The Right Client Ch. 01 Pt. 03

It's the next morning and the young black barista at Starbucks is being extra flirty with you. You ask him for a half-caf cap, extra foam, and he replies with a grin: "I got you, girl. I'll give you alllll the foam." Which... did he mean it quite that way? He can't have meant it quite that way, right?

Eliza gives you an eyebrow raise. She seems to think he meant it quite that way. (Author's Note: Eliza [not her real name] is 32; her kid goes to school with our kid. She's been a single mom for as long as we've known her, because her husband died from a heart defect when he was super-young, which is super-sad. Eliza's a devout Catholic... always got that little golden cross necklace. Chin-length auburn hair, falling to either side of a cute oval face. Almond-shaped brown eyes. Light cinnamon skin [I think there's a little Italian in there]. Very sexy dimples. And classic birthing hips... her dimples may be her second-best feature, but those hips are what truly take the prize, and it's not even close. I confess, I always make a point to discretely check out Eliza in her jeans each morning at school drop-off, just to see those hips again. Such a great way to start the day).

You and Eliza talk about PTA stuff, you gossip about a teacher in the school who everyone thinks is probably transitioning, and then Eliza grouses about having gotten a bit thicker lately. (Which: maybe she has, but it's mostly on those hips, so what's the problem?... This was another Author's Note, by the way).

You do the polite friend thing and tell Eliza that she looks great, she doesn't look an ounce heavier than ever, and even if she is, who cares, because she looks great, etc. But Eliza insists. She needs to get back to working out. She says she's thinking of joining a gym. She asks if you know anything about that Gym 68.

"Ugh, skip that place," you tell her. She asks why. You shrug, "I dunno, I just... I looked around in there and it just doesn't seem like our kind of place." Eliza wants to know what's so bad about it. You tell her that they crank the music super loud. Plus it feels like a pick-up joint... like everyone's there to cruise for dates, not to exercise. I mean, the women are in makeup! "Also," you conclude, "and not that there's anything wrong with this, it's totally fine—but, um, the clientele there is very... I dunno... 'diverse'. Especially the men. Y'know? Like, 'urban.'"

"You mean black guys?" Eliza asks. You shrug again. "Please," she says with an eye roll, "I'm from DC. I'm used to black guys. And besides, they seem to like you." Eliza points to your cup. It has "shawty" written on it. Eliza explains what that means: it's long-time black slang for "girlfriend".

You peek back over at the barista. He's staring straight at you across the shop with a cocky grin, this despite being little more than a child... 17 or 18, tops. You tell Eliza: "Aw, that kid's just a flirt. He probably writes this on every woman's cup." Eliza turns her cup toward you. It reads: "Eliza."

Steering the conversation back to Gym 68, you add that—on top of everything else—the guy who runs it is a major asshole.

Eliza: "The guy who runs it is Quinten Borders, and he is a major billionaire."

"Fine," you say, "he's a major billionaire asshole." Then: "You should try Curves. I think it's more our speed." Eliza relents: "Yeah, you're probably right."

Then Eliza says, from out of nowhere, "You're looking really good today, by the way." You wave that off, but she insists, "no I mean it, you're looking all, I dunno, 'glowy'. Your hair's got this shine to it, and even your boobs, Christy..." she says as you laugh, embarrassed. "No, I'm telling you, you're having a very good boobs day."

Again you wave all that off, but checking yourself out in the reflection of the glass door at Starbucks, you realize: you do look good today. And what's more, you feel amazing.

***

Back home now, you're in our bedroom, in front of the full-length mirror, giving yourself a closer inspection. Every part of your body that you worked on yesterday looks a bit better today. A bit tighter. Somehow stronger and, oddly, younger. And Eliza wasn't lying about your breasts, either. Today they're somehow just a little... gravity-defying? Was it those dips? Whatever it was, you give the girls a playful squeeze through your t-shirt, shooting your reflection an appreciative nod: "lookin' good, mama!"

All the while, you marvel at the full recovery that your muscles and joints have made overnight. All of the pain and soreness from yesterday: gone. Every single hint of muscle strain and inflammation: barely a memory. Every bruise, and even the skin-chafing: like it never happened. And this just hours after the most agonizing workout you've ever had (or hope to have).

How is it possible? What could be the explanation?

As the above question teases your head, you spy (in the mirror) the reflection of that black, ribbed squeeze bottle poking out of your gym bag. You remember the rancid white goop within said bottle.

Black pearl.

Huh.

Maybe...?

No. You put the thought out of your head. No way that shit did anything to you besides make you almost-puke. Fuck that stuff.

Still... the way your body feels right now is undeniable. Stripping off your jeans and t-shirt, you decide to take advantage of it and go for a mid-morning run.

"Alexa, play music for stretching to... before a run... like, y'know, feel-good music", you say, which is some weird shit to say to our Amazon Echo, but she comes through for you, firing up an EDM version of an Olivia Newton-John song from her country phase (speaking of weird shit). As you do your calf-raises and your hurdlers, you decide this music's not quite what you're looking for.

"Alexa," you say, "play rap."

After a beat, Alexa responds: "Here's a station you might like: 'Family-Friendly Hip-Hop,' on Amazon Music."

You do your toe-scrunches and glute stretches as Will Smith raps about parents and their incapacity to understand. This isn't quite what you're looking for either.

"Alexa, play... p- play uncensored rap."

After a beat, Alexa responds: "Here's a station you might like: "Bump Tracks for Snowbunnies,' on Amazon Music."

And this one's more like it. A simple up-and-down bass riff starts, over which the Ying Yang twins whisper into a microphone about... well, some very dirty shit. Your stretches take you into a dog tilt yoga pose, your back curving and hips presented in submission. Your whole body charges, energized, engaged.

You look again over at that squeeze bottle. Maybe you should have just a spoonful?

No. Blech.

Now Lil Wayne is promising to come and get it juicy for you as your body swings backwards into a camel pose, pushing your pussy forward newly-pert breasts up and out to the sky. Your whole body, an offering. More strange energy hums through your every fiber.

You look over for another glance at that black latex rubber bottle. You think about the thick syrup inside. Just a tiny half-sip, maybe?

You roll into a wall-sit. The same one that kicked your ass so hard yesterday. Today, though, you hold the pose for a full minute... three... five... you're fucking owning this, Christy! Your ass, thighs and core are locked in. Your shoulderblades cling to the wall as though bolted there, coiling your frame into a squat that'd put any rap video model to shame. Power flows from your center out, and then back again, redoubled. If Quinten Borders were here in your bedroom right now, you wonder, would he be impressed? You shake that question away immediately: who cares what that guy would think, he's an asshole.

Meanwhile, Murs is laying out some unspeakably nasty rhymes about blowjob etiquette:

And hella broads be fake / Talkin' bout they don't swallow, they don't like how it tastes / I say it's no home trainin' / Kinda like leaving a table before you clean your plate / I wasn't born with this shit it took twelve years to make / And you gonna let it go to waste? "hell no" let me put it all in place / You put in all this work you might as well finish the race

So silly, you think.

But by now you're staring, unblinking, at that black rubber bottle. The one with the ribbed shaft, and the bulbous cap-head, and the puckered tip on the crown.

Black pearl.

Perhaps... just perhaps... you might consider the very-smallest of very-small drippy-drops, you think to yourself. You pick up the bottle, grasping and squeezing at its firm fleshy walls. You squeeze a creamy thick dribble into a dixie cup. You roll the dribble around in the bottom of the cup, musing at the globs of ivory opacity as they swirl amongst clear runny drabs.

You hold your breath and close your eyes.

You knock it down.

It tastes like horrid fuck. Your eyes fill with tears. Your throat closes and rebels. It takes every ounce of will just to keep those few drips inside of your mouth, and not expelled onto our area rug.

Good god that shit is awful.

***

"This is amazing!" you think to yourself, as you stride into mile four of what must surely be the best run of your life. Glancing at your watch, you're shocked to learn that you've just knocked out the first three miles at 6:40 per... you shredded your previous p.r. without noticing. Without even trying!

On a lark you turn south to our town's true gauntlet for fitness freaks: the Keystone Steps. 1,200 vertical feet of elevation gain, up an unrelenting series of recycled concrete stairway risers, each no fewer than 18 inches higher than the one preceding it... sometimes more.

On a good day, you can run the Keystone Steps one-and-a-half times. And that's only if it's your only workout of the day.

Today you do four. And each and every step feels, well... amazing.

Your fourth trip up the steps, you pass some young black guy who, by the looks of him, is a basketball player at our local junior college. Tall. Toned. In the peak of his vitality. And you blow past him like he's a retiree on a Sunday stroll. "Damn baby, you lookin' soooooo good," he calls out. And you get a little charge down below. You wonder: how come black guys are always so comfortable flirting? Up and down these steps, you get no more than shy, apologetic look-aways from every white man you pass. But you're getting brash, confident- even suggestive- eye-contact from every single black man. You think to yourself: "I prefer the latter."

"Not black guys, that is," you hasten to add. "Just confidence," you think. "Swag. Yeah. I like some fuckin' swag on a man." And again you add, reassuring yourself, "whatever color that man is, not necessarily black, I'm just not super-into black guys."

Off the Keystone Steps you skip, turning into town, toward Main. You spot your reflection in the shop mirrors as you run past, deciding that the flirt on those steps wasn't lying. You really do look gooooood. Your gate and stride... just fucking textbook. You're running like a fucking gazelle, Christy!

You ask yourself: should you maybe run by Gym 68? Should you just blow right past that fucking dump, without even glancing in, just so they can see how great their "maybe not the right client" is doing without them? It takes you a half nano-second to decide: fuck yeah, that sounds like a plan.

So you hang a left down 4th, ignoring a couple of old perverts whistling at you from in front of the panadería, and you head toward Gym 68. Past it you bounce, carefree and blithe, not giving the windows the slightest of peeks in. Kiss my ass, gym people! I don't need you! And as you reach the other side of the gym, beaming in defiance, you notice a car idling in the side alley.

But really, "car" doesn't accurately describe what it is you see. Our Toyota Yaris is a "car." The object currently idling in that alley is a Rolls-Royce Cullinan. The most expensive SUV on the planet. They sell for $325,000, base. But with the custom burnt orange paint on this particular one, on top of the custom detailing and sound system, no way it costs less than $400,000. Christy, that car is worth more than our house.

It's idling there in that alley, next to the gym, blasting dirty south through the open windows. From 40 feet away you can feel the bass in your chest, pounding in you and through you, exiting through the small of your back. The vanity license plate reads, simply: "68".

This is Quinten Borders's Rolls.

And you can see Quinten Borders sitting inside, in the driver's seat, alone.

You decide to run straight down that alley.

And so to the left you turn, striding clean and brisk up toward and then alongside the Rolls, before suddenly noticing something. A jolt. A shock.

Quinten Borders- sitting inside, in the driver's seat- is not alone. Holly is with him.

Holly kneeling in the passenger seat. Her perfect little bubble ass (in those booty shorts) up high. Her sweet little college girl face down low. Her face down in down in Quinten's lap, wet red lips sliding up and down on Quinten's giant cock. Her eyes up to his face, in submission.

Holly doesn't notice you, but Quinten does. He's looking straight at you. No emotion. No apology. Not the slightest hint of embarrassment. Just a flat expression amounting to a silent acknowledgement: yes, Christy, I'm getting my big black cock sucked by this snowbunny.

Quinten! What an asshole!

Holly! What a slut!

Both of them! Just... they're horrible people!!

You run home, twice as fast as before. That arrogant fucking monster! That cheap fucking whore!

***

"Why are men such dirtbags?!" you scream at me as you storm in through the side door. I'm on the couch, in my sweats. I've stared at my phone all morning, scrolling through Star Wars reddits. So, yeah, been pretty busy. "Why is it?!", you demand. "Why is every guy except for you a total asshole?!"

"I don't know," I say, "but wow, you- you look really great this morning."

"Randy, you—you're soooo the man for me! I mean... some of the fucking guys out there!? AAARGH! Fuck! How did I find the one man on the planet who isn't an arrogant piece of shit?"

"I- I don't know," I repeat, "but again, this is a very good morning for you, um, looks-wise..."

"Shut up," you say, approaching me, parting my legs. "Just shut up while I give my non-asshole husband a little reward for just being the one non-asshole."

"O—okay," I stammer, as you drop to your knees, your hands on the rumpled waistband of my dirty gray sweatpants. "Yeah, um, what—whatever you wanna do, Christy..."

Out comes my penis, half-erect and clammy. A pale pink afterthought. You lick on it and rub it, trying to give it life. To give it buoyancy. To get it up and out to the full five inches that I can achieve on my better days. This appears to not be one of my better days.

"I just... I... um..." It's me, stammering. "I wasn't expecting that- that we'd... that you'd—"

"Shut up," you say between licks, "just shut up and let me do this for you."

And you do it for me, not even thinking about what Holly was doing for Quinten. Not even the tiniest bit.

You're not at all remembering the little tramp using that wet mouth on her bull. Her glistening, engorged lips on his ebony rod. Kissing it. Gently tasting it. Keeping her eyes locked on her bull's eyes... showing him just how eager she is to please and pleasure him.

But you're thinking about me! You're not picturing Holly grasping Quinten's big black pole... so thick and vast that she can't even extend her fingers around it. Can barely manage to press the long blade-edges of her fingernails down onto the seam of his shaft, gently scraping up and then under the ridge of his cock head, making him shiver.

But you're thinking about me! And definitely not imagining Holly working her pert pink tongue all around the top of Quinten's cock head, and then flicking up, under the ridge. Thrumming it. Tickling it. You keep reminding yourself, Christy: you're here with me. You're pleasuring me. You're not in that Rolls Royce, watching Holly's mouth submit to Quinten's use. Watching Holly slurp, deliberately, along the length of Quinten's cock. Getting it wet. Getting it shimmery. Even—oh my god, she's so fucking trashy!—spitting directly on Quinten's cock. Just dropping a mouthful of saliva from her fuckmouth directly on her bull's big head, spreading it around with her hand. Getting him slick and slippery,

But you're thinking of me! Only me! And for sure not envisioning Holly as she licks down under Quinten's big balls. He groans, purrs... a deep-voiced purr from an ancient place in this man's throat as she sucks an entire testicle into his mouth, and then the other, all while keeping her little white hand gripped tight on his opal rod, and her sweet blue eyes angled upward toward her bull. Toward her man. Toward her owner. A silent plea for his approval.

Now she's licking under his balls (not that this is anything you're thinking about), and pushing her little pink tongue deep down into his crack. Down where it's acrid and musky. She's showing just how dirty she wants to be for him. That she'll do anything for him. And again he groans and purrs, and he runs his big, rugged black hands through her bleached blonde hair.

"God, I love your big black cock," Holly would look up say. Probably, right? She'd probably pull away from Quinten's dick, and she'd look up at him and smile a dirty smile, and she'd definitely say something dirty like that (not that it's in any way coursing irrevocably through your brain). "I fucking need your big... black... cock!"

But you're not there, you're here with me. You want to talk to me, Christy. "God," you pull away and you say to me, "Randy, I need your... your, um, uh, your c-cockmmmm." Christy, it's so great when you talk dirty like that. Such a rare treat. What's gotten into you?

"Fuck my mouth," Holly probably says to Quinten. "Fuck my little white slut mouth with your big nigger cock. Make me your fucking white whore!" Then she dives back down on his pole, taking him deep down her throat.

Well, no way you're gonna say anything like that. Not like what Holly maybe just said to Quinten. But that's okay, this isn't about Quinten, you're not even thinking about Quinten as you bob your mouth up and down on my 5 inches of pale pink fun. And as I start to gasp and tense and you feel me getting close, you definitely don't picture Holly clamping her lips down on the bulbous head of Quinten's miraculous cock as her bull roars, "I'm gonna nut! I'm gonna nut, bitch! Take it!"

"Graaah!" he grunts, as his hips lift and thrust. He fucks her face as she moans and coos, hungry for his cum.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm cumming! I'm cumming! Take all that shit! Fuck! FUCK!"

Again Holly coos, a whine of joy and longing as the initial burst of Quinten's seed hits the back of her throat. The bull pushes her head down further with each additional jet, and Holly surrenders, yielding to his will as his hands grip her hair in full command.

"Shit. Fuck, you love that nut, don't you? You're a white slut for that cum." All this he says as his hips and balls continue to pump surge after surge of his seed into her sweet pink mouth.

Mouth full, Holly can only grunt her agreement from deep within her chest. She nods awkwardly from around Quinten's massive shaft. She owns it. She loves it. She lives to be a fuck-toy for her dominant black master.

"Yeah, baby... that's it, girl... get it all... take that nut, bitch... aw, shit... fuck..."

The rhythm of Quinten's hips finally slows as his thick cum begins to escape out the corners of her mouth, dribbling slowly down his rod. Inhaling deeply through her nose, Holly rises, slowly pulling her mouth free from the cock of her master. Up she comes, tilting her head back, mouth wide open to show Quinten its contents: his cum. His nut. Full to the brim, she waggles her tongue slightly beneath the load, sending more driplets down out of the corner of her mouth, alongside her chin.