She turned her head. The vanity mirror — still fogged, still covered with the residue from our earlier session — was beside the bed. She sat up. Her thick body moved — slow, pained, the muscles protesting after hours of fucking. She leaned toward the mirror. Wiped the fog with her palm.
Her eyes widened.
Her hand went to her face. Both hands. Touching her cheeks, her jaw, her forehead. The fine lines — the crow's feet, the laugh lines, the slight sag beneath her chin — were diminished. Not gone. But reduced. Faded. As if someone had taken an eraser to the signs of aging and rubbed gently.
"How?" she breathed. Her fingers traced her cheekbone. "How is this possible?!"
I stood behind her. My cock — still hanging, still interested — leaned over her shoulder. The head rested against her cheek. A drop of residual cum — the last bit, the part that hadn't absorbed — sat on her skin like a pearl.
