The Mirror of Dorian Grey

The antique store owner surveyed today's damage; several grandfather clocks, most of which he could plug for as much as he wanted; (they weren't quite antique, having been made by inferior artisans, but no-one would notice the difference) a rare Jacobean style table, made by one of the original carpenters, complete with provenance; and a large mirror. It was gorgeous, the frame the true reason he bought it; it was a seventeenth century French picture frame, and he had found a makers mark on the edge. He had to check, but he was fairly sure he had a real find here. And it had been the cheapest object, as well.

He had been lucky to get it, as well. Another bidder had turned up just after he had purchased the mirror, and she was irate to say the least about missing out. She had given him her card, saying that she would be willing to pay whatever price to get her hands on the mirror, which made him more than a tad worried. What if he had found something that was truly classic, a masterpiece?

He got a piece of paper, and tried to copy the maker's mark. B. Hallward. And there was another engraving, one that he had missed on the first look. For Mr D. Grey, my friend.

Hallward. Why did that ring a bell? He jotted that down as well; no harm in it.

"Da, why are you still here? It's getting dark, and you said that you would make tea tonight!"

Damn, he thought. I forgot. Sybil was his eldest daughter, and she more or less taken over her mother's role in the house since she had died. She was nineteen, and had stopped developing at sixteen. She had her mother's hair; long, straight, chestnut. Her eyes were a deep grey; it felt almost as though you were looking into a storm when she stared at you, and the old man frequently felt her gaze. Usually she wasn't happy with him; the warehouse was over their flat, because they had all moved into the offices after his wife had passed. Too many memories in the old house.

She walked over to him, making sure she didn't bump anything. The warehouse was almost packed to overflowing, and she wasn't a rake. She looked slightly overdeveloped, but no-one who looked complained.

She couldn't see what her father was looking at, either. She knew he had been to the auction house, and had made another killing, but she wasn't entirely convinced that he had found anything of true value. She was usually the one who went over the provenances, and she did the research for an object of dubious origin.

When the mirror caught her eye, she gasped. It was exquisite, the gold trimming along the edges of the frame expert. She had an eye for art, and this was beyond anything her father had brought before them in the past.

"Where did you get that?" her tone was appreciative, as well as slightly awestruck.

"Found it at the auction house. Got it for $120, but a woman gave me her card afterwards. Said she wanted it, but had missed the auction, and was prepared to pay whatever it took to make it hers." He handed over to her the maker's mark and inscription. "Can you make any sense of that?"

She stared. "Father, do you know who this was?"

"Who? Hallward, or Grey?"

"Both. Basil Hallward was an artist of extraordinary talent. He made a portrait of a man called Dorian Grey, and Oscar Wilde wrote a horror story about them. There are some accounts that actually suggest that Wilde didn't make up the story, and that Dorian Grey actually existed." She gestured at the mirror.

"What we may have here is proof of such a theory. If that is indeed the case..."

"Then there is no end to how much this could be worth to some people!" her father said, rubbing his hands together.

She shook her head. For a second, she had heard a voice, calling out to her on the wind. It sounded like it was coming from a long way away, yet it wasn't from outside.

"You go inside Da. There's the beginning of tea on the stove. I'm going to see if I can find any other marks or inscriptions on the frame.

He nodded, and left the warehouse, raising clouds of dust in the process. She sneezed.

Her attention returned to the mirror. She stood in front of it, measuring it in her mind. She wasn't bigger than five foot six, but the mirror towered over her. It would be taller than six foot. And it was wide as well, covering up the entire bookshelf behind it. She was surprised her father had seen the engraving at all; it was on the bottom right hand corner, and was tiny. It didn't even leave a scatch in the paint.

She straightened again. Syyyybil. There it was, the voice again. My darrrling, Sybil!

She looked at the ornate frame, and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked good; she woked with her father in the antique shop, often the two of them the only labourers there. They had shifted all sorts of furniture around, and as a consequence of that she was fit. Her legs were muscular but attractive, and her ass was toned.

There! She thought she saw something move, in the mirror behind her. She span, and looked about. Nothing. Not even one of the twins, coming to play a trick; Halloween was coming up, and more often than not the twins liked to get in early with the tricks.

She looked back, and saw nothing but herself again. Shrugging, she turned the mirror around as best she was able. There was nothing on the back, except a slight discolouration on the base of the frame. She supposed that the frame had been left for some time in an attic, and some rain had gotten to it at some point.

There was something sticking out at the bottom corner of the frame. A small piece of paper. She carefully pried it out, using tweezers.

It was an advertisement, for a series of Shakespeare plays, staring Sybil Vane as the lead. She was apparently an up and coming actress. Sybil frowned, trying to remember her Oscar Wilde. I think Dorian's mistress was called Sybil.

Hang on, she thought, all of a sudden. Basil Hallward was a painter, not a carver, and even if he did gift such a mirror to Dorian Grey, anyone could have written the engraving on it. She turned and walked away. As she turned off the lights, she could have sworn the mirror turned just a bit towards her, and she could again see herself in it. She shook her head; paranoid much?

No, don't. She was asleep, and she knew it. No stop. Don't do this to me, Dorian! Do you feel nothing for me? I did it all for you, all of it! Why are you leaving me?

Syyyybil. Syyyyyyyybil. I never left you. I am here. Come to me Syyybil.

She woke up in a cold sweat. She couldn't remember the dream, only the horror of it. There had been a man in it, only he wasn't a man. He had been locked away in a window, or was it a picture frame. She supposed it was because she had the mirror on her mind.

She got up, and walked downstairs. The kitchen was on the same level as the warehouse, and the door in the kitchen was the only access to the warehouse interior. She moved to the fridge, and opened the door, getting out the milk.

Suddenly, she thought she heard a sound behind her. Turning around, she saw that a draught had let the inside door open, and she could see directly into the warehouse. She could even see herself in the mirror.

She started to shiver. It wasn't her in the mirror. It was a woman who was older than her, and taller. She had dark, almost olive toned skin, and her hair was black and wavy. But her eyes; they were exactly the same as Sybil. She looked on, transfixed to the reflection.

Sybil, she heard. My darling Sybil.

She saw a shadow creep up behind the reflection in the mirror. It wrapped the woman around the stomach, and Sybil was shocked to find that she could feel the fingers trail across her bare abbs.

She looked down, terrified, and saw the man's hand, caressing her lightly. She tried to scream, but found her voice frozen, as was the rest of her. She tried to move, to escape, but she was held still, staring into the mirror.

The other shadowy hand snaked around her, grasping at her top, lifting it upwards. She followed the hand's progress on herself, noting as it seized her breast, as it pinched at her nipples, as it grasped them firmly. She felt her terror subsiding slowly, as the pleasure began to take hold.

"Dorian," she breathed, and she heard a low chuckle behind her. He spun her around.

His face went beyond beauty. He was everything the Oscar Wilde had written, even imagined; his features were perfect, Basil Hallward's ideal man; he was taller than Sybil, but not by too much. His arms were muscled, but only lightly, and he was completely naked.

"Sybil. Sybil Vane. My darling, my goddess. It was all for you." His voice was melody, was grace. She leant into his embrace, her mind battling with itself.

"I let you go once, and I have regretted it for eternity. Come to me Sybil Vane, My love."

She wanted to shout, my name is not Sybil Vane, but she couldn't. She saw it all in her mind; the dark alleyway, where he had rejected her. The stage, where they had met, and fallen in love. James, her brother. What is happening to me?

She held his arms. "Why must I forgive you, Dorian Grey? You were not so forgiving of me last we spoke."

His face mutated, the exquisite beauty turned to sheer and utter asymmetry, chaos. His teeth gnashed together, his lips opened into a sneer. His eyes, those sheer beautiful eyes, changed colour completely. He changed into the shadow, and she saw a beak mouth the words.

"Sybil, my love. I was younger then. I have always wanted only you. I was wrong to hurt you. Here, now, I am perfect. We are perfect. All you have to do is come to me, Sybil. Come to me Sybil."

His tone was hypnotic, and he led he on towards the mirror, his form solidifying again, back to the visage of Dorian. He was so beautiful, Sybil almost wept. She loved him, but the pain was almost too much.

She pulled at his wrist.

"A taste first, before we are one, Sybil?" he said, turning to her and smiling. He bent to her face and kissed her deeply, his hands finding her behind, his cock rubbing against her bare stomach. She felt a thrill at the sensation of him rubbing hard against her, and before she knew what she was doing she had it in her hand, pulsing with need. She began to pump it, stroking slowly at first. He moaned, and his form became less solid. She continued stroking him, her speed getting faster and faster. She got down on her knees, and took him into her mouth, watching as his form dissolved into inky shadows. His cock stayed hard within her mouth, and she took him as deeply as she could, over and over, She took him out, running along his hard hot length with her tongue and her fingers.

She stood up, placing her hands on the waistbands of her panties. She felt his hands at her hips, stopping her.

"I have no need to remove such things."

He thrust into her, and she groaned out loud. It was wonderful, his penis sheer flames. She felt it build inside of her, fluid, wetness, pleasure. She erupted in an explosion of colour, her head thrown back.

As she came back to herself, she saw the mirror. It held the woman from before- Sybil Vane- in the same position as herself. But her face was not filled with the same flush of pleasure; her expression was of agony, of sheer pain. She gripped the frame of the picture, as though trying to get out, all the while looking at Sybil, a triumphant expression in her eyes. Sybil felt the hardness within her stiffen further, and she heard him moan.

"Come with me Sybil. Come with Me, Sybil. come With me Sybil. cOme WiTh mE SyBil."

His voice was changing pitch, and she glanced back at him in horror.

He was the shadow, the beaked human she saw in the kitchen. He was a troll, he was a wrinkled old man of sheer and utter evil. He was Dorian Grey, demon and seductress. And she was his, should he finish inside of her.

No, she screamed, but her voice seemed contained now. She looked down at herself, to see olive skin and a silvery sheen. She looked out, and saw a pale nineteen year old woman staring at her reflection. And she felt Dorian Grey, behind her, again.