Cucumber salad

Mother wanted cucumber salad. Then Laima appeared at the door. I told her I had to make dinner, but she just smiled and said she’d help. We never made it to the fridge. Clothes came off quick, warm skin meeting warm skin. My fingers found her, wet and ready, and the way she bucked made me wetter. She kissed down my stomach, tongue clever, relentless. When her mouth sealed over me I gasped, thighs shaking, hips rolling for more. We used what we had. The cucumber slid in slow, cool and shocking against heat, then deeper, stretching me while her tongue worked my clit. Every thrust got harder, wetter. My thighs trembled. She didn’t stop until I cried out, clenching around the thick length inside me, slick dripping down my thighs onto the tiles. Afterwards she licked the cucumber clean, eyes bright, and we washed our hands like nothing had happened.