Commanded to Forget After Watching in Mirror
Rhys wrenched the skirt fabric upward in one brutal shove, bunching it hard against my hipbones until the hem rode above my waist. The cool air of the room licked straight across bare skin, and the mirror in front of me threw back the entire angle—my own reflection catching every wet gleam of exposed thigh before his free hand was already at my jaw, thumb and forefinger prying my eyelids wider until the sockets ached and I had no choice but to stare at the reflection of my own spread legs.
The first breach was dry friction turning slick in under a second. He drove two fingers straight into me without circling, without testing, the blunt pads of his fingertips raking the ridged front wall while his palm smashed flat against my clit hard enough to bruise. I felt the exact give of my inner muscles parting around the intrusion, the wet sound of it lost under the low hum of the room. In the mirror my mouth opened on a silent gasp; he forced my chin higher so I watched the way my cunt lips stretched glossy around his knuckles, watched the tendons in his wrist flex as he crooked those fingers and dragged them out slow only to punch them back in deeper.
My spine arched off the cold edge of the desk. He pinned me there with the weight of his hips, the rough weave of his trousers grinding against the soft insides of my thighs while he worked a third finger in beside the others. The stretch burned white-hot; I felt every millimeter of the ring of muscle fluttering open under the pressure, felt the slick coat of my own arousal coating his skin and dripping down onto the surface beneath me. He kept my eyelids peeled with that merciless grip, refusing even a blink, so the mirror showed me the exact moment my stomach hollowed and my nipples peaked hard against the thin fabric still clinging to my chest.
He tore the last barrier aside with a single downward rip—lace snapping, elastic biting into flesh before it gave. One-handed, he shoved at his own waistband, the rasp of a zipper cutting under my breath, and then he was free, the blunt head of his cock notched against me. No pause. He sank in to the root in one continuous thrust, the thick vein along the underside dragging against my front wall the entire way, stretching me wider than the fingers had, filling every empty space until the pressure sat heavy behind my navel. In the glass I watched my own body accept it: the way my labia spread thin and shiny around the base of him, the way my thighs trembled and tried to close only for his free hand to shove them farther apart until the tendons stood out like cables.
He fucked me in short, punishing strokes that never fully withdrew, each one ending with a hard grind that mashed his pelvic bone against my clit. His skin burned hotter than the room; sweat beaded along the cut of his jaw and dropped onto my collarbone. I felt the micro-shifts—the slight rotation of his hips that changed the angle so the head of his cock dragged over that swollen internal spot again and again, the flex of his glutes as he drove deeper, the way his breath hitched only once before evening out into controlled, ruthless rhythm. Every thrust shoved me deeper onto the desk until the edge that had been at my spine now pressed hard into the backs of my knees, my calves hanging free in the air on either side of him. The mirror never lied: it showed the wet shine coating his shaft on every withdrawal, the way my inner walls visibly clung and released, the flush climbing my throat.
My hands scrabbled uselessly at the smooth surface. He caught both wrists in one of his and pinned them above my head against the desk, the pressure grinding bone against wood, while the other hand stayed locked on my face, holding my eyes hostage. I could see everything—the way my breasts jolted with each impact, the way my stomach muscles jumped when he bottomed out, the lewd stretch of my cunt forced open around him. The pleasure built as a hard, localized pulse behind my clit, a tightening that pulled my calves into a cramp and hooked my heels hard into the backs of his thighs, dragging him in deeper with every involuntary jerk. I bit down on my lower lip hard enough to taste copper, teeth sinking through soft flesh until blood welled and ran warm down my chin. I held my breath, lungs locked, refusing the next inhale, trying to starve the climax of oxygen, trying to keep the heat from cresting.
It didn’t matter. My body betrayed every frantic mental command. The orgasm ripped through anyway—violent, involuntary contractions that clamped down on his cock in rolling waves so strong they forced a guttural sound out of him. My vision whited at the edges even as he kept my eyelids forced wide; I watched myself come in the mirror, watched the way my cunt pulsed and fluttered and milked him, watched the fresh gush of slick that soaked the base of his shaft and dripped in thick strands onto the desk. My bitten lip throbbed; blood smeared across my teeth. Still he fucked me through it, never slowing, dragging the climax out until my thighs shook uncontrollably and my empty lungs finally screamed for air in a ragged, broken gasp.
He stayed buried deep while the last aftershocks twitched through me, the heavy throb of his cock still fully hard inside the oversensitive clutch of my walls. Only then did he ease back, the drag of his withdrawal a slow friction that pulled a fresh clench from muscles too spent to resist it, before he pulled free completely. The air registered as a temperature change against wet skin, nothing more. In the mirror I saw the slow, obscene close of my own body, the swollen red of used tissue, the shine of come and blood and sweat.
His hand left my face at last. My jaw ached where his grip had been; the muscles around my eyes twitched, adjusting to the sudden permission to blink, and I realized my body was still trembling in small, involuntary pulses even as whatever had been driving toward him in me went flat and inert, scraped clean of anything but the raw physical accounting of what had just happened. The command came low, flat, absolute, each word cutting the thick air between us like a blade.
“This never happened. Do you understand me?”