My Cassidy and Her Always Horny Long-Lipped Squirting Pussy

The apartment was quiet the way it only got on a lazy afternoon, radiator ticking, traffic a dull wash under the window. I was twenty-two and already hard in my sweatpants from nothing more than the way Cassidy had been looking at me since lunch. She was twenty-four, barefoot in an old tank top and cotton shorts, and she had spent weeks turning my head inside out with the same filthy promise. Every night she pressed her mouth to my ear and told me her pussy never really cooled down. Always horny. Always slick. She meant every word.

Long lips, she would whisper, lips that hung heavy and stayed swollen, coated in a constant shine of slime she could feel when she walked, when she sat, when she did nothing at all. She laughed when I groaned and shoved my hand away from her shorts. Not yet, Conrad. You have to beg if you want to watch. I had begged. On the couch, in the kitchen, with my cock straining and my voice gone rough, I told her I wanted those long lips spread for me. I wanted to see how wet she stayed even when nobody was touching her.

That afternoon she finally stopped laughing. She looked me over like she was deciding how mean to be, and said I had been patient enough. Sit there. Do not touch her until she said. I could watch. My pulse kicked so hard I felt it in my teeth. I asked if she was sure. She said she had been sure for weeks. She wanted my eyes on it. She wanted me to see what her cunt did when she stopped pretending she could ignore it.

She dropped onto the far cushion and drew one knee up, the cotton of her shorts pulling tight over the soft swell between her thighs. Even through the fabric I could see the outline of something fuller than I had pictured, a plump fold pressing the seam. She watched my face and smiled, slow and wicked, and told me I had been staring at her crotch like I could already smell it. Tell her what I wanted. Use my mouth. I said I wanted to watch her masturbate. I wanted those long lips, all that constant wet, and I wanted to see her squirt. Her smile widened. Then shut up and look.

Cassidy stood, hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts, and pushed them down with her panties in one motion. The tank top went over her head. She was naked in the gray light, skin warm, breasts full, nipples already tight. Between her thighs her pussy was exactly what she had promised and worse. The outer lips were long, thick, dangling in heavy pink folds that hung well past the rest of her, glossy with a constant coat of clear slime. They looked swollen from her own heat, the inner edges darker, wet enough to catch the light even before she touched them.

A thin string of slick stretched and broke when she shifted her weight. She sat back on the couch, ass sinking into the cushion, and spread her legs wide. One foot planted on the floor, the other hooked over the arm. Her long labia parted with the stretch and then swung, heavy and shining, framing a cunt that was already open and creamy at the entrance. See, she said, voice low. This was her doing nothing. This was just how she stayed. She reached down with two fingers and stroked the length of one dangling lip, slow, from the top of her slit all the way to the soft tip that hung lowest.

The fold slid under her touch, slick and elastic, and more wetness welled out and ran down toward her ass. Always horny, she told me. Always slimy. She could feel it at her job, sitting through a shift with those long lips sticking to her panties, pulling, getting fatter the longer she thought about my cock. She stroked the other side the same way, pinching the plump labia between her fingers and tugging them gently outward so I could see how far they stretched, how they glistened, how the cream at her hole thickened when she pulled. A wet sound followed every stroke.

She kept talking while she did it, filthy and unhurried. Her clit was already throbbing under the hood. She could squirt if she worked herself the right way. She had been dripping into her shorts all afternoon just from knowing I was going to watch. I could not stay still. My hand was in my sweatpants before I decided to put it there, fist closing around my cock, stroking in the open where she could see. She looked at my hand and her smile went meaner, pleased. Good, she said. Stroke it. She wanted to watch me get stupid for that pussy while she played with it.

She spread her long lips wider with two fingers and let a thick ribbon of slick drool out of her and onto the couch cushion. Look how messy she was, and she had barely started. That cunt stayed like this. Horny. Swollen. Waiting to be shown off. We locked eyes. She stroked those dangling lips in slow circles, smearing the shine up over her clit and back down until the folds shone like they had been oiled. I jerked my cock in the same rhythm, precome slicking my fist, both of us shameless, both of us hungry for the show she had promised me for weeks.

Her smile went sharp. She pushed two fingers into her creamy cunt in one slow plunge, no need to wet them first. The long lips spread around her knuckles and then sucked inward, clinging, and a thick sound filled the quiet apartment. Her other hand caught the plump labia and tugged them apart, holding them open so I could see the wet pink inside, the way her fingers disappeared, the cream that welled up around them and ran in strings down her ass. She held my eyes the whole time. Do not look away, she said. This was what I had begged for.

She fucked herself with those two fingers, slow at first, pulling them almost out so the long lips dragged and then driving them back in until her palm met her clit. Every thrust made a filthy wet noise. The slime she had bragged about was real and endless, coating her hand, stringing between her dangling folds whenever she spread them wider for me. She tugged one heavy lip to the side and let it slap back, shiny and swollen, then did the same to the other, showing me how they hung, how they stayed fat and slick no matter how she pulled. I stroked harder, matching the lazy pace of her wrist.

Her breath went rough. She told me she was always like this, always horny, always dripping, that her long-lipped cunt got creamy the second she thought about being watched. She curled her fingers inside and rubbed, and her thighs jumped. The lips fluttered around her hand. More slick poured out, thick and clear, running over her knuckles and onto the cushion in a shiny trail. She spread herself wide, hooking the plump labia and hauling them open, stretching the dangling folds until I could see every wet ridge, every pulse of her hole gripping the fingers she was plunging in. Her eyes never left my face.

Faster, she said, and her wrist picked up. Two fingers plunged deep, again and again, the sound turning sloppy, cream frothing at the edges of those long lips. Her other hand kept them spread, tugging, pinching, rolling the heavy folds so they shone. Her clit stood out, swollen and bare, and she ground the heel of her palm against it on every thrust. I jerked in rhythm with her, fist tight, cock flushed and leaking, the wet slap of her cunt and the wet sound of my hand filling the room together. She moaned, loud, not trying to be quiet, eyes locked on mine.

I could see it building. Her stomach tightened. Her toes curled against the couch. The long lips went darker, fatter, dripping in steady strings while she hammered two fingers into herself and yanked those plump folds open for me. She told me she was going to squirt. She told me to watch her filthy cunt do it. Her voice cracked. She bore down, fingers curling hard, other hand spreading her labia so wide the slick inner flesh gaped, and then she broke.

The first squirt hit hard. A clear arc burst out around her fingers and splashed across the cushion, hot and sudden, soaking the fabric between her spread thighs. She cried out, loud and raw, and did not stop moving. Her eyes stayed on me. She plunged those two fingers deeper and bore down again, and a second gush followed, spraying in a messy fan that wet her hand, her long dangling lips, the inside of her thigh. The lips flapped and shone, still held open so I could see exactly where it came from. She moaned and squirted a third time, a powerful jet that arced onto the couch and ran toward the floor.

She was shaking and she kept going. Fingers plunging, labia tugged wide, clit mashed under her palm, she worked herself through it like she had something to prove. Another gush, then another, smaller arcs chasing the big ones, each one punched out of her with a broken moan. The couch under her ass was dark and soaked. Slick ran down the long lips in sheets and flung off her fingers when she thrust. I matched her, jerking my cock in the same frantic rhythm, the sight of her squirting cunt dragging me right to the edge. She never looked away. Even while she gushed she watched my fist and my face.

Look at it, she gasped, spreading those plump lips even wider while two fingers churned in the creamy mess. Look at how this horny cunt squirts. Another arc burst free, powerful enough to spatter her stomach and the cushion, and she laughed once, filthy and delighted, then moaned through the next one. Her long lips were drenched, heavy, swinging with every thrust, slime and squirt shining on every fold. I stroked faster, grip slick, locked to the pace of her plunging hand. She held my eyes and came again, cunt clenching around her fingers so tight I could see the lips twitch.

She ripped her fingers almost out and slammed them back in, other hand hauling her long lips apart until they stretched obscene and shining, and she squirted one more time with her eyes nailed to mine. It came in a hard arc, then a pulsing spill, soaking the couch, her ass, the dangling folds that slapped wet against her fingers. She moaned loud enough that I felt it in my cock. I jerked in rhythm with those last plunges, not letting go yet, because I wanted to watch her finish every drop. She held the spread, held my stare, and let the final gush run out of her in filthy pulses until her thighs shook and the cushion was ruined.

After that final powerful squirt she sagged back, chest heaving, cunt still fluttering around the two fingers buried in herself. The long lips hung soaked and heavy, cream and squirt dripping off the tips onto the ruined couch. She caught her breath in rough pulls and grinned, satisfied and mean. Slowly she drew her fingers out. They came free with a wet sound, coated to the knuckles. She brought them to her mouth and licked them clean, tongue dragging through her own slime, eyes still on me, grin never slipping. I came in my fist while she did it, thick spurts striping my stomach, both of us sticky and wrecked.

She told me exactly how much she loved showing me her squirting pussy. Loved making me watch those long, always-horny lips hang open and gush. Loved knowing I would stroke my cock to the mess and beg to see it again. The apartment stank of her. She wiped her wet mouth with the back of her hand, nodded at the come on my stomach, and smiled like she was already picking the hour. Next time I plant this soaked, long-lipped cunt on your mouth and squirt until you choke on it and lick the couch clean after.