‘Look at yourself. Look up.’
He grabs a fist full of my hair and I slowly raise my head but I still didn’t make eye contact with my own face in the mirror. On all fours, desperately gripping the edge of the mattress, bouncing back on his cock while he watched me in the mirror.
‘Look at yourself.’ He repeated. ‘Eyes up!’
I forced my gaze to meet this girl in the mirror, for a second and immediately looked away.
‘Look!’ He barked again. ‘Look at what a grubby little whore you are, drooling with a bit gag in your mouth pleasuring yourself on my cock.’
I looked, and this girl looked back.
Her eyes were wide. Her eyebrows were pleading. There were strained lines across her brow. Her hair was a mess, a few strands were glued to her face. She had a bit gag strapped around her face baring her teeth and pressing against her cheeks. There was saliva running down her chin. She was naked and pushing back onto this man’s cock. She hated the way her tits looked from this angle.
She didn’t look directly at him. He was tall and built, his figure dwarfed hers. Like a reclining statue he was a backdrop to her, huddled below, pathetically bouncing on him, hating the sight of herself.
‘See what a filthy little slut you are. Keep looking.’
She looked like she was about to cry, her eyes were glazed and her face now strained from the shame of being watched.
As a wave of pleasure took her, she bowed her head and tried to lose herself in the rhythm and ignore this other girl.
I watched another drip of drool fall from my mouth and add to the damp patch on the bed. I pushed down harder ignoring the tension on my muscles from his girth. I was still distracted by my reflection even though it was out of sight, it was like she was still looking at me.
That image of my face is now engraved in my mind. It is still vivid as I write this, days later. I see pictures of girls with that face, I love that face, but seeing my own for the first time…I can’t fully describe how it makes me feel.
I want a picture of those eyes. That desperate look. That pleading look, please don’t make me do this. The shame of knowing that he knows you want him to make you do it. The shame of carrying that image with you, you can’t forget it.
You get wet every time her face pops into your head. You feel your pussy ache and you want it again. You secretly imagine a photograph of her face on your desk at work, to look at and be reminded of what a slut you are, and how much you love it.
Eventually you stop cursing yourself…
Eventually you can’t wait to see her again.