Squirtout

They spot each other on the grass at the park—Daisy doing burpees, Dylan stretching that long frame in spandex. Eyes lock. A quick smirk. One of them says "smoothies?" Neither remembers who. Inside Dylan's apartment they never open the blender. Daisy shoves her against the fridge; the kiss is teeth and spit, breath hot. Dylan grabs handfuls of that tight ass, yanks the leggings down, fingers sinking into wet heat. Daisy moans, flips the script, drops to her knees and mouths Dylan through already soaked panties until the fabric clings. She peels it aside, tongue splitting Dylan open in one long lick that makes her knees knock. Dylan pulls Daisy up, spins her, bends her over the counter. She eats her from behind, tongue fucking, spit running down her thighs. When Daisy starts to shake she pushes Dylan onto the kitchen floor, climbs on, grinds her cunt against Dylan's mouth until she comes hard enough to see stars. Flip again, now they're scissoring on the linoleum, legs tangled, clits sliding slick and desperate. Sweat mixing. Hips snapping. Dylan fingers Daisy's ass, nails digging crescents into her ass cheek; Daisy returns the favor, two fingers knuckle-deep until Dylan's back arches like a live wire. They keep switching who’s on top until both of them are shaking, soaked, marked up from teeth and fingers, breathing like they just ran another mile.