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The Bathroom Mirror

by Mike Kimera © 2004

"I'm sorry; Mr O'Neil is in a meeting.  If you'd like to leave a message I can put you through to his voice mail."

She sounds young and sexy and I wonder if you've screwed her and which hole you used and if she enjoyed it and if you came and if you hurt her the way you hurt me and if she wanted you to and why I care so much


So she thinks I'm old and confused and to be smiled at patiently because you've used her holes more recently than you've used mine.

"Shall I connect you?"

Our last connection was in the stairwell of your glass and concrete phallus of a building and I let you rip my hose and force yourself into the first hole your cock found while one hand covered my mouth and the other mauled my breasts tearing a button from the silk blouse I'd worn because my nipples stretch the silk the way my desire for you stretches my morals until I let you use me from behind pushing me into the ugly metal stair-rail while I leaned out into the heartless concrete shaft of the stairwell so symbolic of you and you fucked me and fucked me and fucked me until your hot cum scalded my arsehole and tears stained my cheeks and something that might have been love but could just have been relief at feeling alive at last twisted in my guts.

"I'm putting you through to his combox now."

She's glad to be rid of me and my silence that could be helplessness or aggression but is unlikely to be anything she wants to deal with.

"This is Dan O'Neil; I can't take your call right now.  Please leave a message."

Please sounds as alien on your tongue as thank you or I love you.  Please is a verb describing what I should do for you.  Please is what you make me say on my knees naked and needy in front of you begging for your cock and maybe your attention.  Your cock at attention.  The tension in your cock.

"It's me, Beth."

I can hear the need in my voice like a burn on my face transfiguring me into something damaged but compelling.

"I want ..."


"...  I wanted"

everything anything you can do to me.

"to let you know that ..."

I only feel when you touch me am only visible when you look at me only live when you use me.

"I'm alone for a few days ..."

and you could fuck me like the first time when you made me lie naked on my marriage-bed wearing only my wedding ring and finger fuck myself to a frenzy for your amusement before you tied me and fucked harder and better than my husband ever has not because you wanted me but because you knew I would remember it remember you every time he enters me in his gentle loving way on that bed in which I conceived his children and betrayed his trust.

"so if you'd like to come over for a meal ..."

I'll serve it wearing the tiny plastic maid's outfit you bought me because you knew my tits would fall out of it and I would look like a slut but would wear it anyway because you told me to and I'll kneel under the table while you eat and I'll suck gently on your balls letting the drool run down my chin keeping one thumb up my arse and one in my cunt as you've taught me to do as I suspect you teach all of us to do all your stupid sluts.

"call me ..."

Names.  Filthy names.  Names that make me writhe with shame and excitement, Names I want to live up to.  Names that should be branded in my flesh as a warning to the world.  Names that have stripped me of who I was and left me only with who I thought you wanted.

"on my mobile."

The one you made me get.  The one my husband doesn't know I have.  The one you pushed, condom-covered, into my cunt when you had me tied and helpless—although I am always helpless with you even when I am not tied—and threatened to ring so I'd know what phone sex was.  The one I'm using now to offer myself to you because you are the only route I have to myself anymore.

I end the call but that doesn't break the connection.  I am leashed to you by a need that is stronger than I am.

Sitting waiting for your call, waiting for you to say if how and when you will use me, I start to cry.  It is not the betrayal or the humiliation or the crippling tug of my need-leash that brings the tears.  It is the knowledge, sure certain and cruel, that one day you will let go of my leash and I will trail it after me becoming tangled with it, maybe choked by it, until I die.

© 2004 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Mike Kimera was raised as an Irish Catholic living in England and now works as a management consultant living in Switzerland. At the age of forty three he started writing stories about sex and lust and the things they do to us and four years later he's still at it.

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Mike Kimera


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