The Squirter

 

By April S. Kelley

On a drunken Saturday night some years ago, I went home with a beautiful woman. She was thin and pale with dark hair and nice features. I was excited, to say the least.

We made out heavily in the bar before leaving. We did not even make it all the way back to anyone’s house. Instead, we parked near Art Alley, outside of the Band Rooms or Sugar Studios, whatever you want to call it. We got in the back of the Explorer and put the seats down.

It was hot and heavy. We groped and kissed hard. Our clothes came off and we explored each others’ lady parts with fingers and tongues. We even scissored or tribbed, because neither of us had ever tried it before. It was pretty amazing, until…

We began to ‘sixty-nine’ and the dark-haired goddess was on top, riding my face like a horny little cowgirl when all of a sudden there is an over-abundance of wetness everywhere. I choked and nearly drowned.

“What the fuck?” I shrieked. I thought she had pissed on me or something.

“Sorry, I’m a squirter,” she giggled.

I, myself, am not a squirter. I do not really understand squirting. Like, what is it exactly? Why have I never squirted? I’ve been fucked many ways and I have had incredibly intense orgasms, but squirting has always been something that is beyond me.

Like a champ, I did not make her feel weird about it, because it isn’t weird. I would just have liked a little warning is all, and maybe to have been on top so as not to nearly drown on her juices.

We continued on with more tribbing. Now that she had cum once she was on a roll. Her juices squirting out of her every couple minutes, all over my thighs, my stomach, all over the clothes we had discarded, everywhere. Not only did it sound like someone turned on the water faucet every time it happened, but immediately before the water dispersed from her nether regions, there was a little sound of air, almost queef-like.

The whole thing threw me off and I never came during this experience. I faked one for her because well, you know, sometimes you have to fake it or it will never end.

When it was over, I put my soaking wet clothing back on and she drove me home.

“Sorry I squirted all over your clothes,” she said.

She must have excreted a good gallon or two all over us, our clothes, and her ride. Where does it all come from? And what is it, I wondered.

“No worries,” I said, as I got out of the car.

Squirters should always come with a disclaimer, not that I would not sleep with another. A little heads-up would be nice though. That is definitely the kind of thing a person should be prepared for, especially in the back of a car. We probably would have went on to my house had I known, and I probably wouldn’t have choked.

Be courteous with your squirts, ladies. I beg of you.