The Mirror Ritual - Part 2

I should’ve stopped. Any sane person would’ve stopped the second they realized their reflection wasn’t theirs anymore. But I wasn’t sane in that moment. I was hard, leaking, trembling with this fucked-up cocktail of fear and lust.

I lifted my hand slowly, watching to see if the mirror copied me. It didn’t. My fingers stayed still in the glass, still wrapped tight around my cock, stroking like nothing had changed. The lag was gone now — it was deliberate, his choice, not mine.

“Fuck…” I whispered, my voice shaking.

My reflection smirked, like it could hear me, and jerked itself harder, faster, pre-cum shining down the shaft. And then I felt it — not just saw it — the phantom fist tightening around my dick, stroking me in the exact rhythm he was showing.

I gasped, hips lifting helplessly. It wasn’t my hand, but it was my touch. Every squeeze, every stroke, it was me.

I tested it again, heart pounding. I moved my real hand to my thigh, spreading my legs open. In the mirror, he didn’t. He just kept pumping, his eyes locked to mine with that sick hunger.

And then he leaned forward.

I froze as his face drew closer in the glass, lips parting, tongue sliding out across his teeth. My reflection pressed against the surface like it wasn’t even solid, and before I could back away, his mouth was on mine.

Hot. Wet. My own lips crushing into me.

I moaned into it, half in shock, half in need. It was desperate, messy — tongues sliding, lips sucking, like we’d both been waiting for this our entire lives. And the insane part? I had. I’d always wondered what it would be like. To know how I kissed, how I tasted. To feel my own stubble scrape my chin, to bite down on my lip from the other side. Now I knew — and it was hotter, filthier than I’d ever imagined.

His taste was mine — familiar and foreign all at once. Like licking the sweat off my own skin after a workout, salty, alive. My cock pulsed between us, leaking hard, trapped in his grip.

When he pulled back, a string of spit hung between our mouths. His eyes glinted like mirrors inside mirrors. And then, without warning, he sank down.

I couldn’t breathe as I watched myself drop to my knees in the glass. His tongue slid over his lips again before wrapping around my head, sucking me in. And I felt it — oh God, I felt it — warm, tight suction enveloping me.

I groaned, clutching the sheets behind me. “Fuck…”

It was perfect. Too perfect. He knew every weak spot, every rhythm I loved. The swirl of tongue under the crown, the slow suction right before speeding up, the way teeth grazed just enough to make me shiver. He blew me exactly how I’d always wished someone would, because it wasn’t someone — it was me.

But as the pleasure built, so did the fear. My chest tightened with each gasp, because in the mirror, his eyes weren’t just hungry. They were starving. The way he looked up at me as his mouth slid down my cock — it wasn’t just lust, it was hunger. Like he wasn’t pleasuring me. Like he was feeding.

I couldn’t tell if I was still in control. Or if I’d ever been.

My hips bucked helplessly as the suction grew wetter, harder. I wanted to pull back, to stop, but my body didn’t listen. I was moaning like I’d never moaned before, spilling spit down my chest, trembling as I fucked my own mouth.

And then, with a sound like glass cracking, the mirror rippled.

He stepped out.

One moment he was inside the glass, his lips wrapped around me, and the next he was here, kneeling between my legs, flesh and heat and sweat. My reflection. My twin. My other self.

And he didn’t stop sucking.