Mirror Mirror

I roll off the mattress, shaking my breasts back into my shift as I do up the buttons. I take the tiniest moment to stare down at the mirror, putting into my eyes every desperate and unfulfilled desire, then snatch him off the bed and replace him on the dresser.

I hurry to assume the position next to the bed. Every surface of my body is sensitive and inflamed. I bend over, hissing at the near-pain of blood pooling in my cunt after such a heavy orgasm. There's a sudden image in my head, so sharp and strong, of stretching languorously on the bed, reveling in the feel of my body after an orgasm. Falling asleep afterwards, warm and safe and dreamless.

The skin of my cheek burns as I press into the coarse weave of the blanket. My pussy is throbbing, but the wetness on my thighs is beginning to chill, making me shiver. The room is dark and close, the last light of the day having faded while the mirror and I played at fucking. I wonder briefly, as I hike up my skirts again, if other princesses uses indelicate words like "fuck"; if they even think them in the privacy of their own thoughts.

The Queen will be inspecting me for evidence other than my intact virginity. She will want to see tears and hot shame as well as a dripping cunt. If I fail to display my humiliation to her sly satisfaction, she will suspect that I am numb to the disgrace of performing for the mirror -- and then she will think of some new torture. As long as I can show her that this punishment remains fresh and stinging, she will continue it.

So I think of all that I have lost -- my father, my kingdom, my dignity -- and I feel a stirring of self-pity. Ruthlessly, I turn the lens to all that I will never have -- the love of the mirror, truly to have him inside me, next to me, falling asleep with me on that deep and dreamless bed. Peace. The respect of my people. The tears well in my eyes, and I hold my eyes open, knowing that if I blink I might lose them as they spill out my eyes and down into my hair.

Tonight I can feel her coming up the stairwell, a vibration deep in my soles, the rhythmic thud of her footsteps on each step. Deliberate with purpose, each footfall is distinct. She is growing more powerful, to spend this much power on torturing me. Right after my father died, she rarely used magic -- not visibly. All her power went into preserving her illusion of beauty and the tendrils of lust she sent out to seduce the court. Pressing my lips together, I try not to think of how many she sucked dry to feed this useless display of power.

The Duke of Denwick succumbed to her that way, literally sucked to death. Chained by my neck in the corner, I watched her push him back onto the bed. His eyes never left the plumply rounded mounds of her breasts as she caressed them, and his hands pulled his cock out of his breeches with clumsy speed. His hands reached out to grab her hips, to pull her in, but she laughed and sank gracefully to her knees. I closed my eyes against the expression on his face -- the pleased and smug look of a man who is about to be serviced.

He died, a shrivelled corpse, while the fullness of his cum dribbled out the side of her pleased smile.

The rhythm of the steps change as they climb further up the tower, hesitating as if they are struggling to make it up the stairs. My eyelids close and I picture the stairwell in my mind. An image of the third curve in the stairwell suddenly burns itself into the black behind my eyelids -- sputtering torchlight, flickering in and out, dancing over the cold stone. Just beyond the light there is a dark thing, a silhouette, fighting its dark way up the stairs.

As I see it, it sees me. Lust fills up my body, from the soles of my feet to my weakening knees, and then rises to my pussy, suddenly wet, hot and tight with spasms of desire. Heat blushes across my breasts, and I know that if I rub them the right way, just the pressure of something, anything, on my hard nipples will make me come.

"Valka?" the mirror whispers, sharp and urgent, and I snap out of my imagination, startled by the intensity of my thoughts. What is wrong with me today? Focus is essential to my survival, and today I am led into near disaster by my cunt. "Valka, I'm not sure ..." the mirror trails off, his voice unsure.

The door crashes open again, booming against the wall. I jump a little, but a brief, hot flash of contempt flares my nostrils and clenches my fists. I am tired, tired unto death of her melodrama, but I have no choice. I wish that I could indulge in the luxury of anger to chase away the knots of fear in my stomach. But I cannot. When I become outwardly bored or numb, then she picks new activities.

Blood pounds in my temples. Despite my care, the tears slip away, lost in my hair. But nothing happens. Where is she? I can see nothing in the dimness, except the outline of the door, a black rectangle against the dark wall. Eyes straining, I look harder. What is she waiting for? Though she loves the suspense of drama, she's never had the restraint to draw the game out for this long before. She enjoys being close -- smoothing her white hands over my shivering skin as she provokes me to react. Dipping her cool finger ever so slightly inside me, so she can stare into my flaming face, full of shame, while knowing the most intimate fluctuations of my desire.

I still can't see anything. But I can hear... something. Breathing, perhaps. I try to quiet my thumping heart, the blood in my ears, the sounds of my body. I can hear breathing. Slow, steady, but tortured, laboured. Heavy. Like a man in pain, or one about to explode deep inside a woman's cunt. Against my skin -- against my whole body, I can feel the sensation of pushing, of pressure, as something strains and struggles, trying to get into this room.

I know that the door is only one part of the protection that keeps this room secure. A magical threshold, drawn in blood and the semen of a hundred victims, seals this door against intrusion. There is nothing that has a will strong enough to breach that ward.

My fingers convulse, gripping the blankets. I don't know what to do. It must be her, out there, smiling contemptuously in the dark, laughing at my indecision. The breathing must be some new kind of auditory illusion. She gets more powerful all the time, and she delights in demonstrating her new powers.

But it doesn't feel like her. The energy pushing against the threshold burns against my skin -- it thrills along my nerves like the press of a hot male gaze, lingering on my breasts, my ass thrust up in the air. I feel there's someone -- someone with a cock -- watching me, reasoning out how they can get in this room and fuck me.

My breath comes faster. I am so tired of controlling my impulses, of dancing on the edge of fucking. A vision pushes its way into my mind -- a warm male body pressed behind me as I bend over the bed, strong fingers digging possessively into my hips. The head of a cock teasing the lips of pussy.

A thrust.

Another scene plays out in my mind -- confused images but the strong sensation of falling to my knees, a hand threading into my hair, controlling me. My mouth falling open and taking a thick shaft deep inside my wetness. Wrapping tongue around the head of the cock, fingers reaching up to cradle heavy testicles, urging with my mouth, hands and the desperate noises for the salty cum to fill my mouth, slide down my throat.

I can't help reacting to these visions, anymore than I can resist gravity or hunger or cold. Whatever it is out there is reaching into my mind, playing these sensations over my body, looking into my fantasies and giving me pictures of my deepest desires. I moan, rolling my hips, showing how much I want what I visualize in my mind.

And the breathing speeds up and roughens. Now -- now -- I know it is a man, or something male, something that appreciates the helpless sounds a woman makes when she is deep in desire. There is something beyond the door that will throw me on the bed and fuck me until it comes like growling thunder and striking lightning.

I make my decision and stand up, pushing my face up off the bed and uncurling my body. Whatever is waiting outside my door, it is not the Queen. I don't know what will happened when she discovers it has invaded her domain, but at this moment, I don't care about the consequences. The thing is powerful enough to be invading her castle, the stronghold of her spells. My curiousity and my desire are both pushing me to the door.

I take one step toward the door, and the presence urges me forward, pulling at me.