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The moment Peter laid eyes upon the hidden treasure in the old antique shop, he knew he had to have it. The beautiful piece was a giant, oval mirror, with a thick border of gilt edging set with intricate designs and bits of sparkling gems. It came with a heavy stand to keep it sturdy, allowing it to be tilted into the exact position the user needed. The glass itself was crystal clear, showing not a single smudge or fingerprint on its surface.
The owner of the shop insisted that everything that made up the trim of the mirror was fake, despite the clarity of the gems set into such a pure gold inlay. He insisted there was nothing special about it, thus the sales tag attached to it. Even if it was all fake, it was still enough of a find to tote a hefty price, but it did not. The man seemed eager to be rid of it.
Well, Peter wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He shouldn’t have spent what little money he had to purchase and transport the thing across bustling NYC to his shabby apartment, but that was exactly what he did. He’d be eating ramen for a week or so, but that wasn’t unusual for him. Perhaps he could pick up an extra shift or two at work to make up for it.
In the meantime, he would just enjoy his new purchase. He had an affinity for antiques in general, and his home was filled with a clashing assortment of the old and unique. His new mirror was special, however, and was placed in his bedroom. It sat pointed at the foot of his bed, angled at just the right corner so Peter wouldn’t be watching himself sleep.
No, if Peter wanted to be seen in the mirror, he just had to sit near the end of the bed, back pressed against the wall, knees sinking into the worn mattress. It was perfect. He could see all of himself in flawless clarity, framed like a painting, his smooth skin on display — draped lazily in a sheet, or with clothes ruffled and half undone, or reclined and nude. He could pretend he was a piece of art hung up for all to marvel over in a softly lit museum.
A strange kink he had, perhaps, but nobody ever had to know of it. Nobody but him. Only he and his reflection were privy to how much he loved to watch himself in sensuous poses. His heavy-lidded eyes alone saw how he would give into his craving and touch himself, slowly, intimately, watching as his face flitted across so many expressions of pleasure.
Just him.
More.
The voice whispered at the back of his mind, too ethereal to grab hold of, like the memory of a dream. It was his own lust, surely. His body insisting that he return to the mirror, time and time again, to slow his hand and watch the desperation on his own face as he dragged out his pleasure. Slower. Longer. More.
It was a call Peter couldn’t resist and didn’t want to. His casual kink grew into an obsession. He didn’t want to spend time touching himself any other way. He wanted to watch himself, needed to see the gilt frame around him, craved that feeling of eyes boring into him. Distant, unattached eyes like the patrons in a museum, coveting him, but ultimately uncaring of what he did or who he was as they gazed upon his body.
It was intoxicating.
Time outside of his room blurred over the next few months. He didn’t have much of a zeal for life, nor did he care to interact with others. He had always been a bit of a loner, but his new mirror was making that all the worse. He worked for food and rent and he ate to have enough energy to go to his room and make himself look good for his bejeweled oval frame. He daydreamed all day about what he would do each night.
His imagination began to get the best of him. As he sprawled in front of his mirror, hands roaming his body achingly slow, he would imagine other hands to touch him. So far into his own head was he that he swore he could feel it. A trailing nail down his spine, a fleeting kiss on his neck — the little moments taunted him. They were the barely there touches of strangers sneaking a quick caress upon a sculpture, praying that they weren’t caught.
Peter yearned. In hushed tones, he divulged his needs to those ghostly hands that teased his flesh for no more than a second. “More,” he whispered at the mirror. More, his mind echoed.
He wasn’t sure when it was that he stopped tasting food. It didn’t bother him, however. Since he couldn’t taste anything, he just purchased whatever was cheapest. Now that he wasn’t going out to do anything, wasn’t spending a lot on food, and had no desire to shop at any of his usual antique stores, he started collecting a fair bit of money. In turn, he used that extra money to buy things to make himself into something of higher caliber.
Makeup, skin care, jewelry, flimsy outfits — he acquired it all. His hair grew longer, falling in curls over his eyes, so he bought hair products to make them perfect and arranged them just so. Piercings caught his eye in a store, so he went to a shop and pierced anywhere that would fit the sparkling gems he found. A swatch of fine embroidered silk would come home with him and become a tantalizing drape, hiding just enough to have him look erotic.
Sitting in front of the mirror, he admired himself. He dripped with gold. Bracelets and armbands emphasized the shimmering dust coating his skin. A thin chain linked the choker he wore to the sparkling bars in his nipples. Long glittering threads hung from his ear piercings and accented the crystal hair piece woven into his dark curls. A golden ring at the tip of his cockhead peeked from under the pure white chiffon that twisted around his body.
He’d grown well accustomed to accenting his cheekbones and applying just enough eyeliner to make his eyes pop. A slight tint on his lips had them begging to be kissed. His soft skin sang at the feeling of the satin sheets he lounged on. He was picture perfect.
In fact, he was so beautiful that he didn’t want to move. He was painfully hard and his gut ached with need, but he didn’t want to disturb the image before him. Today’s look wasn’t one that needed motion, be it fast or slow. No, today he should remain still to the eyes of detached watchers as he desperately prayed that they would reach out and toy with him.
“Touch me,” Peter murmured, his lips barely moving, his pleas escaping on a soft breath. “Please.”
And just like that, he could feel it.
Hands were upon his body, sliding over his skin, trailing dark arousal in their wake. He couldn’t see them, and they did not disturb his perfect image. Fingers plucked at his nipples and he moaned at the ache of pleasure-pain it caused. A hot tongue trailed along the underside of his draped cock, forcing his lips to part on a harsh breath. Something slid into his mouth and his tongue played with it, feeling the press of something despite there being nothing but air. His eyes drooped as pleasure sang through his veins, but he kept them open enough to see his reflected face slacken with lust. And oh, what a wonderful sight that was.
Perhaps he should have been afraid. These caresses, the occasional nip of sharp teeth, the hot, wet slide of a tongue, they were far too real. His imagination was, perhaps, tipping over into insanity. That was surely cause for alarm. However, such concerns were lacking. All he cared about was how good it felt — how he didn’t have to break his perfect image in order to feel such overwhelming pleasure.
A pleasure not even his own hands could bring him.
“More,” Peter moaned, eyelashes fluttering.
“More,” a dark voice whispered into Peter’s ear.
Sucking in a sharp breath, arousal spiking hot and fast, a bolt searing straight to his groin, Peter came at the sound of that voice. His body melted into the sheets, though he made sure his limbs slid into a perfect repose before his eyelids fell shut. He felt so at peace, and so drained from his release, even though the low buzz of desire stayed in his gut, a warning that he would no longer have a moment where he stopped craving that touch.
Oh, what he would do to feel that again.
“Mine,” a voice called, tugging at the edges of Peter’s exhausted mind. His body felt too heavy to move as unconsciousness tugged at him. “Mine.”
With great effort, Peter’s eyes slit open. In the mirror he could see himself — Young Man in Slumber. Reflected in the glass pane of his frame was a figure, a man to be sure, but not human. He stood tall with broad shoulders and curling horns atop his head. A whip-like tail flicked around behind him and sharp claws curled at his sides, as if resisting the strong urge to reach out and touch. His large cock sat heavy and swollen between his legs, the light playing on the dripping pre-cum at the tip.
Most notably, his body was red with swirling sections of black. He was nude, leaving his textured skin on display — bits of it shiny like polished armor while other places were mangled and scarred. His expression was hard to read, the details lost due to the glint of gold in the painting — the painting Peter was comprised of.
“Mine,” the creature rumbled again. The row of pointed teeth were noticeable as he grinned.
Peter felt contentment wash over him. Someone coveted him enough that they wished to steal him from the gallery. There was little else that could compare to such flattery. His mind slipped off into sleep once more on a tide of validation.
After that, Peter changed the angle of the mirror. He didn’t mind the mirror watching him sleep, not anymore. In fact, he didn’t mind the mirror watching everything he did, so he indulged that desire. Now that he was constantly being cast in the gilded frame, he made his every movement elegant, every pose purposeful. He stopped wearing clothes at home, choosing instead to dress in his many costumes, or perhaps a classy drape, or occasionally only his jewelry, or simply be a tasteful nude.
He also slept a great deal more. Being on display for so many hours left him drained. He felt disconnected from the world around him. People stopped paying him any mind, as if they could see right through him. That was for the best since it was hard to concentrate on work or socialization or anything at all, really. All he could ever think about, no matter where he happened to be, was exhibiting himself for the mirror.
To keep himself sane when he was out of his apartment, he researched art styles. He pored over the classics and studied modern erotic photography. Every little thing learned could be implemented. How could he shower in a way that showed off the lines of his body? How could he hold himself when applying makeup? What shape should his lips be in when eating?
Most importantly, how would his midnight thief wish to see him while he slept?
The creature made multiple appearances since that night. The more he visited, the stronger his words grew. He demanded things of Peter, things that a simple work of art felt helpless to deny.
“Show me,” and Peter would toss away the sheets so that the creature could gaze upon his nude form.
“Touch,” and Peter would take himself in hand, stroking slow and languid until he fell asleep, staying as hard and unfulfilled at the unnatural cock reflected in the mirror.
“Fill,” and Peter would sleep plugged, his ass stretched and feeling so blissfully full that he would grind against the mattress in his sleep, only waking when it pulled a rumbling chuckle from the creature.
“Wait,” and Peter would remove his hands and allow only the ghostly touch of claws and calloused fingers to bring him relief from his constantly burning arousal for as long as the creature desired.
Until one night Peter pulled his mind up and up from the depths of sleep and opened his eyes completely to gaze at his transparent visitor — his too patient thief. “Why won’t you take me?” Peter asked, voice raspy from fatigue.
He could be taken away from the gallery of dispassionate eyes and transient touches — though he did love them — and hung in a special place in the creature’s home. Peter had never been so desired by anyone. The red and black man never touched his drooling cock, saving all of his lust for a single prize, yet he still waited. Peter was ripe for the taking, so why did this person, this benevolent monster, stall?
“Soon,” was all the response Peter was given.
The barely there sensation of a thick finger pressed at Peter’s lips and he obediently opened his mouth to take it in and suck on the non-existent digit. He wanted so badly to be ripped from his frame and taken by this man — this creature — this demon of the night. Surely, a demon thief would have the power to do so. Peter would be placed where the demon so chose, hidden away but always on display, immobile and wanting, until the demon saw fit to pull him down and shower him in earth-shattering pleasure.
Peter moaned and the demon hissed around a fierce, shark-like grin.
“Soon.”
Later… Sometime later… when the electricity no longer worked, Peter learned how to best use the natural light his apartment had available. He had run out of food, but he wasn’t hungry anyways. He slept most of the day and night, but he made sure to look exquisite while doing so. His ribs could be seen and the dark circles under his eyes didn’t go away anymore, but he used that to create a gothic effect. He rather liked that art form. He couldn’t help but be proud of how well he could portray so many different styles.
This also impressed the demon, who would look upon Peter more and more with carnal hunger. Such a sight sent desire shooting straight through Peter’s core and he yearned to feel the hard thrust of the demon’s thick cock, to taste it, to worship it. He could even see more details of the bulging phallus now as the demon’s presence grew more solid while Peter’s faded into a faint overtone to what now looked like a gilt frame made only to showcase the demon’s powerful form.
The mere sight of it brought an inexplicable joy bubbling up in Peter’s chest.
Days and nights passed in flashes of shading and the world slipped in and out, growing faint as time warped around Peter in whorls of colors and patterns and blotches of paint. He felt detached from everything, though he supposed that was normal. Art both was and wasn’t part of the world around it. This knowledge made him happy. His leaden limbs and slow breaths meant he was becoming more of the thing he craved rather than the human he rejected.
He could barely move anymore, and the demon shared his joy. In lieu of Peter’s own touch, the demon would provide all that was needed. The caresses felt so real now — so strong and bruising. He would gag, albeit weakly, on the demon’s tail shoved down his throat, and his hole would burn from the hard, leathery fingers stretching him open. His cock felt amazing when the demon’s tongue spiraled around it, though Peter’s arousal now stayed at a constant, never-ending high, his body no longer healthy enough to give him release.
That suited Peter just fine. Art did not ejaculate and ruin the hard work of the artist — smear the oils, unbalance the colors, ruin the detailed work of sculpted marble. He could simply float here in this constant cloud of unending desire, always readily available for when his demon finally stole him away for countless hours of pleasure.
Peter lay on the bed, staring at the mirror and the demon smiling possessively down on him. His fingers twitched with the need to reach out and touch. He wanted to be taken away so badly. He wanted to be treasured and locked away by the thief’s lust and greed.
The demon’s tail lashed side to side in growing excitement, his pearl-white eyes glimmered with anticipation, and his claws curled with tension as he fought not to move. Sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight that streamed through the bedroom window, illuminating Peter’s pale and nearly transparent skin. Peter loved the way the moon made him glow now and knew that his demon loved it too.
“Mine,” the demon said with finality.
Yours, Peter thought, his voice having given out so long ago he couldn’t remember what it sounded like.
The red and black of the demon was solid now, bold hues of colors deep enough that they absorbed the light, demanding so much of the viewer’s focus that Peter could barely see himself within the oval frame anymore. One clawed hand lifted up and pushed its way through the glass that twisted and molded around the hard skin, reaching out to Peter’s limp form. The pure, ecstatic joy that filled Peter gave him enough energy to smile.
“Come to me.”
Knowing it would take all the life left in him to do so, Peter lifted his hand and placed it into the demon’s own, feeling his heart give out as he did so. At last, he was free. At last, he was only an object to be desired and owned by his lover — the demon thief.
The demon called to Peter’s body, demanded it to move, and it did so. Peter knew nothing but bliss as he was pulled into the mirror and into the arms of his new owner. They were a completed piece now: a frail human man, full of sin, wrapped in the embrace of a twisted demon, body and soul forfeit to the evil desires of a malevolent fiend.
The image in the mirror faded like smoke, dispersing until only the dark room and empty bed of a long-abandoned apartment was reflected in the ornate oval. When at last a crew would come to clean out the remains of the unknown resident’s strange collection of antique items, the mirror would once again find itself in a small, overlooked shop — seeking a new owner with its eternal patience.