“I love her—she’s mine—she’s you—she’s me—fuck—I don’t know!”
I’m twitching. Desperate. My body is a live wire—writhing, ruined, unsatisfied.
He removes the clamps—quick, sharp.
My nipples ache.
He twists one hard between his fingers.
“Again.”
“I love her. I love me. I’m yours.”
He smiles.
“You finally sound like someone worth breaking.”
And then he plunges inside me again, slamming me forward into the mirror.
Not to hurt me.
To make me watch.
Every brutal stroke.
Every filthy moan.
Every time my reflection begs without my mouth.
I don’t blink.
I don’t run.
Because I love her now.
The ruined girl with wax scars and blood-streaked thighs.
The one who got what she wanted.
The one who begged for her monster and got both.
Me.
I’m shaking.
Held against the mirror, face pressed to the glass, arms bound in silk and bruises, wax hardening in red streaks across my spine.
My reflection is a contradiction.
Eyes wild.
Mouth slack.
Body perfect in its destruction.
And still—He won’t let me cum.
His cock drives into me again—slow now. Cruel. Measured.
