Squirting Stories: Squirters Anonymous

The room buzzes with nervous energy. Lauren Phillips calls the meeting to order, red hair flaming under cheap fluorescent lights, her blouse barely containing the weight of her tits. She wants names and stories. Nicole goes first, blonde hair falling across her face as she admits the night she soaked her girlfriend mid-orgasm and got dumped before the sheets dried. The others nod, no judgment. Avery Jane speaks next, piercings glinting when she leans forward; she describes grinding on a paperback romance while the bus lurched and suddenly flooding the seat, passengers shouting while she came in panicked silence. Eliza Ibarra takes her turn, dark eyes wide, reliving the moment she christened her relative’s guest bed and now can’t show her face there again. With every confession the women lean closer, voices low and fierce, telling each other it’s fine to be this wet, this wild. Lauren smiles, says maybe they should stop hiding and start owning it—right here, right now, with each other. She reaches out first. Hands find skin. Heat replaces shame. They close the circle and let the stories turn into something hotter, wetter, shameless.