Thursday, February 6, 2014

Naked Before the Mirror

In my nighttime reading last night, I stumbled on this passage from one of my early BDSM titles, about a moment of self revelation and self pleasure before a mirror. I wonder how many submissive women have had their sexual awakening begin in such a scene.

About this scene...
Cassandra (Xana) Nightingale is on the verge of a sexual transformation inspired by a mysterious man on the beach and his insidious suggestion that her numbing depression may have its roots in her pent-up sexuality.


From the novel, Bound For Submission



Nathan, my mysterious friend from the beach...he was getting under my skin so far that my mind wouldn’t let go of his image. And about his suggestion that I exchange my tight jeans for a sundress – well, I knew he wanted to set my horny body free from my self-imposed restrictions, and just the thought of it had me all nervous, and just a little bit aroused.

    That night as I undressed, I caught sight of my body in the mirror. And suddenly Nathan’s suggestion possessed my thoughts, especially when I started wiggling out of my jeans and panties – as if I was struggling to free myself. Usually so critical of my physical appearance, rarely did I spend any time before a mirror unclothed. What surprised me was seeing my body this night with much less disdain than normal. At twenty-eight years, I was lean, smooth and shapely, my breasts full, fitting sensuously into a “C” size cup, my hips well-rounded. Girlfriends in the past always said I had the perfect figure, a compliment that I summarily ignored.

    And yet, what captured my attention even more was something beyond appearances. It was the sensations, where skin to skin I felt my thighs rubbing against each other, caressing that place between my legs that I often forgot about for days at a time, even weeks. For the second time in one week, I began to feel a clawing in the center of my stomach, this one far more pronounced than what I’d experienced days before. Watching my body move as if someone else was directing me, the clawing feeling became stronger, making me dance seductively. I was horny. I could tell that much, and no doubt the inevitable rendezvous with my vibrator would soon take care of that. Yet the more I stared at myself, the more I found myself enjoying the feelings that were rising in me. The woman in the mirror fascinated me, the way she writhed before my eyes. Warmth replaced coldness, and as I began to touch myself, watching the tawdry look of it in the glass, the arousal grew by leaps and bounds.

    This arousal seemed to come from something outside my fantasies.

    Ah! Yes, my fantasies! I’d grown to hate them, they seemed dysfunctionally bizarre and extreme. Of course, my ex-husband had confirmed that fact early in our marriage, when I tried to tell him what was in my head when I was aroused. Because of his edict, for years I’d actively avoided my fantasy life, pushing it from my mind as quickly as its devilish notions came to life in my waking, daydreaming life.

     I never considered that Peter’s rash judgments of my erotic imaginings were why I was so rarely aroused. But after he’d confirmed my worst suspicions, I tried to find other ways to “get off”, thinking surely there was a more natural way to light my fires. Considering Peter’s low sexual drive, it didn’t really matter all that much since a well-lit erotic flame was rarely required in our bed.

    When I did get that gnawing feeling in my stomach, I was quick to take care of it myself, knowing that Peter would have a difficult time satisfying me. That was one thing I never held against him. I made up my mind a long time ago, that my sexual trip switch was off kilter and it was unlikely any man could set it aright.

    But in front of the mirror touching myself, the tingling sensations were becoming patent. It was having such an interesting effect I couldn’t stop. The shame of it would get to me later, but at the moment, what was flooding into me was too preciously enjoyable to push away. I didn’t stop, but continued moving my hands against my skin. Taking my breasts in my palms, I cupped them high seeing how the tight nipples stood out beyond the soft flesh like two tiny, potent beacons. Raising them high, when I leaned down I could kiss that flesh and run my tongue over the satin surface. I let loose one so that my fingers could travel downward, press against my undulating belly, and then part the sticky labia where the light brown pubic hair glistened with my juices. A finger delving deep inside the hole between came out covered with my juice. I licked it dry.

    My thoughts bolted back and forth from lust to embarrassment. My nakedness scared me. This flagrant eroticism, so foreign to me was like delving into a deep well of decadence reserved for a world I knew existed somewhere, though it was not a world I knew in my lily-white life. Did other people do these things, did they move in front of mirrors making love to their bodies with their hands?

    The oddest thing about my play . . . in the back of my mind I had the distinct impression that someone was watching me, a phantom of sorts. And curiously, I almost wanted someone else to see me.

    As my mind wandered through a half dozen fields of fragrant fantasy, trying to pluck the right one to steer the moment, a face appeared in front of my brain, just as it appeared to me that night days before. His visage, a full-colored picture, living and breathing as I’d seen him earlier that day. Nathan. I wanted Nathan to be watching me.    

    No, I couldn’t be aroused by that near stranger. I didn’t want to be, it wasn’t possible! Yet, it was the picture of his face that I could not vanish from my head.

    I turned from the mirror and rummaged through my bottom dresser drawer, pulling out my vibrator. Instead of dropping to the bed however, I used the softly shivering dildo like a lover’s hands. Retracing my earlier self-play, I began with my breasts and their firm nipples, and finally traced my way downward until I was again at the center where I could feel an end to the interlude near. I ran the vibrator between my parted labia, feeling the distinctive surge when it hit my clitoris. Skipping over that intense spot, I moved the long erection-shaped latex to my vagina, pressing it against the opening until it eased inside. So wet, as if a dam inside me had burst, I let it slide naturally in and out to the beat of my musically moving hips.

    A dark aspect in my eyes, I stared into them as my brain ordered my hands to shove the prick deeper still. Squeezing the soft substance as if there was a real cock to squeeze with my inner muscles. The spasms didn’t stop. Driving the prick deeper still, I felt it hit bottom and deliver a small burst of pain, as if to say, “no more.” But I wasn’t listening to caution. Not at that moment. Not so possessed. I wanted it wild. Taking the end of the vibrating cylinder, I pumped it inside me and then raising one foot to the end of the bed, my eyes captured the obscene reflection of me fucking myself to orgasm.

    Such a slut, I heard my own opinion of my alter ego come down on me with a decree. Even that didn’t dissuade me. Some dark animal in my soul had happily exchanged places with the normal me. And the thought of Nathan in the background viewing it all made the satisfaction more perfect. Strange, that I cared what he thought, stranger still that I had the most desperate desire to bare my soul and body for him.

    With the orgasm over, the image in the mirror shattered, but not my memory of it. Twelve hours later that memory was still Technicolor vivid. But by then, I’d compartmentalized the experience as something done only in the heat of sex, behind closed doors, safely tucked away in the whispers and shadows.