Chapter 9 #2
He reaches down, grabbing the fabric of my dress and yanking it up toward my waist in one rough motion. I struggle, pushing against his chest, shouting, "Get off me, you absolute tosser!"
Click.
The sound is deafening in the quiet room. I freeze instantly. The cold, hard muzzle of a gun is pressed firmly against my forehead. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I want you afraid, Ophelia," he whispers, his voice dropping to a dangerous, possessive growl.
"I want you absolutely terrified and dripping for me.
I want you more scared of me than you ever were of your own reflection.
And once I've got that fear, I'm going to turn it into a love so obsessive it'll make your head spin. Now, shut your fucking mouth."
"You're a fucking coward," I spit out, though my voice is shaking. "Using a gun because you can't handle a woman saying no? You're the afraid one."
He doesn't argue. He simply slides the gun down, pressing the muzzle hard under my chin, forcing my head up. With his free hand, he reaches for my knickers and rips them away. I gasp, the sound echoing in the mirrored room, feeling the sudden, jarring exposure.
"Part your legs for me. Now," he commands as he tucks my knickers into his pocket, not even hiding his act.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut, a sob catching in my throat.
"Don't make me ask a third time, doll," he warns, the gun pressing deeper into the soft skin under my jaw. "Do it, or I'll give you a reason to really scream."
Trembling violently, I slowly slide my legs apart. He immediately drops to his knees, the gun still held dangerously close as he settles between my thighs.
"Watch me in the mirror," he orders. "Watch what I'm about to do to you. I've been dying for a taste of you, you little cracked doll. I've dreamt about this every fucking night. I told you before, you smell so good… that it makes me want to eat you."
Then, he dives in.
He doesn't start slow. He lunges forward, his tongue lashing across my clit with a sudden, starving intensity. I let out a sharp cry, my back arching against the mirror. I watch him in the reflection—just a man, alone in a room of glass, his head buried between my invisible thighs.
He is absolutely eating me out. His tongue is a weapon, flicking rapidly against my nub, swirling and sucking with a rhythmic, punishing pressure.
He licks from the bottom of my opening all the way up to the peak, his breath hot and wet against my sensitive skin.
He uses his lips to pull my clit into his mouth, sucking it greedily, his tongue dancing over it in a way that sends electric shocks straight to my core.
I try to resist. I try to push him away, to tell him to stop, but the pleasure is an avalanche.
I begin to moan, the sounds raw and uncontrolled, my body trembling for a completely different reason now.
I want to pull away from the sheer intensity of it, but at the same time, I find myself pushing my hips forward, desperate for more of his mouth, more of that devastating friction.
I can feel myself becoming a ruin. I'm soaking wet, the scent of my own arousal filling the air, a thick, honeyed pool forming between my legs. I feel it sliding down my thighs, a heavy, warm wetness that tells me exactly how much I want this monster.
He doesn't let up. He delves deeper, his tongue probing inside me while he continues to pummel my clit with a relentless, wet suction. I'm losing my mind, staring at the mirror, seeing only him devouring the air where I should be, while my body is being pushed to the absolute brink.
When the orgasm finally hits, it's violent.
I scream, my entire body seizing, my knees buckling beneath me.
I nearly collapse, the world spinning into a blur of white light and pleasure.
He doesn't stop; he drinks every drop I give him, his tongue cleaning me up with slow, deliberate strokes, savoring the taste of my release.
As the high begins to fade, leaving me breathless and limp, I blink and look back at the mirror.
My heart stops.
I'm there.
I can see myself. My reflection has returned, appearing in every single mirror in the room.
I see my face, flushed and glazed with pleasure, my lips parted in a silent gasp.
I see my plum dress hiked up to my waist, the ruined fabric bunched around my hips.
I see the gun still pressed under my chin, and I see his face, dark and satisfied, buried between my legs.
I didn't even notice when it happened. I was so lost in the pleasure and the fear that I didn't realize the mirrors had finally claimed me.
He rises slowly to his feet, unhurried, and drags his tongue once, deliberately, along his bottom lip, savoring whatever's left there.
"There you are," he says, low and satisfied, tucking the gun away without ceremony, as though it were never anything more than a prop in tonight's performance.
"The exact moment you came undone, cracked doll — that's when you came back.
Every mirror in this room, lit up with you.
" He tilts his head, studying the reflections surrounding us both.
"You taste like something I've been chasing my entire life. I'd know that flavor blindfolded now."
He swipes his thumb on his lips then sucks the juices it collects.
I turn, slow, disbelieving, and see it everywhere — my own face, my own body, multiplied a hundred times over across every wall, every surface, every impossible angle of glass. Flushed. Undone. Real.
My reflection came back at the moment I came?
Seven years of never once seeing myself, and the first time I do, it's like this — captured, exposed, claimed in every direction I turn, with nowhere left in the entire room to hide from my own eyes.
The scream that tears out of me doesn't sound like a scream at all. It sounds like something breaking open for good.