Left eye, right eye, forehead, cheek, nose—every spurt moved an inch. Ye Fei painted his mother's face like it was canvas: a thick, white stripe across each eyelid, a rope over her parted lips, a final splatter on the tip of her chin.
Only when her famous features were completely glazed did he stop coming. Still straddling her, he dragged his half-soft crown through the mess, spreading cum into a glistening mask.
Liu Yiru never flinched. She knelt beneath him, spine straight, letting her son mark her. On any other woman it would've looked degrading; on Mom it felt like worship. Each slippery pass of his cock-head sent sparks straight to her pussy—by the time he finished she was soaked through her panties, arousal pooling on the sheets.
When the last drop was smeared, he leaned in, voice husky. "Like the skin-care mask I made you, Mom?"
She couldn't let him see how turned on she was. She forced a scowl. "Brat—defiling your own mother."
