Vanity Runs In The Family

Natasha Nice strolls into Aften Opal’s bedroom carrying a tall mirror. She props it against the wall and asks if Aften wants to test it out—right now, with her hair being brushed. Aften shrugs, smiles, and scoots onto the stool. Natasha stands behind her, slowly drawing the brush through red waves, fingers grazing bare shoulders. The strokes turn slower, more deliberate. Natasha’s hand drifts from hair to cheek, thumb tracing the line of Aften’s jaw while she murmurs how pretty her face looks. Next comes the gloss: Natasha tilts Aften’s chin, drags the wand across parted lips in one glossy sweep, then again, pressing just a little harder than needed. In the reflection, their eyes lock. Aften’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. Natasha leans in, lips brushing Aften’s ear, whispering that they already look perfect together. Hands slide lower—over small, bare tits, across a shaved mound—until Aften’s thighs part on instinct. Clothes fall away. They sink to the floor in front of the glass, Natasha’s mouth on Aften’s neck, fingers working between her legs, every movement mirrored back at them. Aften watches herself flush, watches Natasha’s tongue circle a stiff nipple, and the sight pushes her over. They grind harder, chasing the image, until the mirror fogs with their heat and their gasps echo off the walls.