The Woman in the Mirror

The Woman In the Mirror

One

She is a pretty thing, or so she's been told. Trim and neat, the hair curled just so. Her face in natural tones with just a hint of accent, the kind of makeup when she wishes to look like she's not wearing any. Lunch with a friend makeup.

The lipstick, though, is bright red - one moment, you'd say pink, the next, red. It changes, you see, as the light plays across it, as she shifts her pose, tilts her head this way and that. She wonders if her lips below are that same color. It's the idea, anyway.

Her nails are definitely red, a reddy red red. No quibbling permitted, here. No doubt permitted.

She loses, twisting her torso back and so, looking as the curves are revealed, emphasized, hidden, turned. The grey and pink over her breasts and bottom are so pretty, so fine. She turns, turns back, looking for the movement, the sensuous jiggle - not too much, just enough.

Not enough shine, so she stops, returns to her dressing table, moisturizes. The lotion feels cool as she rubs it in, turns her arms, then her legs this way and that. It's singular, important that she get it just so. The movements must feel natural, the motion practiced until it seems unpracticed.

She reaches down, finds the heels, slips them on. Sadly, her toes are covered, their beauty to be revealed much later for him. Perhaps he'll kiss them when he finds them so bright and sweet. He'll feel lucky she took them off for him.

Shivering, she remembers their last date, when he slipped his fingers beneath her panties, felt her vulva for the first time. She rubbed his arms, his chest while he explored inside her. Her head fell back, offering her neck for his kisses, submitting, admitting he was right to take this liberty with her without her giving her permission, wishing to be taken, to surrender to his advances. Oh, yes.

She moves back to the mirror, her steps in the heels careful, her walk so feminine, wishing to be a woman to his man, to be desired in that way. She watches herself, sees just the sway she hopes for, the curves shining in the soft light of her bedroom, the glare from the bathroom mirror shining in here only indirectly. She shifts her hip subtly, emphasizing the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts. She'll look for the desire in his eyes. It always embarrasses her, and she looks away. Even that movement elicits a response from him. She'll feel his hand on her arm, reassuring. His words, awkward but comforting, affectionate.

She's coming to enjoy his company, to want it more. She feels the edge of love, the desire to see him sooner, more, the need for his attention, his focus on her. It makes her feel so female in his presence, so aware of their differences and the pleasures to be taken from one another. She pats her hair as she considers this and realizes it needs a touch of hairspray, just there. Yes. She is aware she has moved from pleasing herself, pleasing her friends, to wanting to be sure he is pleased.

She...

He certainly pleases her. He poses for her, too, turning to show his broad shoulders, his slim hips. His hands are so large, his fingers so thick. Even one filled her, last time and she blushes as she remembers and feels the desire for him to do it, again. Will he want to make love this time? Where could they possibly do it? Is she ready to be naked before him. She glances up at the mirror.

Yes, she decides.

She is ready.

She hopes he does want her, all of her.

She wants him to want her.

That way.

Totally.

She wants to know his kiss while his hard penis slides inside her, to hear his sounds of pleasure at the sensation, to raise her legs beside his waist, to dig her heels into his bottom.

She will say, "Fuck" for him.

She tears, thinking he might dump her after his conquest, praying it won't be like that, that he'll love her, want her again and again, doing whatever is necessary to keep her.

She imagines his kiss as the last thing she knows before she goes to sleep.

His kiss, every single night.

She hopes he won't stop putting his finger inside her, just because he's fucking her whenever he wants. She really loves that feeling.

She loves it when he nibbles her ear, licking and pinching it just so. She loves his smell, the man, even when he might worry it's unpleasant. She loves the scratch of his cheek on hers, the prelude to a kiss.

They have to practice kissing. She smiles at herself, checking her teeth - still white, still even. He doesn't seem to find them weird or strange. She thinks of the feel of his tongue on hers, wrestling but always dominating inside her mouth. It's so important, kissing. All the rest bases on that.

She pulls away, lifting the dress from the hanger by the mirror. She holds it up and hears the doorbell. She smiles and raises her arms above her head to slip on the dress.

Surely he won't mind waiting just a moment.

For the dress, a last dab of perfume, and one final look at the woman in the mirror.

The woman smiling at her, serenely, incredibly happy to be herself, disappears as the dress slips over her head.

Two

He had her, tonight.

He kissed her, passionately, so sweet and insistent. So domineering.

He got her into his bedroom, turned her about, pressed her down on the bed.

He raised her dress, pulled down her panties, well, actually ripped down her panties.

It was the single most exciting moment of her life.

He put his hand on her bottom and moved a finger inside her. She thought she would come, just at that, but she didn't and she moved her bottom up to ease his passage, offering it to him, prominent and available.

This excited him, apparently, and she felt his erection press inside her for the first time. It was just wonderful, having him there, giving herself to him. She moaned at the feeling, unselfconsciously and he began his powerful stroking, fucking himself inside her, out, in , out...Oh....My....God. She pressed back, tried to match his rhythm, demonstrate her desire in return to his.

"Fuck," she said. This excited him and he accelerated the pace.

It was everything she expected and she was suddenly shy when he finished and lay beside her, turning her to him and kissing her. He checked and felt her all over, stroking her gently and firmly and saying the sweetest things to her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes warm and careful.

"Oh, yes," she smiled and kissed his bottom lip, looking up at his eyes, so dark and mysterious.

She settled in next to him, enjoying his arms and the feel of his sweat on her skin.

"Honey?" she called him for the first time, her voice tentative and softly, so softly he kissed her.

"Yes, baby?" he pulls away, looking at her face for expression of her feeling.

"Undress me, all the way, and hold me close to you. I want to feel you all over."

So, he did, his fingers not so nimble with the buttons and the clasps. 'He'll learn' she thought and helped him, not cold at all so near to his warmth.

He finished, throwing the dress this way, the bra that way, and pulled his sweater off, his trousers already around his ankles so he stepped out of them. Naked at last he pulled her tightly to him, his delight at this pleasure evident, his kiss on the top of her head faint and sweet as she found her special spot beside him.

"Do you, will you...?" he began.

"Put your finger inside me and hush. I'm yours," she said, hoping that wasn't too mysterious.

Surprised, he found her dampness and wiggled his index finger inside her.

She fell asleep, just like that.

Three

They would meet for breakfast the next morning. She wouldn't sleep with him, not yet, she made him take her home after she dressed. She kissed him quickly and ran inside. Did she see a tear before she turned? Did he really fear her parting from him? Was sex more than just...sex?

The woman in the mirror met her as she came in, looked up questioning, and she was surprised to find she looked much the same, perhaps a bit wrinkled, the lipstick just a little bit hurried but the rest of the makeup surprisingly intact. She was disappointed, the outside being so the same, with the inside everything different.

She didn't glow, or anything, though she felt so alive, so happy, so in-love. She showered, inspected herself carefully. Did it show?

"Did what show?" the woman in the mirror asked.

"The man that I will live with to the end of my days made love to me last night for the first time. Not the last, but for the first time. I think he liked it."

"I'm sure he did. You're really quite pretty. How did he take you for the first time?"

"He took me from behind, doggy-style. He placed a pillow beneath my hips so that when he moved it in and out, it rubbed me in a most pleasing way. I didn't come though. I liked it a lot, anyway."

"It's better to save something for after he commits to you. Make him do you from behind 'til then. Will you pleasure yourself once you're in bed, to give yourself an orgasm? Are you disappointed?"

"No, I think I'll save orgasms for him for now. Only with him."

The woman in the mirror smiled, her wisdom advising against comment. Such a pretty thing, she will be happy with this man for a time. He'd disappoint her, one time, but they'd fix things up.

"Shower, do your night stuff, keep your face pretty for your new man. Brush your teeth and jump in bed for a bit of sleep, now. Sweet dreams."

"Love you, Momma."

"Love you, baby doll."

The image faded and slowly, her reflection returned.

She kissed the mirror, anyway.