Chapter 7: Vanity Ruined
The taste lingered, a bitter film coating Derek’s tongue and throat. He stayed on his knees before the mirror, the polished floor cool and unyielding beneath his shins, his own drained reflection a silent judge. The heat, that relentless engine inside him, hadn't paused. It had only banked its fires, waiting for the next breath of oxygen. It simmered now, a low, insistent thrum beneath his skin, a constant reminder of the hollow, yearning emptiness at his core.
Peter’s hand curled in his hair, not roughly, but with definitive ownership. He guided Derek to his feet. Derek’s legs trembled, threatening to buckle, but Peter’s grip was firm, holding him upright.
“Look at you,” Peter said, his voice a mix of amusement and clinical observation. He turned Derek toward the mirror again. “A complete mess. We can’t have that.”
Derek stared at the portrait of his own debasement. His lips were swollen, bruised-looking. A mixture of saliva and spend glistened on his chin and chest. His eyes were hollow, the usual guarded intensity replaced by a shimmering, desperate sheen.
Peter steered him, one hand on his shoulder, across the room away from the main bed. They moved through an arched opening partially concealed by more of the ever-present black velvet drapery. The space beyond was smaller, more intimate, and dominated by a single piece of furniture.
It was a vanity, an antique thing of dark, carved wood. Its surface was a chaotic landscape of the witch’s abandoned beauty: crystal bottles with tarnished silver tops, pots of dried creams, scattered brushes with bristles splayed from long disuse. The central mirror was vast, tarnished at the edges but clear in the center, flanked by two smaller ones that could be angled. The threefold reflection seemed to trap the room, multiplying the dozens of flickering candle flames that provided the only light.
Peter pushed Derek backwards until the edge of the vanity dug into the small of his back. He rummaged one-handed through the debris on the surface, sending a thin box of pins clattering to the floor. His fingers closed around a tube, its casing cold and metallic.
“Hold still,” Peter said, his tone light, as if about to apply a bandage.
He uncapped the tube. The bullet of lipstick inside was a deep, damning crimson, nearly black in the candlelight. Peter took Derek’s chin in his hand, his grip firm. Derek flinched as the waxy, floral-scented stick touched his bottom lip. Peter dragged it across, slowly, meticulously, coloring the full curve. He repeated the motion on the top lip, pressing down, smearing the pigment into the sensitive flesh. The act was absurdly gentle, at odds with everything that had come before.
Peter leaned back to admire his work. A slow smile spread across his face. “There. An improvement already.”
He spun Derek around to face the central mirror. The sight was a physical blow.
The crimson mouth was a violent shock against Derek’s pale, sweat-sheened skin. It was a grotesque parody of femininity, a slash of color that made his already-bruised lips look painted, deliberately wanton. It transformed his face from that of a ruined young man into something else entirely—a doll, a courtesan, a thing waiting to be used.
“Such a pretty girl,” Peter murmured, the words a hot whisper against Derek’s ear as he stared at the reflection over Derek’s shoulder. His hands settled on Derek’s hips, his thumbs digging into the dip above his pelvis.
Derek couldn’t look away from the mirror. The “pretty girl” stared back, her eyes wide with a panic that was all his own. He watched, hypnotized, as Peter’s hands slid upward, over his abdomen, his ribs. He watched his own traitorous body arch back into the touch, seeking the contact despite the shame.
One of Peter’s hands drifted to the front of the simple black briefs Derek still wore, the only remaining shred of his own clothing. He hooked his fingers in the waistband. “These are in the way, don’t you think?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He yanked them down in one swift motion. Derek kicked them off, the action automatic. He was fully exposed now, his reflection naked but for that lurid red mouth.
Peter pressed close behind him, the hard line of his renewed erection a brand against Derek’s tailbone. He resumed his rummaging on the vanity with one hand, the other splayed possessively on Derek’s stomach. He pushed aside perfume bottles and a silver hairbrush, his search deliberate.
His fingers found lace. He pulled it free from a tangle of other silken things—a teddy, sheer and black, straps slender as spiderweb. He held it up, and the candlelight shone through the fragile material.
“A little fancy for the occasion, but why not,” Peter said, his chuckle low and private. He guided Derek’s arms through the straps, pulling the delicate garment up over his shoulders. It settled against Derek’s skin, a whisper of sensation. The lace cups were loose against his chest, the bodice sheer, doing nothing to hide him. The bottom was a loose, short skirt of the same transparent lace, ending high on his thighs.
Derek watched, a numb spectator in his own body, as Peter dressed him. The absurdity of it was as potent as the humiliation. He was being costumed for his own degradation.
“Perfect,” Peter breathed, again admiring the mirror. His hands slid down from Derek’s shoulders, over the lace, down to his hips. He pulled Derek back firmly against him, his cock sliding against the cleft of Derek’s ass, already slick from the renewed heat. “Look at that. A perfect, pretty girl.”
He leaned Derek forward slightly, bending him over the vanity. Derek’s hands, palms down, flattened among the cold glass bottles and dusty powders. His reflection in the central mirror was now one of offering: the lace teddy rucked up, the transparent skirt doing nothing to conceal the curve of his ass or the wet, gleaming evidence of his need. The red mouth, parted in a silent gasp, completed the picture.
Peter’s hand came down on his lace-covered ass cheek. The slap was sharp, a crack that echoed in the small room. The sting was immediate, a bright blossom of pain that Derek felt deep in the muscle. In the mirror, he saw the skin beneath the sheer lace flush a hot, sudden red, the shape of Peter’s hand forming clearly for a moment before fading into a diffuse blush.
“Needs color,” Peter said mildly, as if commenting on a pale canvas.
He lined himself up, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently against Derek’s opening. Derek was loose, wet, ready. The anticipation was its own agony.
“Watch,” Peter commanded, his eyes locked on the mirror.
Derek watched.
He saw Peter push forward, saw his own body yield, saw the slow, inexorable penetration framed by the black lace. The fullness was immediate, overwhelming. Peter slid home in one smooth, deep stroke, until their bodies were flush. A choked sound escaped Derek’s painted lips.
Then Peter began to move.
It was a different rhythm than before—not the slamming, driving pace of the bed, but a deliberate, grinding roll of his hips, deep and possessive. Each withdrawal was slow, almost reluctant, each thrust back in a solid reclaiming of territory. The vanity shook with the force, bottles rattling, a pot of dried rouge tipping over and spilling a cloud of brick-red powder across the dark wood.
Peter kept one hand splayed on Derek’s lace-covered back, holding him down. The other hand reached around, fingers tracing the wet, stretched place where they were joined, before sliding forward to take Derek’s cock in a loose, lazy grip.
“See?” Peter grunted, his voice thick with effort. “Look at her. Taking it so well. So greedy for it.” He squeezed, dragging his fist slowly up Derek’s length, smearing pre-come. The dual sensation—the deep, grinding fullness inside and the rough friction outside—drove Derek’s breathing into ragged, helpless pants. His painted mouth hung open, a dark O of pleasure in the mirror.
Peter’s thrusts began to lose their deliberate control, becoming harder, faster. The vanity shuddered violently. A tall, slender bottle of dark perfume toppled and smashed on the floor, releasing a staggering cloud of jasmine and myrrh that choked the air.
“Gonna mark that pretty face,” Peter growled, his pace turning punishing, sloppy. “Gonna make sure everyone knows what you are.”
With a final, brutal series of drives, Peter stilled, buried deep. His hand left Derek’s cock and clamped on his hip, holding him impaled as he pulsed inside him. The heat of the release echoed the fire burning in Derek’s gut.
Peter pulled out abruptly. He spun Derek around before he could collapse, pushing him back against the vanity’s edge. Derek’s vision swam, his body trembling with unmet tension. Peter fisted himself, stroking roughly, his gaze fixed on Derek’s smeared, crimson lips.
“Open,” Peter breathed, his own breath coming in sharp gasps.
Derek obeyed, his jaw falling slack. He closed his eyes.
“No. Look.”
Derek’s eyes flew open. He saw Peter’s hand moving fast, saw the tension in his arm. A hot stripe splashed across Derek’s cheek, painting his skin. Another landed on his chin. Another across his painted lips, mixing with the waxy pigment. The final pulses landed on his chest, staining the sheer black lace of the teddy.
Peter let go of himself, his hand dropping to his side. He was breathing heavily, a look of profound, smug satisfaction on his face as he surveyed his work.
Derek stood there, pinned by the mirror behind him and Peter’s gaze in front. The warm, sticky trails on his face felt like a brand. The lace stuck to his skin, soaked and translucent. The red lipstick was ruined, smeared beyond recognition.
Peter reached out with his thumb. He swiped through the mess on Derek’s cheekbone, collecting it. He then carefully, almost tenderly, smeared it back over Derek’s bruised lips, mixing his own release with the witch’s rouge.
“There,” Peter said softly, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “Now you’re perfect.”
He stepped back, leaving Derek propped against the vanity, a ruined doll amid the scattered cosmetics. Derek’s body screamed for completion, the heat a living thing, clawing at his insides. He was painfully hard, untouched, dripping onto the lace between his legs.
Peter tucked himself away, zipped his jeans. He picked up a stray powder brush from the vanity, tapping it against his palm, sending a tiny puff of dust into the air.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, conversational tone. He gestured vaguely to the mess on Derek’s face and chest. “Use whatever’s here. I’m going to find where our hostess keeps her liquor. This room is dry.”
He turned and walked out through the velvet drapes, leaving Derek alone with the triplicate mirrors and the crushing, perfumed silence. The reflection showed him everything: the smeared makeup, the sticky stripes on his skin, the desperate need in his eyes, the delicate, soiled lace that now felt heavier than chainmail.
He was alone. And the heat was already building again, a tidal wave gathering force, demanding an anchor he did not have.