I'm crashing at a friend's place, but I've got the guest house all to myself and an insatiable desire b*rning inside me!

The dull ache between my thighs grows sharper with every passing moment, an insistent pulse that overrides all logic and embarrassment. There's nothing stopping me—no roommates, no nosy neighbors, not even the threat of an accidental FaceTime, just the humid heat of summer and the wanton promise of privacy. I kick aside the threadbare comforter and stride barefoot to the kitchen, the cool tile shocking against my bare soles and making the hair on my arms stand on end. The refrigerator emits a low, steady hum, reminiscent of a lazy resting in the corner of the kitchen. Its gentle vibrations pulse through the air, mingling with the quiet ambiance of the room, as if it's contentedly dozing, unbothered by the world around it.

But the frigid relief only heightens the restlessness alive in my body. I plant myself against the countertop, its faux-st*ne edge biting into the soft flesh of my hips, and let my hands slip under the hem of my tank. My nipples are already hard, pebbled and straining against the fabric, and when I roll them between my fingers, my knees threaten to buckle. There's something deliciously obscene about being the only one awake, about knowing I could strip naked and no one would ever know; the air feels thick with possibility, and I savor the anticipation as I shove my panties aside and drag my slick fingers over my clit.

The urgent friction rattles my self-control. I set my phone on the counter and stare at my own reflection in the microwave's bl*ck glass. My cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed with hunger. Bent at the waist, legs spread and bracing for the next wave, I feel like I'm watching a stranger unravel—some shameless, reckless girl who's always existed at the edge of my awareness but never been allowed to play. I arch my back and piston my fingers faster, driven by a mounting pressure that threatens to detonate behind my ribs. I want it rough, messy, wild—so I slap my palm against the counter with every gasp, the sound echoing off the bare walls, the p*in and pleasure twining together in a heady, addictive rush.

When the *rgasm h*ts, it's like a chemical explosion, flooding every nerve ending with a white-hot, blinding pleasure that steals my breath and makes my vision swim. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but a stifled moan escapes anyway, followed by a helpless giggle that bubbles up and bursts free. The kitchen looks different now—softer, golden, almost holy in the hush of early morning. I lie there for a moment, catching my breath, the taste of salt on my skin and the thrum of satisfaction low in my belly.

I lose count of the *rgasms after a while, each one sloppier and more desperate than the last, until I'm gasping and boneless and so far gone I don't even care if a neighbor sees me through the window. There's something freeing in the abandon, in the raw need I can finally indulge without shame. The kitchen is a disaster zone by the time I'm finished:squirt pooling on the floor, drawer handles smeared with fingerprints, and a mug of freshly brewed coffee left untouched because I got sidetracked by my own urges to indulge in self-pleasure.

This spontaneous kitchen escapade is an electrifying whirlwind you can't afford to miss!

Female Ejaculation Standing S*x Squirting Kitchen Squirter with C4s.com