Parallel Mirrors: Reflected Realities - Sex Stories

Parallel Mirrors: Reflected Realities

... screamed in growling fury, lamenting, “You don’t understand! It’s not real; none of this is the real world. He’s after me, over there…there! Give me a mirror and a candle, and I’ll prove it. Help me! Help. I don’t belong here. You’re not real; this world is an illusion, a soul trap.”

Neither defending nor explaining the actions of Freya’s lunacy, she drew upon her prior studies, avoiding clinical lingo, and secured her release. Ensuing weeks proved that this realm was sculpted from the raw clay of decrepit horror, danger, and violence at every turn, drug-addled denizens stalking her, echoing her footsteps. Penniless and unable to secure any sort of employment, the world around her in a crazed rage of polarized contempt, Freya languished, teetering on the brink of madness, until she discovered a junkie’s lighter and candle, lifting the sleeping person’s paraphernalia to facilitate her escape from that harsh, cruel world. Fleeing into the stormy night as thunder and ominous lightning raged all around, the mentally haggard young woman sought a mirror, running through the electrified tempest, her thin, tattered clothing soaked to translucency.

The dark metropolis, a jungle of glass, steel, and concrete, looming around her, Freya sprinted away from the locale dubbed Death’s Alley. Large, oppressive buildings crowded over the despairing streets, a foul moon occasionally emerging from behind inky clouds to ooze puss-colored emanations over the harrowing cityscape. The ...

... streets a chaotic battlefield, despite the murky downpour, the young woman, fending off groping drunkards and perverted men in ties, fled into a dirty, seedy, dimly-lit adult shop, the intoxicated, horny Lotharios splashing onward, seeking a more amenable waif to grind their cocks putrid against.

The greasy, pot-bellied, balding miscreant manning the run-down store merely nodded in greeting, his attention returning to the pornography playing on the wall-mounted screen. He sat there, his grubby tank top undulating with his fattened torso as he wiped his grungy revolver with a soiled rag as if caressing it. Freya tiptoed across a dusty, creaking, wooden floor, randomly selecting a whorish dress from the anemically-stocked rack, telling the sex-predator-looking clerk that she was going to try it on.

“No fitting rooms in here, little streetwalker. Use a glory hole through that door. They have mirrors. Some pervs like to watch themselves stroke.”

Nodding meekly, Freya’s mind crashed, a collision between the real and the delusional, when she looked at the slutty frock clutched in her dripping hands. It was a chintzy, red satin dress, a wispy lace overdress of spiderwebs slung over it. Retreating from the greasy man’s leers, locking herself in the roach-infested cubicle, semen stains all over, Freya lit the tallow and began fantasizing, facilitating her escape from that nightmarish realm. Quickly stripping nude, self-doubt enshrouded her, a surrogate frock woven from doubt and ...