The Right Client Ch. 01 Pt. 04

"I'm getting in them tits, bitch," he says, licking his lips in anticipation, "Gotta get my shit in there." Unconsciously you squeeze your arms to your sides, pushing your perfect white breasts together. Preparing them for your lover to slide between. Wanting so badly to please him.

Doctor Khaled climbs up onto the table and straddles you, settling his strong dark thighs to either side of your chest. And then, slowly, he slips his big wet dick between your snowy tits. He groans in gratification as he pushes that massive cock in and through, his cock head finally emerging beneath your chin.

"Mmmm... yeah girl... shit..." Khaled sighs as he begins to pump his hips, pushing his slippery black shaft back and forth between your breasts. Owning them. Using them. Using you. Your bull gains speed and rhythm as you push your tits tighter together for him, reaching up with your hands to knead your nipples, so stiff and spongy. You whimper in pleasure.

"I bet your husband don't fuck your tits", Khaled taunts, his hips now on autodrive.

"N—No, Dr. Khaled."

"You like it?" he sneers. "You like getting your titties fucked, bitch?"

"Oh my god..." you pant. "Yes... yes... I love it, Dr. Khaled."

You tuck your chin to your chest, lips extending toward his exquisite ebony glans with each thrust that he saws between your milky tits. Your tongue flicking. Reaching. Yearning to taste him each time, however fleeting the moment.

"Mmm... girl... I'd never stop fucking these tits... nngh... if you was my bitch..."

You moan at the thought: "if you was my bitch." In that moment, there's nothing you want more. You want to be his. All his. His bitch.

You wrap your hands around the backs of Khaled's massive dark thighs, desperate to pull his crotch even closer to your face. But the sheer force and mass of his lower body is overwhelming... you cannot pull this man anyplace he doesn't want to go. And where he wants to go is in and out of your breasts, again and again, faster and faster. The speed and power of a muscle car's engine block. His giant chocolate rod and your soft white tits combining for a nebulous blur of wet carnal rutting. A dirty tit-fuck, with this black bull you just met.

"Who's a snowbunny?!" he demands, fierce. Intense. "who's a fuckin' snowbunny?!"

"I am..." you whine, licking his cock-tip at the apex of each harried thrust. "I'm... a snowbunny..." Your hands drift from his thigh-backs upward, finding and caressing his epic, impossibly-burly ass. You grasp the rigid muscles of that ass as they flex and stiffen and withdraw and re-flex in an irresistible cycle, as old and primal as life itself. "I'm... your snowbunny... Doctor Khalid!"

"Shit," he grunts, pistoning. Pumping. A machine that does not stop. That cannot be stopped. "Ah, fuck!" he shouts.

You feel Khaled's hips begin to spasm in building climax.

"Bitch!" he shouts. "I'm gonna... ungh... I'm... AHHH!! I'M GONNA NUT, BITCH!!"

"Mmmm yeaaaaah..." you moan.

His lower body convulses as he roars... a primitive sound, from an impossible depth.

"AAAAAHHH! GR'AHHH! NNN'GGGAHHH!!"

The first blast hits your chin hot and hard. A startling burst of thick spunk. Unrecognizable in comparison to one of your husband's pathetic dribbles. The one second hits your eye. The third pulse caroms off your left temple, bouncing into a warm salty puddlet on the paper cover of the examination table beside your head.

"Yeah bitch," Khaled grunts, sucking a sharp inhale between his perfect teeth. "Shit..." He jacks his cock toward your swollen red lips as the vein in his lower shaft throbs, propelling pulse after pulse of ivory jizz from his rod and onto your slutty white face. "Shit... take my nut..."

As your lover's cum continues to squirt over your chin and neck, you coo. You purr. Gratified. Proud. Also spent. Utterly overwhelmed.

"Mmmmmm..."

Dr. Khaled looks down at you, in full possession and control, as his last lingering spurts of cum finally coursing from the tip of his dark purple glans, dribbling, tapping onto your creamy tits.

"Whose white slut are you?" he asks. A question in no real need of an answer.

"Mmm... Dr. Khaled..." you whimper, tracing your nails down the slickened backs of his strapping, solid thighs. "I'm yours."

You sigh, a woman who's found her purpose. Her home.

"I'm your white slut."

Tenderly, gently, Khaled pushes a lock of your sweat-soaked, cum-darkened hair out of your eyes, off of your forehead. He inspects the lovely flushed face of his new white fuck-toy.

And then, with his index finger, Khaled scoops a glob of gooey cum off of your reddened cheek and brings it to your lips.

You reflexively gag and choke at the bitter saline taste.

"G'ah!" you cough, the cum dribbling out onto your chin in a trail of spit. "Ack! Uh... oh my god, I'm sorry, I just... I wasn't expecting..."

"That," says Doctor Khaled, firm and unamused, "is the next thing we're gonna work on."

***

When you finally regather yourself from fantasy-land, Christy, you find that you're back in our bedroom with me, your pasty pot-bellied husband. I've got my hand around my waxy, 4" dick. Pathetic dribbles of my spooge leak out onto our bedspread. My jaw is slack, stupefied by what I just saw.

'Cause what I saw was a woman transform. I saw you become utterly consumed by whatever fantasy it was you had playing out in your head. It certainly wasn't *my* story... I trailed off maybe three sentences into the tale. But in your mind you definitely went... someplace.

And now you're back, exhausted, florid, sweat-bathed. Three fingers of your left hand still buried knuckles-deep into your yawning pussy. Your left hand feeling stiff and twinged from rubbing your clit at a desperate pace, 'til near-raw. The vein above your collarbone still throbbing. Your eyes dim and slightly disoriented.

You sigh deeply, heavily, your brain trying to recover some of the oxygen-rich blood it had so recently used to saturate your lower walls.

"H—hey...," I venture.

"Oh," you reply. Suddenly self-conscious. "Hey."

"You... uh... you had fun, seems like. You were saying some, um... some kinda crazy stuff."

"Yeah, er... yeah." You withdraw your fingers from your sopping cunt, absentmindedly wiping them on the duvet cover. "I just... like... y'know..."

"Who's Doctor Khaled?"

"What? Oh my god, nobody, sweetie—"

"'Cause you were saying stuff like, you're his, and... stuff..."

"What? I don't even—that was just silly babbling. I wasn't— I don't even know what I was saying. Whatever."

You give me a chaste little kiss on the cheek and then roll out of bed, crossing to the dresser to grab a jog bra and shorts.

"C'mon Randy," you say over your shoulder as you fish in the drawer for anklet running socks, "you're the only man for me." So cursory, your tone. So perfunctory. Basically the way you'd say "gesundheit" to a passing stranger who's just sneezed. You give me a fleeting courtesy grin as you cross to the bathroom to do a little stretching and drink a few pre-run drops of the black pearl.

The problem: it's all out.

***

At first you don't want to believe it. But it's true. The thick milky fluid in that knobby, tar-dark squeeze bottle has been steadily depleting... just a few drops at a time, but depleting nonetheless. You play it all back in your brain: how you choked down several ounces of that rancid-tasting gunk over the previous weeks. Then two foul pre-run ounces just yesterday. Some bitter pre-sleep dribbles last night. Several mucoid globs before your workout this morning. A couple of stringy rank drips with your mid-day stretch. And now...

All gone. That ebony bulbous container is bone dry.

You suppress the urge to panic. 'Cause remember: that shit tasted repulsive. It just did. And also: you can still exercise, right? Of course you can!

And so off you go on your very first run without the black pearl. And within blocks you feel sore, sluggish. Your hamstrings tighten by Mile 1. Your lungs feel shrunken and singed by Mile 2. Then your IT band starts to go. A new plantar problem announces itself by Mile 3, followed by your lower back, which seizes and twitches.

Still you soldier on... pushing yourself to the Keystone Steps. Remember just this past Thursday's run, Christy, when you conquered them four straight times like they were nothing? Today you can't even complete one single step circuit. There's just no way.

You quit halfway up, wheezing. Suffering. Completely out of your depth.

"What the fuck...", you mutter to yourself between desperate gulps of air, clutching your sides, spitting out stinging wads of phlegm.

You trudge back home, humbled and sore.

The hot young black guys you pass don't even give you a second look.

***

Within days you notice that your breasts have somehow shrunken and fallen.

At first you're sure it's just your imagination. But then you try on your old beige satin bra... the one that, just last week, your big round tits were practically busting out of? Somehow today that same bra is too *big* for you. Your tits now sag loosely into the bottoms of the bra cups, with ample room to spare.

That bubble butt of yours is going too. Gravity now drags your flesh into sad wobbly flaps. Cellulite appears where it never existed before. Your hair looks dull and lusterless. Somehow it's slightly thinning? Your skin's a pale grey. Crowsfeet appear by your eyes.

Your daily routine now includes several sad trips to the bathroom mirror to inventory the latest dispiriting toll that's been inflicted on your body. One morning I find you there with your lips drawn back, inspecting your chalky, receding gumline. I ask, gingerly: "Are... are you okay, Christy? You look like you might be, um, I dunno, sick?"

"Fuck you, Randy," you snap. "Like you can talk. Your body has never not looked like shit."

I beat an immediate retreat, leaving you as you were.

You sigh and turn your gaze to that bulbous black squeeze bottle laying discarded on the bathroom vanity, dry and idle. You know exactly what you have to do.

You have to go back to Gym 68 and politely ask for some more black pearl.

You're not going to ask to come back as a client. You don't want to come back as a client! You just want some more of that black pearl. And, of course, you're willing to pay! Whatever it costs.

Surely Quinten Borders will be reasonable.

***

When you walk into Gym 68, that little Holly slut can barely suppress her smirk at the sight of you. It's as though your return (and your physical state during same) is the heavily-telegraphed punchline to a joke that's been weeks in the telling.

Giving you an up and down glance, she snorts faintly and returns to her cellphone. "Hey," she mumbles.

"Hi!" you offer with a sunny smile that this bitch absolutely does not deserve. "Wow, I love your necklace!" It's a gold rope chain with one of those tacky "68" pendants that you absolutely do not love.

Your compliment goes unacknowledged. You push on.

"So hey, I was wondering if I could please speak with Quinten pretty please?" More forced cheer. You're really hating yourself for this. But what choice do you have?

Still not looking up from her phone, Holly says "Trainer is with a client."

("That's right," you remember, "that whole 'Trainer' thing.")

"Any idea when, um, Trainer might be available?"

Holly shrugs her sharp little exposed shoulders.

"You can wait in Trainer's office if you want."

You give Holly one last unreciprocated smile and walk on, beginning your climb up a flight of black, refurbished grille stairs that rise above the gym floor. The air in the place is heavy, pulsing with that loud street rap that's never not blasting in Gym 68 (song of the moment: "Like a Pro," by Blac Youngsta). Your feet ring slightly on each iron step.

You reach the top and push on the heavy glass door of Quinten's office, letting yourself in to find coffee-colored leather club chairs and a thick umber area rug on a floor of polished concrete. The multi-tiered ceiling is high, with exposed beams and ductwork and a restored skylight set between suspended industrial lighting. A black Kubus sofa sits along one wall of heritage brick. The other three walls of the office are thick clear glass, floor to ceiling, giving Quinten a commanding view of his gym below.

You give your body a quick inspection: cute lululemon leggings and a lycra workout shirt, the neckline scooping the tiniest, flirtiest bit. The lines of your white bikini briefs are kind of visible, if someone stares kind of hard. Your makeup is tasteful. Natural. Your hair is pulled back in a cute ponytail.

You're ready for this. Ready to butter Quinten up and then pull out your checkbook and pay whatever he wants for some more of his noxious dietary supplement. You got this, Christy.

But then you look down on the gym floor and suddenly you feel like maybe you don't got this.

'Cause what you see is Eliza—your good friend Eliza!—being worked out by Quinten.

This modest schoolmom, Eliza, wearing tight little boy shorts. This grieving widow, Eliza, in a skimpy jogging bra, showing cleavage suited to the AVNs. This observant Catholic, Eliza, clearly wearing a leopard-print thong (you can fucking see it from all the way up here!).

And Eliza's make-up... Jesus. The rouge. The mascara. The tartish lipliner and candy-red stick. You didn't do up your face that much on prom night, Christy, and here's your 41-year-old best friend wearing that to a gym! To *your* gym! Working out with *your* personal trainer!!

What a fucking whore!

You seethe in your perch, watching Eliza giggle and coo at everything Quinten says. Watching Quinten adjust Eliza's ample hips with his huge black hands as she gazes up at him, obsequious. Watching Eliza twist a lock of her hair in her fingers like a flirty fucking sophomore. Watching Eliza find lame excuses to touch the massive chest of Quinten.

The massive chest of *YOUR* PERSONAL TRAINER!!

It feels like forever until the hour concludes and Eliza finally towels off and gives Quentin an absolutely unnecessary hug (!!), sashaying out the door with a breezy wave to Holly at the desk.

And when Quentin ascends the steps and finds you in his office, you do not hesitate.

"I want to come back, Trainer."

He says nothing. He lets your words hang. The silence is agonizing.

"Please. I... I just really like it here, and I'm sorry that I did a bad job last time, and I can work so much harder. I'll... I'll pay whatever. I just... I really hope you'll take me back. As a client. Please? Trainer."

Still wordless, Quentin motions you to sit in a club chair. You do. Quentin crosses to an oak cabinet mounted on the brick, and then moments later he returns, a glass in his hand. A glass filled with thick, glossy globs of slimy white gunk.

12 fluid ounces of black pearl.

Quinten—now standing before you, looming above you—hands you the glass. He still says nothing. He doesn't need to. You understand perfectly. This is the test.

You take the glass, hand trembling. This is far, far more black pearl than you've ever been able to consume in one go. This is impossible. This is madness.

But what choice do you have?

You draw the glass toward you, the stench wafting from it almost unbearable.

With one last look up into the commanding eyes of this black alpha god, you bring the glass of odious gunk to your quivering lips and you tip it back.

It tastes... very bad.

But what choice do you have?

Your throat wants to mutiny. Your stomach wants to seize and expel. Your brain wants to power down into a protective fugue.

But what choice do you have?

None.

And so with your gaze locked on the face of your master, and your will steeled unrecognizably, you down the entire glass. Every retch repressed. Every wince stifled.

You drink it 'til it's gone.

With servile and submissive eyes still cast up toward Trainer, you turn the empty glass over and place it upside down on the table beside you.

"Did I do good?"

Trainer runs his fingers through your mid-length auburn bob.

"Welcome back."

***TO BE CONTINUED***