Girl on the Net

I always say I’m not much of a visual person, and I’m not. But every now and then an image sticks with me, and usually it’s because the bedroom in which we’re fucking has a well-placed mirror or two. I don’t have nearly enough mirrors in my bedroom at the moment – a situation I am keen to rectify as soon as my budget allows (so sometime around 2025, most likely). In the short term, though, please enjoy this trilogy of fuck stories from the past which hopefully will show you why – if you enjoy catching glimpses of you/your partners looking at your absolute fuckiest – you should have mirrors in your bedroom too.

Riding him while he watches

We’re tired from the journey, which began at 10pm last night and involved an all-night card game marathon in a service station because we’d fucked up our planning. But when we get to the Spanish apartment we’re horny for each other anyway. Why not? We’re young, the sun’s out, and everything smells like sangria and the sea. Our friends, once showered, decide to go and check out the nearest bar, so he and I say we’ll join them in a second once we’ve unpacked and settled in.

I’m wearing a tiny summer dress, which I imagine dates this story. I haven’t worn that kind of dress since I was twenty one.

The bedroom we’re staying in has mirrors at the end of the bed, and the man I am fucking sometimes puts on this face that begs to be dominated. Raised eyebrows, an upturned smile. This wry, puppy-dog ‘ruin me’ look that I still remember often and fondly.

I make him lie on the bed with his head at the bottom, so he can tilt backwards and see the view, upside-down in the mirror that sits opposite. Then I sit on his dick.

No knickers, just a sundress yanked up above my waist, I make him watch as I bury the head of his cock inside me and slide all the way down it. This is an old story, so I can’t remember if he mewled, but mewling was the sort of thing he’d do so let’s say that: he mewled.

I remember riding him slowly at first and then faster, revelling a little in the power of my recently-exercised thighs and the delight of watching his face in the mirror growing redder and redder with blood and excitement. It’s an old story though, as I say, so much of the detail has been lost to the mists of time.

I can’t remember what each of us said or how long that fuck lasted, but I do remember flicking back and forth between the view of him lying prostrate and vulnerable beneath me, and the sight of him in the mirror, gaze laser-focused on the point where his dick entered me.

I remember pausing briefly – his cock clamped good and tight in my cunt – as I whipped the sundress off over my head.

I remember being delighted by the jiggle of my own tits as I fucked him harder and faster.

The sight of his hands as he reached for my hips to grip tightly.

And I remember how he grunted when he came.

Brutal pegging

There’s this moment when I’m fucking him in the ass and I look up into his bedroom mirror. He has the perfect setup in his bedroom – one of those sliding wardrobe door sets that effectively turns an entire wall into mirrors. We’ve made good use of it before, but usually when I’m submissive: he’ll pin me to the bed, face down in the duvet, head-on towards where the mirrors are, then yank my hair to make me look up as he shoves himself into my ass. He likes to see the look on my face while he does it. And I like to see the look on his. The tension in his shoulders as he holds himself up. The curve of his neck as he buries himself in me while he comes.

This time, though, I’m fucking him and we’re side-on. If I had to pick a word to describe this fuck it would be ‘brutal.’ But then as soon as I offer that one, immediately I want to offer more. Not ‘brutal’ like ‘painful’, just ‘brutal’ like ‘intense’. Hard. Determined. Aggressive. Yeah, eventually every chain of adjectives leads back to something that implies pain and punishment.

Not in a bad way, I promise: I fuck this man with aggressive brutality and he’s very very into it indeed.

The plan this evening was for me to fuck him in the ass. I choose that phrase carefully – we hadn’t planned for me to ‘peg’ him. That word is useful for getting straight boys to embrace the buttfucking they might have been ashamed to request from their girlfriends a decade ago, but it sounds too gentle. ‘Pegging’ is fun, but the word doesn’t quite sum up the intensity of what I did to that man on that night. I fucked him. Brutally. Intensely. With a cock that we’d specifically selected together because it matched the thickness of his own.

We began with him on his back – his legs pushed back as far as they could go while I told him what a good boy he was. And sometimes what a good girl. Sometimes just ‘slut’, if I remember this correctly. And as I fucked him, I ordered him to touch himself. Knowing full well that he’d never come through the layers of drugs and drink and excitement that we’d constructed together, I ordered him to touch himself because I just liked watching him do it.

When he was ready to be taken more roughly, he flipped over. Arched his back like he used to order me to do, as if he was trying to show me how it was done. Arse pushed out, eager for me to slide inside. I added yet more lube (so much lube that night – so much) then stuffed myself in, instructing him to tell me how it felt, give me more noise, push back onto it till he could take the full length I wanted to give him.

As he warmed up to the length and girth of it, his noises went from tentative ‘yes’es to outright moans of ‘more’. I grabbed his hips and picked up the pace, fucking him faster and faster like I could personally feel the taut ring of his ass on my actual cock. The harder he pushed back, the more brutally I fucked him, leaning in to the escalation and allowing myself to nudge my own body through exhaustion and into trembling, adrenaline-fuelled power.

I grabbed a belt from nearby and slipped it round his hips, wrapping each end in one of my fists to give me leverage to hold him up, tug him back, and give him all of my cock.

It feels like fucking-as-exercise. He urges me on – more, harder, more – and I respond like he’s gym equipment. Perhaps a punching-bag on which to take out some rage. I can feel the sweat start to run in rivulets down my neck and between my tits. Beading on my nipples and dripping splashes onto his naked, jiggling arse.

And yet despite this, it still takes me by surprise when I turn to glance in the mirror. Expecting to see myself, scruffy and red-faced and panting and jiggling… a shameful pastiche of the other, cooler and more beautiful dominants you’d see if this were a porn scene… instead I see someone I don’t recognise.

Drenched in sweat, hair stuck to my face, muscles in my thighs and biceps taut with the effort of fucking this man so hard, naked save for the neat black harness of the strap-on… I look like a fucking GOD.

Tearing into my clothes

We stand in front of the mirror in our hotel room, me in a bra and knickers and fishnet tights and The Bracelet, him bare-chested and in jeans. He towers over me from behind, head bent to kiss my neck and strong, broad shoulders framing me. Making me look almost delicate, which I am definitely not.

This moment only lasts a few seconds – half a minute at most – but even as it happens I realise it’s something that will stick with me forever.

This happened not long after I got my first tattoo: a bold, black image on one of my thighs. I’m in that period when the novelty of it still takes me by surprise when I walk past a mirror in my knickers. Shocking me into remembering that this is a real thing I did.

Now, exposed and vulnerable in my underwear, I take great pleasure in noting that not only does it complement the dark lines of my knickers, the ink-on-flesh echoes tones from his tattoo as well. His is in a different place to mine, but still visible in the mirror as he stands behind me with muscled arms wrapped around my chest. It’s larger and more beautiful than mine: delicate yet expansive. It highlights his strength and height and power.

He makes eye contact with me as I reach behind with both hands to cling on – one palm placed behind his neck, pulling him toward me, the other stroking his hair. He makes eye contact with me, and although I know I’m supposed to play submissive and tentative and afraid, I’m sure I remember grinning. Sometimes you just can’t help it: when there’s a hot guy standing behind you at a mirror and his tattoo complements yours and you both look like models in a Hot Octopuss ad. Flushed and excited and so so horny for each other.

Maintaining eye contact with me, he slides his hands down my body to where the fishnets are. Grabs a fistful of fabric in each. And rips.

And rips.

And rips.

Until I’m standing naked in front of him, tattered tights and knickers hanging from my thighs. Heart full, cunt wet, aching for him to take me.

If you’re into mirrors you might also enjoy this amazing audio by Spencer Pritchard, or this other mirror-fuck story from me.

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