Vanity fair

She can't pass a mirror without stopping. Her reflection pulls her every time. She stares. She admires the lines of her body, the fall of her blonde hair, the shape of her breasts under the lace. It happens fast. One moment she is walking past, the next she is already on the floor with her legs open, back against the wall-length mirror, panties pushed aside. She watches every move she makes. Fingers trace her stomach, dip between her thighs, slip inside. The mirror shows it all: the flush on her cheeks, the twitch of her hips, the wet shine on her hand. She never looks away. She wants to see how she comes apart, how her legs shake, how her lips part when she finally lets go.