Flooded With Affection

Lily’s got one hand under the clean sheet, the other braced on the mattress, when she feels it: a slick, still-warm patch that makes the linen stick to her fingers. She’s still staring when Christy walks in, pauses, and smiles like she’s been caught stealing something sweet. “I’m a squirter,” Christy says, voice low and lazy. “Your stepmom is too.” Lily’s brow furrows. Before she can ask, Christy’s phone is out and Angelina steps through the doorway, robe untied. Two bodies stretch across the half-made bed, nightgowns pushed to their waists. Fingers slip, sink, curl. Breathy laughs turn into broken sighs as both women grind down against their own hands. Then the wet sound changes—sharper, urgent. Christy’s hips jerk; a glossy arc catches the light and spatters across the sheets. Angelina answers with her own rush, hot and sudden, soaking the cotton between her thighs. Lily’s mouth is open, her own thighs pressed tight. “Do it on me,” she whispers. They pull her in, fingers slicking up under her shirt, tugging at the cups of her bra until heavy, bare tits spill free. Mouths trade kisses while hands work, stroking, parting, coaxing. Each new squirt lands warm across Lily’s skin, dripping between her breasts, over her stomach, onto the slick heat between her legs. She rocks into every pulse, chasing the next rush, caught between two hungry, giving bodies until the sheets can’t hold another drop.