Alone in Front of the Mirror for an Entire Summer Afternoon

It was ten at night and I’d been at it for more than six hours. I was truly exhausted, with my legs trembling and my breathing ragged, but I still didn’t want to stop. I sat for a moment on the edge of the bed to catch my breath and, as I did, I remembered how it had all begun that summer afternoon.

It had been four in the afternoon. Alone in my apartment, I’d planted myself in front of the bathroom mirror to get ready slowly, as if I had a date that didn’t actually exist. I painted my lips a crimson red I adored, put the same shade of polish on my fingernails and toenails, and put on the gold earrings I saved for special occasions.

Around my neck hung a fine chain with a little medallion that said “Sissy,” a gift I’d given myself. On my wrists, a handful of colorful bracelets that jingled every time I moved my hands. The lingerie was white, delicate, the kind that turns sheer with just a little light. My cheeks were flushed pink, my long black hair falling down my back, blunt bangs over my eyebrows, and my eyes made up with blue shadow that made my gaze look bigger.

I looked really pretty. So pretty that I took a photo just to remember how beautiful I’d made myself, and above all to remember how that afternoon, which promised to be lovely, had begun.

I perfumed the apartment with lavender essence and put on an old record, a pornographic soundtrack from the sixties, the kind with slow saxophones and canned moans. It amused me and inspired me in equal measure.

Today no one’s going to interrupt me, I thought as I looked at myself from behind over my shoulder.

My ass had always been my pride: soft, round, generous. It had been that way since I was very young. My little dick, on the other hand, was tiny, almost an afterthought, and over the years I’d convinced myself that the sluttier I became, the more it shrank, as if it knew its place. Sometimes I felt it only as a warm little button, an harmless bud that didn’t ask to be the center of attention, while my ass had swollen until it became the real cunt of this house.

I couldn’t hold back when I saw myself so dressed up. I slowly pulled down my white thong, spread my cheeks in front of the mirror, and looked at myself there, at that small, hungry slit that that afternoon was screaming for attention. I ran a saliva-wet finger over my hole, felt it contract slightly at the touch, and noticed it was already starting to get wet inside.

***

I’d been abstinent for weeks and my whole body was demanding it of me. It wasn’t just desire; it was a physical urgency, a tension building at the base of my spine and not letting me think about anything else. I decided that afternoon would be different. I didn’t want a quick encounter, or half of one. I wanted time, patience, and results.

I started gently, almost tenderly. Warm oil between my fingers, long caresses around my hole, letting the muscle open at its own pace. The music kept playing and I moved against my own hand in front of the mirror, watching myself, studying every expression on my face as if it were someone else looking at me. One finger slipped in, just one finger, then two fingers turning until I felt the ring give way. I sucked my index finger and pushed it in slowly, twisting it inside, curling it until it brushed that swollen little spot that makes me see stars when I hit it right.

—Easy —I said under my breath, my voice already hoarse—. We’ve got all afternoon. You’re going to be nice and open, slut.

What came after was methodical, almost disciplined training. I had a clear goal and weeks of abstinence piled up to meet it. I went from less to more with a patience I didn’t know I had, without hurrying, listening to every signal from my body, pulling back when it hurt and insisting again the moment the pain turned into something else.

I had a collection of toys lined up on the dresser, from smallest to biggest, like someone laying out the tools for a job. I started with the first one, the most modest, almost ridiculous compared to the one waiting for me at the end. I poured lube all over it until it ran down the sides, pressed the tip against my hole and pushed my hips back. It slid in in one smooth thrust, all the way to the base, and I let out a long moan that surprised even me. I left it still inside for a while, clenching it with my ass, feeling the muscle cling to the silicone as if it were hungry. Then I started moving it, first slowly, then with longer strokes, letting the tip bump against that place inside where the good pleasure starts, the kind that makes me drool.

Every change in size was a small challenge. I breathed deeply, deliberately relaxed, and started again. I’d learned how to read myself: I knew when the burning was a warning and when it was just the prelude to something better. That afternoon I didn’t get it wrong even once. The second dildo opened my ass cheeks wider, and I had to bite my bangs to keep from shouting when the base hit my ass. The third was already veiny, curved, with ridges that dug into my inner walls in a way that made me cry with pleasure. I rode it on all fours against the edge of the bed, pushing myself onto it, fucking myself with calculated violence, feeling the little orgasm building and breaking apart without quite exploding because I was forbidding it myself.

—Not yet —I panted through clenched teeth—. Not yet, you’re not gonna cum, little whore, you still have a lot more to swallow.

Between one and the next I stopped to look at myself in the mirror, to push my sweaty hair back behind my ear, to check how the flawless makeup from four o’clock was starting to give up. There was something hypnotic about watching the perfect girl from the photo slowly come apart, and the more she came apart, the more I liked what I saw. I spread my cheeks with my hands and watched my hole grow more and more open, redder, more obscene, like a swollen little mouth begging for more.

—A little more —I whispered every time I thought of stopping—. Just a little more, slut, a little thicker.

The hours slipped away without my noticing. The afternoon light changed color on the walls, first gold, then orange, and I kept focused on my task, sweating, panting, gradually losing the composure of that perfect girl who’d photographed herself at four. The white lingerie had been tossed in a corner, soaked with lube, and I fucked myself naked against the mirrors, against the pillows, in every position I could think of, rehearsing entries and exits like someone practicing choreography.

Around nine at night I reached ecstasy. I was riding a huge dildo, the biggest I’d ever bought, a thick, long, black monster, with fat hand-carved veins and a head that forced its way through. I had it suctioned to the seat of a chair with its suction cup, and I was on top of it, squatting, hands gripping the backrest, in a frantic up-and-down that shook me through and through. Each descent ripped a guttural whimper from me; each rise left my hole shining with lube, stretched to a size I didn’t recognize as mine. I made myself go all the way down, until I felt the base slam against my perineum, and I stayed there a few seconds, impaled, contorting myself so the tip would touch me as deep as it possibly could.

In my head I wasn’t alone: I imagined a big man behind me, holding my hips, pounding me without mercy, growling in my ear, “Take it, slut, swallow it all, all the way to the bottom,” until I was left breathless. I imagined his real cock, hot, throbbing inside me, pumping into me without a condom, filling my guts with thick cream. I ran one hand over my chest, pinched a nipple until it hurt, and with the other I grabbed my tiny dick and gave it just the slightest shake, because I knew that if I touched it too much I’d come too soon.

I opened my eyes and looked at myself in the mirror, devouring that veiny, dark image sinking into me again and again. Seeing myself like that, riding, surrendered, mouth open, tongue out, gaze gone hazy, was what finally made me explode. A warm jet shot out of my little dick without even touching it, a full-on anal orgasm that climbed up my spine like an electric shock.

Pleasure ran through me from bottom to top, a long wave that bent me over myself and left me weak at the knees. I kept going down and up for a few seconds more out of sheer momentum, squeezing out the last drop, letting the dildo scrape over already hypersensitive walls. I stayed like that for a while, hugging the back of the chair, head hanging, feeling my heart pounding in my temples and sweat running down my back to mix with my spunk and the lube between my ass cheeks. The music kept playing, indifferent to everything, marking a slow beat that had nothing to do with my body’s frantic rhythm anymore.

It took me a while to recover. When I finally managed to stand, my legs were trembling as if I’d run miles, and when I pulled away from the toy I felt the obscene emptiness of something that thick sliding out of me. A thread of lube and my own semen dribbled down the back of my thigh. And yet, beneath the exhaustion, I felt that warm, deep satisfaction of having reached exactly where I wanted to go.

***

Now it was night. The light no longer came in through the window; only the low lamp in the corner and the bluish glow of the bathroom extractor remained. The music kept playing, indifferent. The scent of lavender had disappeared long ago, replaced by a thick mix of sweat, sex, lube, and hot skin that soaked into everything.

I got up on shaky legs and went back to the mirror, the same one where six hours earlier I’d found myself so pretty. The difference cut my breath for a second.

The makeup was smeared, my eyes stained with melted blue shadow, my lips blurred. There were traces of my own cum on my face and in my mouth, because at some point in my delirium I’d sucked my fingers after touching myself, and the very sight sent a shiver through me I couldn’t tell was shame or pride. I was completely naked, disheveled, unrecognizable.

I turned to look at myself from behind, bent slightly, and spread my cheeks with both hands. They were red, burning, and my hole throbbed with a dull, pleasurable ache, still not fully closing, like an obscene little flower left loose after being used so much. But there was the proof of the afternoon: I’d finally done it. After weeks of pushing, I’d managed to open myself the way I wanted, to stretch myself farther than ever before. I felt a strange mix of tiredness and satisfaction, that kind of silly pride that comes from accomplishing a private goal no one else would understand.

My face was a delicious mess. My nipples were swollen and sensitive, bruised from pinching them so much, my legs still wouldn’t stop trembling, and my tiny dick, irritated and minuscule, kept leaking a thin clear drip that stuck to my thigh. In short, it had been a wonderful afternoon of training, with good results, and that ruined body in the mirror confirmed it.

Look at what you look like, slut, I thought, and the idea, instead of making me ashamed, made me smile.

***

At ten-thirty I got in the shower. The warm water running down my back relaxed me so much that as soon as I finished drying off I collapsed onto the bed and fell deeply asleep without even noticing.

I woke up at two in the morning, disoriented, my mouth dry. I went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and almost on autopilot turned on the television. I landed on a channel showing a porn movie: two trans girls in an endless double penetration, with two thick cocks splitting their asses open at the same time, strings of saliva hanging from their mouths and semen dripping from their chins. I stayed glued there, hypnotized by those faces of absolute bliss, by the way the holes stretched obscenely around the cocks and devoured them without complaint.

I shouldn’t have watched it. Those expressions of pleasure set me back to a thousand again. I remembered how I’d seen myself a few hours earlier, folded over in front of the mirror, ruined and happy, my ass open like a hungry mouth, and the memory alone lit me up again. I slipped my hand between my legs almost without thinking, touched my hole, still loose over my pajamas, and felt it open at the slightest rub, begging for more. My body, which was supposed to be exhausted, woke up again as if the afternoon hadn’t been enough.

But this time I didn’t want the mirror. I didn’t want the dildo or the loneliness of my apartment. I wanted something real. I wanted hot flesh, I wanted weight on top of me, I wanted a real cock throbbing inside me and a dirty mouth saying things in my ear while he broke me.

I stood up with a decision that surprised even me. I took a tight red dress out of the closet, so short it barely covered my ass, and put it on against my skin, without panties, so I wouldn’t have to give any explanations later. I slipped on high heels, grabbed a small purse, and fixed myself up only as much as was necessary: a little foundation to hide the mess from earlier, lips red again, hair tied back in a quick gesture. I didn’t need to be perfect. I needed to be available.

I looked at myself one last time before leaving. The girl from four in the afternoon was back, but different: dirtier-eyed, more confident, without the innocence of the photo. This version knew what she wanted and wasn’t planning to settle for a dildo.

I wasn’t going to take a chance on just anyone. This time I wasn’t looking for a shy man or a half-measure. I wanted thickness, I wanted length, I wanted real force after so many days of abstinence and so many hours of training. I wanted a fat cock that would put the work from the afternoon to the test, that would make use of that freshly stretched hole and fill it with hot cream until it spilled over. I knew exactly which club to find what I was looking for in.

I closed the apartment door behind me and went down the stairs, my heels echoing in the silence of the early morning, feeling the cool air rise up beneath my dress and brush my naked ass. The street was cool, almost empty, and the night air raised goosebumps on my skin the moment I stepped outside. I walked uninhibited, determined, feeling like the most desirable woman in the world in that red dress, my ass still throbbing under the fabric and the certainty that tonight I wasn’t going to sleep alone.

But that, dear ones, is another story. Kisses.