Squirt Pt. 02


Squirt (Part 2)

Kathryn M. Burke

Breakfast was a subdued affair, and I could tell she was worried about something. After we finished and I was getting ready to head upstairs to get dressed and go home, she said nervously:

“I suppose I’ll never see you again.”

I gave her a wide-eyed glance. “Why would you think that?”

She was lapsing into depression again. “A young, handsome, energetic guy like you–you don’t want to hang around an old lady like me.”

“You’re not an old lady. You’re about as desirable a female as I’ve ever come across. I wanna come back many times–if you’ll have me.”

“Of course I’ll have you. But I suppose we can’t actually go out on dates.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, come on, Rob. If anyone sees us, I’ll come across as–what is the term?–a cougar. And you’ll come across as a gigolo.”

“Those aren’t nice words,” I muttered.

“No, they aren’t.”

“And they don’t at all describe our relationship.”

“Oh, so we have a relationship now?”

“I hope we do–or will. Ma’am, I’m not a guy who just wants to get laid by a woman, young or old. And I can tell there’s a lot more to you than that.”

“That’s very sweet of you. We’ll see what happens. But I have to admit, I’d feel a little strange going out with you.” Before I could protest, she added: “But you’re welcome to come over here anytime you want. I’ll be happy to cook a nice dinner for you every now and then. I like to cook, and cooking for one is no fun.”

So that was the deal. We quickly got into a pattern where I’d come over two or three times a week, after my classes were over that day. She’d make me a fine meal, and then we’d go to bed. Sometimes we’d spend the whole weekend together–or at least as much of it as I could spare. After all, this was the height of the football season. Sometimes I’d even bring my books over to study at her place. In fact, in a few weeks I’d practically moved in. We were both aware that this was a temporary arrangement, probably lasting only until I graduated–but that still meant we had lots of time to get to know each other.

And I will say that there was one thing that I just had to figure out: what did her juice taste like?

I wasn’t convinced that it had no taste or odor–and there’s no way to find out except by first-hand experience. So there was one time when I had her lie down flat on her back, and I lay down with my face in front of her pussy, stroking it both with my fingers and with my lips and tongue. Now that she’d found a man who actually liked the fact that she squirted, she really got into the spirit of things, pouring out her stuff with abandon without worrying that her partner would freak out.

As she lay there, clutching the sheets with her hand,.moaning and even whimpering as her climax approached, I got myself ready to be deluged by her fluid. When it shot out of her, it somehow caught me by surprise–kind of like when you go into an unfamiliar shower and the water pressure is a lot stronger than you expect. The stuff sprayed me so hard that I momentarily forgot to keep stroking her. With a groan she took over the job, expertly playing with labia and clitoris until several more spurts came out and totally doused me. Some of the stuff did go into my mouth. I spit most of it out–but not because it tasted bad. She was right, though: I couldn’t smell or taste much. If anything, it was kind of sweet, like watered-down coconut milk.

She couldn’t believe that I actually enjoyed the experience of being bedewed by her squirts, but I did. So we worked that into our sex play from time to time.

Things took an interesting turn in early November.

Both of us had really gotten into anal sex–me for the tightness of the sensation (and, I admit, for the naughtiness that still surrounds this act in most people’s minds), and she because of how it allowed her to squirt uninhibitedly. So there I was one night, plowing into her behind while she stroked herself more and more enthusiastically. I guess we were both so focused on our actions that we didn’t hear the front door open and someone clamber up the stairs.

I was the first to see the new arrival, since I was kneeling behind Valerie and facing the bedroom door, which was open. It was a really nice-looking girl, probably about my age, just an inch or two shorter than Valerie, and she was staring at us with a peculiar look. It wasn’t exactly alarm or outrage or anything like that. It was as if she was gazing at some curious scientific specimen she’d never seen before. I just gawked at her while continuing to thrust into my partner’s ass. Valerie didn’t see her at all, she she’d buried her head in the sheets while playing with herself.

With a strangely tranquil and non-judgmental tone, the young woman said, “Mom, what are you doing?”

Those simple words made Valerie look up–and the shock and surprise of having a spectator of our furious copulation had the expected result. Without warning Valerie evi olan gaziantep escort started sending out a huge quantity of spray out of her pussy, squawking as she did so–and I, still staring right into the newcomer’s eyes, shot my load into Valerie’s butt.

It was only now that Valerie’s daughter–for that’s obviously who this girl was–expressed any sort of emotion. Her jaw dropped as she saw all the juice coming out of her mom, to say nothing of seeing me filling up her mom’s ass with my discharge.

I pulled out of Valerie. There seemed no point in hiding my nudity from her daughter, but at least I could terminate our coupling in something like a dignified manner. But I’d been so conditioned by her to do a thorough wash after anal sex that I stumbled up from the bed and headed toward the bathroom.

The young woman–who, I later found, was named Sophie–had her eyes fixed on me, and mostly on my cock. She moved out of the way as I approached her, as if I had some horrible contagious disease that she wanted to make sure not to catch. She seemed particularly keen on avoiding any contact with my cock, which she kept staring at as I shuffled past her.

I just mumbled, “Gotta wash,” as I walked to the bathroom. After I’d finished I came back to the bedroom, which Sophie had now entered. Valerie had covered herself with the bedsheet, but there wasn’t much I could do to conceal my private parts.

When Valerie caught sight of me, she said, “Rob, I think you’d better leave.”

“You want me to leave?” I said, feeling crestfallen. I’d gotten real used to cuddling up with her after sex.

“Just for now,” she said. “I have a feeling I’m going to have to have a long talk with my daughter.”

“Okay, ma’am,” I said. I got dressed quickly and, giving Sophie a shy grin on the way out of the bedroom, left the house and went back to my pad.

The substance of the conversation went something like this, as Valerie related it to me a little later.


“So,” Sophie said to me, “what was that all about?”

She was making a great show being calm and cool and in control of herself–although it was pretty plain to me that she was startled and upset. I mean, it’s not every day that a young woman gets a close-up look at her mother being corked up the ass by a man who could be her son.

I’d slipped into a robe to cover my nudity. I don’t suppose Sophie had ever seen me naked. “It is what it is,” I said lamely.

“Who was that guy? I seem to have seen him before.”

“He’s from the college. I believe he plays on your football team.”

“It’s hardly my football team, Mom. I don’t give a damn about football.”

“Well, that’s who he is. He’s a senior, like you.”

“Oh, great! So you’re sleeping with a man who could be my twin brother.”

“There’s a lot more to it than that, dear.”

Sophie suddenly shifted gears, as if remembering something that had slipped her mind. “What was that–that stuff that came out of you?”

I sighed. I guess she’d never seen that “stuff” come out of me before. Why would she have? Women don’t usually see their mothers having an orgasm.

“It’s just some fluid that I emit when I…” I trailed off.

“Fluid? Why?”

“I don’t know. It just happens.”

“You’ve always been like that?”

“Yes. It’s apparently a fairly rare phenomenon, but there are a small number of women who do that when they–when they come.”

“It’s not pee, is it?”

“Good Lord, no! It comes out of my vagina.”

“Every single time?”

“Every single time.”

Sophie shook her head in disbelief. “Wonders never cease,” she mumbled. Then she tried to return to the main subject. “How’d you meet this guy? You don’t usually wander around campus.”

I gave her a blank look. “I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.”

She gave me a piercing stare, knowing I was concealing something that was probably disreputable. “And this has been going on for how long?”

“A few months.”

“So this football jock comes over here and basically–well, services you?”

“I told you–it’s a lot more than that.”

“What are you saying? That you–you love him, and he loves you?”

“Well, maybe that’s going a bit far, but let me just say he’s made me feel a lot better about myself.” She understood what I’d left unspoken: Ever since your dad left me.

“You’re not going to tell me you have a–a relationship with him!”

“I’m telling you exactly that. He’s a nice, decent, gentlemanly young man.”

I could tell she questioned every one of those adjectives. And she was getting more and more agitated.

“And where’s this headed? Surely you’re not going to–to marry him?”

“Of course not, dear.”

“That’s good–because I hate to remind you, but you’re still married to Dad.”

“I know that. But I don’t have to remind you that your dad deserted me–I didn’t desert him.”

“He hasn’t deserted you.”

“He’s moved out, hasn’t gaziantep evi olan escort he?”

“Yes, but–“

“And I hardly hear from him anymore. So where am I supposed to go for, um, comfort?”

That probably wasn’t a good word to use: Sophie seemed to get sick to her stomach.

“Do you do anything except–fuck each other?” she said accusingly.

I glared icily at her. “Don’t use that sort of language. You know I don’t like it. And I’m trying to tell you, there’s much more to him than that.”

“You don’t actually go out with him, do you?” The idea seemed to horrify her.

“No, not much. We’re both aware of how that would look.”

“Yeah, there are some pretty nasty words for that kind of ‘relationship.'”

“You don’t have to tell me that. Most of the time we just have quiet evenings at home. He comes over here to study, since he finds it a lot quieter than the library. I cook dinner for him sometimes, we sit and watch movies–that sort of thing.”

“How sweet,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “I see a lot of what looks like his stuff all around here.”

“Well,” I said, “he’s pretty much living here.”

“Living here!”

“Just until the school year is over.”

“You mean I’m supposed to share living quarters with him?” Her self-righteous indignation was on the rise again.

“Soiphie,” I said wearily, “you haven’t lived here for several years. In fact, why are you here now? It’s almost midnight.”

She lapsed into a sulk. “I’ve just dumped my boyfriend.”

I gave a humorless chuckle. “Good for you. I never liked him.”

“You’ve not liked any of my boyfriends, Mom!”

“I’m sorry to say it, but you’ve made a lot of bad choices in the men you’ve, um, fraternized with.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“So now you’ve dumped this latest one.”



“I’d rather not go into it.”

“Okay, fine. So you’ve resorted to the age-old tactic of coming home to Mother.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Well, if you want to live here, you’ll have to get used to having Rob around a lot of the time.”

Sophie let out an exaggerated sigh, as if she was asked to bear the weight of the world. “Fine,” she spat, lifting up the small suitcase she’d left in the landing and trudging off to the bedroom she’d occupied before leaving for college.


This is Rob again. When I showed up at the house the next day (it was a Saturday), Valerie filled me in on the situation–warning me that her daughter didn’t seem to look kindly on me. I guess I could understand that. So I set about trying to be as nice to her as possible.

It was mid-morning, and Sophie was anxiously pacing the living room.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

She almost didn’t bother to reply to me–it’s like she was pretending I didn’t exist. “I need to get my stuff out of my apartment.”

“I can help you with that!” I said excitedly.

But she shot me down. Giving me a withering look of disdain, she said, “I don’t need a man’s help. You think I’m some sort of helpless female?”

Gee, she was a real tough feminist! “I didn’t mean it that way,” I said gently. “It’s just that–well, men make good pack mules. It’s kind of what we’re here for. It’ll make the job quicker if I go with you.”

I could tell she was thinking hard as she sized me up. I have a feeling she was thinking: Well, this big, strong guy has a point. Anyway, I don’t want to have to confront my vile ex-boyfriend alone, so maybe he can provide me with some protection. Even that thought kind of made her feel bad, as if she couldn’t quite defend herself without having a beefy football player as a sort of bodyguard.

But in the end she accepted my offer.

It only took a few hours to get her things out of the tiny apartment she’d shared with this guy–who watched us disconsolately as we packed up. I guess he liked the idea of cohabiting with a female–you know, having a woman’s undergarments lying all around, and things like that. It made him feel like an adult.

After that, Sophie at least tolerated me, but I could tell she still didn’t like me. And that applied especially in the mornings–I mean mornings after Valerie and I had, um, enjoyed ourselves.

It was difficult for both of us to be quiet about that, and after a while we didn’t try. So when I came down to breakfast, there was Sophie, sitting there at the kitchen table and staring daggers at me. I could understand that: no woman likes to contemplate her mom getting banged night after night by someone other than her husband, especially a young guy like me. It must have bothered her horribly that I was able to satisfy her mother a lot better than her dad could.

And, maybe, there was the fact that her mom was “getting” it and she wasn’t anymore. No boyfriend to cuddle up with!

She never told me what it was her boyfriend had done to alienate her affections, and I didn’t ask–it wasn’t any of my business. gaziantep evi olan escort bayan I just set about making myself useful around the house and as friendly to her, in a brotherly way, as I could. But Valerie didn’t always help matters.

I guess that, once her husband had left her, she no longer felt the need to preserve her privacy. She would often come out of the bathroom after a shower totally naked as she walked casually to her bedroom. I of course didn’t mind in the least, but the first time it happened in Sophie’s presence she clapped her hands over her eyes and exclaimed, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mom!”

Valerie, all pink and fresh from the shower, and with her generous curves visible for everyone to see, gave her daughter a sour look and said, “Oh, grow up. We’re all adults here.”

I was standing right there in the upstairs landing, and I suppose Sophie didn’t like the fact that I was getting an unexpurgated look at all her mother’s “charms.” It just reminded her again of what went on in that master bedroom several nights a week.

I was able to ingratiate myself a little bit with Sophie later in the semester. She’d taken a chemistry course to fulfill her science requirement–but it was a class that was a bit more advanced than she’d expected (she was a humanities major), and she was really struggling. You gotta understand that Sophie was a real smart girl, and so it upset her when she had to confront this limitation of her intellectual prowess. Luckily, I’d done a lot of chemistry earlier in life, so I was able to guide her through her lessons in a way that didn’t make me a show-off. It really helped her, and she was grateful. Once, after we’d finished a long study session at the dining table, she even bent forward and gave me a little peck on the cheek in thanks.

But I knew the whole situation was problematical, so I decided to take some bold action.

One evening, both the females noticed that I was really fidgety after dinner. It was a Friday night, and we’d all had a long, hard week of work or school. Valerie glared at me as if to say, What is the matter with you? You’re as nervous as a cat. Not for the first time did I wonder if what I’d planned was even going to come off–or, if it did, whether it might blow up in all our faces.

Around 8 p.m. I heard a faint knocking on the door–so faint that I half thought I’d imagined it. Valerie seemed to think so too, as she frowned at me and Sophie (we were all lounging in the living room) and said, “Is that someone at the door?” She was about to head over to investigate, but I leaped up from the sofa and beat her to it, opening the front door myself.

In walked–or, should I say, shuffled–Joe Cousins, Valerie’s husband.

The guy would have been fairly good-looking–nice, well-trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, honest face, muscular chest and thighs–if he didn’t look as if he was sneaking into a stranger’s house to steal the silver. He was almost as tall as me, but his stooping shoulders made him look shorter.

But the moment Valerie caught a glimpse of him, she rose up to her full height, looking like an outraged queen seeing some lowly churl enter her boudoir. “What the hell is he doing here?” she said. The comment was directed to me, since she assumed (rightly, of course) that I was responsible for the presence of her despised husband after his abandonment of her.

“Look, Valerie,” I said, using her name for nearly the first time since I’d known her, “Joe wants to come back. He loves you, and he’s sorry–“

“Oh, he does, does he?” she spat back. “Then why did he leave?”

“Baby-doll,” Joe said, using an endearment that made Sophie cringe as she watched the drama play out in front of her, “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! I really do love you!”

As Valerie glared furiously at him, I said quietly, “And so do you, ma’am. You know you do.”

A remarkable change went through the woman. Her scowl suddenly changed into a grimace of pain and sorrow, and I thought she was going to burst into tears. But she held it in, probably because she didn’t want to make such a pitiful display in front of her daughter.

“Ma’am,” I went on, “I’ve had some long talks with Joe. I think I’ve gotten him to accept you for what you are–and I think I might be able to help him.”

“Help him how?” Valerie said sharply, her anger partly coming back.

“You know…” I said weakly.

She was pretty quick on the uptake. “In bed, you mean? He’s now prepared to accept me as a–” As a squirter?

“I think so,” I said. “He just needs some–instruction.”

“Instruction, eh?” Valerie said, a smirk curling her lips.


“Are you saying… right now?” She sounded incredulous.

“Well, sure, why not?”

Valerie just stared at the two men in the room. Meanwhile, Sophie kept looking open-mouthed at me, her mother, and her father, as if watching some riveting three-way tennis match.

The older woman sized up the situation, then shrugged and said, “Sure, let’s do this thing.”

And with that, she headed up the stairs, peeling off her clothing as she did so.

I didn’t think it would be quite so easy: I thought it might take hours of persuasion to convince the lady to give her husband a second chance in the bedroom. Joe and I watched her climb the stairs, and then we stumbled on after her. Sophie remained glued to the sofa, trying to take it all in.

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