The Right Client Ch. 01 Pt. 02

I stare back at you, quizzically. Like a dog in French class. I'm not grasping the message.

"Maybe..." you continue, "maybe you could, um... be my Nurse Randy? Down there? And—and 'attend to my wounds'?"

Lifting the blanket, you pull my head down, down past your aching, tender breasts. Down past your bruised abs. Down further, barely managing to lift your sore and inflamed glutes up off the bed long enough to scootch out of those grey hipster panties, revealing a bush that is matted and encrusted with the dried crystalline sweat of today's workout.

I, of course, certainly get it now. "Allow me, m'lady," I declare, which again is some goofy talk, and by now you're ready for the talk to stop. Pulling my head between your chafed thighs, what you're ready for is to be licked.

I lick you.

First just at the opening, a single lick, pushing my way through your brittle pubes. And then again I lick, a second time, venturing between your labia, as you pull me in deeper, moaning, melting. This feels so good. This—all of this—just feels so natural. Feels right. Like, on a cellular level, it feels so right... you just don't know why. Or at least your brain doesn't.

But your body knows. As your vaginal fluids start to seep onto my probing tongue, and as your blood rushes to the tissues of your most private inner walls, your body knows exactly why this feels so right. Your body knows that, earlier today, you were with another, stronger, more dominant man. Your body knows that he worked you, that he exercised his will upon you, that your every muscle and bone submitted to his command, to the point of surrender. Your body knows that when this powerful, dominant bull was done with you, you were spent, hypoxic, and dripping wet. That this potent black master sent you home inflamed and sore, raw and bruised. And your body knows that I, your kind and gentle and loyal husband, waited patiently to receive you here at home. For what purpose? To nurture. To soothe. To lick your wounds.

And so you pull my head deeper, and I lick your wounds. And I lick harder. And faster. You make guttural noises, wanting my tongue to go just as deep as it possibly can. Wanting me to lick and suck out every last drop from your cunt. And it's a sweaty, funky, unshowered, post-workout cunt. But you don't care. In fact, you like it this way. You like it dirty. I like it dirty.

"Mmmm, that's right, Randy," you purr. "You like that, don't you? You like to lick me out."

I moan. I nod. I like it.

"God, you're so good at this, hon. You—you're such a good pussy-licker, aren't you?"

I nod again. You grunt again.

"Yeah, you're my little pussy licker."

And what's wrong with that? What's wrong with having a husband who licks and sucks your pussy upon request? Not a fucking thing. You could do a lot worse than having a sweet, kind husband, who's thoughtful, and who bakes bread, and who can lick pussy like the pussy-licking gold medalist of the pussy-licking Olympics. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I do a pretty good job.

And so it is that as my tongue flicks and spins around your engorged clitoris, and as two of my fingers slide their way into and out of your open chasm, and as a third finger probes the tight bud of your asshole... the spasms begin. Your bruised and broken body rocks with them. The orgasm has arrived.

"FUUUUUCK!" you gasp. "I'm cumming! I'm cumming! Don't—don't stop don't stop don't stoppppp, Randyyyyyyyyyy!"

My lips and mouth are drenched with a torrent of your juices, and I lick them up like rainwater.

"Oh god... oh god..." you say. Desperate for oxygen. Brain starved of blood.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh ggggggodddddddddd... Oh. Oh..."

Finally the spasms begin to recede. "Fuck... Randy..."

One last big gasp. One last attempt to get air into the lungs.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you whimper.

You're flushed. You're tingling. And for the second time today, you are utterly spent.

***

Later that night, you're lying in my arms. Already I'm asleep. I always fall asleep first. "I love you, Randy," you say to me, knowing I can't hear it. But I smile a bit, sleep or no. Maybe I did hear it after all.

You touch my face. It's not a chiseled face. It's not a strong or authoritative face. But it's the face of your husband, whom you love, and who loves you. Looking around our bedroom, you say to yourself: this is it. This is where you belong. At the end of the day, this right here—this man, this life- is all you need.

But...

...is it?

Is it really all you need?

You reassure yourself: yes. Of course it is. How stupid to even ask the question. And away from me you roll, as sleep approaches.

And down on the bedroom floor is the very last thing to cross your sight before you finally drift off for the night. It's your unzipped gym bag, out from which is peeking that big, charcoal-black squeeze bottle. The one with the ribs up the shaft, and the tapered top, and the little puckered hole at the apex.

You brought it home from the gym. You don't know how, you don't remember doing it, but obviously you somehow came home with that squeeze bottle.

With the black pearl.

***TO BE CONTINUED***