I sat you down in front of the mirror,
naked and vulnerable.
And told you to really look at yourself...
So, what do you see?
It's not that I demanded an answer,
This question is not for me...
*ping* You get a message:
"Hands on your breasts"
You feel like I'm watching you
I'm not.
Your hands grab your breasts
You look at your reflection...
You don't look like you remembered yourself.
None of us do
Your heart beats faster in your chest
Does it feel like you're being chased?
Like someone else
is watching at you?
*ping* interrupts the train of thought
You come to answer but then hesitate...
Are you allowed to take your hands off your breast?
In the end,
you check your phone and read:
"Play with your boobs,
check -
its contours, its textures, but don't you dare to peek."
What's not to peek at?
You ask yourself;
Still,
playing with yourself
You touch, and feel...
Your face is red, and yet,
you play with your nipples...
squeezing them between your fingers...
And squeal.
You're ashamed.
You've never seen yourself like that
And you feel so naked
*ping* Another message
Should I take a peek?
You hesitate...
Massaging tits…
Cupping them...
And not peeking,
cause you're already so embarrassed
*ping* *ping* *ping*
Like ping-pong...
What now?
You ask in your head.
Your eyes on your bare body, and your hand…
You pick up the phone,
look at the first message:
"Focus only, on touching yourself"
You lower one hand…
Slowly... slowly...
Down between your legs...
looking at the other messages:
"Don't"
"Look"
"Back"
You put down the phone, forgetting about the past...
In the reflection in the background,
a silhouette emerges…
Why does he force me?
to focus on myself?
And the silhouette grows bigger...
You make every effort to look only at yourself
It's hard anyway,
to truly meet yourself like that…
Here and now in the present.
But it's also stimulating...
You play with your pussy…
your hand caressing,
dipped in your body
And than
a leg starts to emerge
behind you, in the mirror.
You groan
and all along
doing all you can,
to keep concentrate…
and between your legs heat elevated
A masked figure comes out of the door,
in the reflection.
Your body starts to rise and fall
and you surrender…
And the figure approaches
but you're not paying attention,
you're too focused...
On who you are in the reflection.
It's not that the next time you look,
you'll be less embarrassed...
It's not that you'll recognize all your features,
or your image in the mirror...
But the next time you look,
what you certainly won't forget...
It's how I caught you from behind,
in the middle of your climax