Horny Couple's Deep Throat and Squirting Pussy Feast

Brigitte’s phone buzzed against the conference table at nine-twelve, and she had to cross her legs under the polished wood before she dared glance down. Gareth, thirty, her husband of four years, the software engineer who usually saved his filth for the dark, had sent three words and a photo of his open palm. I can still smell you. She was twenty-eight, a marketing executive who spent her mornings sounding competent in rooms full of people who had no idea she was already soaked through her panties. She typed back with her thumb hidden behind a folder. Then come home and ruin me. By ten he had described, in blunt sentences, how he wanted her throat. By eleven she had told him she was dripping onto the leather of her office chair and would not wipe it. By noon she had locked the bathroom stall, shoved two fingers into herself, and bitten her own wrist so she wouldn’t moan his name loud enough for the hallway to hear. She came once, small and furious, and texted him the evidence in a shaky voice note she immediately deleted and resent anyway. He answered with a growl captured on his commute headphones. Don’t you dare finish without me again.

The rest of the afternoon was a slow torture of calendar alerts and half-written emails. Brigitte sat through a brand review with her thighs pressed tight, feeling the slick slide every time she shifted. Gareth sat through a deployment call with his cock hard against his zipper, answering questions about latency while picturing his wife’s mouth. They kept the thread alive in stolen lines. I’m going to choke on it the second you walk in. Good. I want spit on your chin before I even get my jacket off. Eat me until I make a mess. I’m going to drink it. She read that one twice and had to stand up and pretend she needed water.

By the time the elevator in their building dinged on their floor, Brigitte was already barefoot in the apartment, dress unzipped down her back, panties dark at the crotch and clinging. She heard his key. The lock turned. Gareth stepped through the door in his gray button-down and dark pants, laptop bag still on his shoulder, and the air between them went tight as a wire. He was thirty and broad through the shoulders from years of lifting between code reviews. She was twenty-eight and flushed from collarbone to cheeks, lips parted, eyes locked on his. Neither of them spoke for a second. The bag hit the floor. His jacket followed. She crossed the room in three steps and he caught her by the waist, hauling her up against the heat of him so she could feel how hard he already was.

“All day,” she said against his mouth. “I’ve been useless. I need your cock in my throat.”

“Then get on your knees,” he said, voice low and rough, and there was nothing in it but hunger and the permission they had been trading since breakfast. “I want to watch you take it.”

She dropped. The hallway rug was rough under her knees. She worked his belt open with impatient fingers, yanked the zipper, and shoved his pants and briefs down just far enough. His cock sprang out thick and flushed, already wet at the tip, the vein along the underside standing out. Brigitte wrapped one hand around the base, looked up at him, and opened her mouth. She didn’t tease. She slid him over her tongue and kept going, past the point where most people would stop, until the head nudged the back of her throat and her eyes watered. She held there, throat flexing around him, then pulled off with a wet sound and a string of spit, breathed, and sank down again, longer this time, slower, taking him until her nose brushed the dark hair at his base.

“Fuck, Brigitte,” Gareth growled. His hand settled in her hair, not forcing, just holding, guiding the rhythm she was already setting. “That’s it. Look at me while you swallow it. God, your throat is so tight.”

She looked. Her eyes were bright and wet, mascara starting to smudge, and she moaned around him so he could feel it. She set a pace of long, messy strokes, pulling back until only the head rested on her tongue, then driving forward until her throat opened and took him deep. Spit ran down her chin and onto his balls. She used her hand on what she couldn’t quite bury, twisting, then let go and took him deeper still, gagging once, recovering, and doing it again because she wanted the sound. The wet choke of it filled the entryway. Gareth’s hips twitched. He praised her in a rough stream, telling her she was filthy, telling her she looked perfect with his cock down her throat, telling her not to stop until he said so. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard on the upstroke, then relaxed and let him slide into the clutch of her throat on the down. Her panties were a lost cause. She could feel herself leaking down the inside of one thigh.

He lasted longer than either of them expected, watching her, feeling the hot squeeze every time she swallowed around the head. When his thighs started to shake he pulled her off with a wet pop, cock shining, her lips swollen and slick.

“Couch,” he said. “Now. I’m not coming in your mouth yet. I want that dripping pussy on my tongue first.”

She stood on unsteady legs. He walked her backward into the living room, kissing her hard, tasting himself on her tongue, and pushed her down onto the wide couch. The cushions sighed. He dragged her dress up to her waist, hooked his fingers in her soaked panties, and peeled them down her legs. The fabric came away with a shine. He spread her knees wide, hooked them over his shoulders, and stared for one hungry second at how wet she was, pink and swollen and glistening, a thread of slick already stretching toward the cushion.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re flooded.”

“Then eat it,” she said, voice wrecked from the throat-fucking. “Don’t be gentle. I want your whole face in it.”

He buried himself. His mouth opened over her and his tongue pushed in, broad and hot, licking from her entrance up through the mess to her clit in one long stroke. She cried out and grabbed his hair. He did it again, and again, drinking her, nose pressed to her, groaning into her like he had been starving. The sound was obscene, wet and eager. He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked, tongue flicking, then flattened it and licked hard circles while two fingers slid into her and curled. She was already close from the day of teasing and the taste of his cock. Her thighs jumped against his ears.

“Right there,” she gasped. “Don’t stop. I’m going to—Gareth, I’m going to squirt, oh fuck—”

He didn’t stop. He sucked harder, fingers pumping, and she broke. The orgasm hit sharp and then opened into a rush. Hot fluid gushed over his tongue and chin in a sudden powerful spray, soaking his mouth, running down his neck, splattering the couch cushion between her ass and his chest. She sobbed his name and shook, thighs clamping, and he kept his mouth on her through it, swallowing what he could, licking through the pulses, groaning like the flood was exactly what he had come home for. Another gush followed the first, weaker but still messy, painting his jaw. He lapped it up, filthy and grateful, and didn’t lift his head until she was twitching and pushing at his forehead.

“Again,” she panted, even as she was still coming down. “But I want your cock back in my throat. Switch. I need both.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning, chin shining, and sat back on the couch with his pants still around his thighs. His cock stood up angry and red, smeared with her spit from before. Brigitte slid off the cushions onto the floor between his knees and took him deep in one greedy stroke, throat opening easier now, eyes up, one hand braced on his thigh. She sucked him messy and fast, gagging on purpose, letting spit drip onto his balls and the cushion, then pulled off and climbed up to straddle his face in reverse, lowering her soaked pussy onto his mouth while she bent and swallowed him again. He grabbed her ass with both hands and devoured her from below, tongue fucking into her, nose buried, while she bobbed on his cock in long wet strokes that made her throat click.

The angle made her clit grind on his tongue every time she sank down his length. She came a second time like that, crying out around his cock, and squirted straight onto his face and chest in hot erratic bursts. He drank and licked and kept going, relentless, even as it ran into his hair and down his neck. The couch was dark with it. A line of it hit the floor. She shook so hard she had to pull off his cock to breathe, strings of spit connecting her lips to the head, and he used the moment to flip her onto her back again, spread her wider, and eat her like he meant to empty her.

“Give me another,” he said against her clit, voice muffled and wrecked. “Soak me. I want it everywhere.”

She did. His mouth sealed, his fingers curled hard against the spot that made her vision white out, and she squirted in a long forceful arc that splashed his tongue, his chin, the underside of his jaw, and the throw pillow behind her shoulder. She screamed, not caring about the neighbor through the wall, thighs trembling uncontrollably, pussy clenching around nothing and then around his fingers as he pushed them back in and kept licking through the flood. He didn’t let up until she was babbling, oversensitive and still pushing her hips up for more.

Then she rolled, greedy, and took his cock down her throat again while she was still dripping, lying half off the couch so he could stand and fuck her mouth in short deep thrusts she welcomed with a nod and a moan. He held her hair and slid in until her nose met his stomach, held, pulled out so she could gasp, and did it again. Spit and slick from her pussy smeared together on his shaft. She looked up at him the whole time, eyes wet, devoted and filthy, taking every inch he gave her. When his control frayed he dragged her up, kissed her tasting of both of them, and put her on her back with her ass at the edge of the cushion.

“Inside,” she begged. “Now. Fuck me. I want to squirt on your cock while you come.”

He lined up and thrust in to the hilt in one stroke. She was so wet he sank without resistance, her pussy clutching and spasming around him from the orgasms still rolling through her. They both groaned. He set a hard pace, hips snapping, the wet slap of it loud in the room, her slick coating his balls and dripping onto the floor. She wrapped her legs around him and met every thrust, moaning his name, telling him how deep he was, how good his cock felt after a whole day of wanting it. He reached between them and rubbed her clit with two fingers, rough and fast, and she went tight around him almost immediately.

“Come with me,” he gritted. “I’m right there. Milk it. Squirt on me.”

She broke first and he followed in the same breath. Her pussy clamped and then gushed, a hot rush squirting around his thrusting cock, spraying his stomach and the base of him and the already ruined cushion. He buried himself and came hard, cock pulsing, spilling deep while she fluttered and flooded around him, both of them shaking, the sound of it wet and endless. He kept rocking through it, grinding, drawing out every pulse, until the last of her squirt had streaked his abs and her thighs and the floor beneath the couch was spotted and shining.

They stayed locked, his cock still buried, her pussy still twitching around the mess of them. He kissed her once, open-mouthed and filthy, tasting squirt and spit and sweat, and she laughed breathless against his teeth. Then she clenched deliberately around him, feeling him twitch, and dragged her nails down his back.

“Don’t you dare pull out yet,” she said, voice hoarse and mean with satisfaction. “I’m still dripping down your balls, and I want you to feel every drop of that squirt while your cum leaks out of me and you stay hard enough to fuck it back in.”