Mirror Twin

Author's note. This is an entry to

the April Fools' 2025 contest

, and my first story in this category. Thank you to @Rustyoznail for casting his critical eye over it. Please enjoy!

"Remember, this is a variety show. You have at most a minute to gain and keep audience attention," the stage manager said, speaking French. He paused, looking me up and down critically. "Perhaps two minutes, yes? But Paris is full of pretty girls, so they will be bored if that's all you are, and we will pull you offstage. We'll give you fifteen minutes maximum."

With that, he turned, barking orders to his team as the current act on stage came to its end, to scattered applause. I had only 30 more seconds to compose myself while the set was changed. Deep breaths, erect posture, mysterious smile. I could do this. My European holiday finances, and those of my twin sister Ingrid, depended on me making a good showing here. I suddenly wished it was her about to walk out to the front of stage, not me, but we had flipped a coin for this. This was on me to get it right, and

if

it went okay it was her turn to take this role tomorrow.

"Mesdames et messieurs, notre prochain acte s'appelle 'Mirror Twin'"

. The announcement rang out followed by scattered polite applause, our backing soundtrack started, and I was on.

I glided out, my emerald dress softly rustling around me, feet softly shuffling in matching green split-sole flats. I avoided eye contact with the audience, but I could see that they were watching attentively, for now at least.

"Focus, Astrid. Movement, mystery, curiosity," I chanted internally as I circled the stage, pretending to examine the room before halting, my back towards the audience, in front of the only object on the stage. It was a large rectangular frame, taller than me, covered in a cloth of black silk.

I cocked my head one way and then the other, playing the curious ingénue, using a few precious seconds to build the tension, before bending gracefully, using my knees, to find the edge of the silk on the floor.

With one movement I stood and pulled, tossing the silk to the side before freezing to gaze in rapture at the image in front of me.

I was looking into my own green eyes, wide in wonder at the woman suddenly revealed in the large mirror behind the cloth. Red hair verging on auburn, circling her head in an elegant crown braid that had taken all afternoon to get perfect. Rose-coloured lips, light foundation concealing the faint freckles on her face.

The freckles were still there to see on the breasts: the dress displayed cleavage well. I had a large splotch of them on my right breast. Ingrid had one on her left breast: useful for our boyfriends to tell us apart if that was ever an issue. We generally avoided double dates, evaded dressing identically, all the twin tropes. As girls at ballet class in Australia we refused to wear the same costumes. We demanded different secondary schools, developed different interests, went to different universities. If we did something together, it was by choice as individuals, not because the world around us had a twins fetish. Some people even have a thing about mirror twins, apparently. We're not freaks: about a quarter of identical twins have mirrored features. We didn't make a big thing of it.

We didn't resent being twins, didn't object to being beautiful and desired (how could we?!), but we needed the world to meet us on our terms. We looked out for each other, but loved separately. We consoled each other as sisters when we lost, celebrated our wins, sometimes partied together, but took care to be ourselves. Neither had we both jumped into bed together with a rich young man or woman, although there had been plenty of offers of both kinds.

This trip was actually our first together. We were both unexpectedly single, a little heartbroken, and Ingrid had pitched the idea of taking a few months off to wander Europe and reconnect, partly supporting the trip with this novelty act. And if this didn't work, then waitressing, or teaching English, or au pair work; anything that would allow us to spend time in expensive countries like France, Switzerland and Germany. Tonight was the 31st of March, and we were planning to work our way north and end up in Oslo by July, where we had some relatives. Our parents were proud of the family Scandi connections, hence our names, which had embarrassed us growing up. We were kind of

expected

to end up there. But we wanted to have some fun first.

"Focus, Astrid," I breathed again, catching my mind wandering as I gazed at my mirror image. I raised my arms to my hair to fix an imaginary problem with my braids, keeping my movements slow, languid to display myself in the mirror. Shaven underarms of course, but with just a soft hint of colour allowed to grow back. It was a way to assert the "natural redhead" theme while keeping it classy. Ingrid and I had agreed on this long ago, as we had discussed the perversions and obsessions that had revealed themselves around us as we grew up.

Video screens sprang to life above me. One camera from the back of the stage, slightly offset to see past the mirror, and one camera from the front. This allowed the audience to see both angles in detail as I tracked my fingers slowly down my face, on either side of my neck, eyes open wide as though rediscovering myself in wonder. I moved down to my breasts, ostensibly to readjust how they were sitting in the dress, taking care not to linger on my suddenly sensitive nipples. I heard the audience collectively hold their breath as I did this: I had passed the attention test for now. I knew that the cameras would have given them an eyeful.

I finished the movement by bringing my hands across my belly and then around to my hips, cocking them there as I leant firstly one way and then the other. Satisfied, I allowed myself a playful smile as I moved to practice a few ballet moves. Ingrid and I were too buxom for ballet now, but the muscle memories were still there.

First, a

développé

, leg slowly extending in front.

Then an

arabesque

, balanced on one leg, the other stretched straight behind.

Finally, a

pirouette en dehors

, slow, body turned outwards.

Countless hours of practice to learn, easier now but still a challenge, with the dress and swaying boobs an added complication, making it harder to stay innocent and elegant, but adding visual interest. I was proud of my breasts.

Three moves, performed flawlessly. I curtseyed, smiling at the girl in the mirror. We had made it this far together. Now it was time for some fun.

"Let's do this," I whispered through my smile. My reflection's smile just seemed to widen.

I moved back into the same three ballet moves. The

développé

, the

arabesque

, the slow

pirouette en dehors

. Flawless again, but this time the audience started murmuring, disconcerted, when I did my pirouette. I knew why, but I couldn't acknowledge it. When I swung back to the mirror my reflection was smiling still, chest heaving slightly from the effort. I knew what had happened, of course. Instead of mirroring me on the pirouette, my reflection had spun the same way as me, instead of the opposite, mirror action. As planned.

Ingrid had broken the illusion. It was just a pane of glass in a big frame between us, not a mirror after all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I acted puzzled by the mutterings in the audience, but started testing my reflection again. I stretched my arm out: she mirrored me. I scratched my right ear: she copied. I touched my cheek, wrinkled my nose, scratched my armpit. All mirrored perfectly, as they should be after weeks of rehearsal. I turned back toward the audience, looking perplexed. But some of them were looking past me at the mirror, or up at the screens, and they were starting to chuckle, because Ingrid had not turned around. And suddenly there was a great gale of laughter, and I knew that Ingrid had poked her tongue out at me, behind my back.

By now they had all worked out the joke. We were not the first twins to do this, of course. That was why we had to do it

well

, and why we had rehearsed long and hard for this before we had left Australia. It was pretty bold to be taking ballet moves to Paris, to try and make an impact in the city of lights and love, but we'd decided that half-measures were for cowards.

I swung around and there she was, face all beatific innocence. I put my right hand to my chin, pretending to be bewildered. She did the same, but also with her right hand, daring me to notice that I wasn't mirroring me with her left hand.

I put my hands on my head, on my hips, on the sides of my breasts. She copied me exactly, but then moved her right hand up to her lips to blow me a kiss. More laughter from the audience. Her grin widened, and she suddenly spun around, bent over from the waist, and tapped her right hand lightly on her backside. "Kiss my arse," indeed. Another roar of laughter, and the audience were getting noisier, exchanging quips in French and calling out suggestions to us.

I spun back to them, mouth agape in simulated outrage, holding my arms out, palms open in supplication. "What am I do with this mischievous reflection?" I was asking them. I held the pose for a few seconds until gasps and another howl of laughter erupted: I knew that behind me she had hoisted the back of her dress up to show them her tights and lacy black knickers. I spun back, and caught her still in place, but she ad-libbed by reaching her hand back between her legs and extending her middle finger up towards me. More laughter, of course.

I turned again to face the audience and copied her pose, raising the back of the dress up and flipping her off with a hand extended between my legs. And then I put the dress down, tumbled forwards into a tuck roll and came up to my feet before spinning back around to point my finger towards her in accusation, trying to catch her out of position.

She had mirrored me perfectly of course and was pointing right back at me, finger extended and quivering slightly in tension. This had been the most difficult move of the whole routine to get right, particularly in the dress, but it was visually spectacular and totally worth it. The audience were still laughing, but I could also tell that they were impressed. It was so important that they appreciated our skill and not just our humour.

Our moves had taken us further apart. We slowly advanced back towards the frame, step by mirrored step, fingers still outstretched, faces fierce and anticipating.

From here, we had agreed on a structured improvision, based on games that we had played as girls together. We would try and trick each other by doing an action that the other couldn't copy, and we would try not to repeat these tricks between performances. When one of us failed to match the other, or the audience got bored, we would take our bows, and the following performance we would swap roles to keep it fresh.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Our soundtrack swelled and changed from Ravel to blues. It was a call and response jam without vocals, musical phrases echoing back and forth between acoustic and electric guitar, bass and drums building during the piece. We would not be mirroring each other for this phase: instead one would move, and then the other match the move in time with the music.

It was my first move. A simple start: I did a

cambré back

, a stretch as though we were about to perform more ballet together. She copied me, but then in the next bar switched it up to a "Saturday Night Fever" disco pose. Laughter started building again, as the audience realised that we were now in a game of one-upping each other.

I copied her, but then evolved to a stripper's pose, hips humping against an imaginary pole, pulling my dress open a little to show more cleavage, and putting on a sultry expression. There were hums of appreciation and more chuckles, followed by applause as Ingrid copied me, but then lifted one side of her dress to her hip, showing her full, long leg in thigh high black tights.

Game on. We had known that we would evolve this into a lascivious contest to help keep the audience's interest, and the rules of this club allowed us a lot of scope. We were wearing matching underwear, and also matching pasties beneath our bras in case we wanted to go that far. This being Paris, we probably would be expected to, and all the better for our finances. We needed to be invited back here.

Back and forth we went, working through some more saucy poses, smiles, frowns, gymnastics moves, egging the other on.

There was a signal from the side of the stage: five fingers on an upraised hand. They were going to be very happy with us, but they had given us all the time they could: there were other acts vying for stage time. Five minutes to reach our peak and get off stage.

To hell with it. I turned my back to the audience and reached behind me to undo the zip on the dress, letting it fall to the floor to the sounds of hoots and whistles from the crowd while I shook my knickered arse. Ingrid copied me, as I knew she would, her chest thrusting forward, before spinning around herself to face towards the back of the stage and unclasping her strapless black bra, holding it coyly against her chest and displaying her beautiful bare back. More hoots and hollering.

I spun to mirror her pose and undid my own bra, facing the audience, throwing it back over my shoulder, proudly showing my full breasts, nipples covered. The pasties were heart-shaped and emerald-green to match our dresses and shoes, and I hoped that everybody appreciated the care and attention that we'd put into the performance.

Ingrid threw her bra far over her shoulder and my head, landing in the audience, and then after another bar they roared again.

I knew from their faces that she must have spun around to face them, and I quickly turned again to look at her. There she was, eyes gleaming evilly, waiting for my reaction.

Ingrid was

not

wearing pasties, the trollop. It even looked like she had put some rose-coloured blusher on her nipples in anticipation, and had been pumping them up a little while I was dealing with my bra. They were red, engorged and standing out proudly. She had played a lovely gag on me.

She was looking at me smugly. I only had two bars of music to respond, or she would win our duel. Quickly, I ripped the pasties off my own boobs. It stung like hell, but I kept smiling through the pain and, for lack of a better idea moved into a

releve

ballet pose, arms arched over my head and body weight on the balls of my feet. It showed off my breasts and back well and put the onus back on her to up the ante, if she could find another move. Personally, I was happy to end it here in a draw.

Ingrid gave me a grudging nod of respect and matched my pose, and I prepared for us to move into our bows together. But instead, her eyes flashed at me and, still facing the audience, she relaxed the pose and whipped her lacy knickers off, dropping them to the floor before returning to the pose. Her well-trimmed red bush was on full display, her pussy well framed by the black tights on her legs.

I gasped, and so did some in the audience. Others just clapped and cheered. And some were calling for me to respond in kind.

I looked at her, still in my pose, facing the back of the stage towards her, thinking rapidly.

We had given them their money's worth. I could walk away, virtue relatively intact.

Or I could follow through with an idea that I'd had that morning. I wanted to win this. It was our first night. Back home in Australia, it was already the 1st of April. April Fools' Day already, and I didn't think that Ingrid had clocked that. If ever there was a night to really lay all of my tricks on the line, it was tonight. It was time to pull out my back-up plan.

I smiled and winked.

And then I casually pulled my own knickers down and kicked them away.

And the laughter swelled behind me as the audience, watching one of the screens, saw what she could see directly, and her eyes opened in shock.

I turned smugly to show the audience my totally bare pussy, and then I looked back towards Ingrid, lifting my eyebrow in inquiry as I mimed a razor over my crotch. More roars from the crowd as they realised that I was offering to help shave her on stage.

Instead she smiled and laughed, shook her head and gave a curtsey in defeat, holding up her hands to lift her imaginary dress. She stepped around the glass and frame and joined me as we linked arms and bowed together, two redheads in black tights and nothing else.

"Bitch," she muttered in my ear. "When did you shave?"

But then to show that there were no hard feelings, she pulled me into an embrace and kissed me on the lips. And we bowed again, blew kisses to the crowd and sauntered offstage, arm in arm.

There would be more than a few of them thinking of us when they went to bed tonight.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The backstage crew were grinning, and the manager gave us a huge

"C'était magnifique!"

when we came off, and then asked us to wait until he was free to talk. We quickly got changed into street clothes before he came bustling into the changeroom, waving a promisingly fat envelope.

"Can you do 30 minutes tomorrow?" he asked in French. "We will double your money and give you a feature slot. If that works well, we'll talk about a contract."

We virtually skipped back to our cheap hotel, laughing. It was a twin room, two single beds and tiny bathroom, but we didn't care. Hopefully we would be able to afford something better soon and still put enough money aside for the rest of our trip.

I gave Ingrid the first shower as a tacit apology for my onstage win. She was mercifully quick and came back out to the room to dry off, waving me into the bathroom.

When I came out she was lying on her bed, still naked, and obviously still hyped.

"You didn't answer my question," she said. "When did you shave?"

"This morning, in the shower," I said. "Remember how you were cranky when I took so long? I realised that it was going to be April Fools' Day already back in Australia because of the time zone difference, so I thought I'd get ahead in the tricks department. Much like you and the missing pasties, you redheaded witch."

"Well played, Sis," she said, and then she smiled a wicked smile. "And since we agreed not to repeat ourselves in the tricks part of the act, I'd better get shaved so that we won't be tempted. Thanks for offering."

She winked at me, laid back, and spread her legs. I was a bit taken aback: in our quest to be individuals, we had never gone that far in terms of intimacy. I decided to roll with it. I smiled and went to fill a cup with hot water and the other things I needed, and then I settled down to work. It felt a bit weird to get dressed when she wasn't, so I stayed naked as well.

I'd never looked at a pussy so closely, even when shaving my own that morning. It felt like such a shame to remove her lovely red pubes, but what was underneath was equally nice, and I found myself appreciating more what my lovers saw in me when they went downstairs. Her vulva smelt pleasant to me, and there was even a slight scent of arousal: interesting. Her outer labia, inner labia, and half-hidden clit all seemed perfectly proportioned from what I knew. I know that all women are different and the last thing we need is to have pussy beauty contests, but honestly if there was such a contest, I'd be nominating my sister. And I guess by extension, myself. A weird form of self-love perhaps, but whatever.

As I was checking for stray hairs and dealing with them, I had a thought. Ingrid had some deeper colour freckles on her inner right thigh, extending onto her labia. We'd never checked if we were mirror images down there, and we were now hairless for the first time since we were young girls. I looked down closely at myself, and sure enough, I had similar freckles on my inner left thigh, and labia. We really were mirror twins in every respect. I had no idea if we could somehow use that: we had probably pushed the standards of decency for variety shows even in Paris and we didn't want to get pushed into the porn industry, but it was still good to know.