The mirror of the dressing room
The afternoon had been suspended in the empty theatre. The emergency lamps flashed over the rows of armchairs and, in dressing room number three, the smell of old makeup and velvet was mixed with the rain hitting the skylight. Adrian looked into the mirror: shirt rolled up, tie loosened, tired reflection of a day of rehearsals. Forty-three years old he kept his back straight and the physicist that had allowed him to interpret heroes of sword until recently.
The door opened without knocking. Irene came in with the key she had been loaned to pick up the last wardrobe. The black raincoat dripped on the floor. She was thirty-nine, the brown hair gathered in a low bow, and her mouth dyed from a red that the water had not completely erased.
"I didn't know anyone was here," he said, quietly, almost an excuse.
"I wanted to pick up the rest of the address books," he replied, pointing to the crowded table of papers.
They looked at each other. Outside, the rain became more intense and the theater seemed to close over them. Irene took off the raincoat and left it on a chair. The silk blouse, somewhat wet, stuck to the skin on her shoulders. Adrian approached her without a hurry and offered her a dry towel. When she took it, her fingers rubbed.
"It's cold," she said. "Are there any lights left?"
"Only this lamp and the lamp coming from the hallway," he replied.
The dressing room was small. A red velvet sofa, the coat rack with layers of scene, and a full-body mirror that returned its two silhouettes. Irene passed the towel through her neck; the cloth rubbed the collarbone and left a visible heat trail on her skin. Adrian did not turn her eyes apart, but waited. When she left the towel, she took another step. The distance was no longer professional.
"Do you mind if I stay a moment?" asked Irene.
"No," he said, and drew his hand to remove an imaginary thread from his sleeve. "I like the sound of rain in here.
She smiled sideways, almost shy. Adrián’s fingers remained on her elbow and slowly went down to her wrist. Irene lifted her chin. The kiss was slow, exploratory. He tasted the taste of the lipstick, the slight tingling of the breath mixed with hers. Her hands sat on his ribs, under his open shirt. Thumbs drew a hot line from her skin.
"There is no hurry," Adrián whispered against his mouth.
"I prefer that," replied Irene. "I like to notice everything.
The silk blouse fell on the back of the sofa. The black lace bra opened with a soft click. Irene’s breasts, heavy and pale, were released; the nipples were already hard because of the contrast of air. Adrián knelt down to kiss them slowly, wide and warm tongue, sucking without rushing. Irene plunged her fingers into her hair and threw just, guiding the pressure.
When he joined, Irene unbuttoned his belt. The pants went down to his ankles along with his underpants. Adrian’s penis rose thick, the central vein marked, his head already shiny. Irene took him with her warm hand and caressed him from top to bottom, measuring the pulse that returned him. He held his breath.
"Come," said Irene, and led him to the mirror.
They placed themselves sideways, she turned back to the crystal moon, he facing her reflection. Adrian opened a drawer of the dresser and pulled out a jar of almond oil that an actress used to make up. He heated it between the palms and spread it over her fingers. Irene bowed slightly, leaning her hands on the edge of the dresser. The mirror returned the image of her round buttocks, separated by the posture, the dark and soft crack, and further down the damp glow that was already beginning to moisten the hair.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he asked quietly.
"I won't want you to stop," she replied, looking through the mirror.
Adrián spread the oil carefully. First he drew circles around the anus, applying only superficial pressure. Then he slipped an index finger, slowly, to the first knuckle. Irene released a long sigh; the muscle relaxed around the finger. He waited, gently turning, adding more oil. When he felt the ring yielding, he introduced a second finger, curving them forward to brush the inner wall. Irene pushed the hips back, accepting the caress.
"More," she asked.
He pulled out his fingers, soaped them again and put them back in, this time with three. The oil dripped a little through the inside of his thighs. Irene groaned low, a serious sound and content. Adrian curved his fingers, looking for the point that made her bow her back and bit her lip.
When she considered that the muscle was soft and receptive, she smeared her own sex with plenty of oil. The head of the penis was slippery, shiny. She stood behind Irene, took her hips with her hands and placed the tip against the dilated anus. She pushed only what was necessary for her head to enter. Irene let out a sharp gasp; the heat wrapped the crown and the ring closed around the glans. Adrian stopped, letting her pulse mark the rhythm.
"He breathes," he whispered against his shoulder.
She obeyed. She breathed slowly; the anus opened a little more. Adrian advanced an inch, then another. The lubricant facilitated the sliding; each millimeter was a hot and tight friction. When it reached the middle of the penis, Irene straightened herself a little and reached her hand from behind to follow. The mirror reflected her contracted face of pleasure, her mouth abated, her pupils dilated.
Adrián began to move. Short entrances and exits at first, allowing the anus to get used to the width. Every time it came out, the muscle closed around the head and swallowed it again more easily. The wet sound of the oil filled the dressing room. Irene’s buttocks gently hit his pelvis, skin against skin. He accelerated the rhythm, nailing his fingers to the hips to keep control. Irene groaned without words, a long sound that ended in each onslaught.
"Deeper," she asked.
Adrián pushed to the bottom. The penis disappeared completely between the buttocks. Irene trembled; the anus contracted around the base, tightening all the thickness. He stood still for a few seconds, feeling the inner pulse. Then he resumed the movement, long and deep, entering until the testicles collided against the wet skin. Each onslaught caused a slippery sound and a moaned content.
Irene took a hand between her legs and touched her clitoris with two quick fingers. Orgasms swung through her: the anus contracted strongly around the penis, a series of hot pulses that forced Adrian to stop so that it didn’t end too soon. She screamed down at the mirror and trembled from head to toe.
When the contractions decreased, Adrián resumed the rhythm. The lubricant was already hot and thick; Irene’s anus accepted each attack with a gentle sucking sound. He felt the climax approaching, a tension that went up the thighs and concentrated on the base of the penis. She retired almost completely and re-entered from a single movement. The pleasure went through it; it was stuck to the bottom as it ejaculated, hot jets that filled Irene’s interior. She felt it and groaned again, an internal vibration that prolonged his orgasm.
Adrián remained on his back for a few seconds, breathing against his neck. Then he withdrew carefully. Irene’s anus was abated, bright with oil and semen, beating slightly. He picked up a little fluid with his fingers and spread it softly, calming the sensitive skin.
They looked in the mirror. Irene’s cheeks were on; her mouth was swollen. Adrian smiled tenderly and kissed her neck.
"It has stopped raining," she said, almost quietly.
"We can stay a while longer," he replied.
Irene turned and kissed him again, this time slowly, without urgency. Outside, the theatre remained silent. The mirror of the dressing room retained the reflection of two bodies that were still nearby, without haste to separate.
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