Wet As Fuck

Taylor’s pussy is right there on the counter—legs kicked back, dripping everywhere—and Charlie’s tongue is buried so deep he can feel her clench. He’s licking like he owns the place, fingers moving fast, and when Taylor starts to lose it the spray hits him square in the mouth. Thick, warm, and endless, soaking the front of his tee, running down his chin, splattering all over the kitchen tiles. He doesn’t back off; he presses closer, growls something filthy between her thighs while she bucks and keeps pumping more across his face. Taylor’s gasping, thighs shaking, the whole table wobbling under her. Charlie looks like he just got hosed at point-blank range, shirt clinging, beard shiny. Another burst, another splash, and he’s still grinning, licking his lips like he can’t get enough. The floor’s a slippery mess, the countertop soaked, and they’re both laughing, covered in it.