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Whoever he was, that man in the glass, he wanted that woman. His cock was engorged, a livid red, dripping. It rubbed against her hip as he sucked her breast, massaging the nipple with his mouth and tongue, unable to get enough. In the mirror, the woman put her hands into the man’s hair and held him to her breast, then wrapped her arms around his head and pushed her hips into his stiff organ.
She pulled back and took his head in her hands, forcing their lips to meet again. Arthur closed his eyes and the man in the glass was gone. He was himself again, kissing Regan, pushing his tongue into the hot cavern of her mouth, opening her lips wider to press in deeper.
She broke the kiss first, which almost broke him. But then she turned around, lifted her hair off her back with one graceful motion and draped it over her shoulder. The cheval mirror stood at an angle in the corner by the fireplace and reflected the whole room—the bed, the door, the shrouded painting of his great-grandfather. Now the mirror showed him Regan reaching out to grip the edge of the fireplace mantel. It showed her leaning forward slightly and arching her back. It showed her spreading her thighs and lifting her buttocks.
Then it showed him bringing his hand between her thighs, finding her vulva and stroking the silky soft hair he found there.
The hair was damp, and he sought for the source of the dampness. He found the sealed folds of her vulva and ran his fingers along the seam. Wetness, more wetness. He pushed into the seam and parted it, found slick bare flesh, hot against his hand and wet. Up and down he stroked along the slit. Regan said nothing, but her breaths were fast and ragged. He found the hidden little hole into her, and he slowly pushed two fingers inside. The sound that came out of her throat caused his cock to stiffen even more. His muscles were hard as steel, his cock a rod of iron.
The man in the glass did as Arthur had done—pushing two fingers into the woman in the mirror. He watched the man’s hand moving in and out of her body, watched his hand turning and going in at another angle. He saw the woman’s lips part and her eyes close tight as the fingers inside her spread apart, opening the hole.
Regan turned her head to meet his eyes in the mirror.
“Enough playing with me, Brat. Put your cock in. I want to see you watching yourself in the mirror while you do it.”
He took his penis in his right hand and guided it to her wet and swollen seam. With a slight push of his hips, the tip went through the folds and found her entrance, resting against it.
With one hand on his cock and the other arm wrapped around her stomach, and with slow thrusts of his hips, he pushed his way into her body. Watching in the mirror, barely breathing, hardly blinking, he saw his penis disappearing into her inch by inch. Saw and felt it as her hot inner depths enfolded and drew him into her.
She moved with him and against him as he went into her, arching her back again, bowing it as they both moved in tandem to work all of his thick organ into her tight but eager cunt.
Regan spread her thighs wider, lowered her head. The woman in the mirror did the same, as the man in the glass took her hips into his hands and began to slide his cock deeper into her.
He wanted to thrust. His body screamed at him to pound her open, but he held back. He worked with the rhythms of her own movements, sliding slowly out of her to the tip, sliding in as far as he could go, taking as much as she could give and giving as much as she could take.
And in the mirror he watched it all. He watched his thick inches pulling out of her, glistening with her wetness, watched her vagina enveloping his cock, taking it inside of her until he couldn’t go any farther into her.
It wasn’t enough for him that they were joined, wasn’t enough that he’d watched as it happened, as he’d speared that beautiful slit of hers. He had to touch her, too.
He pulled her even tighter against him, and, with the fingers of his right hand, he sought and found the place where their bodies joined. As he pushed into her, he felt himself, the hot hard length of him, now wearing her wetness as it plunged into her. He touched her folds, speared by his cock, and then went up in search of her clitoris.
He knew he’d found it when she cried out with pleasure again. The woman in the cheval glass cried out, too. A sharp intake of air followed by a gasp as his fingertip touched the small but throbbing knot where they met and melded.
“Harder,” she said, and he didn’t know if she wanted her clitoris rubbed harder or her cunt pounded harder, so he did both. He thrust and watched himself thrust. He rubbed and watched himself rub. And he saw the girl in the glass come undone as the man between her thighs undid her…
She lowered her head again and shuddered. He felt her orgasm as much as heard it, felt her vaginal muscles twitch and clench at his cock, fluttering madly all around him. He lost his mind then and every last bit of self-control as he rode her to his own completion. He bent over, hands on her small shoulders, splitting her like an iron nail into soft, tender wood.
He felt his own orgasm bearing down on him, unstoppable as a tsunami. It rushed over him and crashed into her. His thrusts were rapid-fire as the pleasure spiked and the dam burst, and he let go. He wrapped his arms around her stomach and pulled her back against him, holding her in place as he used her hole. His come rushed out of him in hard spurts, filling her and filling her with his semen. He wanted to fill her until there was nothing left inside him to give her. And when there was nothing left, he just held her against him and breathed.
Slowly they pulled apart and Arthur stood up straight, swallowing air, eyes closed. When he opened his eyes again, he looked in the mirror to see Regan’s face. She was smiling, wickedly, triumphantly.
“Do you see what I see in the mirror?” she asked.
He looked and saw what he’d been trying not to see for years—that he was one of those men who was turned on by the power and cruelty of a woman. His cock hadn’t been hard inside her—it had been solid steel. Regan had forced him to look and now that he’d seen what he’d seen in her psyche mirror, he couldn’t look away. Even if it meant admitting he hadn’t thrown himself on the sword to save Charlie. He’d thrown himself on the sword because she was wielding it.
“You know what I see?” she asked. “I see Lord Malcolm.”
“I amnothinglike my great-grandfather.”
“You are actually,” she said. “But that’s not what I meant.”
He followed her gaze into the mirror. She wasn’t looking at him or her own reflection. She was looking at Lord Malcolm.
And Lord Malcolm was looking back.
She’d covered his portrait with the scarf, but the scarf had fallen off the frame, and the painting hung uncovered. Where was the scarf? On the floor by the door halfway across the room.
Regan laughed wickedly. “I told you if he wanted to watch, he’d find a way.”
