Meg kneels in the darkness, breathing as shallowly and quietly as she can manage while she watches Christine through the wall mirror. The skirt of her dress is hitched up around her waist and her fingers dance to a wet harmony of desire and jealousy, thumb circling her sweet spot in anticipation.
On the other side of the glass, Christine sits on her bed and waits. The rose Meg left on her vanity sits in her hand with its black ribbon entwined around her fingers. Meg wishes that ribbon was her hair, and the flower her own. Christine noses the petals gently, inhaling their delicate scent.
She chokes back a moan at the sight and shudders in pleasure as Christine kisses the rose ever so slightly. It brushes her delicate pink lips, caresses them in the way Meg yearns to. It's what she has wanted for so long, ever since Christine arrived at the opera house — to have Christine to herself, to hear her sing and know she is the only one who can. To touchher.
Her legs quiver, hips jerk and muscles clench; Meg strokes herself through the first burst of pleasure and quickly brings forth a second. All the while she watches Christine, never taking her eyes off her.
The mirror is her secret, her window into the life of the girl she can never have. If only, she thinks, lifting her free hand to touch the glass. If only you were mine.
Perhaps, one day, she will be.