The Squirting Maid

Luna needs the place spotless before tomorrow's party, so when the cleaning outfit hems and haws about an after-hours call she offers them whatever they want and tells them to come tonight. Abella Danger shows up half an hour later. Luna points her toward the living room and says she’ll be in her bedroom if Abella needs her. Abella barely has time to wipe a table when she fishes a silk thong from between the couch cushions. The scent hits her—warm, sharp, unmistakably Luna. Her cunt tightens. She sinks onto the couch, spreads her knees, pushes the damp fabric to her nose and starts rubbing her clit in tight circles. Two fingers slide in, then three. Wet sounds fill the room. She gasps, hips jerking, and a sudden rush sprays from her, soaking the cushions and splattering the hardwood. Another gush follows, dripping down her thighs. Luna stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching. Abella freezes, face burning. She stammers, stammers again. Luna crosses the room, yanks the thong from Abella’s hand and stuffs it between her teeth. “Keep going,” she says. “You’ve made yourself at home.” Abella’s hips start to move again. Luna watches the next squirt arc, then drops to her knees and catches it on her tongue. The taste is sweet and slick; she buries her mouth between Abella’s legs and sucks hard, coaxing another rush across her lips and chin. Abella’s thighs shake. She whines around the thong, fingers gripping the cushions. Luna climbs up, straddles Abella’s face, and grinds against her tongue. They trade quick, greedy orgasms until both women are panting, wet streaks shining on skin and fabric. Abella pulls the thong free, licks her lips. “I can come every day if you want.” Luna stands, smooths her dress. “You’ll finish the job you were hired for first.”