Chapter 3: The Mirror's Truth
His mouth was still full of her, the taste imprinted on his tongue, when he pulled back.He was breathing hard, staring up at her from between her thighs. Her face was a mask of shattered ecstasy, but also a deep, gathering shame. He couldn’t let her hide now.Not from this.Not from him.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice raw.He stood up, his own body aching with renewed need. He took her hand, the one that had been clutching the sheet, and pulled her upright. She was unsteady, her legs trembling.She resisted, a feeble shake of her head.
“No, Alex, please—”
“Look.” It wasn’t a request.It was a command, flat and cold.
He guided her, half-led, half-dragged her, across the room to the tall, speckled mirror leaning against the wall.The glass was old, reflecting the room in a haze of silver and gloom. He positioned her in front of it, her back to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands splayed across her stomach, feeling the rapid flutter of her breath.
For a moment, they just stared at their reflection.A mother and son, tangled in the aftermath. Her auburn hair was wild, her mascara smudged. He looked older, his eyes hollow and hungry.
Then his right hand slid down, over the thatch of curls, and found her again.She gasped as his fingers curled around her heat and hardness. He began to stroke, slowly, watching their reflection in the murky glass.
“See?” he whispered into the shell of her ear.His lips brushed her skin.“See how beautiful you are?This is you. All of you.”
Holly’s eyes were locked on the mirror, wide with horror and a rapt, grotesque fascination. She watched his large, tanned hand moving on her pale flesh, a stark and impossible contrast. She watched her own face contort, saw the wanton arch of her neck, the parted lips.A tear escaped, cutting a clean track through the chaos on her cheek.
“I don’t…” she breathed.“You do,” he countered, his rhythm steadying. “You always have.This is the truth, mom. The one you kept from me.” He bit her earlobe, not gently.“From everyone.”
Her head lolled back against his shoulder. Her hands came up, gripping his forearms, her nails digging in.Not to stop him. To hold on.“My sweet boy,” she murmured, the words thick. “What have I done to you?”
“You’ve shown me,” he said. He sped his hand, a torturous, perfect friction.Her hips began to move in tiny, desperate circles against his palm. “Now watch.”
He held her like that until her breathing was a ragged sob, until her knees were buckling.Then he turned her around, his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were unfocused, drunk on sensation and sin.“On your knees,” he said, his voice low.
A flicker of defiance, maternal and instinctual, flashed in her tear-bright eyes. Then it died.She sank down, the old floorboards creaking under her. She looked up at him, from the floor, a supplicant. He felt a surge of power so intense it stole his breath.But that wasn’t what he wanted.Not yet.
He knelt with her, so they were face to face. Then he pushed her back, gently, until she was sitting against the foot of the bed. He moved between her legs, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror just a few feet away.“Watch,” he said again.He lowered his head. This time, he didn’t close his eyes. He looked at their reflection as his tongue dragged a long, wet stripe from base to tip. He saw her head fall back against the mattress, saw her mouth open in a silent cry. He took her fully into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing, and he watched himself do it.The sight was more obscene than the feeling.It was brutal, and clarifying.
He worked her with a ruthless devotion, his tongue circling, his lips sucking, his hand cradling the heavy weight of her. All the while, he stared at the mirror, forcing her to watch the spectacle of her own devouring.
“Alex… God, I can’t…” Her voice was a broken thing.He released her with a wet pop, his chin slick. “You can.You are.Look at you.”
She forced her head up, her gaze meeting their reflection. She saw her son between her thighs, saw her own body trembling, surrendered. Something in her face fractured.The last shield, the last pretense of motherhood, dissolved. What was left was raw, starving woman.“Come for me,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Come for your son.”
It was the final twist of the knife. A sound, half-moan, half-sob, ripped from her throat.Her body went rigid, then convulsed. He kept his mouth on her, swallowing every pulse, every shudder, as she fell apart in the mirror and in his arms. He drank her down, the taste of salt and bitterness and surrender, until she was limp and gasping.He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at their reflection one last time.She was destroyed, hollowed out. He was hard, victorious, and utterly, profoundly empty.The only sound was the rain and their ragged breathing. The storm inside had matched the one outside, and now both were reduced to a dull, exhausted roar.
Holly’s hand reached out, weak, and her fingers brushed his stubbled cheek. “Alex,” she whispered, the name holding a universe of ruin.He caught her hand, held it. He didn’t know what to say.The words were gone, washed away. All that was left was the cooling damp on the floor, the taste of her in his mouth, and the terrible, clear knowledge in the glass. They had crossed a line from which there was no return, and the reflection staring back at them was forever changed.