"Dexter ... Is it called squirting?" As the idea was a shock of prohibited happiness, Kerry's body tilted a little, and his voice was shaken. Her fingers pressed her hard against her clit, circling her in a frustrated, unstable rhythm and trembling her thighs. His cheeks turned red because he spoke the word that was hanging between us: heavy, dirty.
With a low, playful growl, I leaned in closer. "Yes, Aunt Kerry." As I watched her writhe, I allowed the title to linger. "I gave it a name, squirting." Dark and dripping with intent, the word rolled off my tongue like a promise.
Her lips parted as though she had been struck, and her breath caught. "Just saying, it feels so dirty." Her fingers trembled against her clit as her mind deceived her—imagining it, craving it—and her voice broke.
Kerry caught my eye. She was frozen for a moment, her body was tense with refusal, her breath was shallow. Her fingers pressed clumsily against her thighs and rubbed her clit.
