The Beach House Mirror - Part 4 (Patreon)

Part 4: Mirror, Mirror

It was still her.

No matter how heavy, how fat, how plush and expansive her reflection had become, it moved exactly as she did; perfectly mirrored. A dark, fantasised twin from some alternate reality. Perhaps some alternate truth? The gestures, the breath, the flick of hair behind one shoulder, it was all identical, just... exaggerated. Swaying. Rich with aftershocks that lingered seconds longer than they should.

Every movement in that world carried ripples of weight.

Sarah-Jane swallowed hard and backed away further.

She didn’t speak. Just turned, almost afraid that if she broke the spell with words, the image would vanish; or worse, invite her in.

Downstairs, she rummaged through her suitcase. Past the yoga pants, the oversized cardigans, the comfy joggers meant for long writing days.

Until she found it.

A sleek black cocktail dress she hadn’t worn in over a year. Short, backless, and snug across the hips. One of those pieces that made her feel like a woman in all the ways the movies she had watched growing up had told her it would. She had no idea why she’d packed it. Maybe for confidence, maybe just to prove she still could.

She didn’t dare look in any other mirror as she changed. She didn’t want to see herself in this state. Just her in that state.

The fabric zipped up with a satisfying snick. Cool against her skin. Tight in the hips, firm on the chest. Not quite scandalous, but getting damn close.

When she returned to the attic, she felt like she was walking into something sacred. A line she never knew existed, a line she was getting closer and closer to shifting across. 

It worked. The woman in the mirror wore the same dress.

Only now every stitch and seam fought to contain her body. 

Stretched high and tight over heavy breasts, the deep V neckline barely containing the swells of flesh that jostled with the smallest breath. Her hips were monumental, draped in clingy fabric that rode up at the thighs, exposing plush, wobbling flesh that begged to be touched. Her belly hung luxuriously low, covering her crotch, a wide soft arc pressing against the tight middle of the dress like rising dough against mesh.

It shouldn’t have worked. If those movies had taught slim Sarah anything. But it did.

She was obscene. She was beautiful. She was alive.

Sarah-Jane stepped closer, breath shallow.

The fat version of her mirrored the movement, full belly nudging forward, thighs rippling as she shifted her weight.

Sarah stared at the details. The fullness of her arms. The way the dress bit slightly into soft love handles. The jiggle of her breasts as she adjusted her stance. The way her reflection smirked; just barely, like she knew she was being admired.

Sarah reached out.

Her fingertips grazed the glass.

Still cool. Still hard.

And yet her pulse jumped like she'd touched skin on skin.