Dacey. Now I'm spread wide.
Cupping her left breast and still rubbing the nipple, Dacey places her right hand on her thigh and draws her short fingernails across the skin. In the mirror, the girl's eyes widen and her mouth opens without a thought, tongue grazing the lower lip. Dacey's hand cups her vagina and presses, squeezes. Heel of hand on bone under the skin. Fingers on lips. These are the lips of my cunt. There is heat there and the hint of liquid.
Long seconds pass as Dacey maintains eye contact with the mirror image. I won't look down. Not yet.
Finally, she spreads her pussy with her fingers and puts herself inside herself. One finger, just for moment. It is taken out and brought to her mouth and licked and sucked as she and the mirror-girl watch each other. I am tasting my own cunt, thinks Dacey. She looks now. Her pussy is coral pink in the mirror, a darker colour closer to the core. Smooth to touch and easy to watch with pleasure.
Two fingers go in next, and her left hand joins her right one down there and touches her clitoris, rubbing new juice over her hard button and making it feel thick and oily.
She shivers and looks at how stiff her nipples have become. She blows on them, then groans and takes her left breast in that hand, lifting it to her mouth and licking the nipple, then sucking it. An electric jolt, then another as she continues to draw the teat between her teeth, right thumb playing on her clit as two fingers fuck herself.
She gasps and her nipple escapes, then she scootches her bum down the couch a few inches and brings her left foot back there too. A vee of calves and feet with the pink pussy at the bottom, shaved in the bath fifteen minutes ago and gently lotioned until she had to do this, had to masturbate.
She reaches up quickly and spreads the long dark curls behind her head on the cushion, bringing her hand back down.
And then it's all sex. Fingers fucking, slow and easy at first then faster, harder, as her hands take turns on her, the free one always on her clitoris or tugging a nipple as Dacey gets fucked and the mirror girl does the same while they stare at each other through eyes like slits. Her mind races and tears come.
I'm fucking myself. I'm being fucked. Now.
There are women in her mind too, of course. Loves old and new. Rebekah and Sarah from school, who used to snog her while they watched Sex And The City and pretended they were all hot New York Jewesses with credit cards.
Sharon with the gypsy looks, who bit her hard but cried when Dacey had to go home after the holidays.
Gillian, with the cropped hair and the body like a boy's - her pussy with a pelt like a seal's on it, sleek and wet, who sucked on Dacey's nipples and said she wanted big tits too but fucked her in stockings and a basque and was perfect.
And Amber from last Christmas, curvy and ginger and juicy as a ripe piece of fruit. A body you could lose yourself in, counting freckles by the bedside lamp even as her breasts brushed your face and she bucked and writhed above you on your four bunched fingers and screamed out her coming.
The girl from Manchester who had been her first black lover, the source of her addiction, but whose name she couldn't even remember; Meg or Mabel or some old lady name they had both laughed about before falling into that Ibiza bed and fucking till long after dawn and never seeing each other again.
The endless parade of black girls who come to her in the night, the fantasies. Girls from the street, from work, celebrities, with skin from caramel to deep ebony, teats as dark as blackberries and those astonishingly pink cunts that Dream Dacey sucks on like they are salted honey and ocean, which they are.
Above all there is Georgia, her first real love, who was thirty when Dacey was eighteen and who taught her so much in their five years. Who taught her the beauty of total sexual submission and control. Yet it was the older woman who had submitted to Dacey on those endless nights together, not the other way round.
And finally, there is Charlotte, her new love, long and blonde and thirty-four and new to women, a mother and a schoolteacher she hasn't seen in three days and won't see for another two, but who has made her life whole again after a year without Georgia. A year of sweet strangers and fucks and kisses, nevertheless, but now it's better, thinks Dacey.
She stretches out her legs, toes on the mirror. She looks down at her pussy and imagines she sees Charlotte's face there, lapping contentedly at the only woman she has ever known like this.
"I love the fucking taste of you," says Charlotte, and Dacey throws her legs up high so her heels rest on the glass.
She comes and comes on her own fingers, jolting once and crying out as the heat spreads out from her cunt and clitoris and she feels like she's melting from her nipples to her knees and then to her toes.
Her head rolls against the cushion and a strand of wet bath-hair falls across her mouth. She licks the hair and looks at the girl in the mirror, who is doing the same. They both blow out breath and the hair lifts and moves.
They smile at each other. "I am sexually active," says Dacey.
A shrug of one shoulder and the silk bathrobe falls to the floor, leaving her naked. Watching her body, she bends to the little low couch she has placed behind her, facing the mirror, to pick up the black velvet choker she loves to wear at times like this. As she does so, she pauses with one hand on the couch, side-on to the glass now, and watches the way her breasts hang and her flat belly changes and curves out. This woman's body, she thinks. My titties. My little pot.
She takes the choker in her hand and stands, hands behind her neck. Breasts lifting and spreading as she affixes the single hook on the thin strip of material, making sure its onyx stone is centred.
Satisfied, her hands slide down over her breasts, palms brushing her nipples, which crinkle and thicken to the touch. My teats, thinks Dacey. She cups her breasts and offers them to her reflection. The girl in the mirror does the same, each thumb brushing a nipple, back and forth, back and forth as she does so.
Dacey sits on the edge of the couch and spreads her legs. She looks at the girl in the mirror, eyes roaming from her face past the heavy breasts to her vagina. "My cunt," Dacey says out loud.
She moves her bottom so that she can lie against the back of the couch without dropping too low and lifts her right foot up to rest there, flexing the toes against the material. My toes. Amber called them my little lollipops.
She stretches her left leg out, watching the muscle flex, and points those other toes at the mirror until they reach the glass and she flattens her foot against it, cold for a second. Now I'm open, thinks Dacey. Now I'm spread wide.
Cupping her left breast and still rubbing the nipple, Dacey places her right hand on her thigh and draws her short fingernails across the skin. In the mirror, the girl's eyes widen and her mouth opens without a thought, tongue grazing the lower lip. Dacey's hand cups her vagina and presses, squeezes. Heel of hand on bone under the skin. Fingers on lips. These are the lips of my cunt. There is heat there and the hint of liquid.
Long seconds pass as Dacey maintains eye contact with the mirror image. I won't look down. Not yet.
Finally, she spreads her pussy with her fingers and puts herself inside herself. One finger, just for moment. It is taken out and brought to her mouth and licked and sucked as she and the mirror-girl watch each other. I am tasting my own cunt, thinks Dacey. She looks now. Her pussy is coral pink in the mirror, a darker colour closer to the core. Smooth to touch and easy to watch with pleasure.
Two fingers go in next, and her left hand joins her right one down there and touches her clitoris, rubbing new juice over her hard button and making it feel thick and oily.
She shivers and looks at how stiff her nipples have become. She blows on them, then groans and takes her left breast in that hand, lifting it to her mouth and licking the nipple, then sucking it. An electric jolt, then another as she continues to draw the teat between her teeth, right thumb playing on her clit as two fingers fuck herself.
She gasps and her nipple escapes, then she scootches her bum down the couch a few inches and brings her left foot back there too. A vee of calves and feet with the pink pussy at the bottom, shaved in the bath fifteen minutes ago and gently lotioned until she had to do this, had to masturbate.
She reaches up quickly and spreads the long dark curls behind her head on the cushion, bringing her hand back down.
And then it's all sex. Fingers fucking, slow and easy at first then faster, harder, as her hands take turns on her, the free one always on her clitoris or tugging a nipple as Dacey gets fucked and the mirror girl does the same while they stare at each other through eyes like slits. Her mind races and tears come.
I'm fucking myself. I'm being fucked. Now.
There are women in her mind too, of course. Loves old and new. Rebekah and Sarah from school, who used to snog her while they watched Sex And The City and pretended they were all hot New York Jewesses with credit cards.
Sharon with the gypsy looks, who bit her hard but cried when Dacey had to go home after the holidays.
Gillian, with the cropped hair and the body like a boy's - her pussy with a pelt like a seal's on it, sleek and wet, who sucked on Dacey's nipples and said she wanted big tits too but fucked her in stockings and a basque and was perfect.
And Amber from last Christmas, curvy and ginger and juicy as a ripe piece of fruit. A body you could lose yourself in, counting freckles by the bedside lamp even as her breasts brushed your face and she bucked and writhed above you on your four bunched fingers and screamed out her coming.
The girl from Manchester who had been her first black lover, the source of her addiction, but whose name she couldn't even remember; Meg or Mabel or some old lady name they had both laughed about before falling into that Ibiza bed and fucking till long after dawn and never seeing each other again.
The endless parade of black girls who come to her in the night, the fantasies. Girls from the street, from work, celebrities, with skin from caramel to deep ebony, teats as dark as blackberries and those astonishingly pink cunts that Dream Dacey sucks on like they are salted honey and ocean, which they are.
Above all there is Georgia, her first real love, who was thirty when Dacey was eighteen and who taught her so much in their five years. Who taught her the beauty of total sexual submission and control. Yet it was the older woman who had submitted to Dacey on those endless nights together, not the other way round.
And finally, there is Charlotte, her new love, long and blonde and thirty-four and new to women, a mother and a schoolteacher she hasn't seen in three days and won't see for another two, but who has made her life whole again after a year without Georgia. A year of sweet strangers and fucks and kisses, nevertheless, but now it's better, thinks Dacey.
She stretches out her legs, toes on the mirror. She looks down at her pussy and imagines she sees Charlotte's face there, lapping contentedly at the only woman she has ever known like this.
"I love the fucking taste of you," says Charlotte, and Dacey throws her legs up high so her heels rest on the glass.
She comes and comes on her own fingers, jolting once and crying out as the heat spreads out from her cunt and clitoris and she feels like she's melting from her nipples to her knees and then to her toes.
Her head rolls against the cushion and a strand of wet bath-hair falls across her mouth. She licks the hair and looks at the girl in the mirror, who is doing the same. They both blow out breath and the hair lifts and moves.
They smile at each other. "I am sexually active," says Dacey.
8年前
