Sipping your champagne, you relax with the warmth of the fire and the light of the log flames reflecting in the huge rococo mirrors standing around you.
Your lover, continuing his appraisal of the Petoskey stone, volunteers his thoughts: “You know, when dry, they resemble ordinary limestone, but when polished, the distinctive mottled pattern of this six-sided coral fossil emerges.”
Inspired by an impromptu idea, he carefully places his champagne glass on the floor and begins to move the heavy fifth mirror, turning it inwards, closing the entryway that was open, and by doing so surrounding the ottoman on all sides.
Forming a six-sided hexagon shape, with the open stone hearth of the fireplace at the crown, and the five, full length, wide and heavy, golden gilt framed rococo mirrors, secretly cocooning you.
The beauty of the flames is undeniable, their dancing, reflected light, now on all sides, surrounding you, while the logs crackle, hiss and fizz, releasing the ancient gasses they once held.
And in the many reflections you see your lover multiplied, stooping to lift his champagne flute, and where together you each draw a cool, crisp sip:
“Yeah, but why?” you protest, a little impatient: “Why is this stone with that note, what does it all mean?”
“I choose to believe there were Native American tribes who understood these stones” he contemplates, “And when polished and cherished they could summon their fantasies, for no other reason than deep spiritual exploration, they would use fire and reflection to fuse reality with their dreams.”
Your eyes brighten, intrigued, lit from within by the fire of your own imagination, your thoughts and fantasies already forming, fusing, finding hidden truths in your reflected self, and letting go of why?
Peripherally aware of how his eyes survey your introspection, finding yourself at the center of his attention, seeing yourself before him, reflected and multiplied in the five heavy mirrors. Aware of the minutest details: how his lips curl, and his eyes glint, his expression failing to conceal the depth of his crush for how good you look tonight.
You’re alone, together, for the first time since you left your suite, and as you draw on the champagne your eyes burn brilliantly with fox like fun, and you toy with the attention of your lover, moving in your seat, ever so slightly, slowly, shifting, twisting from the waist and hips, feeling his awareness on you.
Allowing him a long, good look at the tight lines of your body, no longer confined to glancing, he can find you, from every angle, in these mirrors, free to marvel indecently and without reproach.
You straighten, feeling your chest swell beneath the constriction of your little black dress, and with a naughty glint in your eye you very deliberately lean forward to tease and lure his full attention away from the many reflections, knowing he can’t help himself but sneak a peek.
His helpless eyes glancing down at the crescent cut of your neckline, your little black dress failing to conceal the firming in your breasts, and you know exactly what you’re doing, leaning just enough to provoke and tease him, to pull his strings, and bate the hook of his mortal weakness, ready to reel him in.