0 comments/ 25930 views/ 2 favorites The Reflection By: lightscadence The reflection that gazed back at her was unrecognizable, though it is her image that she gazes upon. Bare of clothes, she stands silent before the mirror, hooded eyes sweeping over her nakedness trying to see what tickles the senses of others. Thick, honey colored hair cascades over her shoulders, falling in wild abandon down her back tumbling to her tailbone, vivid blue/grey eyes shimmer in the filtered moonlight wafting through the blinds, illuminating in effervescent glow full breasts, curvaceous waist and sculpted hips. Her arms move then, gliding over the flesh of her waist to her breasts, hands cupping them only to squeeze them like a lover would, gently, lovingly, teasingly. Thumbs slide over the nipples, bringing them to hardened peaks, the silence of the room broken by her sharp intake of breath at the sensation. Her left hand moves between her breasts, the back of her fingers caressing over her stomach, moving to her waist, hips. Turning her hand, palm pressed against her, tapered fingers moving through the fine hairs that cover her womanhood, holding herself there briefly. She moves her index finger, gliding it over the little nub of pleasure that causes her to breathe heavy and lose control when touched, licked or played with. Her head tilts to one side, eyes moving to watch the motions of her finger while her legs move apart, bracing herself. Gentle thrusting of her hips only to move in a circular motion, breath hissing between her teeth as it escapes her lips. A flush of heat, there, spreading throughout the rest of her body. Touching herself, slipping her finger inside her, feeling her own warmth and wetness. Pink lips parting, tongue darting out to wet them as if preparing for a lover's kiss when she is alone, but not. Fingers spread herself open a bit more while her thumb moves back and forth over that pearled nub that burns, finger slowly sliding in and out of her. One hand there, her other hand moving to her other breast fingers circling around the nipple, playing, teasing, another flash of heat consuming her. Her eyes move to and catch.. holding herself frozen as she peers at the mirror.. fiery depths seeing the passion there, the desire that she's brought on herself. "Oh..." near inaudible sound rushing out of her, fingers moving over and within tight, wet warmth of sweet, moist petals, kissed with gentle dew, pearled nub beginning to throb and burn more.. finger slipping in and out of her, head rolling back on her shoulders, long, thick tendrils of burnt honeyed hair tickling her backside in its length. "Oh... my..." the seed of passion taking root deep inside her, sweeping out only to implode within . Hips move forward, thrusting into her hand.. gliding gently to a circular motion, the sensation sweeping her up and carrying her away. Faster her fingers move, fingers squeezing her nipple, "Oh god.." low voice whispering in the silence of the room, chest rising and falling as her breathing becomes erratic. Hips continuing to thrust, fingers moving over her, within her, around her, touching, caressing, feeling, throbbing deep inside unconsciously constricting at nothing though feeling something to cling to. "Ahh..." moaning, feeling herself become wetter with her motions, her nipples become harder, more sensitive to her own touch. Swept off her feet now, frenzied motion to consume her, guiding her closer to the edge only to waltz her away, gasping, panting really, legs shaking while her hips continue to thrust forward and around, fingers moving in and out of herself, becoming slick and wet. Deeper, she feels herself gripping, wanting the sensation to overcome her and take her away. Whimpering, the tidal wave comes crashing down around her now, "Mmm... oh..." playfully teasing at her senses, fingers moving with such motion, coming for her, taking her then, "Ohhhhh.... yessss....." lifting her up, floating her with the buoyancy, movements tapering to slow motion, before eventually coming to a complete stop. Her arms lower and once more she catches her gaze in the mirror, the reflection that looks back at her still unrecognizable, but seemingly more at ease, relaxed, content. Lips parted, chest rising and falling, nipples still at hardened peaks, cheeks flushed, but her eyes, the look that she sees that pierces through her. Vibrant blue/grey, her own, so alive and bright... passion still apparent, catching movement in the mirror... ...seeing Him sit up in the bed, extending His arm and crooking a finger to her.. steel grey eyes revealing their passion and desire for her... moving towards Him, her own arms reaching out for Him, feeling herself touched, once more, then Him filling her. Taking her.. her need still great, matching His own as He flips her to her stomach, pulling at her waist and burying Himself savagely within her... The Reflection on The Other Side I caught them. I caught them making love in the basement and when I did, I got inside my car and murdered my daughter's cat. Now, I am in my bedroom staring down at my French pedicure, and wondering if I should make tea. There is a woman across the room in the mirror above the makeup drawer. She is my reflection. She is saying something. She is saying that I make her: "Sick!" She says, "This whole world is just topsy-turvy and screwed up on top! My husband is cheating on me in the basement with a co-worker we both invited over for dinner, right now! I mean, they are really going at it like dogs in heat!" My reflection sighs sarcastically to annoy me and then she continues: "And yet, all I can think about is poor, flattened, furry little Fluffles, now deceased before the ripe old age of one full cat year. What am I doing? What have I done?" I answer: "I have done it all, baby! I've been the gullible supporting wife, the doting mother, and up until now, the only sex my husband has had since last week! I think." She quips, "And now, all I can think about, as I sit and stare at my meaningless, pink frosted pedicure, is the look on my five year old's face when I tell her that Mommy killed Fluffles because when she opened the side door in the garage, and walked into the sanctity of our home, she heard Daddy banging a 'friend' on the carpet downstairs?" I say, "Well, what do you want me to do? I have been to therapy, and I have taken every stupid pill imaginable. I mean come on! Am I having a breakdown? Am I finally cracking up? You are only my reflection for goodness sake! You are not me!" "Yes I am!," she shouted. "I am you! I am the real you, and I am hurting. I am positively livid with that man and you!" "Why?," she has the nerve to ask. "Why are you mad at me?" "You don't care about me; you don't care about him! And you don't even care about your own daughter!," says she. "I wish you could think about someone other than yourself, Sheila!" "All right, then. Well, would it be impolite of me to stop the Penthouse/Hustler moment my husband is having with his 'friend' downstairs and have them help me clean up the cat?," I ask trying to sound self supporting. My reflection just sobs and after a minute she shakes her head and says, "I don't know anymore! I just don't know!" But, I knew. I will acknowledge that much. And, I also always hated that damn cat, too. So, I am sliding my toes back into my patented leather open-toed mules, and now I am walking out of the master bedroom. I am now on the second floor landing and I can still here them panting in the basement. I say to myself, "One more step, lady. Let him have his fun and I'll just keep walking." I step purposefully down those Berber carpeted stairs, and in my mind I am telling DeMille I am ready for my close-up while my reflection obediently follows sobbing behind me. There is no turning back and she knows that. They are still screwing and I am still walking. I am passing through the dining room. My reflection is reminding me that my Mom's crystal always looked awesome with mys china. She is in my mind now walking with me and fighting back a decade worth of tears. We are walking hand in hand now, she and I. We walk into the kitchen. The backdoor to the garage is still open. We close it and lock it quietly. Over to the left of the fridge and next to the pantry is the basement door. It is still wide open and we could give a damn. This is still our house, and we are still the wife. We step quietly down the stairs and the wooden boards give a little under our weight like plunk, plunk, plunk. They are still at it and we are walking toward them. Our husband is still cramming this strange woman's hips into his groin and they both are moaning loudly with pleasure. We simply tap him on the shoulder. He turns toward us with a grin that in the blink of an eye fades into shock. "Sheila," he says. "Oh My GOD!" The Good me, the one I see in the mirror, still wanted to smack him and make him cry. She still wanted an answer. I didn't want to hear it! I puckered my lips and touched my index finger to them and exhaled a soft blow like, "Shhh!" And then I said, "Roger, there is a mess in the garage and when you are finished, I am going to need your help cleaning it up." We go upstairs and leave him with her. The office 'friend' says nothing. In the kitchen, I remove my shoes and put them by the welcome mat. Still inside our home, the good one inside of me felt no need to hurry. She let me put on a kettle and I brewed some black tea. I put honey and mint in mine, arsenic and sugar for Roger's and for the "co-worker", laxative with lemon. The table is set with jam and crackers for tea time. It is only 5:30 pm and dinner is being delivered at six. I am hearing the wood on the stairs give as they make their way upstairs. Plunk, plunk, plunk. "I sure hope they want seconds," says my reflection in my tea cup. Me too, I think. Me too. The Reflections of a Virgin on Sex I've often sat and wondered what sex is like. I am a virgin in just about every technical sense. All I've ever done is kiss. And not even kissed enough for any real practice. It's not that I'm asexual. I really like erotic literature, and I've even had thoughts of writing some of my own. But how can one write about something one has never done? All I really have to go on is my imagination and what I've seen in pornography. My intellect tells me that neither of those have much basis in reality. And so I've sat here for many long moments wondering what the experience of sex is really like. What does it feels like? Hot. Sublime. I imagine the friction between their flesh and mine, so drastically different than when I am alone. So much more wondrous and profound. So much more to see and experience. What does it feel like to have another person deep in the heart of you? To look up into their eyes, watch their face, feel their breath even while you feel them inside you. Do they feel what I feel? Am I truly doing these things, wanting these things? What does it smell like? Musk. Heavy. I imagine our scents would mingle in the air around us. Entwining as we have entwined. Joining as we have joined. Creating a single scent, as we were a single being for a time. What does it taste like? Salty. Unique. I imagine what sampling your skin would be like, learning you with my tongue as I have with my hands. Seeking out the very essence of you. What does real sex sound like? Fast. Low. Surely not like the theatric screams, moans, and grunts of pornography. I imagine the panting, the sounds in the back of our throats, the urge to shout and cry. Or quiet, hushed, muffled exclamations bitten into a pillow. Do they see what I see? Am I as flushed and sweaty as they are? What is it like to have sex with another person? To see them, touch them, feel them. To have them see you, touch you, and feel you in return. Reading erotic literature, watching pornography, masturbating, and fantasizing cannot possibly equal the real experience. How can words be used to describe the sensations of sex? If I am so excited alone, then wouldn't being with another person be that much more thrilling? Imagining how it feels to jump from a plane isn't the same as skydiving. Reading about seeing a ghost isn't the same as actually being confronted with one. And so I haven't ever written any of my fantasies down to share with the world. I suppose the world will just have to patiently wait until I lose my virginity. Hopefully my naïve ideals won't be disappointed by the real thing, instead given new life and new desires that can be expressed and shared.