Chapter 4

Nadia’s Note: this is an old story of mine that I have in its entirety and in easy-to-read, clean .epub format for 99 cents on my website.

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“It’s not like you don’t have a choice,” she said to her gorgeous, dolled-up reflection. “Because you really do. You can either serve his Majestic, Eternal, Perfect Cock, or you can be miserable for the rest of your life.”

She was alone at home in front of her mirror. She had dressed herself up for him—exclusively for him—entirely in new, way too expensive clothes.

Her entire adult life, Delilah had saved money. She was a frugal spender, and even went so far as to curtail restaurants and groceries when doing so would have put her overbudget for her monthly gasoline bill. Being a public servant paid, but it didn’t pay well, and a career full of internships and a hell of a lot of student loan debt meant she had quite a while to go before she would be spending with any kind of comfort.

So why—why why why why why—had she spent over three grand on pretty clothes to make Miles happy when she had all-but-decided to quit?

Was it because now, standing in front of the mirror wearing a Yves Saint Laurent silk blouse, Stella McCartney Blazer, and leather Balmain mini-skirt with hard rock silver buckles, she truly understood what it meant to be a Trophy?

Was it because with four-inch Casadei heels on her feet—the kind with those gnarly-hot silver metallic blade stilettos—she knew what power a man must feel to have someone who looked like her in an outfit like this utterly supplicating herself before him?

The silk blouse tugged at her tits, which felt like they had grown somehow in the last hour. Her hair, already long and dark chestnut and beautiful, looked shinier than ever. The tight pull of the skirt delivered an achingly gorgeous view of her thighs.

“I'm so pretty,” she said to herself, kind of stunned.

As she watched her reflection, something sensational happened. She watched herself come alive. Strutting towards the surface of the mirror. Giggling and laughing at her.

“You really are pretty,” her reflection said.

“I...I am?”

“That's why he wants you.”

She didn't stop to think that it was crazy in the deep cray-cray way to talk to herself like this. It made perfect sense—her mind was splitting apart, so why not have her actual appearance do it too?

“He wants me...”

She moaned. Thinking of him wanting her hadn't quite crossed her mind with all of her wanting him. But she really wanted him to want her.

“You will be miserable without him, you know,” her reflection said. “Without Knowing.”

“Knowing what?”

Talking to her reflection would have seemed ludicrous a week ago. Doubly so if the reflection motherfucking talked back. Now it seemed perfectly normal in the orgasm-overloaded spaces of Delilah’s brain. Her thoughts flowed like slow, sweet syrup.

“Knowing his Cock. Knowing the Taste of it. The Feel of it in your pussy. You need it, don’t you, baby? You Need. That. Cock. It’s okay. It’s just us. Just me and…well, me. Say it. Say you Need That Cock.”

“I…” Delilah whimpered. She whispered, “I Need That Cock.”

“That’s right. You do. Didn’t that feel good?”

It so fucking did. Delilah nodded.

“Good girl. You’ve been looking at this all wrong, sweetheart. But I can help you.”

“You can?”

“That’s right. Just let me be in charge. He doesn’t want some serious-brained mindfucked sweetie who’s so stupid she can’t even tell that he’s brainwiped half this fucking city already into sucking his Cock whenever he wants, probably. He wants an accomplice.”

“Accomplice?”

“A partner in crime. A confidant. Someone to share with. Someone to fuck up girls with him. Wouldn’t that be hot?”

Delilah’s fingers were stuffed inside her pussy, thumb skillfully maneuvering around her clit. She had “forgotten” to put on the I.D. Sarrieri panties she bought.

“Do you get it? We’re the fucking first victims of his, stupid. A Man like Him?” Mirror-Delilah bit her lower lip and moaned; she was fingering herself too. How odd… “Even if he doesn’t get away with it—and he probably will, did you see him fuck up those detectives?—he always, always gets his first victims! That's how these power games go on! That’s how these things work. If anyone's going to stop him, and like, I completely fucking doubt they will because he's super smart and a real fucking hunk, it's going to be someone waaaay down the line. So we’re fucked, my dear. Completely. Why not actually get fucked while we’re being fucked? Why not lean into this a little? Why not just…forget to mind?”

“Forget…”

“That’s it. Just don’t mind. Just be a bad. Fucking. Girl. For Daddy.”

“Oh. Oh fuck.”

“I know. I know, sweetie. Daddy left, didn’t he? He left because you weren’t bad enough and neither was Mommy. Daddy wanted to do whatever he wanted but Mommy wouldn't let him and it fucked. You. Up. But you can be bad now, can’t you? You can be bad for your new Daddy, can’t you?”

This was central for Delilah. This was a complete insurrection; all her values, all her fighting, all her efforts to prove what a self-sustaining woman she was centered around her need to never need Daddy again.

But now she could have a Daddy.

Now Daddy would fuck her if she begged him nice enough...

“Oh fuck.” Delilah’s need to cum was tangible, like a third-party in the room with her and her. “Oh fuck, oh Daddy…”

“Give in. Say you don’t care. Say you want it. Tell me…” her reflection pushed against the glass. Her erect nipples sighing into themselves. Delilah’s breath fogged the mirror. “Tell me you want Daddy to fuck up everyone and everything he wants.”

Delilah did; everything changed.

* * * * *

TO BE CONTINUED...