Writing Exercise: In the Mirror

[anthrodisiac]

I stare in the mirror, past myself, into the other mirror behind it. Check out my ass. Gorgeous. Perfect perky peach! I give it a smack and giggle as the sound slaps through the bathroom. Back up to my face. Rouge is on point, super! Ruby red to accentuate my dimples and frame just the cutest button nose!

I try not to look at the recursion- I mean, the flippy flop back and forth a buncha times. God damn it, he won't want a brain. Cutesy, bitch. Cutesy. Lilt, vocal fry, ditzy. Lilt, vocal fry, ditzy. Easy as pie.

Letting out a breath, I flounce my curls. The same brown locks that had won me so many beauty contests as a kid. Mom so proud of her little girl, like a brunette Shirley Temple. Nobody knows who that is anymore... Don't bring up lame-ass trivia, you'll tip your hand.

Focus, Flora. Get in character.

I turn sideways and run my hands down my body. Sleek, smooth, boobs perky AF. Ugh, AF... Nope, that's right. Perky AF. Just the barest hint of nipple through the blue-and-white-striped bodycon dress. Smokin' hot, babes. I sigh, try not to chew on my lip and fuck up my lippy, even if the cherry gloss is kinda super duper tasty. Better — believable, almost.

Maybe I should go with the choker dress, actually. Better cleavage. More youthful look, too — very important. Plus, the tight-hugging fabric makes movement that little bit harder, makes every inch and imperfection on display. I can hear Mom questioning if I'm starting to get a little paunch. I'm not. I'm not... Right? My hand finds my tummy, nervous movements over my toned abs.

No, it's fine. I'm fine. No, I'm fine. Damn, girl, so fine.

With a quick glance up, I give my face a once-over. Maybe I should put in the colored contacts. Brown is boring. Mom always said I'd look better if I could only change my eye color. Nobody taught her about genetic phenotypes, clearly. Kinda your fault, Mom. You and whoever Dad was.

I smile, shimmy at myself, then frown. Yeah, choker would be better. Pervert likes 'em young.

Before I change, I check my phone. Twenty minutes 'til our big date. I reach for my purse and make sure the Sig Sauer is securely tucked away, safety on, silencer strapped in. Perfect.

Motherfucker won't know what hit him.

Now, where did I put that choker?

 

[StillStunned]

Letting out a breath, I flounce my curls.

For a moment I thought this was going to be about clowns.

I'm actually surprised that no-one has taken the clown/mime angle yet.

 

[anthrodisiac]

I stare into space and put my hands up. I form the mirror as the crowd watches, fog it up, wipe it off, feigning suprise at my painted face — a riot of white and black, a forced grin as I work my craft for these damn ingrates.

Maybe Dad was right, Mime wasn't the most lucrative career path... How many times can one man pretend to walk through a heavy windstorm, for Christ's sake?

 

[Erozetta]

For a moment I thought this was going to be about clowns.

I'm actually surprised that no-one has taken the clown/mime angle yet.

Might I suggest anyone who wants to go the clown angle, refer to this beautiful work of fiction featuring clowns, mirrors, and slide whistle erections Ms. Bonkers

 

[AStrangeDesire]

Might I suggest anyone who wants to go the clown angle, refer to this beautiful work of fiction featuring clowns, mirrors, and slide rule erections Ms. Bonkers

^ can confirm

 

[BeechLeaf]

She sighed and walked across to her wardrobe, opened its doors, stared for a moment, then looked around into their bedroom. She took off her jumper, her T-shirt, looked around the room again, hesitated about what she was trying to convey. The big, old-fashioned mirror in the middle of the room seemed to sit there in judgement, waiting for her.

She looked into the mirror and found it showed a slim, tired, sandy-haired woman in her late twenties. Someone who had lived, who had experimented, and who was now feeling the stress of it.

'George,' she called out. 'It's doing that again.'

George came out from the next room and watched the unfamiliar figure in the mirror. 'Stupid bloody thing. We should never have bought it from that gypsy.' He gave it a carefully calculated whack just above the midpoint of the right-hand side, and she was relieved to see herself at last, plump and dark-haired and wholly unlike the strange ghostly inhabitant who sometimes occupied their mirror.

 

[redgarters]

The mirror is floor to ceiling. A wall.

I can't hide.

Wherever I go in the room I'm in it. I see myself. Straight on. Out of the corner of my eye. Even when I close my eyes.

The bruises are turning now, pretty purple blooming out of the blacks and blues.

I turn my body away from the mirror, tracing the angry red welts from the whip's licks on my back with my eyes. There are fifteen. The last three almost made me pass out.

The memory of the pain shivers through me. It's been 4 days. I still can't sleep on my back.

The shackles are still fastened to the bedposts.

I sit down slowly on the floor in front of the mirror, ankles crossed, knees up, my head resting on my arms. I know that when I look up I'll see a thin, lanky woman, covered in bruises, old and new. Hair shaved close, the shape of her head long rather than round.

So I look up.
Look into my own eyes, at the calm in them. My vulnerability reflected back at me from their deep green, more than my nakedness

It's bright in here, the ceiling light glinting off my steel collar when I turn my head

It's not lights out until ten. She'll be here in some time for evening inspection. She'll walk around me where I stand in position legs apart, hands on my head, and run her fingers over my skin. Touch my bruises. Inspect her handiwork.

She won't use me tonight. I think. There's not a rhythm to her. Not one I've been able to predict, at least. She keeps me guessing.

She knows I like that. The uncertainty. The adrenaline. The confirmation of her control that lives in my absence of it.

I stand up and get in position. A small groan slips my lips as my back muscles pull the welts on my back when I lift my hands. The mirror is merciless, making me watch myself while I wait for her, my anticipation building.

I see the conflicting emotions spike in my eyes when the lock is turned from the outside. Fear. Anticipation.

Love.

I stare at myself in the mirror, eyes fixed on eyes, as she walks up behind me. There's a bucket in her hand. The mirror shows me how she puts it down on the floor.

The sponge is soft, the water warm.

She talks to me while she washes my body gently. She tells me what a good girl I am, how proud she is of me. Whispers in my ear as the sponge slides over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs.

I suck in a breath. She stops. Watches my eyes as I strain to keep them locked on my own in the mirror. Behaving. A corner of her mouth quirks up a tiny bit. The sponge stays still between my legs. I wait. Focus on breathing evenly.

Her eyes narrow, and the sponge drags back and forward between my legs, agonizingly slowly. I bite my lips together to keep my moan in. But she hears it. She always hears it.

And there it is, her smile, the one I love and fear deliciously. She leans in against my ear, her warm breath caressing my skin.

"Naughty girl."

I shiver. She inhales my fear like a drug.

The adrenaline courses through me and for a second, one emotion blocks out all the others.

Happiness. Complete and overwhelming. I fix my eyes on myself, because I know what's coming.

"Don't... take your eyes.... off the mirror."

 

[EmilyMiller]

The mirror is floor to ceiling. A wall.

I can't hide.

Wherever I go in the room I'm in it. I see myself. Straight on. Out of the corner of my eye. Even when I close my eyes.

The bruises are turning now, pretty purple blooming out of the blacks and blues.

I turn my body away from the mirror, tracing the angry red welts from the whip's licks on my back with my eyes. There are fifteen. The last three almost made me pass out.

The memory of the pain shivers through me. It's been 4 days. I still can't sleep on my back.

The shackles are still fastened to the bedposts.

I sit down slowly on the floor in front of the mirror, ankles crossed, knees up, my head resting on my arms. I know that when I look up I'll see a thin, lanky woman, covered in bruises, old and new. Hair shaved close, the shape of her head long rather than round.

So I look up.
Look into my own eyes, at the calm in them. My vulnerability reflected back at me from their deep green, more than my nakedness

It's bright in here, the ceiling light glinting off my steel collar when I turn my head

It's not lights out until ten. She'll be here in some time for evening inspection. She'll walk around me where I stand in position legs apart, hands on my head, and run her fingers over my skin. Touch my bruises. Inspect her handiwork.

She won't use me tonight. I think. There's not a rhythm to her. Not one I've been able to predict, at least. She keeps me guessing.

She knows I like that. The uncertainty. The adrenaline. The confirmation of her control that lives in my absence of it.

I stand up and get in position. A small groan slips my lips as my back muscles pull the welts on my back when I lift my hands. The mirror is merciless, making me watch myself while I wait for her, my anticipation building.

I see the conflicting emotions spike in my eyes when the lock is turned from the outside. Fear. Anticipation.

Love.

I stare at myself in the mirror, eyes fixed on eyes, as she walks up behind me. There's a bucket in her hand. The mirror shows me how she puts it down on the floor.

The sponge is soft, the water warm.

She talks to me while she washes my body gently. She tells me what a good girl I am, how proud she is of me. Whispers in my ear as the sponge slides over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs.

I suck in a breath. She stops. Watches my eyes as I strain to keep them locked on my own in the mirror. Behaving. A corner of her mouth quirks up a tiny bit. The sponge stays still between my legs. I wait. Focus on breathing evenly.

Her eyes narrow, and the sponge drags back and forward between my legs, agonizingly slowly. I bite my lips together to keep my moan in. But she hears it. She always hears it.

And there it is, her smile, the one I love and fear deliciously. She leans in against my ear, her warm breath caressing my skin.

"Naughty girl."

I shiver. She inhales my fear like a drug.

The adrenaline courses through me and for a second, one emotion blocks out all the others.

Happiness. Complete and overwhelming. I fix my eyes on myself, because I know what's coming.

"Don't... take your eyes.... off the mirror."

It’s refreshing to read someone who gets it. Maybe not the captivity bit, but the fine line between pain and euphoria.

 

[StillStunned]

I force myself to look into my own eyes. There's a smear on the mirror. A splash of water that dried and I tried to wipe away yesterday. It covers my reflection's cheek, it's distracting because I'm trying to be profound and all I can think is that I need to clean it away.

So I do. A quick spritz of cleaner, a wipe with the towel. It needs washing anyway.

Better. I look into my own eyes again. An idiot stares back. His mouth opens, but I hear the words on my side of the mirror.

"You're going to do it, aren't you? Another 2P story, another stream-of-consciousness 2P story."

I refuse to answer. My reflection nods in understanding. "You've already started, haven't you?"

I nod back. He sighs, and we stand there for a while, just nodding at each other in resignation.

 

[EmilyMiller]

I survey the tableau in the mirror
The message just couldn’t be clearer
I’m nude and behind
On the bed you will find
Another nude girl, can’t be queerer

 

[anthrodisiac]

You and I, engaged in an eternal staring contest
A glassy reflection, unblinking
Dark eyes hooded and twitching
A pair of wits, organic and silica
Except I'm a gecko
And I can't blink
...so we'll be here a while

 

[EmilyMiller]

You and I, engaged in an eternal staring contest
A glassy reflection, unblinking
Dark eyes hooded and twitching
A pair of wits, organic and silica
Except I'm a gecko
And I can't blink
...so we'll be here a while

I have very happy memories of geckos

 

[TheLobster]

The dark, glossy surface reluctantly shows his aged face. It is marred by many a deep wrinkle, and his white hair falls straight on each side of his tall head: flat and thin-worn; a physical manifestation of his strained patience.

A tired sigh escapes his lips, as he thinks of all the precious time he had wasted. The shortsightedness of his so-called comrades, the foolish hope which they still cling to, the fruitless distractions and their pointless dithering...

The man's expression tenses; the reflective sphere amplifies the scowl, etching every grove even deeper into the leathery skin of his wizened face. There is yet a moment of hesitation, as he briefly considers whether he might be too hasty in his judgment; but this last cloud doubt is soon swept away by the cold, merciless wind of his new resolve and conviction.

He wavers no more. His robed hand flies out, hovering over the dark mirror, and the image within no longer shows his wise, elderly visage.

"I am ready, my lord," he says solemnly. "What is it that you command?"

Out of the swirling mist emerge shadow and fire. A fell voice rumbles in his head, as the flames coalesce into a terrible, unblinking eye.

"Build me an army worthy of Mordor..."

 

[Five_Inch_Heels]

Spectacular. The view cannot be described by any other word.

The hair is perfect, the eyes, the cheeks, the crimson lip color. He could not have done better.

The delicate and simple gold choker, the slightly upturned breasts gently caressed by the half cup bralette only partially covering the nipples. Nails painted to match the lips. The glimmering wedding ring. Glancing down to the floor, the insanely high heels come into view, nearly impossible to stand in, even more difficult to walk in. One ankle decorated with a gold chain to match the choker.

A tiny thong is being raised into place over legs sculptured by years of professional dance training.

Simply spectacular. You are amazed at the job he had done preparing you for this magical evening and you welcome your brother's touch on your mound as he smoothed the nearly nothing thong into place.

 

[mrs_mackenzie]

Indirect.

The word can cover a multitude of sins.

Lust.

It has power at its heart. Giving up power. Taking it. Wresting it from another. Wielding it. All it needs is for the first crack to appear in the armour and then it unravels in turn. Like a well-executed movement on the chessboard. A queen advances; checkmate in nine. Irresistible.

They had made the first mistakes. It didn't matter what, but now the power lay with her. Her lips stayed tight and thin as they entered the studio, silent. Chastened. The two lithe female figures stepping with greater than usual grace. Turning to face the mirror.

Yes, she had the power. The power to ask the ballerinas to attend an extra rehearsal. The power to say that this rehearsal would take place in the nude. It was always a request. But refusal was not in their power any longer. They had lost the game of chess.

They began their warm-up, bodies flexing, everything opening up to her gaze. Yes, this was what power meant. But was this lust? She felt no stirring of arousal as the two ballerinas put their most intimate parts on display beneath the bright lights. No, lust had to be direct. A connection. And while she watched them in the mirror, and only in the mirror, no connection could be felt. Indirect. It covered the sin.

One of the ballerinas paused in her penché. Her arm lay lightly on the bar. An invitation to feast the eyes. But she did not. She looked steadfastly in the mirror. At the ballerina's thin chest. Her obvious collarbones. The curve of her lips. And then their eyes met in the reflection.

A connection flared.