The Woman In the Mirror
One
She is a pretty thing, or so she's been told. Trim and neat, the hair curled just so. Her face in natural tones with just a hint of accent, the kind of makeup when she wishes to look like she's not wearing any. Lunch with a friend makeup.
The lipstick, though, is bright red - one moment, you'd say pink, the next, red. It changes, you see, as the light plays across it, as she shifts her pose, tilts her head this way and that. She wonders if her lips below are that same color. It's the idea, anyway.
Her nails are definitely red, a reddy red red. No quibbling permitted, here. No doubt permitted.
She loses, twisting her torso back and so, looking as the curves are revealed, emphasized, hidden, turned. The grey and pink over her breasts and bottom are so pretty, so fine. She turns, turns back, looking for the movement, the sensuous jiggle - not too much, just enough.
Not enough shine, so she stops, returns to her dressing table, moisturizes. The lotion feels cool as she rubs it in, turns her arms, then her legs this way and that. It's singular, important that she get it just so. The movements must feel natural, the motion practiced until it seems unpracticed.
She reaches down, finds the heels, slips them on. Sadly, her toes are covered, their beauty to be revealed much later for him. Perhaps he'll kiss them when he finds them so bright and sweet. He'll feel lucky she took them off for him.
Shivering, she remembers their last date, when he slipped his fingers beneath her panties, felt her vulva for the first time. She rubbed his arms, his chest while he explored inside her. Her head fell back, offering her neck for his kisses, submitting, admitting he was right to take this liberty with her without her giving her permission, wishing to be taken, to surrender to his advances. Oh, yes.
She moves back to the mirror, her steps in the heels careful, her walk so feminine, wishing to be a woman to his man, to be desired in that way. She watches herself, sees just the sway she hopes for, the curves shining in the soft light of her bedroom, the glare from the bathroom mirror shining in here only indirectly. She shifts her hip subtly, emphasizing the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts. She'll look for the desire in his eyes. It always embarrasses her, and she looks away. Even that movement elicits a response from him. She'll feel his hand on her arm, reassuring. His words, awkward but comforting, affectionate.
She's coming to enjoy his company, to want it more. She feels the edge of love, the desire to see him sooner, more, the need for his attention, his focus on her. It makes her feel so female in his presence, so aware of their differences and the pleasures to be taken from one another. She pats her hair as she considers this and realizes it needs a touch of hairspray, just there. Yes. She is aware she has moved from pleasing herself, pleasing her friends, to wanting to be sure he is pleased.
She...
He certainly pleases her. He poses for her, too, turning to show his broad shoulders, his slim hips. His hands are so large, his fingers so thick. Even one filled her, last time and she blushes as she remembers and feels the desire for him to do it, again. Will he want to make love this time? Where could they possibly do it? Is she ready to be naked before him. She glances up at the mirror.
Yes, she decides.
She is ready.
She hopes he does want her, all of her.
She wants him to want her.
That way.
Totally.
She wants to know his kiss while his hard penis slides inside her, to hear his sounds of pleasure at the sensation, to raise her legs beside his waist, to dig her heels into his bottom.
She will say, "Fuck" for him.
She tears, thinking he might dump her after his conquest, praying it won't be like that, that he'll love her, want her again and again, doing whatever is necessary to keep her.
She imagines his kiss as the last thing she knows before she goes to sleep.
