My Dearest Mirror - Kristen's Board

[Claire]

Teaser: When I shared my frustration with you that I can’t orgasm when I masturbate on my own, I didn’t expect you’d actually try to do something about that. I just wanted you to listen and understand that this is important to me. I was scared that me saying I want to be able to come on my own would hurt you, as if coming with you wasn’t enough for me. But you didn’t make it about you.
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. All sexual acts depicted in this story take place between consenting adults. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: My Dearest Mirror
Author: @Claire
My Stories: Claire's Cesspool of Sin

This story competes in the Kristen's Board Memorial Contest
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My second consensual story after Sweet, Sweet Mess.
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My Dearest Mirror


As I finish undressing, I find myself standing in front of your closet again, its mirrored doors giving me a full view of my naked body. I hate what I see.

I understand that looking at myself in this moment, overthinking and judging, might undermine what you are trying to do. You have just come home and I can hear you take a shower in preparation for whatever you’ve come up with to help me with my problem. “Problem” - I like how you struggled with naming it that, unsure what to call it. It took me a lot to confide in you, even you, and the care with which you weigh your words when you talk about it shows me that you truly understand how much this affects me. I don’t know what this “experiment” is you asked me to participate in but I have an idea of what your goal is. I don’t want to sabotage your efforts, but despite knowing better, I can’t help but take a look.

I sigh as I observe my mirror image running her fingers through her hair. It’s thin, flat, the most boring shade of dark brown. I always wished I had curls. My nose is too long, the tapestry of freckles on my cheeks robs me of any elegance, and that tiny mole under my right eye breaks the symmetry of my face. The brown eyes match my brown hair in how bland they are.

Of course my areolas are brown too, like nature ran out of colors when forming my body. I weigh my breasts in my hands. Not only are they too small, I hate how the left one is bigger than the right one. When I asked you what you think about that you had that confused look on your face.

“Uhh… I don’t know, I never noticed. Which one’s the bigger one…?”

That was what you answered. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. I love that about you. But how could you not notice after seeing them, touching them? Sometimes I wish I could borrow your eyes that don’t see my flaws.

At least my stomach looks like I’ve been able to lose the weight I’ve gained over the holidays. I resist the urge to turn 90 degrees and destroy the illusion.

I’ve given up on the idea of ever having a visible thigh gap long ago. But I can’t stand the sight of my inner labia protruding from the outer lips of my vulva.

I hear how the shower stops running. You asked me to make myself comfortable on the bed. I avert my eyes from the ruthless mirror and sit down on your bed.

When I shared my frustration with you that I can’t orgasm when I masturbate on my own, I didn’t expect you’d actually try to do something about that. I just wanted you to listen and understand that this is important to me. I was scared that me saying I want to be able to come on my own would hurt you, as if coming with you wasn’t enough for me. But you didn’t make it about you.

I lie down on the bed. I expect you to open the bathroom door any moment now. You told me you believe that my ability to orgasm is tied to whether I feel desirable or not. And I fear you might be right. I love that I can feel you genuinely wanting me when you sleep with me, and even when you just watch me touching myself it’s enough for me to come. It’s not the same when I’m on my own. But even if you’re right, what can you possibly do to help when the entire idea is that I need to do this on my own?

I hear the bathroom door open and close my eyes. The woody minted scent of your shampoo reaches me, signaling your arrival. I’m naked but the room is warm. You close the window you opened before taking your shower, shutting out all sounds from the outside world.

You don’t speak, I don’t speak, but I’m acutely aware of your presence. I wonder whether you’re naked too as my mind’s image of you traces the sound of your footsteps as you walk toward me.

I feel the mattress sink a little deeper as you sit down next to me. You take my hand. You know I’d like to shower more often with you, but the water temperature you prefer is too hot for me. The heat of the near-scalding water you drenched yourself in still clings to your fingers. You didn’t want to touch me with cold fingers after coming home, did you? Then I hear your voice.

“You feeling good?”

You must be able to see that I’m comfortable on your bed with my head snuggled into that giant pillow of yours that I like so much. But you ask me anyway.

“Mhm.”

That little squeeze you give my hand confirms to me that you heard my response. I’m excited to hear you explain what exactly your beautiful mind cooked up this time.

“Here is what I would like to try. I want to touch you while I talk to you, like a soft massage. And while I do so, I want you to imagine you’re me. Not in general, but right now, right here, as I talk to you.”

I don’t fully understand what you’re going for but I think I can do that. I don’t need to say anything. I can already feel your eyes watching me intently, registering every response on my face. So I just nod.

“Good. One more thing. If you don’t like this, please say so. You’re not doing me a favor by simply enduring this for my sake. This is for you, not me. Okay?”

The serious tone of your voice tells me that this is important to you. You want me to do this for myself, not to give you the illusion that you helped me.

“I promise.”

Again, you hold my hand a little tighter for a moment, then you let go.

I can’t help but wonder where you’ll touch me first. Or will you begin by talking? I can feel and hear you reposition yourself on the bed, your weight shifting on the mattress as you change from sitting to kneeling next to me. The slight tremble in your sigh as you ready yourself is so you. You’ve planned this, thought this through, went over it in your head again and again. You are convinced that this is the right thing to do. But now that you’re actually putting your plan into motion you feel a bit silly after all. What do you make of the knowing smile on my lips?

Then I feel you, your fingers on my forehead, first contact, still warm. I didn’t expect that. But you don’t rest there.

You begin to move, slowly, deliberately. Your fingertips paint my face with a soft brush.

You travel over my nose, gently slide down the left wing, then take a detour over my cheek to my ear. You draw its contour with your fingers, then give my earlobe a playful squeeze between your thumb and index finger. I smile.

Your journey continues back over my cheek to my lips. I resist the urge to kiss you. Your fingers glide over my mouth to my chin, dragging my lower lip with them for a bit before your fingers slide down my throat to my collarbone.

I enjoy the softness of your touch, you know I do. I remember the first time you touched me like this, slowly, barely noticeable on the surface, ghostlike. It took me a while to figure out why this felt so good. You didn’t ask for anything in return, didn’t expect anything from me. You just touched me like I’m precious to you, with care, with reverence, without entitlement. This is who you are to me.

You don’t rush for my boobs. You take a turn, head for my shoulders. From there, you travel down my arm on the outside, give my elbow a fleeting greeting. You are in constant motion, resting nowhere. Your fingertips on my palm tickle a bit, then your fingers trace mine until our tips meet.

Just before your hand disconnects from mine, you slide back and make your way back up my arm but on the other side, over the crook of my arm to my armpit.

You haven’t said a word yet. I feel the anticipation growing. Everywhere your hand goes you leave goosebumps in your steps.

Now you move to my chest. Your fingers climb up my left breast, the palm of your hand caresses the soft nipple on its downward trajectory. I know you like to let your hand rest on my heart while you use my right boob as a pillow for your head. But your hand doesn’t linger here any longer than on any other part of my body you visited on your journey so far.

As you hand traverses my stomach I look forward to your touch on my vulva. But you don’t give me that satisfaction yet. Instead you take another detour over my leg. You don’t go all the way down to my foot but stop at my knee, then make your way up again.

I imagine you being slightly frustrated right now. I’m sure in your head you wanted to take an entire tour of my body. But now you realize you can’t comfortably reach from my head to my toes without changing your position. So you adjust the plan, reluctantly, and stop at my knees.

The back of your hand brushes against my inner thigh as you inch closer to my crotch. Did you realize I’m getting wet already? Or will this be a happy discovery for you?

You deny me the touch I seek. All you’re willing to give me in this moment are the knuckles on your hand tracing the outline of my protruding inner labia. But it’s enough to make me inhale.

And then your hand returns on the way it came: stomach, breast, arm, collarbone, throat, lips, ear, nose and forehead again.
You begin to repeat the same touch but with one difference. You let me hear your voice.

“You are at home, in your apartment, on your bed. Nothing in this room truly matters to you, nothing but the woman before you.”

You talk as slowly as your fingers move over my face again.

“Looking at her, you have this weird thought.”

Once more do I feel your fingers drag my lip with them.

“You don’t believe that perfection exists.”

Your fingers steal a drop of my saliva. I can feel the wet trail your finger leaves on my throat.

“But when you look into those beautiful brown eyes behind her closed lids, why do you feel that perfection is staring straight back at you?”

Is that what you struggle with? Your inability to conceptualize your attraction to me? You can’t just feel without also needing to understand why you feel what you feel for me?

“You don’t need an answer right now. You are content to just follow the flow of her body.”

The flow of my body? I don’t understand what that means.

“Looking at her, you see so many things you like. Those playful hands she so tenderly soothes you with when you’re sad. Those lips that curl into a forgiving and knowing smile when you’re stupid. Those soft breasts you like to rest your head on when you’re tired.”

Your palm brushes over my nipple again, making me all too aware of how hard it is by now. I’m blushing at the compliments you throw at me.

“But as much as you like these parts of her, you find yourself unable to say where exactly they begin and end. Where is the exact point that her hand becomes her wrist? You’ve kissed her more than a thousand times but you can’t identify the exact border where lips turn into cheeks.”

I try to picture what you see, my face, my hands. I can’t define beginnings and ends either. Does it matter? All the while, I sense you make a turn again at my knee, knowing your next destination already.

“And then you realize something.”

The back of your hand brushes over my pussy again, stronger this time, as if you wanted to emphasize what you’re going to say next. I moan, but I don’t get lost in the pleasure.

“If you removed her hands from her body, you wouldn’t want them to hold you anymore. If it were just her breasts lying in your bed, you wouldn’t want them to be your pillow.”

You must be able to feel my suppressed laughter as your hand slides over my stomach again. Only you could have a naked woman lying in your bed, eagerly awaiting your touch, and then use such grotesque imagery while being confident you won’t destroy the moment with it.

“You don’t like her face because her eyes are beautiful, her nose is cute and her freckles are adorable. You find them beautiful, cute and adorable because they are a part of her face.”

Two tears escape my eyes. I feel them running over my cheeks. And you don’t rush to wipe them away. Undeterred your hand keeps following the flow of my body, climbing up my breast once more.

I swallow the saliva flooding my mouth. My breath is getting heavier. The heat from between my legs is radiating through my body. I want to feel you inside me. But there is no change in the course of your hand. You just repeat the same cycle paying no more attention to my hungry pussy than to my nose or knee.

You remained silent after I began to cry, leaving me alone with my silent tears, with what you stirred in me. I want to believe you. But I don’t know if I can.

You reach my forehead for the fourth… no fifth time now? I can’t tell. You left me imagining you treasuring me as you keep touching me, as if every new cycle of your hand on my skin is meant to wash away another layer of self-doubt. Then you speak again.

“You enjoy the view between her legs. You know she hates what her lips look like. But you can’t get enough of what you see.”

You make me painfully aware of how naked I am. But for some reason, I open my legs to give you a better view.

“Her inner lips mischievously peeking out between their bigger sisters. The drop of arousal pooling at the soft edge of the sensitive skin as she gets wetter and wetter. You see this unashamed display of her desire turn from a drop about to fall off into a thin viscous thread slowly descending to the bed sheet. That would be such a waste.”

You narrate your own arousal to me. You let me know of that liquid thread between my legs I can’t feel myself. You’re wondering whether your fingers will get there again before I drip onto your sheets. I can sense your need for me, how much you want to use your achingly hard cock to push back into me what I’m leaking as if it belonged nowhere else.

We both know you’re getting closer again as your hand moves once more from my stomach to my thigh. You’re so close, but the flow carries you to my knee first.

“But it is not just the flow of her body that entices you. It’s the flow of her personality as well.”

As you advance to your next point, you scoop up the escaping liquid with your finger, smear it over my sensitive lips, dip my clit in it. You let me feel myself. I want to push my hips into your fingers, but you’re back on my stomach already, your fingers leaving a long wet trail on my skin.

The thought of having to wait another full cycle for the return of your hand is almost cruel. Are you slowing down? Or does it just feel so for my overeager mind?

“If somebody asked you why you love her, you’d have trouble coming up with an answer that would satisfy you.”

Your hand feels hot on my skin. The slight tug you give my nipple on your way back up to my head elicits a high pitched moan out of my mouth. And yet, I don’t find it difficult to follow your words.

“You admire her empathy, her intelligence, her humor, and you envy her for her sensitivity.”

You envy my sensitivity?

“But you can’t find what makes her special to you in a list of attributes.”

Even my arm is sensitive to your touch now.

“What would her intelligence be but cold unfeeling rationality without her humor and compassion making it charming? What would her humor be without her intelligence making it witty?”

You’re inching closer to my face again, unafraid to let me smell your fingers drenched in my arousal. I think I understand what you’re trying to say. Is that what you love about me? Not the parts of who I am but the connections between them?

“You love how intensely she feels even the smallest things. And sometimes it pisses you off how she can be so hurt over literally nothing.”

You name it clearly, how I can be unfair to you sometimes. I know that. You’re not trying to sell me a lie about myself. Your fingers follow the trail my tears left on my cheeks as you return to my face.

“But you realize that there is no point in labeling one a desirable trait and the other a flaw… when they are one and the same.”

You begin the next cycle but you remove your hand so far from my body that only your fingernails barely graze my skin. I’m trembling, unsure whether it’s your words or your touch moving me. Am I allowed to see myself this way? Like you do? Deserving of love neither because nor despite my flaws? But because…?

“So if you had to give an answer to the question why you love her, it would not be because of her pretty face, or how she makes you laugh. You don’t love her because she’s smart or funny, or because she’s there for you when you’re sad.”

I’m so familiar with the trajectory of your hand by now. And yet it feels different, as if your nails were carving a truth into my skin my soul is still trying to resist, every excited shiver of my body a desperate attempt to escape your touch while I hold still nevertheless. My tears flow freely now. I don’t know what to do with your love.

“It’s because of the flow of her body and the flow of her personality that take all these things and turn them into her. And you finally understand that the perfection you sense when you look at her lies not in her individual parts but in the flow that assembles them into her.”

I feel like something is about to break. You move with the same speed you have the entire time, but your fingers cling to the edges of my body, trying to prolong the moment. You pull my lip a little further, get stuck on my chin for a second before you slide down my throat, let my hard nipple scrape against the skin between two of your fingers as you drift over the soft tissue of my breast. You want to stay, but the flow won’t let you.

“The answer to the question why you love her that explains everything to you and means nothing to everybody else, is…”

You reach my overflowing pussy again. My legs are wide open at this point. Now you enter me. I moan and whimper as my body tries to draw you in. I’m on the edge, desperately wishing to come, but you won’t let me. You slide into me, you can’t be moving at more than a millimeter per second. I don’t know whether this is pleasure or agony as I feel you sink deeper.

I can see what you see. My lips hugging your fingers, clinging to them as you drag them with you on your way into me. The first knuckle disappears from your sight. Your fingertips are already drenched. The tightness of my fluttering pussy tries to pull you in but your advance remains an agonizingly slow crawl. I’m openly weeping now. Accepting you means accepting me in this moment.

“… because she is her.”

I don’t push my hips into you, I don’t force you to go faster. But I open my legs wide for you, inviting you in. The second knuckle disappears. I still don’t come. You see me breathe and convulse and cry, leave me alone again with the aftereffect of your words. I want to feel that release but I realize you won’t give it to me. This will end once you run out of finger to push into me.

I dread the end of this sensation, the last millimeters of your fingers slide into me. Your fingers are so much longer than mine, and yet they end. The sudden stillness is frustrating, and yet I enjoy the fullness. We both focus on my breath now that we reached the end of motion. You’re waiting for me to calm down.

You didn’t make me come. You could have but you didn’t. This isn’t about you. This was never about you giving me pleasure. You don’t need that validation. I can feel it. There is still something left for you to do. You’re confident that you’re close to what you tried to achieve but we’re not there yet. I’m ready for the final act.

“Okay… you’re yourself now again. Don’t imagine being me anymore. But keep your eyes closed and hold on to what you feel right now.”

You pull your fingers out of my vagina. The contact is still intense. You don’t pull out quickly but compared to the speed you entered me with this feels like a sprint. You’re careful not to overstimulate me right now. Then you put your hand on my shoulders. Your left is noticeable cooler while the right is hot from the massage, and two of your fingers are slick with my arousal.

“Sit up. Don’t be surprised, I’m just sitting down behind you.”

Now we’re both sitting on the bed, you behind me. You put your hands on mine but avoid any other direct contact with me. Then you guide my hands to my face, my forehead, the spot where your experiment began. I begin to move together with you, exploring the flow of my body.

I immerse myself in my body. I slide down my nose, feel the tears I cried, appreciate how the contact with the lips of my mouth makes my body tingle in its current hypersensitive state. I move down my throat to my breasts. I’m heaving, my skin is sweaty, my nipples are still erect. There is so much heat in my body.

I move further down to my legs. I let my fingernails slightly scratch over my thighs as I continue to my knees. The way back up begins here, just like it did for you.

I can feel my wetness long before I reach the entrance to my vagina. My inner thighs are slick with myself. Then I feel the wet heat of my pussy, droplets of liquid unashamed of their presence just waiting to leave stains on your bed, puffy lips radiating warmth, and my engorged clit still waiting for the touch that sends me over the edge. But the flow carries me back up my body.

When we return to my face, you let go of my hands and leave me alone with myself. You don’t need to say anything, I know what to do. For the first time, I follow the flow of my body alone without feeling you anywhere on my skin.

I want to come. The heat builds up again as I continue the journey. Every time I pass my boobs I give them a squeeze, hold on to my nipples as I keep moving. My fingers circle my clit like your words surrounded the truth. I carry the wetness of my pussy to my stomach and beyond. And when I move past my mouth I’m not afraid to taste my fingers, no myself, dipped in sweet and sour arousal.

You don’t touch me but when you notice that I’m close you lean in, careful not to make contact with my body, but close enough that I can hear even your smallest whisper.

“What you’re feeling right now…”

I shake, I vibrate, I quiver in anticipation of the next words I already know before you say them out load. What I’m feeling right now…

“… that’s perfection.”

Your soft voice turns my body rigid. I inhale sharply, then hold my breath involuntarily. I feel it again. Something is about to break, but you wanted me to break it myself.

“What you’re feeling right now…”

Your last words to me begin the same as before. Your final gentle whisper is a battering ram in disguise, tearing down the last barrier separating me from the truth.

“… that’s you!”

It breaks. I come.

My eyes fly open, my thighs clamp shut, the wet clap reverberates in the room. Heat washes over my quaking body. I tilt my head back, push my chest out, my fingers sink into my breast as if I were trying to dig a path to my heart. I feel every tremor, every fiber of my body is participating. And I let go. I relax, I accept that I deserve this.

The tension disappears from my body, I fall back against your chest. I open my legs, push the fingers of my free hand inside me, loosen the grip on my boob. And I moan as I watch my self-doubt drown in wave after wave of deserved pleasure.

I don’t know how much time passes before anything changes. You just sat there for one, two, three minutes or however long it took, your body being my support, nothing more and nothing less.

You hold me by my shoulders, move to the side, then lower my body to the bed. I’m exhausted. You lie down next to me. I turn to the side, our bodies connect, forehead on forehead, nose on nose.

“You feeling good?”

You ask me with a chuckle accompanying your voice. I nod with a bright smile on my face, rubbing my nose against yours.

“Next time you touch yourself on your own, try to remember what you felt today.”

I know already that it will work. You wrap your arm around me, let your hand rest on my back. My fingers seek your face. I play with the stubble on your cheek. I need you to know:

“You are… my dearest mirror.”

The End

[RapeU]

I want more of this couple. Her partner massaging her to the point where she's at the edge then has her continue, thus fixing the problem - that's true love. Even if it didn't fix the problem, the effort taken by her partner would have been a wonderful show of love. It's also nice that the gender of the partner was left ambiguous, so it could have been male/female/other.

[Shocker]

Most of the time when we are looking at ourselves, we tend to see our flaws, the imperfections the things we feel others will dislike. Yet others rarely tend to see us as we see ourselves, which can be positive or crushing.

You emphasize those differences very nicely in your story, displaying a nurturing relationship.

[Claire]

@RapeU Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I really wanted to write a story that embraces the consensual sex part rather than one that displays problematic consensual sex that is somewhat adjacent to our usual noncon stuff.

I hope I'm not diminishing the story for you by telling you that the story does make it clear that the partner is a man though.

@Shocker Thank you. I agree, we can all be our harshest critics sometimes.

[Lucius]

Accepting oneself can be an incredibly difficult thing, but it must be even harder to find a better companion for the journey than the partner in this story.

Excellent writing.

[RapeU]

I hope I'm not diminishing the story for you by telling you that the story does make it clear that the partner is a man though.

It doesn't diminish it. I'm not sure how I missed that. Seems to have happened with @HistBuff's story too. Good thing I haven't voted yet! I'll have to re read them all before I do.

[Mister X]

A truly wonderful story, certainly one too dream about. Thanks!

I like how he helps her, I like the description of his slow movements and I like how her arousal gets higher while she learns to see herself with the eyes of a person who loves her.