Squirtbath

Paige knocked on the door with her recorder in one hand and questions on her lips. Whitney opened it in a silk robe that barely closed. The interview started at the kitchen table, small talk turning fast. Whitney’s answers got sharper, dirtier, the air thick between them. When Paige asked about squirting—voice low, cheeks hot—Whitney leaned back, eyes narrowing like she’d found fresh meat. “Why don’t I just show you how to squirt?” she said. Paige swallowed hard, then nodded, knees already unsteady. They barely made it to the couch before Whitney’s fingers worked her open, pressing deep until Paige’s thighs shook and a sudden hot rush sprayed across Whitney’s stomach. Whitney laughed, low and hungry, guiding Paige’s hand between her own legs until another sharp stream soaked the cushions. They kept at it, bodies slick, the carpet darkening beneath them, until the room smelled like sex and sweat. Whitney finally pulled away, breath rough. “Come on,” she said. “I’ve got something better in the back.” They stepped naked into a shallow inflatable pool, the plastic crinkling under their feet. Whitney clicked a remote. Slow drips of thick lube began raining from above, sliding down their hair, over their breasts. Paige pressed close, tongue chasing droplets off Whitney’s lips while the machine kept pouring, coating every inch until both women were glistening and the pool was slick under their bare feet.