(Note – If you wish, you can listen to the same song that Leigh & I did while the following occurred. Just open the link in a new window)
To read The Looking Glass Act I
“So when the sun goes down
And those nights grow colder,
I will be there
Looking over your shoulder. “
– The Deeper The Love, Whitesnake
I couldn’t help but hear David Coverdale’s voice as I looked over Leigh’s shoulder. The sun had gone done, and the nights had grown colder. And there I was behind her.
Our eyes gazed into one another’s through the mirror’s reflection, a precursor of what the next fifteen or so minutes held for us. My face, only partially visible, floated above her left shoulder. There was a macabre quality to the way the candle illuminated my features with drama, some areas almost void. My right arm draped across her chest, the left around her stomach. Candlelight makes my forearms damn impressive, if I say so myself. It looked like a muscular snake had coiled around her nude form.
Leigh, on the other hand, looked like a goddess.
If you have read any of the stories I’ve shared, you know that candles are de facto to our play. The sputter and hiss of wicks singing anew are often the first part of the ritual, usually followed by the bedroom door being shut. Leigh and candlelight go together like peanut butter and jelly. They were made for one another, the sum greater than their parts. She glows under their flickering gaze. The blank canvas that is her alabaster skin becomes a masterpiece of erotic theater. Hues of pale tangerine and warm cream hint at its texture. Aside from the pale blue of the first light of day, she never looks sexier than she does when awash in candlelight.
Having a candle not even arm’s length from where we stood made her skin torturous. I wanted to devour her. The mmmmmmmmmmm of the vibrator’s RPMs would more than sufficiently do the same. In time.
“You,” I said trailing a kiss down her nape, “look incredible.” More dry bites, my eyes on hers in the mirror, my hands on each breast in the reflection. To feel her nipples harden under my touch, but see her whole body’s reaction to the same, was exquisite.
“So,” scraping my teeth across her arched neck, “fucking,” taking the opportunity to use my tongue on the same, ” beautiful.”
“Look at yourself” I exclaimed. It wasn’t an order, nor begging. It was shared excitement at the vision in the mirror, and I wanted to share it.
She looked into my eyes, not the reflection as a whole. The vibrator constantly hummed while a soulful melody filled the room.
“Not at me,” I said, “at you. Us. Look at how fucking beautiful you are.”
Her eyes left mine and joined her own in the mirror. She finally saw herself. Us. It.
Standing with legs slightly spread, her hand moved in slow, steady circles, each one a lap of her clit with the mini-vibe. Again and again the mmmmmmm faded slightly, each echo another tease. From behind, thick forearms enveloped her torso, their hands kneading each breast.
Leigh’s face was angelic in its slow surrender to her own manipulations. The music haunting us from across the room seemed all too perfect. Delicate, drawn out, the repetitious melody grew in intensity as the minutes passed. Her eyes closed as she sank back into my chest, each breath an escape. It was more prayer than seduction.
I really hope you chose to listen to the audio option provided to you. Perhaps you’ll get a small taste, a fleeting glimpse, a faint echo of what I was privy to as the first moans escaped her throat. If you chose not to, that’s your right and I respect it. I think you’re a fool, but at least a respected one.
The gestalt of the scene enveloped me in a hypnotic spell. Just as Leigh seduced her body with her hand, I succumbed to her siren’s song. Not one of lyrics or verse, but rather of spells and hints.
Leigh exhaled in drawn out sighs, indicating she was becoming aroused. It wouldn’t be long until they were replaced with moans or purring.
My eyes played leap frog. Mirror. Over her shoulder. My hands. Back to the mirror. Her breasts. My hands on them. Back on her face. Now at her face. Down to her hand on her clit. Then her arm using the oak dresser as support.
“Be careful,” I said, while moving the candle mere inches from where she gripped the dresser’s edge, “we don’t need to be explaining the kinky burn pattern to the EMTs when they arrive.”
She laughed, drawing some much needed levity.
“Yeah, it would be difficult to explain how I got burnt there…and there…and there” she replied, all the while the mmmmmmmmm of the mini-vibe kept perfect time.
Now it was my turn to laugh. We both smiled at each other’s reflection. Our eyes met.
Her moan brought us both back to the matter at hand. Literally.
I trailed my fingers down the length of her left arm, with which she held the dresser. Goosebumps leapt from her skin, their shadows easily discernible in the candle’s glow. As my fingertips danced across the thin flesh of her inner forearm she purred loudly. The vibe purred louder as well.
A nipple grew rigid between my fingers. My lips greeted her offered throat. We danced as lovers, not moving a single step, yet completely in time to the rhythm of the moment, a vibrator steadily agitating her clitoris. By her own hand. At that moment neither of us could imagine the lengths to which we were going to need to go to get to where she needed to be.
We were about to find out just how far that was.