The door groaned, opening wider—not with hinges, but a wet, fleshy sigh, like skin parting to reveal a secret.
A wave of heat rolled over Aiden's chest, down his thighs, teasing his already straining cock.
His breath caught, thick with arousal and dread.
"No. Not going in. I don't need to see this," he whispered, edging back toward the stairwell, his voice barely audible over his pounding heart.
The hallway lights dimmed to black.
Aiden whirled, but there was nothing—only darkness.
The floor dissolved into mist, coiling around his ankles like a lover's touch.
The walls melted, dripping like wax, their runes fading into smears.
Only the violet glow from Irie's mirror remained, a seductive beam cutting through the haze, beckoning him.
His Purity Eye pulsed, sharp and insistent.
Golden lines fractured his vision—one thread leading to the door, one to the mirror, one curling inward, binding him.
You're already inside, a voice whispered in his mind, soft and sinister.
He took another step back—and his heel met nothing.
He fell.
No impact. No scream. Just—
SLAP.
He landed kneeling, exactly where his reflection had stood moments ago—inside the room, inside the mirror, facing Irie.
But not the real Irie.
This Irie was glossier, wilder, glowing with raw desire and magic.
Her violet eyes burned with heart-shaped pupils, her silver hair shimmering like liquid starlight.
Her nude body glistened, as if she'd just climaxed and never come down, her skin flushed and slick with sweat.
"I've been waiting," she purred, crawling toward him on hands and knees, her hips swaying with predatory grace.
"I—what—this isn't—" Aiden stammered, scrambling to stand, his cock throbbing painfully against his pants.
His limbs refused to move.
The mirror world shimmered, a haze of soft, wet heat. Everything was deliberate—too vivid, too alive.
The air smelled of lavender oil and raw lust, filling his lungs, clouding his mind.
His wrists trembled.
He looked down.
Ribbons.
Magical bindings—silken cords of mirror-light—snaked around his limbs, anchoring him to a cushiony floor that looked like velvet but pulsed like living skin.
The ribbons tightened, teasing his wrists, his thighs, their touch both gentle and commanding.
Mirror-Irie straddled him, her nude body radiant, her thighs brushing his hips as she hovered just above his lap.
Her eyes burned with reflection-fire, locking onto his.
"You always make me wait, Aiden," she cooed, her voice dripping with bliss, her lips glossy and parted.
"I've never—! I didn't even—!" he choked, struggling against the ribbons, his body betraying him with every pulse of his erection.
This Irie wasn't listening.
She rocked her hips, grinding slowly against the air—against his image, projected through the Purity Eye.
She was humping a version of him she was imagining, and because he was now in the mirror… he was it.
The image.
Her slick thighs grazed the illusion, her moans soft and desperate, each movement sending a phantom jolt through Aiden's core.
"Every time I touch myself," she moaned, her voice trembling with ecstasy, "I imagine you whispering to me. Holding me down. Calling me good girl…"
Aiden's brain short-circuited, his face burning, his cock aching with need.
The ribbons pulled tighter, their silken grip teasing his skin, amplifying every sensation.
His Purity Eye flickered, raw and overwhelmed.
Trauma threads bled from mirror-Irie—dozens of them, crimson and writhing, pulsing with shame, desire, repression.
They snaked into the mirror's glass, feeding it like veins, making the obsidian frame hum with predatory life.
The mirror wasn't just alive—it was hungry.
Aiden tried to blink, to close the Eye, to scream—but it only sharpened the image.
Mirror-Irie's lust aura flared, coiling around her breasts, her hips, her parted lips, each thread dripping with cursed intent.
She leaned in, her breath wet against his ear, her nude body pressing closer, her nipples brushing his chest through his robe.
"Make me yours," she whispered, her voice a siren's call, "even if it kills you."