Parallel Mirrors: Infinity Mirrors - Sex Stories

Parallel Mirrors: Infinity Mirrors

Magick or madness? Lust or logic? None of that mattered at that precise moment. Freya’s agile hands, slick with cunt juices, plunged into her oozing pussy, furiously pounding into her sodden hole as the limousine, swerving at a perilous speed, wove in and out of traffic, a foreboding, black Cadillac pursuing, its windows tinted to opacity. The misty, gray rain adhered to the windows of the woman’s limo, a surrogate mirror, and a huge, distant flame, the flaring of some factory ahead, noxious gasses being burnt off, was her candle.

A multitude of worlds ago, unable to find her way back home, Freya had surrendered to the madness of her curse, no longer worried about her sanity. Instead, she embraced her plight. If she were in the throes of lunacy, she may as well enjoy it; if it were the accursed decree of her parents’ demonic gods, then she was powerless to do naught but roll with the thunder in her psyche. But common threads, telltale signs of something more sinister, diabolical, wove themselves into a tapestry of the surreal. Although the worlds changed, endless shadows, echoes, and reverberations of the possible, Freya remained stoic, her mind and appearance a constant.

He was also a constant—that sinister, gaunt man with the knowing, villainous smile, the lemon-yellow eyes of a demonic serpent, and, somehow, imbued with all the minutia of her curse, worlds, and essence. He’d been hot on her heels since the gallery, so many twisted worlds ago, and he was as pervasive ...

... as the now-annoying lemon color that seemed to thematically permeate each world Freya plunged into. No matter how fast the driver went, the ominous, black car still followed, the headlights beams of lemony ire, searing into the limousine’s back bumper.

The gallery show, dozens of shadows past, was, perhaps, her second encounter with him. As Freya, adorned in a gossamer, shimmering dress of see-through, loosely woven frills, viewed “her” paintings, she was accosted by fans, art lovers, and the media. The nightmarish canvases she painted were rooted in her multiple existences, scenes from multiple worlds, parallel mirrors a recurring theme in the art. Mirrors had been artistically hung between the paintings, candles burning in the midst. Those painted images, material reminders of her curse, hung all about, tearing away the last vestiges of her sanity; in that world, her journeys through alternate realities were her art. Then, he appeared, the gallery owner, JD.

His lemon-colored, thin tie caught her attention. He was speaking with some local celebrities, a slutty blond, her eyes as red as Freya’s hair, hanging on his arm. As if psychic, he turned abruptly and met her gaze, his head tilting slightly forward, that malicious sneer crossing his lips. All he did was wink, turning his attention back to his guests. Lunacy tugged at the fraying threads of her sanity; somehow, she felt, knew, that this man, whoever he truly was, was connected to her curse. Unlike the regular male ...