Pussy juice

She stands at the counter, fingers drumming once, twice. Her mind runs through the menu. Shake? Juice? Then the thought slips in and makes her smile. Fresh pussy juice sounds better. She peels the thin shirt up, lets it fall. Her nipples tighten under the room's chill. She slips the skirt past her hips and it drops. No panties. Never today. The skin between her thighs is already slick. She touches herself with two fingers, spreads the wetness, brings it to her lips and tastes. Sweet. A little sharp. She likes it. One knee lifts onto a stool. She opens wider, finds the rhythm. Palm flat, then circling, then two fingers sliding in. The chair creaks under her. Wet sounds fill the small kitchen. She leans back against the counter, hips rocking. Her free hand pinches a nipple, twists, lets go. She keeps the pace steady, chasing the build. When it hits, her mouth falls open and a short gasp slips out. Legs shake. She stays like that a moment, breathing, fingers still inside, pulsing around them. Then she lifts them again, shiny, and licks them clean.