The Beach House Mirror Part 3 (Patreon)

Part 3: The Mirror Smiles Back

She lasted all of thirty minutes.

The beach house creaked with the sounds of settling storm-water. The electricity was back on. Moxie had vanished, likely practising more disdainful looks in a cupboard somewhere. Sarah-Jane sat on the couch with her legs curled up, blanket around her shoulders, trying to focus on a notebook full of half-baked plots and metaphors that now felt absurd.

Curiosity or crazy, she thought, pick your poison.

It seemed the more she thought about it. The more she wanted to know more. Maybe see more. 

She stood. Barefoot again, and climbed the attic stairs.

This time, she didn’t hesitate.

The mirror stood in its place, tall and still beneath the soft attic bulb. Dust danced and swirled in the light like fine snow.

Sarah-Jane approached the mirror from the side. Steeled herself.

Finally, she stepped in front of it and looked.

And she saw… Nothing.

Just her own reflection. Pale, curly hair. Slender shoulders, flushed cheeks. Her regular ol’ self.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and laughed. Short and nervous.

“Sarah-Jane, you are ridiculous.”

She smiled to herself.

And that’s when her reflection changed.

Not abruptly. Not like a glitch or flicker by the light. But… fluidly. Her reflection’s smile widened. 

Broader, deeper. 

Even as the face around it softened and thickened, her cheeks softening and plumping out visibly as if the mirror were filling them with fond memories of rich, empty calories.

Sarah-Jane’s breath caught.

In the glass, she had become… a huge, fattened version of herself.

Her slender frame melted into something round and abundant. A billowy double chin framed her face. Her sweater had vanished, replaced by a cropped tank clinging to the slopes of a pale, overfed belly that spilled down in generous folds. Thick arms hung at her sides, doughy and dimpled. Her hips flared out of frame entirely.

And her expression. As caught up as she was in this new vision in front of her, it was her expression she locked on to. 

She looked relaxed, sensual, almost smug.

She looked loved. 

And completely, wildly at home in her huge, fat body.

Sarah-Jane stumbled back a step, heart hammering. She grabbed at her own stomach. Still flat. 

Her thighs; still slim. She twisted, craned to look over her shoulder. Still lean. Still her.

But not in the mirror.

In the mirror, her body jiggled softly with every turn, as the fatter version tilted her head. Watching with big, curious eyes. Her reflection pressed a hand to her exposed, plush belly and rubbed in slow, content circles. Her breasts shifted with the motion, heavy and swaying. Sarah-Jane stopped. Aware she was doing this to her own, slim body. She swallowed.

“W-what is this?”

The reflection didn’t speak. But she smiled again, slow, deliberate, inviting. Sarah shut her eyes tight. She was smiling. The reflection was still mimicking her. It was her! But… it wasn’t. Was it? 

And somewhere deep in Sarah’s chest, something unfurled. Not fear. Not quite. More like…

Hunger. 

Desire. 

Not just for food, but for that feeling. That freedom. She stared at the larger, fatter, and now quite decidedly, sexier version of herself in the mirror, and wanted what she had.