The Right Client Ch. 01 Pt. 04

It's been two weeks now, Christy, and you've worked out every day. Mostly to pilates vids on YouTube. Dumbbell workouts in our garage. That Nike FitClub on your phone. Running every single day. Sometimes multiple runs per day. And each time, you choke down just a little more of that black pearl.

Jesus it tastes terrible. But, like, 2% less terrible than before? You can get maybe 3/4ths of an ounce down. Maybe. And always with a retch, and a wince, and a shudder. Christ fuck, it tastes so bad. But the payoff: you're looking better. You're feeling better. You can run faster, and further. Your tummy has gotten tighter. Your thighs are stronger. Your breasts... well, somehow they've grown almost a full cup-size. And they're firmer, and higher than they've been since... I don't know, ever?

And then there's your ass, Christy. Well, it's somehow gotten bigger, and rounder. Are you developing a bubble butt? How is that possible? It isn't, you tell yourself, as you grab that black knobby squeeze bottle and you pour yourself just another few drops of the black pearl.

***

"I've seen you someplace", says Dr. Khaled. It's a very casual statement to make while you're standing in front of him with your shirt off.

"Umm... I don't...", you stammer, eventually tailing off, sentence incomplete.

You're at your annual physical. You've done this a million times (or, er, 43 times, I guess), but never with a doctor so fucking hot. Dr. Ray Khaled is young for an M.D. He's in his mid-30s. Head shaved clean. Tight strip of facial hair on his chiseled jawline, with a sexy "I-don't-give-a-fuck" goatee. Dark tattoos on his sturdy forearms. And gorgeous, caramel skin.

Your insistence that you're not into black guys is getting a real test today as this fine ebony Adonis runs a soft, strong hand over your bare midriff and flank, simultaneously tapping out notes with the other. "Yeah, pretty sure I've seen you around." He takes a second look at the vitals on your e-chart. "But you gotta tell me who you stole this body from."

"Wha— uh..."

"Your BP, your respiratory rate, glucose, BMI... you haven't had numbers like this since your teens, baby. Not even then. This ain't the body of a 43-year-old. What you been doin', shawty?"

You blush, very aware that you're on display for this man... shirtless in his examination room, your breasts only barely contained by a beige bra that's lately become too small to handle the task. He continues: "Ordinarily I'd re-run those numbers, but what I'm seeing here definitely passes the eye test. Yeah girl, you been doing something. Tell Doctor Khaled, baby."

For a millisecond you think to mention the black pearl. But for some reason, you don't. You just shrug and smile, coy. He gives you an amused half-smirk. "So it's like that, huh?" That wandering hand of his creeps further up your midriff, his thumb brushing against the underside of your bra. With the other hand he taps out additional notes. "Patient uncooperative," young Dr. Khaled dictates with a flirty grin as he types. "Corrective discipline prescribed."

He turns back to you, his grin now gone. "Let's get that off now." He's talking about your bra. He's not asking, or requesting, or suggesting. He's directing. This sexy black M.D. has ordered you to make yourself naked from the waist up. To present yourself for his inspection.

What feels like 40 minutes of agonizing silence elapses in 2 seconds as this dominant stud holds you in his gaze, self-possessed. In control. He's not going to say it a second time. He doesn't have to. You can do nothing but comply. And anyway, he is a doctor, performing a standard medical examination. That's all. Just a doctor. Not a seductive young bull causing your head to swim and your cunt to moisten.

Willing yourself with a hollow reminder that you're just not into black guys, you raise your trembling hands to your satiny beige bra and unclasp the cheap plastic fastener. Your breasts unfetter themselves, on display for this man. Your nipples sharp and firm and aching. Your eyes involuntarily raising themselves upward to his, as though seeking his approval. Subconsciously craving his favor. Aware of your vulnerability. Accepting of his dominion.

Your breath catches in your throat, waiting for his next move. Waiting for what feels like forever.

"Gym 68", he finally says.

"H... huh?"

"That's where I saw you, Christy. I remember now. You're one of them snowbunnies at Gym 68."

"N—no, I don't... I-"

You shiver reflexively at the sensation of Dr. Khaled's hands ensheathing your breasts, squeezing them gently, your nipples scraping against the soft pads of his palms. Regathering your breath, you resume: "I mean, um, one time I went there, but just to check it out, not... uh, I—I'm not a, a s- snowbunny. Whatever that is, um, Dr. Khaled."

He looks at you, skeptical. He's scanning your eyes for what's going unsaid. He's taking your measure. And oh by the way, your tits are still very much in his possession. After another feels-like-forever wait, he finally lets go, removing his hands from your breasts. Your lower back momentarily arches, subtly and instinctively angling your chest to follow where his hands have gone. But they're gone.

"You're all good, baby," young Dr. Khaled says over his shoulder as he turns away to tap out his final notes. "Tell your husband he's a lucky man."

***

It's true, I am a lucky man. Not only does my wife have this brand new body all of the sudden, but she's hornier than she's been since college. We've been fucking basically every single day, Christy! It's like a record for us! So I'm not surprised (but certainly not unhappy!) when you come home from your physical and drag me into the bedroom.

You push me down onto the bed, close the shades and call over to Alexa, telling her to play "rap music for fucking." That's become part of our routine as well. I'm not sure why. I guess you've been getting into rap lately? But whatever. Drake starts bouncing off our bedroom walls as you straddle my waist and rip your sweatshirt off over your head, exposing your perfect round tits.

But where's your bra? Did you drive home without a bra on, Christy?

"Grab 'em," you order me, pulling my hands up to your breasts. And I comply, of course. You grind your cunt (jeans and all) against my crotch as you tell me to squeeze your tits, grab 'em harder, rub your nipples. All the while your eyes are closed. You're not looking at me. You're someplace else.

Wherever it is, you're clearly happy there, because with your right hand you're frantically unzipping the fly of your jeans and thrusting four of your fingers down under the waistband of your boy-short-style panties. I can hear the unmistakable slosh of your soaking pussy as you fondle your wet opening.

All the while, with your left hand, you push my fingers harder against your tits, wanting me to grip and squeeze them with a force that I just don't seem to be providing. I try harder. It's still not enough for you.

"Christy, I... I don't wanna hurt--"

"Shut up!" you snap. Eyes still closed. Like you don't wanna hear my voice or see my face. Like your brain has a private, personal movie playing... one you don't want to be distracted from.

"O—okay," I respond. "Sorry."

You sigh and finally look down at me, a bit remorseful. "I didn't mean that, hon. I... I just..." Another sigh. "Why don't you tell me a story? You know I like stories."

Your fingers have slowed their pace on your clit, but not stopped.

"Go on, Randy. Tell me something sexy."

Sometimes you like these fantasy role plays. And I'm very happy to be the storyteller. Your fingers continue their slow methodical work under the crotch of your panties as I get things started.

"Um, okay, so... so you and I are walking together on the beach. And, um, you're looking so good, Christy. And we're holding hands, and I pull you down with me onto the sand, and I—"

"Maybe someone else is there?", you interrupt.

"Um... uh... okay. S—someone else?"

"Yeah," you shrug, forced-casual. "Just, y'know, maybe in this story..."

"O—okay. Yeah. Someone else is there too." I pause. "Um, were you thinking, uh, like, a girl or a guy?"

"I dunno. Maybe, a... I dunno, a guy?"

"Uh. Huh. Yeah- yeah, okay, so we're making out in the sand, and it's you and me, and then I notice that there's this guy..."

"Mmmmm," you moan, your fingers scooping inward slightly as you continue to stroke yourself.

"This guy, he's, like, a surfer guy. And he's watching us. And he's got bleach blonde hair, and, um, board shorts—"

"Maybe not a surfer guy."

"Yeah, no, not a surfer guy. What I mean is, um, this guy is kind of a granola guy. Y'know, like, he's got a beard, and sandy blonde hair, and blue eyes—"

"Maybe a black guy."

Your words hang there.

"What?"

"I mean, maybe... you know..."

I'm dumbfounded.

"But... but you're not... Christy, you're not into, uh, b- black guys."

"No, yeah, I know," you play it off. Again, forced-casual. "But just maybe, for this story, I dunno just, like, for fun..."

My cock twitches in my pants. All these years I've begged you to cuck me. Hinted. Pleaded. Joked about. You name it. And all these years I've begged for you to do it with a black guy. With a strong black bull.

It's my biggest fantasy, Christy, and there's not even a close second. All I dream about, morning noon and night, is you taking a dominant black lover.

But all these years, not even a hint of interest from you. Not even as story-fodder. You're just not into black men. But today?

"Go on, Randy. Tell me a story about a black guy."

And just like that, I am rock fucking hard.

"Oh my god, okay, so we're making out, and I look over, and there's this black guy—"

"Yesssssss," you hiss, your fingers again working at the opening of your damp gash.

"And, um, he has short hair—"

"He's bald."

"Uh, o- okay."

"He's, he's got a sexy bald head," you continue, your eyes closed, your fingers stroking faster and further inside you, "Like, like it's shaved clean, mmmm, so hot. And he's in his 30's, and, uh, he's got a little strip on his jaw, and, ohhhhh, he's got a goatee. You know how I like a man with a goatee."

I did not, in fact, know that.

"Mmmm, yeah, and he's got tattoos on his forearms-", you continue.

"Yeah, yeah, tattoos..." I intone, trying my best to be a part of whatever's happening here.

"Like, the kinda-dark tattoos you see on black guys? Mmmmm, all up and down his arms. So strong. He's... he's a real man."

"Yeah," I say, "so we're on the beach—"

"Doctor's office!" you snap. Then, a bit softer, "We—we're in the doctor's office. Me and him."

"Yeah, right, y—you and, uh, him." And with that my three-person story has become a tale of two.

But the truth is that the details of my story have stopped mattering. You don't hear me and you don't see me, and you're not even with me.

You're back in that examination room, with Dr. Ray Khaled. Standing before him. His eyes holding yours in his gaze. And you're naked to the waist. With his hands on your tits. "You're one of them snowbunnies at Gym 68," he tells you as he gives your nipples a flick.

You're betrayed by shivers of pleasure at his large black hands, your nipples growing dagger-sharp. But gamely you insist: "I'm not a, a s—snowbunny, Dr. Khaled."

"Right," he replies, a leer on his face. "Get on your knees." You hesitate. "On your goddamn knees, Christy," he barks. And down you drop.

You linger there for a moment, genuflected before this sexy young M.D. He's standing over you, in full command, running his fingers gently through your mid-length brownish-auburn bob. It's almost a tender moment, his fingers in your hair.

Until he grabs a fistful.

Your breath catches, startled. Captured.

Gripping your hair tight, Khaled stares down into your eyes. You've never felt so powerless. So ensnared. You're kneeling in complete submission to this bull... at his mercy.

Your cunt begins to flow at the thought of it.

With nostrils slightly flared, Khaled commands you: "Go on, snowbunny." He punctuates it with another tug of your hair. Mmmm god it makes you so wet each fucking time he does that.

Dutifully obedient to this man, you part his white lab coat, revealing the crotch of Khalid's bespoke taupe trousers. You unbuckle his belt which falls aside with a clink, and then you slowly lower the zipper, revealing the waistband and fly of Khalid's jet-black silk boxers. His grip on your hair slackens somewhat, a subtle reward for good behavior. Your body responds with a subconscious flash of pride. Quiet delight at your bull's wordless approval.

Looking up into his eyes for encouragement and permission, you gently rub over Khaled's smooth boxers, feeling the contours of his cock beneath. And again your breath catches. This cock is only half-hard and already it's soooo much bigger than your husband's.

"O- oh..."

Your gaze drifts down past your bull's chest and midriff, down to this swelling crotch, just inches from your face. With a quaver, you exhale hot breath on his shimmery black briefs as your fingernails gently trace up and down either edge of his hardening, silk-encased cock. Involuntary salivation begins.

"Oh my god..." you murmur in full rapture, watching his swelling dick increasingly strain and push under those boxers, demanding release. It pulses hypnotically. Somehow it grows larger with each raw throb.

"Go on," Khaled commands. You comply, pulling down his waistband. Khaled's giant black rod springs free before you. You tentatively wrap your left hand around the shaft, purring in awe and anticipation.

It's beautiful. It's heavy in your hands. It's rigid and veiny and the color of mahogany. It's like nothing you've ever seen before.

It's your first black cock.

"You like it, girl?", he asks. You answer with a gentle moan. Re-tightening his grip on your hair, he gives it a punitive tug and repeats, more insistent. "You like it?"

"Mmmm yes I like it."

He tugs your hair a second time—your inner walls again seeping in charged response—as he corrects you: "'I like it, Doctor Khaled." Eager to please, you comply unreservedly. "I like it, Doctor Khaled."

"Tell me what you like, Christy."

"I—I like your penis, Doctor Khaled."

He grips your hair tighter still. No yank this time, but an unmistakable reminder of the current power imbalance. "Bitch, tell me you love my big black cock."

"I love your big black cock, Doctor Khaled," you reply, eyes cast up to his, desperate for his approval. "I love it." You're shocked to hear yourself say these words. And you're even more shocked to discover that at some point—as if by sheer instinct—your left hand has begun to stroke up and down his thick mahogany shaft.

Your wedding band sparkles, bouncing the examination room light off of your left ring finger, a taunting reminder that you are, in fact, a married woman. A married white woman, stroking the dick of this dominant black alpha.

Your hand continues to slide up and down Khaled's cock, each slippery stroke gently drawing the velvety dark skin of his shaft away from the bulbous head, and then back again. And so slow, Christy. As if in reverence. As if you're not wanking this man, but worshipping him.

You repeat, more to yourself than to him: "I love your black cock."

Khaled's grasp of your hair has, by now, re-slackened. It's no longer needed. Your submission has been secured, Christy. Your resistance, such as it was, has been broken by the will of your bull.

"Go on and taste it baby" he says, utterly unnecessarily, 'cause your mouth has already been drawing ever closer to his rigid shaft... again, as if by instinct. "Taste it like a good girl."

Dear god, you want to be a good girl for him.

Delicately you roll Khaled's warm, heavy testicles between your fingers as your swollen lips part. Your wet mouth gently touches the midpoint of his shaft. A kiss. And then another gentle kiss further up the shaft, nearing the head, as Khaled's black dick somehow grows even larger still. How can the cock on this ebony god be so impossibly long? And so thick? And so rigid? He's gotta be three times the size of your husband, you think, as you place one last prim kiss on the tip before taking the entire bulbous head in your mouth.

You sigh and you moan. Christy, you're sucking your first ever black cock.

"That's it. Yeah that feels good," he says as you flick your tongue around the sharp ridge of his cockhead. You look up at your lover as you slather the ridge, searching his eyes for approval. For correction, if necessary.

Khaled puts his hands on your chin and gently guides your wet mouth off the head and slowly down the underside of his shaft, his hips pushing his cock upward to meet you. Grateful for the non-verbal direction, you run your warm dripping tongue up and down the veiny seam. Making him slick. Making him shimmer. Making him groan.

"Nice and soft, girl. Like that. Ooooooh, damn, right there. That feels so good, Christy."

"I... I want you to feel good... Doctor Khaled..." you reply between licks.

"Mmmm you're doing it, bitch. Yeah. Yeah, now spit on that shit. Get it wet."

Obediently you pull your mouth away and spit on his shaft. You feel so fucking lurid and dirty doing it.

"Like that, Doctor Khaled?", you ask while kneading both hands up and down his cock, making it glossy and lustrous and damp from base to tip. But you already know the answer. You spit again on his dick, massaging it in.

"God damn baby, yes!" he groans, making you feel oddly proud. Proud that you're successfully pleasing this alpha male. Proud to be his married white cock sucker.

"Now put it in your mouth."

As instructed, you open wide and take in the head. Khaled's cock twitches, startling you slightly, but you continue, pushing down slowly, slowly, slowly, accepting more of this

beautiful black rod. Holding his massive shaft in both hands, with plenty of length to spare, you slide your face up and down his pole, getting it a bit deeper into your hot mouth with each stroke.

"Bitch, you look like a snowbunny to me!" he roars at the sight of you bobbing your face up and down on his ebony dick. You moan in surrender, not able to deny it. Not wanting to. If loving black cock makes you a snowbunny, you muse, then maybe you're a snowbunny.

Khaled thrusts his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth, resting a hand on the back of your head, using it to force your head ever further down his rock-hard pole. You capitulate to his will as he fucks your face. As he uses your mouth for his pleasure. As he makes you his toy.

Utterly powerless, you watch as of ropes of saliva dribble down your chin, along his shimmering rod, dripping luridly onto the floor between your splayed knees.

"Fuck yeah, bitch! Suck that fat-ass dick!" he shouts, pistoning deeper and deeper down your open throat. Your hands reach up to wank him some more, but Khaled slaps them away. "Just your mouth, bitch." Eagerly complying, you reach your hands behind your back, which pushes your perfect round tits forward... presented for him.

"Mmmm," he grunts, still fucking your face without lenience or mercy. "You know I gotta fuck them titties before we're done." You moan in reply, drawing breath through your nostrils as Khaled's cock fills your throat. "Matter of fact," Khaled barks at you, "get up here, bitch."

Doctor Khaled removes his dick from your mouth and you leap to your feet, desperate to obey. To be responsive to his commands. To be a good girl. Khaled rewards your obedience by wordlessly shoving you backward onto the examination table.

Moving to stand beside you, Khaled drops his slacks and briefs. He's now naked from the waist down, and it's your first full, clear look at his massive cock and testicles, which hang from him like two black tennis balls. They're beautiful. It's all so beautiful. It's what a cock should be. Framed by his powerful mahogany thighs, it represents everything your cunt begs for. Drips for. You gasp and drool, reaching out for his manhood with unspeakable longing. But for the second time, Khaled slaps your hand away.