Mirror Ritual - Finale

The morning after, I thought maybe I’d lost my mind.

I woke sticky, sore, my sheets crusted with sweat and cum. My ass ached, my throat was raw, and when I turned to the mirror, all I saw was me. Just me. No smirk, no lag, no reflection out of step. The crack across the glass was gone. Smooth again, like nothing had happened.

For hours I sat there, staring, waiting for him to come back. Nothing.

The weeks crawled. I tried jerking off the way I used to, in front of the mirror, stroking myself slow, flexing for the reflection. But it was hollow. The orgasm felt cheap, porn was worse. Every moan sounded fake, every body I saw on-screen looked like cardboard compared to the memory of him — of me — sliding into me, sucking me, kissing me with my own hunger.

I was starving, and nothing fed me anymore.

So I tried something new. Something desperate.

One night I bent myself in ways I’d only half-joked about before. Pillows stacked, legs pulled back, stretching until my lower back screamed. I grabbed my cock and forced myself closer, tongue darting out, trying to taste the tip. The first night I couldn’t manage more than a sloppy lick of precum on my tongue, but it lit me up.

It tasted like him. Like me.

After that, I practiced. Every night. Yoga stretches, new positions, my spine bending like I’d been training for this my whole life. My obsession wasn’t jerking off anymore — it was becoming him. Learning to taste myself, to devour myself, to replicate that night.

And eventually, I did it.

The first time I got my lips fully around my cock, I cried out so loud I scared myself. The taste hit me instantly — sharp, salty, mine. My moan echoed against my shaft, vibrating through my own mouth. My spit dripped down my balls as I bobbed my head, gagging but refusing to stop. I fucked my own throat, finally knowing what he’d felt, what I’d felt, both at once.

It wasn’t perfect — my angle was rough, my jaw ached — but it was closer than anything else had ever been. Every time I swallowed a load, it was like I was drinking him back into me, keeping the memory alive.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

A year crawled by like that. Every hookup I turned down. Every porno I clicked away from. Every orgasm wasted unless it came from my own mouth. I was waiting. Counting the days.

Until finally… Halloween came again.

I cleaned my room the way I had the year before, sheets fresh, mirror polished. I turned off the lights, lit a single candle, and sat on the edge of my bed. Naked. Hard already.

The air felt heavy.

I stroked slowly, staring into the glass. My reflection stared back. Just me. Ordinary. For a moment, I thought maybe last year had been nothing more than a fever dream. A horny hallucination. My chest tightened with panic.

And then I heard it.

My voice. From the mirror. Whispering.

“I’ve been waiting.”

The candle flickered. The glass rippled.

And just like before, he stepped through. My reflection — my other self — smirking, already hard, already hungry. He didn’t waste a second. He leapt onto my bed, pinning me down, kissing me like a storm. His taste flooded my mouth again, spit and tongue and need, and I moaned into it like I’d been starving for twelve straight months.

Because I had.

Now it’s a ritual. Every Halloween night. My double comes for me. To claim me. To feed me. To remind me no one else will ever fuck me like myself.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Soo this was the story. Let me know if you would like more supernatural or unrealistic stories in the future, or if you want me to stick to more everyday themes.