Amy wants to be licked out

The words rise before you can second-guess them. Your voice comes out soft and shaky under the rush of water.

“Beth… please. I want your mouth. I want you to lick me. Please.”

Her fingers still on your clit. For a second the only sounds are the shower and the faint, wet rhythm of Ben’s hand on the other side of the glass. Then she turns you gently so your back meets the warm tile, water cascading over your breasts and stomach. Her eyes are dark, searching your face.

“Say it again,” she murmurs. “Properly. Ask me.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but the need is sharper than the embarrassment. Your hands find her wet shoulders. “Please lick me out. I need your tongue on me. I’ve been thinking about it since you had your fingers in me. Please, Beth… get on your knees and taste me. I want to come in your mouth.”

A slow smile curves her lips. She sinks down without another word, the water streaming over her hair and back. Her hands slide up your stockinged-smooth thighs—bare now, clean, still trembling—and she eases them apart. The first touch of her tongue is a long, flat stroke from your entrance to your clit, hot and soft and infinitely better than fingers. You gasp, one hand flying to the tile, the other tangling in her soaked hair.

“Fuck—yes—just like that.”

She hums against you and does it again, slower, lingering where you’re swollen and sensitive. Her tongue circles your clit, then dips lower to push inside, fucking you with soft, wet strokes before returning to suck gently at the bud. The sensation is overwhelming after everything else—silky, precise, intimate in a way fingers never were. Water runs down your body and over her face; she doesn’t seem to care. Every lick makes a soft, obscene sound that mixes with the shower.

Through the fogged glass you can see Ben has gone still, fist tight around his cock, watching Beth’s head move between your legs. The sight makes your hips rock forward.

“Please don’t stop,” you beg, voice breaking. “It feels so good. Your tongue… Beth, I’m already close. Please keep licking me. I want to come on your tongue. Please.”

She pulls back just far enough to speak, lips shiny, breath warm against your pussy. “Since you asked so nicely.” Then she seals her mouth over you again, sucking your clit in rhythmic pulls while her tongue flicks underneath. One hand grips your thigh to keep you open; the other slides up to pinch a nipple, rolling it under the spray. The dual sensation buckles your knees. You moan her name, loud enough that Ben can hear it, and beg again—helpless, honest, the old need to stay in control long gone.

“Please… please, I’m gonna come. Don’t stop. Lick me through it. I need it. Beth, please—”

She answers by pressing closer, tongue relentless, and the orgasm crashes over you hard and bright, your thighs clamping around her head as you shake and cry out under the falling water. She stays with you, licking softly through every pulse, until you’re slumped against the tile, panting, clean water running over both of you and her mouth still gentle between your legs. Outside the glass, Ben is breathing hard, still waiting, still untouched by anything but his own hand and the sound of you begging her for exactly this.

Beth’s technique is unhurried and exact, the kind that comes from knowing your body better than you do yet. She starts with the flat of her tongue, long and slow, licking from the very bottom of your entrance all the way up through your folds to your clit in one continuous stroke. The pressure is firm enough to part you, soft enough that it never overwhelms the oversensitive skin. Water runs over her face and into her mouth; she swallows around it and keeps going, the heat of her tongue cutting through the heat of the shower.

When she reaches your clit she changes. The broad strokes become precise. She traces the edges of the swollen bud with just the tip of her tongue, circling clockwise, then counter-clockwise, never quite giving you the direct contact until your hips twitch. Only then does she seal her lips around it and suck—gentle at first, a soft rhythmic pull that makes your thighs tremble, then a little stronger, her tongue flicking underneath in quick, targeted strokes while the suction stays steady. Every few pulls she releases you just long enough to lick lower again, pushing her tongue inside in short, shallow thrusts, fucking you with it, curling the tip upward before sliding back out to gather the fresh wetness and drag it up to your clit once more.

Her hands anchor the rhythm. One stays high on your thigh, thumb stroking the soft inner skin, keeping you spread. The other slides up your body to your breast, fingers rolling and pinching the nipple in time with the flicks of her tongue so the two sensations stay linked. She reads every reaction: when your breath hitches she lingers and sucks harder; when your moans turn high and broken she softens, licking in slow, soothing passes until you can take more. The sounds are constant and intimate—the soft wet lap of her tongue, the occasional deeper suck, the quiet hum she makes when you clench around nothing and rock against her mouth.

She doesn’t rush the build. Even when you start begging she keeps the same measured pace, drawing the pleasure out, letting each lick and suck land fully before the next. Only when your thighs begin to shake and your hand tightens hard in her hair does she commit fully—mouth locked over your clit, tongue working in fast, firm circles, suction deep and relentless, one finger finally sliding inside to curl against the spot her tongue can’t reach. The combination is devastatingly precise. She stays exactly there, technique unwavering, licking and sucking you through every pulse of the orgasm, softening only when the sharpest waves have passed, her tongue returning to those long, gentle strokes that ease you down while the water continues to pour over both of you.

Beth’s mouth stays locked to you as the orgasm crests and slowly ebbs, and in the warm rush of water and sensation you become acutely aware of the anatomy that is making this possible—the new architecture of pleasure that didn’t exist on your body yesterday.

Her tongue is pressed flat against the underside of your clit, right where the small, dense cluster of nerves is most exposed. Each firm flick sends a bright, electric pulse straight up the short internal branch of the clit that runs beneath the surface; you feel it as a deep throb that echoes inside your pelvis, not just on the surface. When she sucks, the gentle vacuum draws more blood into the already swollen glans, making the whole structure firmer, more sensitive, so the next lick lands harder. The hood has been pushed back by her lips; every direct pass of her tongue over the bare tip is almost too sharp until she softens it with a broader stroke, spreading the sensation out across the thousands of nerve endings packed into that tiny area.

Lower, where her tongue pushes inside you, the feeling changes. The walls of your pussy are ridged and soft, gripping at the intrusion; you can feel the subtle texture of her tongue stroking along them, the way the entrance flutters and tries to pull her deeper. A second finger has joined the first now, curled forward, and the pads press against the slightly rough, spongy patch on the front wall—the same tissue that surrounds the clit from the inside. Pressure there doesn’t feel like the bright spark on the surface; it feels heavier, fuller, a slow bloom of pleasure that spreads through your lower belly and makes your thighs shake harder. Every time she rubs that spot in time with a suck on your clit, the two signals crash together and the orgasm spikes again, sharper, wetter.

You can feel how much you’re dripping. Arousal slickness is flooding from higher inside, mixing with the shower water, coating her fingers and her chin. The tissues are engorged—labia swollen and parted, clit standing out, everything hypersensitive and flushed with blood. Your nipples, still being rolled by her free hand, are connected by the same web of nerves; each pinch makes your pussy clench around her fingers in a reflex you can’t control. The whole system is lit up and talking to itself: external touch on the clit, internal pressure on the front wall, the stretch and slide of her fingers, the psychological jolt of watching her head move between your thighs while Ben strokes himself to the sight.

It is overwhelming in its specificity. Yesterday none of these structures existed on you in this form. Today they are swollen, responsive, and completely at the mercy of her mouth and hands—each lick mapping the external nerves, each curl of her fingers waking the internal ones, the two of them together pulling another helpless pulse of pleasure through a body that is still learning how intensely it can feel. Beth groans softly against you, tasting all of it, and keeps going, her technique patient and exact, exploring every inch of the anatomy that is currently undoing you.

Beth’s tongue is still circling your clit, two fingers curled deep against that spongy spot inside you, when she glances sideways through the steam and gives Ben a single, clear nod.

The glass door opens. Water and cooler air rush in for a second. Then Ben is there, crowding into the cubicle behind her, hands gripping her hips. He doesn’t hesitate. You feel the moment he pushes into her—her whole body jolts forward, her mouth suddenly pressed harder against your pussy, and a raw, muffled scream vibrates straight through your clit and into your core.

“Fuck—Ben—” The rest of her words dissolve into another broken cry as he buries himself to the hilt in one hard thrust. The impact rocks her against you. Her fingers spasm inside your pussy, pressing exactly where you’re most sensitive, and her tongue falters for a second before she moans and seals her lips around your clit again, sucking desperately.

You can see it over her shoulder: Ben’s cock sliding deep into her, the wet slap of his hips against her ass, water streaming over all three of you. Every thrust drives her forward. Her screams and moans are muffled directly into your flesh—hot, shaky, obscene—while her tongue keeps working, messier now, less precise, vibrating with every sound he fucks out of her. The dual sensation is overwhelming: the thick fullness of her fingers still curled inside you, the frantic suction on your clit, and the constant, helpless noises she’s making because she’s being pounded from behind.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” Ben grits out, pace already hard. “Scream all you want. She can feel it.”

Beth does. Another sharp cry vibrates through you as he snaps his hips forward. Her free hand clutches your thigh for balance. You feel her pussy clench around him in the way her whole body tightens, the way her fingers curl harder inside you in reflex. Water runs over her back and his chest. The small space is all heat and skin and the wet, rhythmic sound of him fucking her while she refuses to lift her mouth from you.

Your own orgasm, which had been ebbing, surges back sharp and bright. The anatomy she mapped so carefully is now being overwhelmed—clit sucked and vibrated by her screams, front wall pounded by the involuntary jerks of her fingers, the psychological shock of feeling her get filled while she still has her tongue on you. Your hips rock against her face. One hand tightens in her wet hair.

“Beth—oh fuck, I can feel him fucking you—don’t stop—”

She can’t answer with words. She only moans louder into your pussy as Ben drives deep again, and the sound, the suction, the curling pressure inside you, all crash together until you’re coming with her, shaking under the water, her screams muffled against your pulsing clit while he fucks her through every second of it.