Squirtout

They spot each other stretching in the grass, then leave the park together. At her place the blender whirs with fruit and ice. One taste, two, and her hand finds his thigh. The first time is fast: her panties down, his shorts to his knees, bent over the counter. Every thrust slams the cabinets. Later they strip naked on the rug—her legs locked around his hips, his mouth full of her breasts—riding, grinding, coming again with his cock deep inside. Sweat and mango, breath and the hard slap of skin. He holds her wrists above her head while she grinds until she shudders, and when he follows he doesn’t pull out, emptying himself in long, tight pulses until she’s slick and leaking around him.