Squirt with Sue Diamond

Sue Diamond straight up found a button in her cunt and now she won't stop hitting it. Before the discovery she could ride normal like anyone else. Now? If there's no gush when the bell rings she's faking it every single time. She's not being polite about it, either. Room goes quiet, air thickens, she bears down, hips snap once, twice, and out it flies—clear, hard, straight to your chin if you’re sloppy enough to be down there. Any dude trying to nut solo gets yanked to duty because Sue won’t spend the money or the dignity pretending fingers worked. Pure muscle memory now, same as aiming a hose: aim, clench, release, soak the goddamn sheets. She brags about water-stained ceilings—metaphorically, but only just. One evening in the neighborhood it took two towels before she finally collapsed, legs shaking like she’d run suicides. Afterward she looks at the glistening wreckage like she owns the copyright on it, grinning that final-second-on-the-pitch smile that says “Yeah, you’re welcome.” No squirt means no check-out for Sue. Simple arithmetic. Bragging rights sold separately, satisfaction basically guaranteed.