Squirts Up!

Karla bounces into the parlor gripping her surfboard, little black bikini clinging like second skin. Krissy’s eyes light up the second she sees her—same hungry smirk she probably wears right before trouble. “Hot as balls today,” Krissy says, wiping sweat from her chest. AC’s toast. Karla laughs, skin shining, still flecked with sea-salt. “Same story at my place; that’s why I hit the waves.” She rolls her shoulder. “Need to work the knots out—what’s on the menu?” Krissy grins. “NURU okay?” “Only if we skip straight to skin. Let’s go.” They hit the showers. Two flickers of clothing hit the tiles; eyes roam, thumbs throw little lewd air-kisses. Steam thickens while Krissy’s soapy hands glide over Karla’s ass, her nipples, every slick place that makes eyebrows jump. Frisky from the start—ready to level-up. Wranglers dry off, move to the mat. Krissy snags the gel bottle, flips it, gets nothing but hollow slaps. Empty. Karla sighs, looks at the slick sheen still dripping off both of them. “Wait,” Krissy cuts in. “We’ve got rivers of sweat and you’re leaking more than the shower, girl. Why not use that?” Karla licks her lips, pupils dilating like bull’s-eyes. “Love it when shit gets primal.” Krissy drops to her knees over Karla’s spine, chest slamming softly, sweat squelching between bodies. They paint each other in slick water-soft friction, R&B nothing playful now; every press a dirty slide of heat. Sudden flip, Karla on her back, Krissy riding the moisture channel split down her chest, nipples dragging like braille. Hard breathing, palming hips, fingers drifting lower every round. “You realize this is just sweaty surfing?” Karla pants with a quick smirk. “Except I’m your wave.” Voice turns pure threat-sexy right on the kiss, tongues tasting salt and chlorine. Desire ramps—legs widen, bodies grind slow-motion tit-meets-clit, somebody stops tracking whose sweat is whose. They start drying out quick and both know it; Karla’s annoyingly practical mid-ease. “Damn,” she swears quiet, hips bucking up instinctively, “a lack of slippery stuff.” Lust hum keeps them locked, exploring wet skin that suddenly wouldn’t slide farther. Little spark lights behind her eyes. She murmurs low, wicked hush that’s straight play-dirty. “There might be… another type of juice in the tank.” Krissy feels lips shift into pure Trouble because the message still their hands but the fingers keep on firm strokes, heading wolf-like straight-down dock line wet lane. Karla’s scream comes knotty-tight. Pale squirt jets across Krissy’s stomach, neon puck of raw bliss making them laugh, whine and slink identically wet-deranged.