Freshie Kept Feeding the Bubble

Freshie didn’t mean for it to get this big.

Lying flat on her back, head tipped, mouth stretched open around the growing globe of spit she’d been slowly feeding for the last few minutes. Every time she pushed more saliva out with her tongue, the bubble swelled a little tighter, catching the light in those weird rainbow streaks. Her eyes stayed shut. Easier to feel everything that way.

The string of drool connecting her tongue to the underside of the bubble kept breaking and reforming. Every time it snapped, a fresh ribbon slid down her chin, over the curve of her throat, and pooled in the hollow above her collarbones before dripping lower. The tank top was already damp where it clung. She could feel the cool spots spreading across her chest and the tops of her tits. Her nipples were tight under the fabric from the chill and from how long she’d been lying here like this, playing with her own spit until her mouth felt raw and overfull.

Her thoughts had gone slow and sticky.

Just a little more. See how big it can get before it breaks.

She pushed her tongue up again, adding another thick pulse of saliva. The bubble stretched. The skin of it felt tight and fragile against her lips. A fat drop broke free and landed right between her breasts, sliding under the neckline of the tank. She made a soft, wet sound in the back of her throat and didn’t bother swallowing. More spit leaked out around the bubble and ran down her neck in thin, shiny lines. Some of it reached the crease of her armpit. The sensation made her hips shift against the floor even though nothing was touching her there.

She liked how messy it was getting. Liked the way her own spit was making her skin glisten and how heavy her mouth felt, stretched and full. Liked that if she opened her eyes she’d see the bubble floating right above her face, connected to her by a string of drool she couldn’t stop producing. The thought of someone watching her do this—watching her feed the bubble until it got stupid and huge and then popped all over her—made her clit throb. She pressed her thighs together once, slow, and felt how wet she already was.

The bubble trembled.

Fuck. It’s gonna—

It burst.

Warm spit exploded across her cheek, her nose, her parted lips. Thick strands landed on her tongue and dripped straight back down her throat. She didn’t close her mouth. Just lay there, breathing through the mess, feeling it slide over her skin in slow, heavy trails while her chest rose and fell. A low, shaky sound left her. Her fingers twitched against the floor like she wanted to touch herself but was too busy just feeling the aftershock of it—the wetness cooling on her face, the taste of her own spit still flooding her mouth, the empty, throbbing ache between her legs that the bubble had somehow made worse.

She stayed like that for a while. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Letting the last of it drip.

She could always make another one.