Vanity Runs In The Family

The new mirror gleamed against the bedroom wall. Natasha cupped her stepdaughter's jaw, guiding the brush through pale strands that caught afternoon light. Slow strokes, little rips of static. Aften watched herself in the glass, cheeks warm, lips parted in the vague smile of someone unused to this much attention. Fingers paused. The brush slid away. Natasha's thumb followed instead, tracing the apple of a cheek and drifting until her nail barely grazed gloss. She wet her mouth with a slow lick, then caught Aften's eyes in the reflection. "So pretty," she whispered, velvet and low. The mirror caught every inch of contact. When she opened the little stick of cherry gloss, the air between them bent thick. Gloss first. A smooth pass over lower lip, an unhurried drag across the upper. Natasha leaned closer, breasts brushing Aften's shoulder. Breath against the shell of her ear. Aften squirmed, trying to laugh it off, but her knees locked. Natasha's palm slid down, resting warm against the flat of her stomach, then lower, to the waistband of loose sleep shorts. Nothing hurried, nothing hidden. The reflection laid them bare—two faces, the same pink parted mouths, pupils blown wide. "See how good we look," Natasha murmured, voice dark syrup. "Imagine what we'd look like if we stopped pretending." Heat licked through Aften's face. She nodded once, breath catching. Natasha's hand slipped inside the thin cotton, fingers brushing heat, circling, teasing until soft thighs trembled. Their eyes locked in the glass while Natasha's other hand pulled Aften's hips back, dragging her own body flush. Dresses peeled away in impatient fists, skin meeting skin. Aften bit her lip, chin dropping, watching the mirror swallow every grind, every flick of tongue, every rolling thrust. The bedroom filled with sounds of slick skin, soft curses, whispered names. Natasha's hips worked steady, her fingers nowhere shy; both women stared forward, arrested by the sight of their own open mouths and swaying bodies, again and again, pushing each other higher until the mirror threw back the stuttered cries and the clenching, wet tremor of orgasm.