magic Repost Of The Mirror-Chapter 3

[msclundylvr]

The Mirror

 

Chapter 3

 

Whether first thing in the morning or after a lazy Saturday afternoon nap, I am horrible about waking up.  In fact, I believe it is the thing I do worst during he course of my day.  I have always had quite vivid dreams, often feeling like I’ve had conversations with people, who are usually confused when I bring them up in real life—but that’s another story for another time.  However, this particular dream was way beyond anything my subconscious usually cooks up.

 

This dream involved an estate sale, a mirror, muscles, my cock, and all of these things coming together in a very strange way.  Speaking of cock, apparently mine enjoyed the contents of this dream.  Since my earliest days of masturbating thoughts of big muscles and big cocks have always played major roles in my fantasies.  There is just something so masculine about a big set of rock hard pecs, something so erection inspiring about the curve of a well-toned butt, something so powerful about a huge erection bobbing in front of a muscle stud—wow, my dick gets even harder at the mere thought of that.

 

I’m awake enough to realize my cock is so hard it hurts.  I’ve got to take care of this before it bursts like a balloon.  I reach under the sheet and grab hold—wait, what the hell kind of weird position did I sleep in?  Why is my left wrist where my cock should be?  Why does it feel like I’m gripping my penis when there’s no way my penis could be that big?  This realization makes me throw the covers back—“HOLY SHIT!   This CAN’T be real!”

 

I fly out of bed as if the fire alarm had just gone off and see the mirror sitting there, reflecting the body from my dream.  “No way this really happened.  I’m still delirious after that nap,” I say out loud to nobody in particular.  I really have to stop talking to myself at some point, though if what I think just happened really happened, I think any therapist in the country would forgive me for this one indiscretion.

 

I run through the living room/kitchen combo room into my bathroom, nearly tripping over the coffee table in this coat closet I call home.  After splashing some cold water on my face to shake off the fog of sleep, the bathroom mirror confirms what the new mirror in the bedroom had shown—I had in fact lost 50 lbs of fat and gained several pounds of muscle.  The small bathroom mirror helps me examine my new stunning facial features in greater detail.  My skin is absolutely flawless with no blemishes in sight—even the scar on my chin from falling off my bike in 2nd grade was gone.  My cheekbones are more pronounced, and my jaw line is incredibly cut and clean; the water drips off my jaw like rain off of a cliff overhang.  The only thing “round” about this face is the shape of my eyes.  My forehead comes down a little further, giving me a very masculine yet friendly look.  The little bit of gray I had been developing on my temples is still there, giving an air of sophistication to my mere 26 years.  I can tell the face in the mirror is me, the me I’ve always been, but somehow it’s sexier, manlier.

 

My neck is solid.  It might even give a guillotine a run for its money, should I be transported back to Napoleonic France.  (Where do I come up with this stuff? —random.)  I examine my well-shaped shoulders, flexing them in turn in the tiny mirror.  My right shoulder slowly moves out of sight in the mirror to be replaced by one of the sexiest biceps/triceps sets I’ve ever seen.  They are so well formed that I can’t believe they haven’t been photoshopped.  Continuing on down, my forearms are unbelievably vascular, and my hands look like they could crush rocks with ease, yet the skin was is flawless and the shape was so picture perfect that these hands could belong to a hand model.

 

Going back up to my torso, the tiny mirror barely displays the tops of my pecs.  I need the full-body mirror in order to go any further.  I am definitely enjoying this little charade and decide to carry it further once I get back to the bedroom, so I grab a towel and cover my lower half with it.  (Looking back, I don’t think I could’ve handled the full-on frontal attack right away.  One must build up gradually to this level of perfection!)