When I most need to concentrate, I seem to end up procrastinating. When I set out to buy Christmas presents, I seem to end up buying at least one new thing for myself. Hence yesterday I remembered how fun mirrors can be, and today I have avoided my to do list in favour of writing about it.
I love the mirrors in changing rooms. Each way I turn I can see myself at a different angle, and today that means I can get a look at the marks they left on me last night. Bruises are forming on my arse, and there are lovely red welts on my boobs. It was such a spectacular evening, and I’m fascinated by the visible evidence of the kinky fun.
Remembering I’m not solely in here to admire my bruises, and being aware that I’m on the point of being turned on by them, I take the dress off the hanger. I’m slipping it over my head when I hear someone going into the changing cubicle next to mine. No, it must be more than one person – there is giggling and excited whispers.
“If you’ve dragged me in here just to tease me more –”
“Ssshh,” the other interrupts. They’re both girls, probably just a little younger than me. I try not to listen, instead examining how I look in the dress, but it is hard not to overhear. “I’m going to kiss you.”
There is a thump, and the loud silence of bodies moving together as they kiss. I imagine that one of them – the one who had told the other to ssshh in that beautifully calm, dominant command – has pinned the other’s hands above her and is kissing her against the mirror. I picture the second girl melting into the kiss, submitting to the dominant one.
I shake the image away, and spin once more in my dress. It’s perfect: exactly long enough that I can pull off an I’m so innocent look, and showing just enough cleavage that I know I’ll have her attention as soon as I walk in. It also makes me feel incredibly sexy.
I’m tugging it off when there is a soft moan from the next-door cubicle.
“If. You. Don’t. Shut. Up.” I imagine the words to be interspersed with kisses down her neck. Strong, commanding kisses with a scrape of teeth. “We’ll have to stop. Do you want that?”
There’s silence, and I expect she’s hastily shaking her head. I slip the dress back on to its hanger.
“Do you want me to finger you?” This time the answer will surely be an eager nod.
I imagine fingers slipping under knickers and rubbing at clits… and realise I want it to be me pinned against the changing room wall – or pinning someone there. I’m turned on, arousal dripping into my knickers and my clit begging for attention. Their small muffled sounds of pleasure and the mirrors which allow me to look at my bruises make it so very tempted to join in.
Well, when you can’t beat them…
My hand is inside my knickers almost before I finish the thought. I grin at myself in the mirror as I stroke my labia, dipping a finger into my wetness and bringing it to my lips to suck it clean of my juices. I circle my clit, listening more intently now to what is happening in the next cubicle.
“What did I tell you about being quiet?” there is a warning, teasing tone in the voice.
“How do you expect me to be quiet when you pinch my nipple without warning?”
“Because you’re a good girl and want my fingers.”
“Stop teasing and fuck me.”
“What do you say?” I can almost hear the smile in her voice, imagine her index fingers pressing against the other’s entrance, but not pushing inside.
“Please fuck me.” The voice is a pleading whisper.
My fingers move faster as I assign the noises they’re making to the actions I imagine go with them. Their whimpering moans give me an indication how close she is to orgasm, and I plan my touches accordingly.
“Are you watching yourself in the mirrors? Are you watching yourself get fucked?”
“Yes – unghh…” The answer is faint and followed by a much louder moan.
I come quietly; she does not, and I imagine the other girl pressing a hand over her mouth to muffle the groan which spills out.
I dress quickly, buttoning my jeans with one more glance at the marks on my arse. I pick up the hanger and leave the changing room quickly, allowing them a moment of privacy together. I’d forgotten that the mirrors in changing rooms were so great for watching yourself masturbate, but listening to other people fucking in there was a new experience.
A very satisfying one.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.