The Harrow Testament
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Part 9: The Mirror of Flesh
Fiction Story: Part 9: The Mirror of Flesh - They thought it was just a haunted house. But the Harrow House doesn’t feed on fear—it feasts on secret desires. As old wounds surface and forbidden temptations rise, the line between terror and longing dissolves. Fear burns off like fog, replaced by touch, heat, and surrender. The Harrow Testament is a gothic confession of aching bodies, unraveling minds, and pleasures too strong to resist.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Horror Mystery Paranormal Ghost Light Bond Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism Leg Fetish Smoking Halloween Slow AI Generated
Sweat and Seed are but Sauces to the Feast. The Meat is the Word, torn raw, drag’d gasping into the Air.
— Testament of Elias Harrow, 1764
The shadows that had cocooned Clara and Dylan loosened at last, peeling back like curtains. They stumbled upright, breathless, hurriedly tugging clothing into place. Clara’s blouse clung damply to her skin; Dylan’s shirt gaped open, his composure cracked.
Jade leaned against a cracked pillar, eyebrow raised. “Well,” she said, voice brittle, “looks like somebody figured out the key.”
Clara’s face burned. She smoothed her skirt with shaking hands. “It didn’t work,” she whispered. “It isn’t letting us go.”
Dylan tightened his scarf, jaw set. “No. It fed, but it isn’t sated.”
The heartbeat had grown louder—no longer a presence hidden in the walls, but a drum in their bones. It rattled dust from the beams, bent candleflames sideways, made their ribs hum.
Marcus forced a laugh. “Christ, it’s like the place has a pulse.” He glanced at Dylan, then Clara, then Jade. “Guess all it wanted was a little show.”
Naomi’s eyes snapped toward him. “You think this is funny? Look around you.”
The fresco nearest them had changed—painted lovers bent frantic, mouths wide in silent cries. Painted cocks thrust endlessly, painted cunts stretched and dripping.
Naomi hugged her arms tight. “That’s us if we don’t give it what it wants.”
Jade barked a bitter laugh. “And what’s that, Naomi? A turn from each of us? Like some twisted roll call?”
The mirrors rippled, whispering back in layered voices.
“Not enough.”
Marcus tried again to laugh, but it cracked. “Not enough? What do you want then?” Marcus asked the frescos. “Me confessing I stole a Snickers bar in seventh grade?” His reflection grinned back from the glass—too wide, too hungry, eyes glittering with something he didn’t feel.
Clara shivered, pressing into Dylan’s side. She couldn’t look Jade in the eye, not with that smirk sharpened like a blade.
“Fuck this,” Jade spat, tossing her hair like armor. “I don’t play lapdog for haunted drywall.”
The mural beside her shivered. Painted lovers froze mid-thrust, then turned their painted heads toward her. Their painted mouths bent into sharp grins.
Marcus barked out another laugh, but it was thin. “Careful. Sounds like it’s got a crush on you.”
“Shut up, Marcus.” Jade’s tone was razor-edged, but she didn’t step away from him.
Naomi’s voice cracked as she cut in. “It isn’t going to stop. Not until—” She broke off, eyes darting to a mirror where her reflection stared back flushed, lips parted, her hand pressed between her thighs. She turned away, jaw tight.
The silence pressed in.
Then the shadows stirred. They crept across the floor like smoke, curling around Marcus’s boots, then Jade’s ankles.
Marcus swore, jerking back. “What the—”
The heartbeat thundered louder, rattling the beams. Mirrors flared silver. Frescoes bled red.
Clara clutched Dylan’s arm. “It’s choosing them.”
Naomi whispered, “It’s their turn.”
The shadows climbed, wrapping Jade and Marcus tight. They stumbled forward, dragged toward a dark stone arch yawning like a throat.
“Wait!” Marcus shouted, yanking against the coils. “We didn’t—”
Jade hissed low, only for him: “Don’t fight it. You’ll make it worse.”
The fresco above the arch bled fresh color—painted bodies bent over, spread wide, painted cocks plunging deep.
Naomi’s face went pale. Clara’s pulse hammered as she clung tighter to Dylan.
The shadows closed behind Jade and Marcus, sealing them off.
The heartbeat slowed, patient now. Waiting.
And here, reader, the rhythm was as merciless as tide: one pair opened, another must follow. The house did not hurry; it simply arranged, and the human pieces moved.
The shadows shoved them through the arch, sealing the stone door behind with a heavy groan. The chamber was close, too warm, smelling faintly of candlewax and something acrid, like incense gone sour. Velvet couches sagged against the walls, their cushions molded by decades of bodies. Above them, frescoes writhed faintly in the light—masked revelers clutching hips, painted thighs parted wide, mouths frozen open in soundless cries.
Marcus tried to laugh, voice cracking. “Cozy, huh? Real Airbnb vibes.”
Jade’s glare snapped to him, sharp enough to cut. “Are you seriously joking right now?”
“What do you want me to do?” He threw his arms wide, words tumbling out too fast. “Cry? Pray? Wait for the wallpaper porn to tell me I’m next on the menu?”
The mirror answered before she could. His reflection leaned toward hers, mouth moving though his own stayed shut: I’ve wanted you since the first night on your roof, and I never had the guts to say it.
Jade froze. Then her head whipped back to him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his voice was raw. “That wasn’t me.”
Her laugh was brittle, bitter. “Oh, come on. That’s you, Marcus. That’s exactly you.”
His fists clenched. “No—it’s just the house, twisting shit.”
“You hide behind jokes every second of your life,” she spat. “Why should this be any different?”
“And you bulldoze everyone so nobody sees how scared you are.” He snapped back without thinking, chest heaving.
“Fuck you.” Her voice cracked, loud in the small room.
The murals pulsed crimson, painted lovers tearing off their masks, their painted faces open, raw, betraying emotion.
Marcus stepped closer, anger blotting out fear. “You think I don’t know why you keep shoving me off? It’s because you know if you let me in—”
She shoved him, hard. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He stumbled back against the velvet couch, breath ragged. “Then look at it!” He jabbed a finger toward the mirror, where his reflection pressed close to hers, whispering: I cover everything with jokes so you won’t see how much I want you.
Jade turned her head away, refusing to look, but the glass shimmered until her own reflection filled it—jaw trembling, whispering what she wouldn’t say: I can’t stand needing anyone. Especially him.
Her throat worked. She hissed the denial anyway. “It’s lying.”
Marcus’s jaw flexed, eyes darting between her and the glass. His voice came low, rough. “You really think I’d—”
“Say it.” Her voice was sharp as broken glass. “If it’s true, say it.”
The silence dragged. The heartbeat in the floor hammered at his ribs, each thud like a fist. The mirror glared back, merciless, calling him coward without a word.
The dam broke. His voice tore out of him, raw, desperate: “Fine! I want you, Jade. You walked in and lit every fuse I didn’t know I had. I burned for you, and I smiled through it like a joke because I didn’t know how else to survive it.”
The murals flared with color, painted lovers clawing off their masks, painted mouths crashing together.
Jade’s fists balled, nails cutting into her palms. She trembled, furious and trembling all at once. Her eyes locked on him, blazing. “God damn you, Marcus.”
He swallowed hard, chest heaving. “Say it. You know it’s true.”
Her jaw tightened, but the words came anyway, flung like a curse. “Fine. You want truth? I’ve wanted you too. And I hate you for making me admit it.”
The words hung between them, molten, inescapable. The heartbeat steadied, thick and slow, as if satisfied—for now.
The silence that followed was brutal.
Marcus raked a hand through his hair, pacing two steps before stopping, turning, pacing again. His chest rose and fell in jagged rhythm. Christ. I said it. Out loud. To her face. No more taking it back.
Jade hugged her arms tight, biting the inside of her cheek until it hurt. Why did I say that? Why couldn’t I shut my mouth?
Finally, she muttered, brittle: “You’re an idiot.”
His laugh was short, pained. “Yeah. Takes one to know one.”
She almost smiled, but crushed it down.
The couch behind Marcus sighed as if something unseen had sat down, velvet groaning. The heartbeat slowed, steady now, like it was listening.
Marcus dropped onto the cushion, elbows braced on his knees. “We’re not getting out of this without giving it more, are we?”
Jade said nothing. She stared at the fresco, at the painted lovers clawing each other open.
The mirror across from them shimmered. Their reflections leaned in, lips nearly brushing.
Neither moved.
The air pressed down on them, heavy, close. The house was patient, but not endlessly so.
You know this part, don’t you? Rage is a fuse, not a refuge; once it burns down, the hand is bare.
The heartbeat settled into a carnal meter, not frantic now but deliberate—thud, thud, thud—as if the house had chosen the tempo and would accept no other. In the small chamber the candles guttered and leaned, licking the frescoes where masked women knelt and men’s throats arched bare. The mirrors rippled with pale light, already multiplying Jade and Marcus into angles no human neck could hold.
They stood a breath apart. Both adults, both furious, both flayed open by what they’d said.
“Sit,” Jade said.
Marcus didn’t move fast enough. She shoved him. The velvet couch caught him with a soft grunt, the springs sighing like a witness who’d seen too much. He started some joke—habit, refuge—but her look cut it off. She straddled one knee, palms braced on either side of his shoulders, gaze level, predatory, beautiful in a way that made his chest ache.
“If we’re feeding it,” she said, “we do it my way.”
He nodded too quickly. “Okay.”
A scoff, almost a laugh. “Good boy.”
The words hit him in the gut. His cock twitched against his zipper, shameless. He flushed, tried to swallow it down; it rose anyway, that hot swell of wanting to be steered and taken apart.
Even a casual onlooker would have seen it—the relief loosening his jaw, the fists clenched to keep from grabbing.
Jade slid down between his legs with unhurried contempt for time. She tugged open his belt, popped the button, dragged the zipper slow. His breath stuttered. He was thick already, straining the dark fabric of his briefs. When she palmed him through cotton he jerked—helpless, honest. She smiled with only one corner of her mouth.
“Still hiding behind jokes?” she murmured. “Tell me a funny one, Marcus.”
He tried. A noise came out that wasn’t words.
She stripped him, briefs down, pants pushed to his thighs. The mirrors brightened in a cold silver halo; a dozen Jades knelt at once, a dozen hands wrapping him, a dozen cruel mouths ready. The fresco above them changed—painted woman on her knees, hands pinning painted thighs wide, his painted cock glossy with spit.
Jade’s fingers closed at the base, firm. She stroked once, testing weight and heat. His head dropped back. “Fuck,” he whispered, the sound trembling with guilt and something close to relief—as if needing her was finally allowed.
Her tongue flicked, a taunt. Then she opened her mouth and took him in—slow, possessive, deliberate. Not worship; dominion. The wet heat of her made his vision spark. Her lips sealed and slid; her hand tightened at the base, anchoring. He was thick against her tongue, swelling, a pulse she answered with her own.
Marcus tried to be still, but his hips twitched. She pulled off with a wet pop, palm flattening hard to his belly. “No. I set the pace.”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Okay.”
She went back down, deeper. Her fingers flexed, coaxing, measuring when his breath hitched, when his thighs trembled. She let the crown bump the soft shock of her throat, held him there a second, then retreated to drag her tongue along the underside, slow and lethal. His hands found the couch, knuckles whitening. He wanted her hair, wanted to guide, but didn’t dare. She looked up at him, eyes bright, and he broke—voice cracking. “Jade—please—”
She hummed around him, a threat and a mercy. Spit glistened along his length; she gathered it with her fist, stroked as she took him again, faster now, mouth and hand working in rhythm. Mirrors caught the glistening slick, multiplied it, looped the angle from behind, from above, from a cruel side profile where his jaw hung open, ruined. The heartbeat synced to the motion. The couch started to creak.
Inside him, a pressure climbed, tight as wire at the root. He tried not to warn her—something in him thinking warning would be an insult to her competence—but he couldn’t stop the ragged, “I’m—close—” from tearing out.
She didn’t stop. She pulled off, stroked him twice deliberately, then pressed her tongue flat to his crown and took him to the hilt in one smooth swallow. He swore, a hoarse, helpless sound. She held him there just long enough to feel the panic of too-much, then drew back, mocking, breath hot across the spit-slick head.
“Still pretending?” she asked softly, thumb circling the wet, sensitive tip. “Still faking it with jokes?”
He shook his head—honest, wrecked. “No.”
“Good.” She kissed the place where shaft met belly like she owned it. A dominion seal. “Now give it to me.”
He would have, then and there, but she moved, fast and sure, climbing him, dragging her skirt up, panties aside. The mirrors caught the pale flare of her thighs, the dark trimmed hair, the wet shine at her entrance. Jade held him at the base, guided him to her. He felt the heat of her, the slick, the impossible softness. She sank down in a slow, deliberate inching, watching his face as he slid into her.
Marcus swore again, the word ragged. She was tight, hot, hugging him in a way that made his heart stutter and his vision white at the edges. He lifted his hands—instinct, anchor—but paused a breath away from her waist. “Can I—?”
“You can hold on,” she said. “That’s all.”
He held. She rolled her hips once, a testing grind, and heat shot up his spine. She set a pace then—hard, efficient, a rider who knew her seat. Up, down, grind. Skin slapped wet against skin, a rhythm both primal and precise. The room filled with the slick percussion of their bodies, echoing off the stone like a chant. Beneath them, the heartbeat in the floor kept time—relentless, inescapable.
He felt her take him to the root with every thrust, her inner heat gripping him, greedy and exact. Their sweat mingled, scent rising sharp and human—salt, heat, musk, the bitter curl of smoke still woven into her hair like a warning or a dare. Her breath hitched with each grind, her mouth parting, the sound not quite a moan but close—closer every time.The frescoes answered—painted women riding painted men, masks fallen, hair wild, painted nails biting painted shoulders.
Marcus’s thoughts tumbled—use me, please, don’t stop, don’t ever stop, this is what I wanted, this is what I’m for. Jade’s thoughts cut clean and contradictory—don’t need, don’t fall, take, take, take. Underneath, a softer thread she hated: he’s good, he’s kind, he’s looking at me like I’m the whole room.
“Eyes on me,” she said, harsher than she meant.
“They never left,” he said, and it was true.
Her rhythm quickened. She braced her hands on his chest and rode harder, the slap of skin bright in the close room. Sweat jeweled her throat. She dropped one hand to where they joined and rubbed herself, efficient, practical, ruthless. Pleasure hit her low and hot; she swallowed it with a sharp breath, kept moving. The mirrors brightened—twelve Jades riding, twenty, thirty—an army of her, every one victorious.
Marcus felt himself slipping the edge. His balls drew tight; the shaft thickened inside her, a deep ache pitching toward inevitability. He tried to hold, to give her time, to match her fingers on her clit with his own rocking. She spoke through her teeth. “Don’t you dare come yet.”
“I won’t,” he lied, and the house, amused, made the mirrors mouth his word back at him until he groaned, chastened. He tried. He really tried.
Jade leaned forward, putting her mouth to his ear. “Look at me.” He looked. “Say what you said before.”
He knew what she meant. Not the crude things, not the begging. The other line, the one that had slipped out in a different room in a different version of the night. He swallowed. His voice went low, reverent despite sweat and heat and the command of her thighs. “You’re beautiful.”
Something inside her flinched, then softened. The word landed where her armor was thinnest. She hated that—hated and needed it. Her hips faltered, stuttered; her fingers sped. The line of pleasure she’d kept in a ruthless hand snapped loose, flooded. She came with a quiet, broken sound, eyes squeezed shut, cunt clamping around him in fierce aftershocks.
The mirrors erupted—endless Jades cresting, mouths parted, heads thrown back. The fresco above them surged with color, as if ruptured from within.
Marcus lost it. The clutch of her body, the sight of her breaking—it took him under. He thrust up once, twice, and spilled into her with a strangled groan, cock jerking hot inside her. Each pulse drew another clutch from her, a greedy tug that milked him until he shook. He held her through it, palms finally allowed to slide to her hips, anchoring them both to the couch, to the breathless now.
They stilled by inches. The heartbeat underfoot slowed, satisfied. Candles steadied. The mirrors dimmed, letting them collapse back into one pair of sweating, panting adults on an obscene couch in a room that smelled of incense and sex.
Jade’s head dropped to his shoulder for a single beat. She let it. Just the one. Then she pushed upright, breath rough, a little laugh torn free against her will.
“Don’t,” she warned, before he could speak.
He laughed too, softer, the sound deranged with relief. “Wasn’t going to.”
“You always are.” Her mouth tried for a smirk; it didn’t quite hold. She shifted and winced—small tremor, not weakness, merely fact. He would remember that. He would remember the tremor and not tease her for it.
Their fingers found each other without plan. A clasp, brief. Then she pulled away, tucking herself back into order with quick, ruthless motions.
The frescoes slowed. Masks lay discarded at painted feet. In one corner, a painted woman’s hand curled around a painted man’s fingers without meaning to; the wall kept it there forever.
“Jade,” Marcus said, because some words insisted on being said while you were still reckless. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me see you,” he said, and flinched at his own nakedness.
She looked at him—really looked—and something in her face shifted. Not soft, exactly. But less armored. “Don’t make it a habit.”
“Right. No habits. Got it.”
He almost added beautiful again. He didn’t. Not yet.
Of course, tenderness is a costly luxury here. The house records everything—flaws and mercies alike—with the same cold shine.
The heartbeat in the floor gave one pleased thud and then another, as if counting. Not sated. Only tallying.
From beyond the door a faint voice carried—Naomi?—a stifled sound like a swallowed gasp. The mirrors stirred, turning their faces toward the corridor, toward the last confession the house still craved.
Jade’s hand tightened on Marcus’s once more—brief, hard—before she let go. “We’re not done,” she said.
“No,” he answered, steadying. “But we are together.”
The house listened. The house approved. The house waited.
Naomi meant to turn away. Truly. She set her shoulders to a cracked pillar and fixed her eyes on the stone, counting breath, inventorying facts—cold air, candle smoke, October... —as if a list could make a talisman. The others were gone into their shadows; the cellar had gone uncanny-quiet.
Then the mirror at her side shivered like wind on water.
Her head turned before she told it to. The glass was no longer a reflection. It was a window—an angle no architect would design, light that belonged to another room. Inside it, Jade straddled Marcus on a sagging velvet couch, skirt hitched high, riding him with a merciless rhythm. His shirt hung open, chest slick; his head tipped back, throat bared, a sound torn from him on every downstroke. Jade’s hair clung damp to her cheek; her mouth was parted, almost feral in its focus.
Naomi’s lips parted too. She told herself the house was playing tricks—just a projection, just a mind-loop, the brain makes pictures when it’s frightened—and kept staring.
The mirror took pleasure in angles she shouldn’t see: the glisten where their bodies met, the cruel efficiency of Jade’s hips, the helpless set of Marcus’s mouth when she rolled down and ground. The wet slap of them bled through the cellar—faint or imagined, it didn’t matter; her body heard it. Heat climbed her neck. Her nipples tightened against cotton, two hard stings; her thighs pressed together instinctively, a child’s defense against adult need.
It’s nothing. It’s chemicals. It’s your nerves misfiring. She folded her arms tighter. You don’t even like him. You don’t even like her. You—
The glass offered a counterargument. For a flicker—no more than a breath—her own body replaced the empty air between them: Jade behind her, hands sure on Naomi’s hips; Marcus in front, mouth wrecked, eyes on Naomi like prayer. Naomi bit her tongue hard enough to taste copper, as if pain could cauterize the image. It didn’t.
It never does. Pain doesn’t drown desire; it salts the rim.
And then resentment came on its own sharp feet—uninvited, honest. Why them and not me? Why does she get to be that wild, and he gets to be desired for it, and I stand here counting breaths like that could save me? The thought was a hot coal in her throat. She swallowed it. The ember stayed.