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Mirror Mirror |
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By Margo Perry
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I can’t believe that I’m walking solo along Main Street at 11:05 PM, on New Year’s Eve, screaming obscenities at an innocent sliver of a moon. I feel as desperate as one of those lost souls I meet on the beat, men walking in shadow, afraid of light, grateful for a coffee, and going nowhere.
The wind howling at my back propels and chills me, carries the taste and smell of salt from the sea. I pull my Hoodie over my head. It’s inadequate. I imagine my coat, shoved in the back of the closet to make room for my wife’s guests’, and my head aches. I’m furious. I’ve been walking for an hour. My calves are threatening to cramp and my breathing is laboured, but I’m too cold to stop or even slow down.
You’re a forty-five year old loser and you’re gonna’ give yourself a heart attack!
“Shut up!”
I’m talking to myself, to a voice in my head, out loud.
I cross the road, moving away from my precinct two blocks away. I can’t face the cops, can’t share my humiliation and spoil their party with my pity. They teased me all day about my night with the wife, about the party girls I’d be missing. But, the state of my marriage was desperate. Hitched for less than a year and we can’t stand each other. We fight over what to do, where to go, how we make each other feel. Tonight was supposed to be ours alone. I was willing to try and fix things. She obviously isn’t and now, the whole thing feels steamed out, like water after the kettle’s been boiling too long.
The romance between cop and heiress has turned into a horror story, a piece of shit that I feel like I’ve just walked through, and I can’t seem to get away far or fast enough.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I take the corner in a blind fury and slam into Old Man, who is outside his diner, minding his own business.
“So sorry, Old Man.”
“That bad, eh, boy?”
All of us cops are Old Man’s boys and his diner is our home away from home. When we need to feel safe, free to lick our wounds and talk freely, our feet just bring us here.
Tonight, he’s clutching his latest gadget, an over-sized remote control.
“Watch!”
He’s giving me the space I need, not questioning me. Old Man’s like that, but we can’t give him what he needs. He misses his wife, Margie.
He cooked and she handled front of house, red hair flaming, gargantuan tits forever bouncing. They were relentless sexual magnates for each other, always touching each other’s asses, or suddenly kissing, or feeling each other up. He was eighty and she was sixty when she suffered that fatal heart attack two years ago and he’s aged, become smaller since then. We all worry about him.
I concentrate on Old Man and his toy. He clicks once and his brightly coloured neon sign, Mirror, Mirror, fades to black. Another click and Happy New Year, Friends, springs to life in red, white and blue splendour.
“Eureka!” the Old Man exclaims, hopping from foot to foot.
I’m feeling too sorry for myself to do anything but nod. My wife’s rejection has devastated me. I’m a loose canon and I feel like crying.
Don’t be so fucking selfish! Don’t rain on Old Man’s parade ‘cause your wife’s a bitch!
I look at Old Man’s frail, stooped body. His keys rattle in his trembling hand and his eyes are rheumy and sad all the time. On and off the signs go, as he clicks and dances his jig.
“Congrats, Old Man, that’s fabulous,” I say.
The old man grins, turns and gestures wildly toward a face that’s pressed up against the window.
“Get ready, Josh,” he says, stepping in close to me. “There’s a young lady in there, come over from Occupy Pageant. She’s the picture of my Margie, ‘cept her mop of curls is black ‘stead of red like Margie’s. I just want to sit and stare at her ‘til I die.”
I look across the street to the tent city dotting the luscious grounds of the Parliament Building. Occupy Pageant has been going on for four months without incident. We cops have gotten to know the rotating protesters and have become their friends. They’re good kids, brave and innocent, and no trouble whatsoever. But I’m a cop, an integral part of the status quo, so I have to watch what I say
They make me feel old.
“I bet she doesn’t have Margie’s award-winning breasts!” I say, smiling into Old Man’s beaming face.
Margie’s breasts were the toast of Pageant. Heavy, pendulous, soft, firm, bouncing swinging, the stuff of a man’s dreams and how we’d sit around the station dreaming. Margie was so adored by everyone that even our wives and girlfriends tolerated our leers and comments.
“We all miss your Margie,” I say, smiling, as Old Man shuffles to the door, and opens it with a flourish.
“Come on out here, Candy!”
I stare dumbfounded as a blanketed female, wearing over-sized man’s work boots, dances through the door that Old Man holds open. Her huge, Margie-sized tits swaying low, past her waist. A riot of dark curls hangs around her face and energy bubbles out of her, just like it did out of Margie.
“Girlie Girl,” Old Man clucks, opening his arms and gathering her over-sized blanket closer around her. “Meet, Josh.”
“So, that’s your name. I recognize you from the camp. They say you’re teaching us a lot about the law. I’ve been dying to get to know you better.”
Candy’s laugh is flirtatious, suggestive, just like Margie’s.
“That’s very kind of you,” I say, much too thrilled by her attention.
I take in her state of undress, her demeanour, and feel suddenly protective.
“I’m not on duty, but are you in trouble? Has anybody threatened or hurt you?”
“Only myself,” the girl says. “I was so horny I joined in a group thing, you know. Started kissing and stuff, but there were seven guys and just two girls and when I got down to the bra and panties, and saw the other girl was sucking one cock and taking two others, I panicked. It was too much for me, so I grabbed a blanket and a pair of boots and here I am.”
“That’s my girl. A good run’s better than a bad stand,” Old man says. “Watch!”
Candy joins Old Man in his dance. The light show repeats, and I’m alone again, feeling rejected and jealous of the intimacy that has already developed between Candy and Old Man.
“Why’d you name the diner, Mirror, Mirror?”
The Old Man whispers in Candy’s ear and I hate him for excluding me.
“Margie has a closet full of clothes upstairs. You can . . .”
Old Man’s voice drifts away.
“Very cool,” Candy says.
I want to know what they were talking about, but damn if I’ll ask.
“I’ll get the door,” I say, taking the keys from Old Man’s hand.
I watch him place a loose arm around the girl’s waist and lead her back into the diner. I can’t imagine what Old Man is going through. My own balls feel full to bursting and my cock is rising and crowing like it’s early morn. There’s something about this woman: the way her hips sort of pop as she walks, the way her shoulders sway and her breasts move beyond her torso. I watch Candy and Old Man slide into a booth. Old Man is whispering in her ear again and she is giggling, an entrancing coquette.
“Josh, I was just about to make us somethin’ warm and soothin’. I think we could all use it.”
“Sure I’m not putting you out?”
“Nah, I relish the company. Since Margie died, I don’t have nowhere to go. We never had kids; too much into each other. Now, I’m alone and, I don’t mind telling you, it’s hard as hell. Lord, I miss that woman.”
“I know you do,” I say.
We watch Old Man hurry across the room and disappear into the kitchen. I’m left alone with the girl, anxious, but much too interested.
“Old Man’s been telling me about Margie. Boy, that’s some love affair. What about you? I know you’re married to some rich bitch, so why are you here, tonight of all nights?”
I find myself spilling my guts, telling the girl about my marriage troubles, how I’d gone home, ready to seduce my wife all night long and into tomorrow, only to find our driveway full of Mercedes and Bentley’s and a grand and glittering gathering of my wife’s fifty best friends in full swing.
“Didn’t you tell her how much you needed to be alone with her, that she should send those people home?”
“I did. She told me not to be foolish and hung up, when I tried to explain. I was pissed!”
“And hurt, disappointed and betrayed. What’s wrong with you two?”
“Everything. I find her friends pretentious; she won’t even meet mine. Hers find me boring and let me know, every chance they get, that I’m not one of them. I tolerate her family and they ignore me. Tonight was to be a last ditch effort to save us.”
Candy reaches over and strokes my arm. Her hand is warm, like her voice and smile.
“Her loss, our gain. Mine and Old Man’s.”
“Thanks,” I say, happy that she seems to have closed the subject.
“Coffee’s brewing.”
Old Man slides into the booth beside Candy. My eyes trace the outline of her bra, marvelling at how low her full breasts are slung. They disappear under the table, making them all the more titillating, making me picture them settled in her lap, flowing over her knees. The blanket does nothing to hide her charms from Old Man, either. His face is so flush with lust, his breathing so raspy and panting, that I’m worried. Old Man is gazing straight at her breasts, his eyes wet with emotion.
I feel like I’m in the presence of a World Wonder. Candy’s face radiates life and she moves like a primitive sexual animal. I want to bury my face in her tits and suck her nipples until she comes and comes and comes. I’m going crazy and I’m happy and grateful to be here.
“You have the same gorgeous figure as my late wife, Margie,” says Old Man, twisting to directly face Candy. “You don’t really look like her, but you feel like her.”
“Why does everybody call you Old Man,” Candy scolds. “You’re sexy and experienced; my kind of man. Don’t you agree, Mr. Policeman?”
I don’t even answer, wondering how she’s managing to excite both of us without even trying.
“You have the most beautiful body in the world,” the old man says.
“According to my mother, I should lose about thirty pounds.”
“Don’t you lose anything!” Old Man shouts, his voice fever pitched, high and quivering. “You are perfect! You are perfect!”
“The coffee’s probably ready,” I say.
“Toddies, that’s right,” Old Man says, recovering quickly, as he climbs out of the booth.
We gasp. The Old Man’s hard-on is so big and rigid that it tents his apron and leads the way to the kitchen.
“You should be flattered,” I say. “That’s an eighty-two year old hard-on.”
“Margie would be flattered, I’m honoured. He’s a tit lover. Like you.”
“How do you know?”
“Your eyes tell me . . .and your cock.”
Her toes crawl up my thigh and gently smooth by cock. I’m a teenager again. I swear. I want to take her right there in the booth. I’m sorry when Old Man returns with three steaming mugs. Candy warms her hands before holding up her mug for a toast.
“To three lonely people. Lonely no more.”
We sip from our mugs.
“Whoo,” Candy exclaims, “this has a serious kick!”
“You must be hungry. Let me rustle us up something.”
“That’d be great. I’m famished and this drink is the bomb! The tents are really damp and I feel cold most of the time. This is nice!”
Old Man beams down at her before heading back to his kitchen.
We drink our coffees. I wait for her to touch me again.
Her breasts rise and fall, a glorious series of waves engulfing me. Anger at my wife is translating itself into hunger. I’ve never considered infidelity, until now.
“I’m so horny. I want to make love to you, Josh.”
Candy’s frankness is water in a desert after my wife’s machinations.
“You don’t know me.”
“Do I have to know you to fuck you? I know that you’re one of Pageant’s finest. I know that you’re attracted to me. I know that you love Old Man. What more do we need?”
She’s right. We all do love Old man.
I jump when I feel her toes on my thigh again, moving toward my appreciative cock. She crosses her arms, and lifts her mounds so high that she could smother herself and I feel like I’m about to come in my pants. She squeezes her foot between my legs and nudges my balls. I groan as my pleasure peaks and pre-cum oozes onto my pants.
“Let’s make tonight very, very special. We don’t have much time! It’s fifteen minutes to midnight!”
“Excuse me,” I say, fleeing to the bathroom to swab my leaking head.
I don’t have to pee, I need to think. Going any further with this flirtation could land me in deep trouble. If my marriage is going to end, I don’t want it to be messy. My head is swimming and I’ve only had a few sips of my drink. It’s her, something about her. No sense blaming the alcohol.
Get back to the table, eat your food and escape!
I splash some water on my face and dry it without looking at myself. I’m afraid of what I’ll see. I pledge to be a good boy and head back out.
Candy is on her feet when I get back to the table. She comes close to me, fits comfortably under my chin. Her breasts feel like firm, soft pleasure spreading all over my chest and I can hardly breathe.
“Let’s try something,” she says.
She’s not quite pretty. Her face is round, her cheeks and lips so full that all I can think of is ripe fruit that makes me cool on a summer’s day and serves up hot on cold nights like this. She presses herself into me and touches her lips to mine, so softly, before pulling back. I grab her, pull her into me, and she kisses me hard, grinds her pussy into my cock, and I lose my bearings. My tongue feels thick fucking her mouth. Her nipple grows hard beneath my fingers and I’m going to come if she makes me. She’s beautiful.
She steps back.
“Come with me upstairs to Margie’s apartment. Old Man says I can wear anything I find.”
“What about the Old Man?”
“He’s preparing his burger special, just like he used to do for Margie every New Year’s Eve. We’ll have it later.”
“Maybe I should wait for you . . . ”
Her kiss this time is all liquid, probing, controlling. She caresses my cock, tickles my balls. She licks my lips and pinches my nipples.
“Ouch,” I say, sounding like a little girl.
“Do you want to fuck me or not?”
“I do.”
There’s no more pretending.
“Then, let’s go up,” she says, and I follow her like a little puppy.
At the top of the stairs Candy stops and turns into me.
“Once we go into the apartment, I want you to call me Margie. Old Man says I have her tits and style. Did you ever want to fuck Margie?”
“Every man in Pageant wanted to fuck Margie.”
“Then give me two minutes and come in.”
I begin to touch myself as soon as the door closes. My cock is humming a long hard tune and it occurs to me that I haven’t made love to woman in over three months and when I did, all I can remember is my wife’s vacant stare. Fuck, I feel good. I’m a little guilty about the old Man. Anyone can see how much he’d love just a little bit of Candy, but I’m much too selfish to worry about that now. My needs have consumed me and it’s time to go in.
Candy is standing in front of the closet mirror, moving her hands over her breasts and torso as though she were smoothing her skin. She looks like a fifties nymph in lingerie. A garter belt holds up silken stockings, a string of long pearls is nestled in her cleavage and her ripe breasts jiggle and flow as she turns this way and that. A pair of white pumps and a diaphanous white housecoat complete her ensemble. Lacy curtains cover the windows, a chenille spread covers the bed and a scalloped floral cloth adorns the tiny table set in the window alcove. I feel like I’ve been transported back in time.
“I’m Margie,” Candy says. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
When she turns toward me, the full impact of her enormous breasts strikes me. She’s a goddess and all I want to do is worship her.
“If you’re Margie, then I must be Old Man?”
“You could never be Old Man. Nobody could be my Old Man, but you’re lovely. I want you, and Old Man has given me permission to have you.”
“Don’t I have anything to say about this?”
“Not if you want to please me. You do want to please me, don’t you?” I don’t answer. My cock is pulsing and leaking into my already stained slacks and I want to please her more than anything. “Bring that chair over,” she says.
I pick up the chair that’s tucked under the window table and bring it to her. She takes a seat.
“I’m ready,” she said. “Present that beautiful cock of yours.”
I watch her in the mirror. She has opened her robe and I stare down at rivers of creamy warm flesh. She is pinching her nipples, making them long and spongy hard. I want to take out my cock, stroke it and put it in her mouth, but I’m suddenly nervous.
“Won’t Old Man be waiting for us?”
“The only thing he’s waiting for is for you to take out that cock of yours and please his Margie.”
Candy is smiling, but she doesn’t look like herself. She has adopted Margie’s flirtatious grin and open sexuality. She spreads her legs and is rubbing her pussy through cotton, moaning, her mouth open and gasping for breath.
I unzip my pants, let them fall to the floor and step forward. Her hands are now cool and feathery light as they trace the length and squeeze the breadth of my now huge organ. Her tits are pooled in her lap and her elongated nipples make my mouth water. I close my eyes, sway and fight to keep my balance, as her mouth claims me.
“Is Margie’s mouth warm and wet? Does Margie’s tongue please you?”
I feel like I’ve left my body, so intense is the pleasure. “Margie,” I groan, as she licks my sweet spot.
I think I hear a scraping behind the closet door, just as Margie releases my cock and stands to face the mirror again. She dances out of her panties, slowly and sensually, like a burlesque queen. She eases her titties out of their cups and bends over, allowing them to sweep the floor, slowly, back and forth. Her tight ass is raised high, tempting, unnerving. I can’t help myself. I move behind her and grab her waist, pulling her back against my ready cock. She presses her ass over my bulge.
“How much do you want to fuck me?”
“Very much,” I said.
“Will you really give it to me?”
Margie arranges herself over the chair, palms on the seat beside her tits, her ass lifted toward me. Moisture glistens on her pussy hairs, letting me know that she’s aroused. Ready. I can smell her pussy juice and her eyes are horny slits.
I can’t resist. I tease her pussy with my cock head, before easing into her. She is so wet that the entry is met with slurping sounds that turn me into a beast. My gentle strokes gather speed and the force of a hurricane as I ram into her. She returns the motion, pressing back into me, forcing me toward the edge.
“You’re making Margie crazy, Josh. You’re one great fuck, Josh.”
Margie bends her legs and begins to draw pelvic circles with her hips. I’m falling, losing control with her every nuanced move.
“I’m going to come,” I shout.
“I’m ready,” she says, shoving her hands between her legs. “I’m coming!”
I hear a groan. Margie yelps. I moan and pump hot spurts of come into Margie’s throbbing pussy. Her muscles are fierce. She is draining me, raising the pleasure bar. I’ve never come so deep or so long.
“Yes! Oh yes! I’m cominnnnnnnnng!” cries a voice from the closet, as everything goes slack and white hot in paradise.
I’m about to collapse. I fall into the chair and pull Margie into my lap.
“Happy New Year,” I say.
“Happy New Year, Josh, and to you Old Man. May we come evermore,” Candy says, and then she kisses me, a long deep wet kiss that speaks as much of love as lust.
It’s been ten years since I met Candy and got a quiet divorce; six years since we married, right here in the diner. Since that first time, we’ve never spent a New Year’s Eve away from our Mirror, Mirror, never missed our special fantasy.
We drink coffee and eat burgers before locking up and going home. Tomorrow, as is our custom, Old Man will come to our home for dinner, play with our three year old and celebrate the New Year like the proper family we’ve become.
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