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.

 

[Belegon]

The mirror never lies, they say. Except that if I am to believe everyone else, that is exactly what the mirror is doing.

Let me explain. I'm no longer a spring chicken. My decade is now measured in the same numbers as the decade where Kennedy and Dr. King died and the Summer of Love happened... okay, at the moment, my personal level is closer to Bay of Pigs, but I'm in that ballpark now. But just before I entered that ballpark, I split with my wife, the woman who was supposed to be the one that took me off the market forever... at least, that was MY intention. So, maybe, I quit using the mirror from that perspective, which could mean that my last favorable impression of me in a mirror dates back several years. The problem with that, to misue an old cliche, isn't the years...it's the mileage. The last couple years, the mileage seems to have added up at much higher rate than I was previously used to... lets keep things kinda tight here, not go crazy.... my wife quit sleeping with me about five years ago... okay, so five years ago, some things were very different as regards mirrors...five years eliminates both the cancer diagnosis and the heart surgery, so that puts me back into teaching martial arts, so working out with kids a fifth my age three to four times week and needing not just to keep up, but to set the example.so everything is tighter and more streamlined. no extra folds. Also, in what makes a huge difference to me but seems almost negligible to others, my hair was stilll RED, not gray. There was some salt in the beard, but overall it was red. I admit, having grown up with being a redhead in a time when Howdy Doody was still a living memory and Richie Cunningham was still on tv in reruns, red hair was an identifier for me in many ways. The thing that gets me the most??? There's a plastic bag hanging off my waist. No belt or garment, it's attached to ME. And I hate it with a passion. It's a result of the failure of my colon to fight off the "C" word. When they discovered my cancer it was due to emergency surgery necessitated by a perforated colon. The surgeon had to remove a great deal of rotten flesh, so the colostomy was a necessary thing. I'm glad I didn't die, but I still hate the damn thing.

I can't do a sit up or the damn bag will pop off, and believe me, no one wants to see that. So, the relatively flat and strong belly -- especially on a sixty year old dude in an area where beer bellies are pretty much the normal thing for my age -- it is completely hidden behind the plastic distraction. And it isn't nearly as strong or flat anymore.

So where does the lie come in? I wasn't prepared to run off into a corner and wait to die alone when my ex broke off our marriage. And I have my own opinions about what the mirror shows. So when the women from Ashley Madison or "local singles" sites say I'm handsome and act like I'm some kind of catch??? I don't see it in the mirror. I hear it enough that I gave up trying to deny it and fell back on the hopefully less critical of their opinion "I'm glad you see me that way." Seems like less insulting than to tell them they are wrong.

But it has not helped my opinion on the truthfulness of mirrors.

 

[BellaBestia]

Hotel Mirrors

You step out of the shower carefully, your feet buried in the small pristine white square of plush carpet next to the tub. You reach for the equally white but scratchy hotel towel, the water sluicing down your lithe pale body, rivulets sliding between your breasts and down your flat taut belly then down your long legs (dancers legs perhaps?) to form wet prints around your feet. You bend forward, gracefully flipping your wet hair forward and wrap and tie the towel in a turban, in a fluid almost magic motion women only seem capable of. With the second towel you start to rub and quickly wick the excess moisture from your body. You rub so vigorously your skin turns a bright pink. Careful. Wrapping the towel around you and twisting the ends at your chest, the edges part slightly down the front barely covering your pubis. Drops of water cling adamantly to the fawn coloured hair.

Facing the mirror you begin the unnecessary ritual of makeup, using so many products to imitate the appearance of not wearing makeup at all. Why? It’s not unpleasant this waste of time. It’s amusing. How many products and how many tones and shades of taupe and beige and barely-there pink to feign naturalness will you use?

Once you are satisfied with the result (13 products, a new record) you unwrap your hair, damp but drier now, and begin to comb out knots in the chocolate curls with a wide toothed wooden comb. You only grimace once or twice. Careful! The towel around you has come loose and falls forgotten to the cold tile floor. Yes it’s cold, your nipples peak in the sudden change of temperature. You spray a white fluffy mountain of hair mousse into your hand and then bend over again to apply it to your hanging hair, scrunching and squeezing from roots to tips. Your back curved at the waist like a nimble ballerina, the rounded ridges of your spine pressing against the skin like an Appalachian skyline.

Standing back up you grab the tiny hotel issue dryer and attempt to blow dry your hair. Staring into the mirror, wisps of hair whipping around your head in the feeble forced air; what are you thinking about? Are you wondering who you will possibly meet at the hotel bar that night? You seem determined to do just that. To bring someone, anyone, back up here with you later, some half drunk former varsity football player turned salesman. Or perhaps one of the convention attendees, here on a rare weekend away from his wife and kids in some dull midwestern suburb. But you’re better than that, surely. Or you deserve better.

Hair dried and coiffed to your satisfaction you smile at your reflection, smug but sweet. You know you’re hot. You know every man in that bar downstairs tonight will start to salivate the moment you walk in. You flutter your black mascara coloured eyelashes coquettishly, practicing. A moment of (doubt? fear?) unease crosses your pretty face like the momentary travel of a shadow, your eyes darken. And then it’s gone. You smile to yourself, almost embarrassed, and shake your head slightly. You lean forward over the bathroom sink and plant a Cupid’s bow kiss in the centre of the large mirror.

You leave and cross the room to the bed where your clothes, shoes and jewelry are laid out, and quickly dress. You check yourself in the bathroom mirror one more time, adjust and smooth out the skin-tight blue satin of the dress, the precise placement of delicate necklace and earrings. You look taller, due to the shoes, the pink kiss’s reflection has shifted south a few inches. Turning away you smile at your reflection again, over your shoulder, wink at yourself and snap off the light before leaving. A brief shard of light and a gun click of the door lock and you are gone.

No matter, I can wait. And in the meantime I can rewatch the tapes from tonight and last night, maybe label and prep a fresh tape for later tonight once you return. Yes, I can wait.

 

[liliput1]

I glared at the intruder. A ragged beast if ever there was one. But something was wrong about it. No smell. Strange shape. It stalked my movements. A head tilt. Sneering. Eyes baleful, full of hate. A dark and terrible creature, indeed.

I was the protector of this home. Those within counted on me to shield them from hard, and I was never one to back down from a challenge. I feigned a lunge at the creature. It lunged, then shrank back. A coward, then! And yet, a coward who would not retreat. So be it, I would make him run, the cur!

Backing up, I charged. It sprinted at me, fangs bared. I leapt. It leapt.

THUD!

I collapsed to the ground, shook my head. The other dog lay on its side, chest heaving. Unsteadily, I got to my paws. As did the intruder, but it looked dazed, wounded — as was I, but I would not let it know. I trotted from the room, and, with a quick glance back, breathed a sigh of relief as the coward fled.

Let that be a lesson to you, knave!

I'd defeated my fifth intruder of the day, and the night was still young. All had been to a draw, but I'd get the next one.

Oh, yes, Max would get the next one, all right...

Has Max worked out who the good boy is?

 

[MK_Whimsy]

I froze as I caught a glimpse of my reflection. It was hard to see, and not just because of the dirty, distorted mirror. The eyeholes of the mask restricted my vision, and the colors were muted and grainy through their lenses.

But the mask's shiny, inky black color cut through it all very well. There was just enough light in the room to reflect off the front of the mask's long, blunt nose. Not to mention, its equine outline was also quite clear, including the mohawk-like black mane topping it off.

I reached up to touch my face, awkwardly bumping against the underside of the chin with the hard hoof mitt my hand was encased in. Reaching up with both hands now, I gingerly ran them over the mask's surface. In the mirror, I could see the reflection of the dim light off the lifelike, polished, solid arcs where my hands used to be, as well as the shiny black material that encased the rest of my arms. I couldn't feel a thing through them, but could hear when their hard tips clicked across the metal buckles on the bridle and the sides of the bit sticking out of either side of the mouth.

My stomach fluttered as the face--my face--came into view. Transfixed, I couldn't look away. I strained to get a better look through the mask's dull lenses, angling my head this way and that in a vain effort to see myself more clearly.

As I ran my lips and tongue over the bit that sat in my teeth, concealed underneath the mask, my teeth slowly made indentations in its soft outer material.

Nervousness welled up inside me. Panic and fear set in. I was trapped. I couldn't get out of this thing. But in the mirror, all I could see instead was a blank, vacant expression, one of docility and compliance.