The Mirror
rorriM ehT
“Tonight...”
Silence.
Inhale.
“Tonight...?” she asked breathlessly.
He chuckled deeply, silently. Not the regular funny joke kind of laugh...it was something else. Sinister? A little bit. But a little like the kind you give when you've already heard a comic's routine...and you're just waiting for the unknowing audience to finally hear it...and finally be on your level.
Like you know something the audience doesn't. And indeed he did know.
He knew exactly what she was in for.
But she did not. Not yet.
“Tonight what?” she giggled, repeating her question.
“Tonight...you...will...
see.”
Tonight they were lying together. The bed offered its silky softness, its gift of luxury for the evening. On this night, they gazed together upon an unfamiliar ceiling. This was not their place. The hotel would be their backdrop, the set prepared for their scene. They would both be actors, front and center stage. But this time...he would be the director.
“You're not ready,” he said teasingly in her ear. His statement was taunting and certain. She giggled. His deep voice titillated her ear, the vibrations tingling their way down into her eardrum. She leaned her head away, attempting to avoid the tickling sensations of his voice in her ear.
She did not know how to respond beyond her mildly apprehensive giggles.
There was no way he wasn't right this time.
But Elise would not be daunted, she told herself, her untamed defiance rising. It's just a mirror. Nothing she didn't look into everyday. Every single day. No big deal. And then...she felt her nerves kick in, a delicious nervousness swirling through her blood, originating in her belly, and flowing to every cell in her body. Every tensely awaiting cell.
He grabbed her by her chin, seeking to wipe that amused defiant look off her face. He guided her face closer to his, to draw her ear closer to his mouth, to force her to feel the vibrations in his voice crawl down her ear canal, to keep her from blocking out the sensations.
“Unh-unh.” Donovan's chastising voice spilled into Elise's ear, trying to oppose even the mental attempts he could tell she was making not succumb to the impending intensity. Elise erupted into silent laughter at the vibrating tickle of his baritone in her ear. She attempted to distance her ear from his lips, but Donovan's grip on her chin would not permit escape. Tonight would not be funny like the other times. He wanted to annihilate her control. Tonight he would possess her...and she would not be allowed to stop him.
“No, Sweetness...,” he said, continuing his one-sided conversation. “I can hear you in here,” he gently laid a fingertip on top of her head, ”and,” he inhaled,” I can feel you.”
Elise shuddered with intimidating delight, with anxious desire. He was trying to first break her subconscious, her silent willfulness. The first step to breaking her resistance. The first step in liquidating her resolve...in owning her submission.
“Oh no, Precious...not tonight. You will not resist. You will not stop me. You cannot stop me. I will have it,” he whispered sharply through clenched teeth. “You...will...be...mine. All night. Tonight I will not...stop.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” a whimpering moan escaped Elise's lips. And then...it began.
Donovan was lying on his back on the luxurious bed. Elise was lying on top of him, on her back, both of their bodies lying face up staring at...the ceiling.
This unfamiliar ceiling.
The mirrored ceiling. A triumph of hot, lustful design. An inescapable reflection of all manner of sexual escapades being revealed below.
Elise took firm grasp of the long scarves, the scarves that tightly bound her wrists, the scarves that tethered her to the headboard. Heat rose quickly to her face, as she tried to avoid the mirror's gaze above her.
“Unh-unh,” Donovan chastised again, shaking his head behind her.
“Don't look away.”
He wasn't suggesting it.
That was a demand.
Elise's breath became labored and shaky, as she deeply inhaled...closed her eyes...and then lifted her face and opened her eyes to confront the mirror's reflection.
Donovan again grasped Elise's chin, firmly holding it in place, forcing her to maintain eye contact with the mirror's gaze. She was bound, and the undeniable realization caused unrestrained arousal to shoot through her body and penetrate her consciousness. Her face burned hot in erotic embarrassment. Her body...was now helpless...and slowly but surely...her mind.
He wrapped his arms around her torso, possessively embracing her body lying vulnerable on top of him, hand and fingers taking their place at the inward curves of her sides.
Just one finger. Whole hands in place at her sides. But he would only activate one finger on each sensitive side. Trace the curves, he commanded his fingers, and they lightly...slowly...followed the curves of her sides. Up and down, so softly, but so deliberately.
And she could not look away. She could do nothing but watch. Watch the fingertips ticklishly hug, sensuously, teasingly mapping the delicate arcs of her torso.
Not completely true. She could do one thing. She could squirm. She knew it. He knew it. And indeed she did. She deeply sucked in her breath...a vain, but noble attempt...an effort to avoid the exquisitely tender caresses. The delicate up and down motions of his determined fingertips.
Already it was too much. She shook her head...repeatedly, side to side, trying to deny the tickling, a silent “no” in the opposing up and down motions of his two fingertips.
She could also watch. “Mmm-hmmm,” his voice one again awakened her ears.
”Watch”.
And then he added a second finger on each side, eager companions in the campaign to stroke Elise's tender sides. Two fingers tracing the curves. And the new tickling companions seemed to provoke the energy of his other fingers. They increased their pace. They caressed and tickled faster.
“Noooo,” the word slipped from her lips in exquisite desperation.
He chuckled. She could not hear it...but she could feel it. Feel it gently shake in the body lying face up beneath hers.
“Yessss.” He gently hissed into her ear. Yes. Feel it. He needed her to feel it...and more. He could not hold back. He needed her to feel more. So he made her feel more.
She felt all ten of his fingers curl and open on her sides. Curl and open, over and over and over again.
That was it. She laughed. All she could do was laugh now. She cackled as his fingertips intermittently opened and curled, open and curled in the hollows of her sides. And she had to bear witness to the show. Her eyes watched in the ceiling mirror at the manipulations of his fingers and hands on her sides, this tickling bringing about her feverish, frenzied laughter. And she had to watch herself laugh helplessly at his fingers' ministrations. Up and down the inward curves of her sides. Nothing separating his fingertips from her skin. He had long before found his way under the fabric of her negligee. Long before made his home under the silk, denying her the barrier of cloth from the tips of his fingers.
It was not the only thing he intended to deny her. Not tonight.
Down. He needed to go down. Down to her delicate hips. He needed his fingers to travel there. To know what she would sound like when he arrived at his destination. To hear her...to experience her shamefully aroused embarrassment.
He watched his own movements through heavy, lustful, half-closed eyelids in the mirror observing them from above. He watched his fingers wriggling all over the deliciously tender flesh of her sides...and now her hips. He watched her teeth bare in unrestrained laughter, watched her jerk her form, unsuccessfully attempting to retreat from his touch. He watched her hysterical laughter as he tickled her, and tickled her...and tickled her. He smirked. He reveled in the knowledge of the effects of the tickles he delivered to her hips. He smirked at her shock, and her giggling helplessness. Yes. He smirked as she wildly thrashed about on top of him, as she bucked wildly, trying so hard to escape. But she couldn't. She would never escape. So lovely. His torment of her was so inexplicably lovely.
No escape. She longed to crawl out of her skin, but also not to at the same time. The harder the torment to bear, the more she began to long to endure it. She wished for escape, but longed for more. More of his exquisite torture. More of being driven mad with the unpredictable tickling of his fingers. More of the face she saw in the mirror. Not hers. His. She needed more of his satisfied expressions. More of the wicked look on his face, the wickedly satisfied face she witnessed in the mirror. He...was enjoying her torture. And she blazed in hellish desire at the thought of the enjoyment he felt.
Symbiotic. He delightfully, sadistically tortured her. She ecstatically suffered. This was their blissful tickling exchange. Their own earth-shattering mutual gift. He tortured. She laughed. She squealed in overwhelming delight ...he drove his fingers to find more torturous locations on her body. Each gave rise to the brazen lust of the other.
And there was more.
Donovan raised his knees up, resting his legs between her soft thighs as she continued to lie on top of him...her arms tethered to the headboard...immobilizing her delicious form. The director decided there must be more.
He spread his knees apart, separating her legs from each other. The effect exposed newly vulnerable flesh, flesh that would have to endure his fingers, experience his fingertips. Tickling. With no escape. And so he began.
“Ohhhhhhhhh!” She screamed, her own agonizingly tortured moaning filling her ears. Why!!!!! She screamed inside her own head. Why was she letting this happen to her, she yelled inside her tormented mind. She set free unbridled laughter now from the depths of her core to her parted lips.
It was full force now. He rapidly strummed over all of her ticklish places. He vibrated fingers, deliberately and slowly wriggled fingers, lightly and teasingly brushed fingers, and then returned to his voraciously aggressive tickling torment of her body. He insatiably tickled her skin, seeking every ticklish spot he could find, from her hips, up to her curvaceous sides, back down, down to the thighs he forcefully separated with his own knees between her legs, lying underneath her, spreading her legs wide, open , and forcing her new vulnerability.
Why did she respond this way? How could she want this? How could this be...be so wonderful...be so satisfying...so thrilling...and so horrible? The “how” was written all over her face, it was embedded deep within her reckless laughter. So much now, he needed the other response. And he knew how much she wanted to give it to him. Not just her laughter.
Her adoring moans.
She screamed, then froze...paralyzed by the intensely light strokes, the ultra soft caresses he tickled over every part of her skin he could reach. From curves of sides, to curves of hips, around her belly, to the soft flesh of her thighs.
“Nooooo.” She shook her head spastically from side to side. She shook her head to deny it...to forbid the extreme pleasure. To forbid the undignified response this tickling had on her. The way it made her arch her spine, arch her body toward the very fingertips she was desperate to avoid as they continued their teasing march, their unbearable glide...up, over, down and around every inch of her skin, from sides to belly, from hips to thighs. Up, down, left, right, diagonal, in circles...in shapes and other patterns. The excruciatingly delicate strokes and unbearable caresses. She loved this madness. Every second. Every single tortuous minute, every single moment of her helpless, delightful, ticklish agony.
She loved it all.
She released an almost ungodly, earthy moan of immense pleasure from her lips. She loved it.
And he could see that. And she could see that. Neither allowed to break their lustful gaze away from the mirror that told their secrets above them on the ceiling. And there would be more.
Only one hour had passed.
There would be nine more till sunrise.
And the next round would not be so kind to her. She smiled.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming soon...The second hour.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
rorriM ehT
“Tonight...”
Silence.
Inhale.
“Tonight...?” she asked breathlessly.
He chuckled deeply, silently. Not the regular funny joke kind of laugh...it was something else. Sinister? A little bit. But a little like the kind you give when you've already heard a comic's routine...and you're just waiting for the unknowing audience to finally hear it...and finally be on your level.
Like you know something the audience doesn't. And indeed he did know.
He knew exactly what she was in for.
But she did not. Not yet.
“Tonight what?” she giggled, repeating her question.
“Tonight...you...will...
see.”
Tonight they were lying together. The bed offered its silky softness, its gift of luxury for the evening. On this night, they gazed together upon an unfamiliar ceiling. This was not their place. The hotel would be their backdrop, the set prepared for their scene. They would both be actors, front and center stage. But this time...he would be the director.
“You're not ready,” he said teasingly in her ear. His statement was taunting and certain. She giggled. His deep voice titillated her ear, the vibrations tingling their way down into her eardrum. She leaned her head away, attempting to avoid the tickling sensations of his voice in her ear.
She did not know how to respond beyond her mildly apprehensive giggles.
There was no way he wasn't right this time.
But Elise would not be daunted, she told herself, her untamed defiance rising. It's just a mirror. Nothing she didn't look into everyday. Every single day. No big deal. And then...she felt her nerves kick in, a delicious nervousness swirling through her blood, originating in her belly, and flowing to every cell in her body. Every tensely awaiting cell.
He grabbed her by her chin, seeking to wipe that amused defiant look off her face. He guided her face closer to his, to draw her ear closer to his mouth, to force her to feel the vibrations in his voice crawl down her ear canal, to keep her from blocking out the sensations.
“Unh-unh.” Donovan's chastising voice spilled into Elise's ear, trying to oppose even the mental attempts he could tell she was making not succumb to the impending intensity. Elise erupted into silent laughter at the vibrating tickle of his baritone in her ear. She attempted to distance her ear from his lips, but Donovan's grip on her chin would not permit escape. Tonight would not be funny like the other times. He wanted to annihilate her control. Tonight he would possess her...and she would not be allowed to stop him.
“No, Sweetness...,” he said, continuing his one-sided conversation. “I can hear you in here,” he gently laid a fingertip on top of her head, ”and,” he inhaled,” I can feel you.”
Elise shuddered with intimidating delight, with anxious desire. He was trying to first break her subconscious, her silent willfulness. The first step to breaking her resistance. The first step in liquidating her resolve...in owning her submission.
“Oh no, Precious...not tonight. You will not resist. You will not stop me. You cannot stop me. I will have it,” he whispered sharply through clenched teeth. “You...will...be...mine. All night. Tonight I will not...stop.”
“Ohhhhhhh,” a whimpering moan escaped Elise's lips. And then...it began.
Donovan was lying on his back on the luxurious bed. Elise was lying on top of him, on her back, both of their bodies lying face up staring at...the ceiling.
This unfamiliar ceiling.
The mirrored ceiling. A triumph of hot, lustful design. An inescapable reflection of all manner of sexual escapades being revealed below.
Elise took firm grasp of the long scarves, the scarves that tightly bound her wrists, the scarves that tethered her to the headboard. Heat rose quickly to her face, as she tried to avoid the mirror's gaze above her.
“Unh-unh,” Donovan chastised again, shaking his head behind her.
“Don't look away.”
He wasn't suggesting it.
That was a demand.
Elise's breath became labored and shaky, as she deeply inhaled...closed her eyes...and then lifted her face and opened her eyes to confront the mirror's reflection.
Donovan again grasped Elise's chin, firmly holding it in place, forcing her to maintain eye contact with the mirror's gaze. She was bound, and the undeniable realization caused unrestrained arousal to shoot through her body and penetrate her consciousness. Her face burned hot in erotic embarrassment. Her body...was now helpless...and slowly but surely...her mind.
He wrapped his arms around her torso, possessively embracing her body lying vulnerable on top of him, hand and fingers taking their place at the inward curves of her sides.
Just one finger. Whole hands in place at her sides. But he would only activate one finger on each sensitive side. Trace the curves, he commanded his fingers, and they lightly...slowly...followed the curves of her sides. Up and down, so softly, but so deliberately.
And she could not look away. She could do nothing but watch. Watch the fingertips ticklishly hug, sensuously, teasingly mapping the delicate arcs of her torso.
Not completely true. She could do one thing. She could squirm. She knew it. He knew it. And indeed she did. She deeply sucked in her breath...a vain, but noble attempt...an effort to avoid the exquisitely tender caresses. The delicate up and down motions of his determined fingertips.
Already it was too much. She shook her head...repeatedly, side to side, trying to deny the tickling, a silent “no” in the opposing up and down motions of his two fingertips.
She could also watch. “Mmm-hmmm,” his voice one again awakened her ears.
”Watch”.
And then he added a second finger on each side, eager companions in the campaign to stroke Elise's tender sides. Two fingers tracing the curves. And the new tickling companions seemed to provoke the energy of his other fingers. They increased their pace. They caressed and tickled faster.
“Noooo,” the word slipped from her lips in exquisite desperation.
He chuckled. She could not hear it...but she could feel it. Feel it gently shake in the body lying face up beneath hers.
“Yessss.” He gently hissed into her ear. Yes. Feel it. He needed her to feel it...and more. He could not hold back. He needed her to feel more. So he made her feel more.
She felt all ten of his fingers curl and open on her sides. Curl and open, over and over and over again.
That was it. She laughed. All she could do was laugh now. She cackled as his fingertips intermittently opened and curled, open and curled in the hollows of her sides. And she had to bear witness to the show. Her eyes watched in the ceiling mirror at the manipulations of his fingers and hands on her sides, this tickling bringing about her feverish, frenzied laughter. And she had to watch herself laugh helplessly at his fingers' ministrations. Up and down the inward curves of her sides. Nothing separating his fingertips from her skin. He had long before found his way under the fabric of her negligee. Long before made his home under the silk, denying her the barrier of cloth from the tips of his fingers.
It was not the only thing he intended to deny her. Not tonight.
Down. He needed to go down. Down to her delicate hips. He needed his fingers to travel there. To know what she would sound like when he arrived at his destination. To hear her...to experience her shamefully aroused embarrassment.
He watched his own movements through heavy, lustful, half-closed eyelids in the mirror observing them from above. He watched his fingers wriggling all over the deliciously tender flesh of her sides...and now her hips. He watched her teeth bare in unrestrained laughter, watched her jerk her form, unsuccessfully attempting to retreat from his touch. He watched her hysterical laughter as he tickled her, and tickled her...and tickled her. He smirked. He reveled in the knowledge of the effects of the tickles he delivered to her hips. He smirked at her shock, and her giggling helplessness. Yes. He smirked as she wildly thrashed about on top of him, as she bucked wildly, trying so hard to escape. But she couldn't. She would never escape. So lovely. His torment of her was so inexplicably lovely.
No escape. She longed to crawl out of her skin, but also not to at the same time. The harder the torment to bear, the more she began to long to endure it. She wished for escape, but longed for more. More of his exquisite torture. More of being driven mad with the unpredictable tickling of his fingers. More of the face she saw in the mirror. Not hers. His. She needed more of his satisfied expressions. More of the wicked look on his face, the wickedly satisfied face she witnessed in the mirror. He...was enjoying her torture. And she blazed in hellish desire at the thought of the enjoyment he felt.
Symbiotic. He delightfully, sadistically tortured her. She ecstatically suffered. This was their blissful tickling exchange. Their own earth-shattering mutual gift. He tortured. She laughed. She squealed in overwhelming delight ...he drove his fingers to find more torturous locations on her body. Each gave rise to the brazen lust of the other.
And there was more.
Donovan raised his knees up, resting his legs between her soft thighs as she continued to lie on top of him...her arms tethered to the headboard...immobilizing her delicious form. The director decided there must be more.
He spread his knees apart, separating her legs from each other. The effect exposed newly vulnerable flesh, flesh that would have to endure his fingers, experience his fingertips. Tickling. With no escape. And so he began.
“Ohhhhhhhhh!” She screamed, her own agonizingly tortured moaning filling her ears. Why!!!!! She screamed inside her own head. Why was she letting this happen to her, she yelled inside her tormented mind. She set free unbridled laughter now from the depths of her core to her parted lips.
It was full force now. He rapidly strummed over all of her ticklish places. He vibrated fingers, deliberately and slowly wriggled fingers, lightly and teasingly brushed fingers, and then returned to his voraciously aggressive tickling torment of her body. He insatiably tickled her skin, seeking every ticklish spot he could find, from her hips, up to her curvaceous sides, back down, down to the thighs he forcefully separated with his own knees between her legs, lying underneath her, spreading her legs wide, open , and forcing her new vulnerability.
Why did she respond this way? How could she want this? How could this be...be so wonderful...be so satisfying...so thrilling...and so horrible? The “how” was written all over her face, it was embedded deep within her reckless laughter. So much now, he needed the other response. And he knew how much she wanted to give it to him. Not just her laughter.
Her adoring moans.
She screamed, then froze...paralyzed by the intensely light strokes, the ultra soft caresses he tickled over every part of her skin he could reach. From curves of sides, to curves of hips, around her belly, to the soft flesh of her thighs.
“Nooooo.” She shook her head spastically from side to side. She shook her head to deny it...to forbid the extreme pleasure. To forbid the undignified response this tickling had on her. The way it made her arch her spine, arch her body toward the very fingertips she was desperate to avoid as they continued their teasing march, their unbearable glide...up, over, down and around every inch of her skin, from sides to belly, from hips to thighs. Up, down, left, right, diagonal, in circles...in shapes and other patterns. The excruciatingly delicate strokes and unbearable caresses. She loved this madness. Every second. Every single tortuous minute, every single moment of her helpless, delightful, ticklish agony.
She loved it all.
She released an almost ungodly, earthy moan of immense pleasure from her lips. She loved it.
And he could see that. And she could see that. Neither allowed to break their lustful gaze away from the mirror that told their secrets above them on the ceiling. And there would be more.
Only one hour had passed.
There would be nine more till sunrise.
And the next round would not be so kind to her. She smiled.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming soon...The second hour.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
