Whitney The Mirror Mistress
In my latex and in my mirror, obedience finds its reflection; every command echoes twice—once from my lips, once from the glass.
As Mirror Mistress, I rule with an iron fist, my domineering presence amplified by the haunted portal I’ve mastered. My reflection in the silvered glass is my quivering prey, a puppet danced upon by my every thought and desire. From the moment I don my skintight black latex, suffocating curves molded to my voluptuous form, I am the embodiment of control.
My submission slave, a quivering mass of flesh and need, enters the opulent chamber lit only by flickering candles and the mirror’s ethereal glow. His eyes, glazed with equal parts fear and arousal, drink in the sight of me – a vision of sleek, shadowed power, my piercing blue gaze burning through the transparency of latex.
“Kneel,” I command, my voice low and husky, the words dripping with authority as they reverberate within the glass. The slave scrambles to obey, his reflection mirroring his movement in perfect synchrony. Through the mirror, I’ve claimed dominion over his very being.
“Strip,” I order, savoring the way his hands shake as he fumbles with the fastenings of his clothes. The mirror magnifies each tremble, each gasp, as he reveals himself to me, vulnerability wrapped in skin. His reflection undresses in tandem, a tantalizing preview of the flesh to come.
Once bared, I run my gloved fingers over the mirror’s surface, tracing the outline of a willing slave. “Touch yourself,” I instruct, watching, transfixed, as he mimics my gesture. His fingers brush his chest, his belly, each caress mirrored in the glass, amplifying the sensations until his entire body is flushed and quivering with need.
I step closer, latex creaking with each movement, until our reflections almost touch. “Service me,” I growl, and the slave, driven by an insatiable hunger, crawls forward, his lips pressing against the mirror in a passionate, desperate kiss. Our silhouettes meld into one, a symbol of the unholy union I’ve forged between flesh and glass.
In the throes of passion, our bodies move as one, the slave’s writhing form mirrored in every contortion, every gasp. I cup his face, fingers digging into the mirror’s surface as I force him to meet my gaze. “You are mine,” I hiss, and in that instant, his reflection shatters, merging irrevocably with my own.
When I release him, the slave crumples to the floor, spent and broken, yet a twisted smile plays upon his lips. He knows, as do I, that he is forever owned by the mistress of the mirror – a pawn in my game of twisted control.
Now bow to the woman in the glass, because she’s me—and she always wins.
