Mirror, Mirror - Day 42

Day one of what will become 1,820 and counting technically starts here, with their wedding day. In these past forty-two days, I have come to know their passions more intimately than I care to. I have seen no ebb, no retreat. With these two it is constant and often surprising attack. And yet... I find it, at times, endearing. As a mirror, I pay far more attention to detail than your divan or chest of drawers. *I* immediately assess and catalog your every detail. For instance: the other day, he surprised her by coming home early; long before she would even think to carry herself down the stairs to prepare their dinner.

Now, I have stood in homes where any party arriving home earlier than expected results in disasters of all kinds. The usual consequence being the loss of one occupant of said home. But when *she* heard *his* car in the drive, she ran to me, a bright grin illuminating her face. Her cheeks flush, her dark pupils dilated. She touched up her hair, swathed her lips with gloss, though she cannot stop herself from biting her bottom one. The entire time her silk blouse fluttered both with her frenetic movements and the racing of her heart. She listened more carefully for his footfalls than she paid attention to her face - she could hardly wait to run to him. And run she does. It almost warmed my glass to hear her exclaim her delight when they are reunited at last.

But today is a different day. Today, they have awoken on the chaise lounge normally reserved for her reading or her oral attentions to his ever-present erection. They fell asleep in much the same position as how they spent themselves. His broad, masculine form drapes the entirety of the chaise, her curved, feminine one drapes him but faces me. Her legs are no longer spread apart and dangling from either side of the chaise but bent at her knees and cradled between his formed calves. He is no longer moving her hips up and down on his erection, but it is stirring against the same hip that is showing signs of reddening fingerprints the exact size and shape of his fingers.

Dark spots seep around and under them. She must have felt empty in the night for she straddled him, and he exploded in her amid grunts and half-conscious pleas. Her cheek lays inside his palm and the pad of his thumb is just barely enclosed by her lips. Her suckling is the first sound to break the day. A slow grin spreads across his strong jaw. "Good morning, Wife." She kisses his palm. "Good morning, Husband." She turns her body toward his, looking up at him as her mouth moves to encase his penis. For the first time ever, he cups her face and tells her to kneel.

She assumes a position with which I have become familiar: knelt in front of me with her legs parted to expose her sex, her rear supported on her heels. Her pedicured feet point their red toes like a ballerina. This exposure enables him to examine her, whip her labia, test her ability to hold his semen in her womb and not let a drop fall to the floor. Her hands are clasped behind her back, red nails cupping her wrists. He likes to admire her full breasts this way. He likes to bind her breasts this way. He likes to affix clamps to her sensitive, dusky pink nipples and torment her this way. She likes the exposure. She likes to be under his gaze; to show off for him. She sends pictures of herself to him in this pose almost every day, after she has dressed. Sometimes before. The brazenness makes me wish I could look away.

He stands behind her, as usual, watching her first assume this position and then simply breathe. She watches his reflection inside me. He circles her like prey. I can feel her need to be close to him. Her aching is as palpable as his control. Planted behind her, he moves her head, so it lays against his muscled thigh. Her body seems to sigh at the sheer relief of being in contact with his. His hand moves down the side of her neck, down between her breasts. He spreads his fingers, and the span of his hand almost covers them. Moving his hand up, she straightens her neck as she looks up at him. His hand encircles her neck and her eyes close in pleasure as her mouth opens. Instinct guides her mouth to move around his engorged tip, and he plunges down her throat. She was unprepared but maintains her position. I see the muscles in her throat moving up and down, swallowing him whole. His hand stills as he revels in this latest pleasure she serves him. Her breathing is shallow, and I cannot imagine she can keep this up for long. His fingers trace the bulge of his cock through her throat and mercifully, he extricates his shaft which drips saliva on her cheek and their parquet floor. She adjusts her posture and resumes her position. "Good girl."

His gaze moves slowly, approvingly, over the reflection of her body in my glass before he turns from her and makes toward his dresser. Towards the drawer with the false bottom hiding the blue velvet box. He carries it back to her; pries open the lid and holds it up to me. It is a stunning choker of five strands of graduated pearls, culminating in a teardrop black onyx set beneath a halo of diamonds. Were I capable, I would gasp. She does it for me, breathing out his name like a prayer. To her credit, her hands remain behind her back. He smirks impishly as he lifts the pearls from their velvet bed.

"I have been happy for my ring to be an outward sign of my ownership, but today, at the altar, we will exchange sacred vows." He drapes her neck with the pearls and fastens the clasp. As he admires her anew in me, his fingers brace her jaw, lifting it just enough to bring her head back so their eyes can meet. "You will wear this collar today, every moment you are home, and many evenings we are out together. Today you take my name. You are my one. My all. You belong to me." To say she is glowing is no hyperbole. Her eyes shine with joy and tears, but her voice is clear. "Sir, I am yours. You are my one, my all. Belonging to you is the greatest joy of my life and I will serve you and love you as no wife ever has."

He steps to the side and offers her his hand, which she accepts and rises elegantly with surprising balance. He leads her back to the chaise and bids her to straddle the narrow end. She does, and he adjusts the chaise to face me dead on. If I could grimace, I would. These two know no shame. He folds his body behind her and hooks one arm around her neck, coaxing her to lay back against his chest. He looks at her through me and commands her to "Open."

This results in her legs parting and draping themselves once more over the sides of the chaise. In one motion, three of his fingers bury themselves inside her sex. As if an invisible string were controlling her hips, they arch upward, as sharply as her back bows. Were it not for his arm over her neck, her head would undoubtedly be buried in his shoulder. Instead, her long hair leaves a dark pool across it, cascading loose curls down his bicep. He spreads his three fingers inside her; she emits a long, groaning breath. "You belong to me. You are mine to spoil, and mine to ruin." For a moment, they both still, the air heavy with his words, her cries, and the permeation of sex and possession which fills the room.

Then he plunges all five fingers, the palm which has countlessly covered an entire one of her breasts, and his wide wrist against which a gold Patek Philippe looks dwarfish into her sex.

Her scream is unlike any other I have heard until this morning. It will not be the last.

As I said, today is but the first day of 1,820 to come.