New Story Series: "The Right Client"

hoburgh

hoburgh

Male
THE RIGHT CLIENT 1.1.a

For years I’ve tried—in every possible way that I can think of—to persuade my wife to cuckold me... preferably with a black lover. But she insists (and I’ve come to accept) that it’s just never gonna happen. Not in real life.

But! My wife does like when I tell her a story about her being with a dominant black bull (if by “like” one means “rubs herself to orgasm while listening to said story”). So, in lieu of irl cucking, that’s what she and I do instead: storytime and role-play. The story series that follows is a very-very-elongated version of one of the stories that we currently have on heavy storytime rotation. Note: the two black guys that she once actually fucked in her actual real life (prior to our marriage) were guys that she met at a gym, so this story series (not at all coincidentally) exists in that same general setting.

Fwiw, my wife is in her mid-40s, but looks younger. I’m calling her Christy in this story series, but that’s not her actual name. Anyway, “Christy” is 5’9”, has beautiful 34” tits with a sexy round ass, a proportionate waist and solid thighs, thanks to her Pilates and running regimen. She’s got light blue eyes, silky shoulder-length brown hair, and a risqué smile, which usually comes with a tartish arch of her eyebrow. She’s been told she looks like (and has the voice of) Famke Janssen, if you know the actress. Anyway, trust me: this gorgeous wife of mine absolutely deserves a big black bull in her life. And so: the following story series, told to her (the fantasy hotwife) by me (the aspirational cuck husband)…

***

You’ve been looking for a workout routine to complement your Pilates, so you decide to check out that new gym that just opened up in town. It’s called Gym 68. Looks pretty upscale—you could tell just driving past—but I (your husband) have had a pretty good year, moneywise, in my gig as a code monkey at our friendly neighborhood dotcom. So you (my wife) feel okay about maybe giving this new gym a try. Plus, the more you work out, the more confident you tend to feel, and the hornier you tend to get, thus the more sex I tend to receive. So you’re pretty sure I’m not gonna complain about this particular line-item in the budget.

Sweats and baggy t-shirt on, you stroll a few blocks into town and walk into Gym 68 and the first thing you notice is: yes, wow, super upscale. The lighting, the décor, the tech. Somebody sunk a lot of money into this place. The membership fees won’t be cheap. And you already feel self-conscious in your sweats and t-shirt… somehow this place calls for something better. The next thing you notice: the clientele. It’s… well, um, somewhat disproportionately “urban”? Like mostly, er, African-American, maybe? Looking closer, you do see a few white women (mostly young, blonde, model types… and none of ‘em in sweats, that’s for sure!). But the men… they’re basically all black guys. Some of ‘em younger, some our age, a few even a bit older than us, but they’re all taut, and toned. And big. And black. Some tatted guys, some guys with dreads, some clean cut guys, but if there’s a white guy in this gym, you sure can’t see him. And the music in here reflects that. It’s all rap. Driving, with a thump, and loud, and raw. The one other gym you’ve ever been in streamed, like, Cyndi Lauper and Erasure and whatever. This ain’t that.

You start to wonder if this Gym 68 place is quite the right fit for you, but before you can back out, there’s a man at your side, talking to you. Honestly, you miss the first few words that come from his mouth… or rather, the words don’t register nearly so much as his voice: it’s deep. Smooth. Unhurried. If you’d never fully noticed quite how thin and (frankly) effeminate my voice is, the contrast definitely presents itself to you within the first three syllables from this man’s lips. Your breath catches just the tiniest bit (does he notice?) at the presence of this new, er, friend, and you look over… and then up. Fuck, this man is tall! 6’8”? 6’9”? Whatever it is, he’s definitely taller than me, with gorgeous skin the color of dark amber. As this man looms above you, you smile nervously and reflexively tuck a lock of hair behind your ear: just the most basic schoolgirl flirt maneuver in the manual (crap, did he notice that too?). “Been waiting for you”, the man says again (you realize now that’s what he said the first time), and your instinct is to maybe look away in modesty/shyness, but this man’s eyes… they basically won’t allow it. They’re behind rimless glasses, but no matter, these eyes are a deeper green than you’ve ever imagined possible, and sweetie, they have a complete hold on you. Like they know you… like this man, within seconds of looking at you, already knows every secret you’ve ever kept. Another slight breath-catch. He had to notice that one. But he continues: “A man in this business, he waits a long time for the right client to walk in. What took you so long?”
 
THE RIGHT CLIENT 1.1.b

You try to think of something smart and self-effacing to say, but the right words aren’t coming, so you shut up and shrug as this big black Adonis looks you over. And you summon the courage to do a bit of the same, in return. He’s probably in his early 50’s, this man. Close-cropped hair, and a hint of a goatee with a little salt and pepper in it. Smooth complexion. Defined jawline and features, but not severely so. Braided gold chain, major ice in his ear… honestly, this man could be a model, it seems to you. And that’s just the face. His body? Well, right away you catch a hint of his muscular ass and powerful thighs down under his black workout lycra. Up higher: his shoulders are wider across than I am tall. The white top stretched across his pecs is filmy enough to show off a couple of tats on his chest. And if there’s a single ounce of flab on those abs, well… I mean, there just isn’t. Not on his abs, not anywhere on him. He might be the most beautiful, most physically-perfect man you’ve ever seen, this black guy in front of you.

And okay, about the “black guy” part… Christy, you’ve never considered yourself particularly attracted to black men. All these years I’ve begged you to cuck me, and all these years I’ve pleaded for it to be a black bull you do it with, and all these years the answers have been no, and no. Not your thing, you say. Just not you. Not what a good girl does. So why is this good girl now silently submitting as this gorgeous black bull —this ebony god of a man you haven’t even formally met yet-- physically puts his hands upon you and turns you around so that he can inspect you from every angle? Two decades ago I, your future husband, didn’t have the balls to so much as touch your hand until our fourth or fifth date! But here’s this man, within seconds, grasping your shoulders, and stroking your hips, and rotating you by your waist, “seeing” you with his fingers through your sweats and baggy t-shirt, all without so much as a “please” or a “may I?”. And here you are, lifting and turning and presenting for him, all subtly and subconsciously, but all with the same unmistakable message of submission. Wanting to please. Wanting approval.

“Yeah,” he finally says to you, nodding, taking off his glasses for emphasis. “Yeah, I can’t wait to get my hands on that.”

You walk out of Gym 68 with his business card and an appointment for the following day. This man—this gorgeous, dominant black man—is going to train you. Somehow that was established without any actual input from you. He dismissed the issues of fee (“Don’t even worry about it”) and availability (“You’re mine at nine”) with barely a handwave, and that was that, and off you went, with a nervous giggle and another tuck of hair behind your ear, like a flirty sophomore, one-third your age.

“QUINTEN BORDERS”

That’s the name on the business card. You Google him on your phone as you walk (practically glide) home from Gym 68. Turns out he’s a former NFL player, this Quinten Borders. A Chicago Bear. He wore number 68 (hence the name of the gym)... a number that the Bears have since retired. He was a Defensive Tackle (whatever that is). Wikipedia says he twice won NFL DPOY (you really don’t know what that is) and went to 5 Pro Bowls before retiring early to invest in the health and fitness industry. He created a line of workout supplements, and a hydration system, but he really struck gold with a fitness app that Droid now includes standard on approximately 2 out of every 5 smartphones unboxed anywhere on the planet. Quinten Borders is a billionaire now—he certainly never has to work another day in his life—but still, he’s turned his energies toward a new boutique line of very-upscale gyms in urban centers containing tech industry concentration. The line is called Gym 68, and it’s backed by some serious hedge fund capital, yet Mr. Borders is still known to provide the occasional patron with individualized fitness training, he says… when he can find “the right client.”
 
THE RIGHT CLIENT 1.1.c

Continuing your journey home, you click through some YouTube videos of Quinton Borders… press conferences before and after football games. Corporate rollouts. There’s a TED Talk, for Christ’s sake! No matter what you click on, the actual words he says end up blending together for you, but that voice… that deep, buttery voice, the piercing eyes, the assertion of power and control over each and every venue over the past two decades: it’s all just the same as his command and power in the gym with you just a few minutes earlier.

“Wow, you got quite a workout.”

It’s me. It’s the very thin, very un-deep, un-buttery voice of your husband, calling over from the couch in our living room. You got home somehow (you barely looked up from your phone the whole way back), and there I’m sitting, saying something to you. You pull an AirPod out of your ear and I repeat: “You look like you got a real workout. You’re all sweaty and flushed.”

You catch yourself in the mirror in the foyer, and… Jesus, yeah, you’re red and blushing and somehow glistening. What the fuck has come over you, Christy?

You mumble something about needing a shower and away you go to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you as you strip off those big stupid sweatpants and that stupid old t-shirt from some 5K in 2004. You somehow feel embarrassed that this gorgeous, perfect man (“Quinten Borders”, you mouth the name to yourself) saw you wearing that dowdy stuff. On some deep subconscious level you resolve not to let that happen a second time.

You’re in just a bra and panties now, looking yourself over in the mirror, and slowly you run your hands over every quarter-inch of your body where Quinten ran his own. Did that really just happen? Did you just get touched—fondled, really—by that sexy, sable-skinned billionaire? And did it really make you… wet? Your panties, Christy: they’re sopping. You slowly slip your hand under the waistband of these frumpy old granny panties that you just wore in Quinten’s presence (another mistake you subconsciously vow not to make again), and push your fingers down through your warm, muggy bush. I mean, it’s DC in August down there, sweetheart. You catch yourself in the mirror once again, barely recognizing the slut standing there, half-naked in her master bath, slipping a single finger (and now a second) between the sodden folds of her fevered cunt.

You’d idly deposited your phone on the bathroom vanity when you entered, and it’s still sitting there, automatically advancing through YouTube videos as your fevered pussy seeps freely all over your fingers and down into the palm of your hand. Looking down, you notice the screen is now streaming a mixtape vid that someone cut of Quinten’s NFL days. Your fingers find your clit (or more honestly, at this point, your engorged and needy clit finds your fingers), as you watch a younger version of this beautiful black god dominate and destroy everyone around him, in his black and orange 68. This Quinten Borders is aggressive and *******. Pure, irresistible power. On a field of large dominant alpha men, he’s the largest. He’s the most dominant. He’s the true alpha. Twisting and flicking your oily clit, you watch this man assert his will utterly, and the effect on you—on your body, on your very core, and certainly on your cunt—it’s primal. And the effect is multiplied by the sexy rap track running over the vid. The text in the corner of the screen says it’s “First Class” by Blueface, which you recognize not at all, but instinctively the stroke of your hand moves to match the thump of the track, and the thrust of your hips follows along, as a third finger now joins the other two, thrusting in and out of your gaping, desperate pussy.

You push those big granny panties down off your hips and kick them onto the floor (you’ll never wear them again, btw), and you’re now fucking your hand in earnest, your eyes never leaving the screen of your phone, where—in highlight after highlight-- Quinten Borders controls. Possesses. Declares himself king Declares himself YOUR king. Every nerve ending within 18 linear inches of your cunt crackles and thrums as you pick up the pace of your finger fucking, rutting your hand ever-faster (Blueface’s pace be damned), gaze glued on the glory of your king.

And just when you think you couldn’t get any fucking hornier, along comes a clip of Quinten bull-rushing some pasty white quarterback who plays for a team wearing, like, light-teal unis (it’s the Miami Dolphins, btw). You can clearly see this quarterback’s face: he’s thin and frail and… well, he looks a lot like me. This is a kid, this quarterback. A frightened little white boy barely able to get his tiny hands around the football, and now he’s about to get absolutely fucking murdered by a man. A real man. Quinten Borders. But then the strangest thing happens. This QB—this doppleganger for me, your husband—essentially hands the football over to Quinten. I mean, sure, he made a halfhearted pretense at attempting to throw the ball away, but a pretense is all it was. In truth, he gave it up. He submitted. He understood the natural dynamic at play—when big man and small man want the same thing it’s the big man that will have it—and he acquiesced. Quinten Borders simply accepted the ball and, with a stiff arm of dismissal (disgust, almost), he “mooshed” that poor quarterback right in his face. And down he went, that powerless white guy that I look so much like. Down, and out of frame, and no longer relevant, and never to be seen again, as the camera follows Quinten with the football, to the end zone, and to yet more glory.

It’s somewhere during the above (and you’re not sure exactly where) that the dam broke deep inside of you. The sight of primal dominance and submission, of conqueror and conquered, of superiority and subservience… it all set loose an explosion, a torrent. You cum, Christy. Your knees buckle and your head swims as the ******* rushes from your brain down to your cunt (and deeper), where it instinctively, biologically seeks the seed of the conqueror. You may tell yourself you’re a good girl. 45 years of Catholic upbringing may tell you that you’re a good girl. But 450,000 years of evolution knows what you really are, or at least what you right now desperately crave to be: a prize to be rightfully-claimed and owned by the superior male.

All of that, again, takes place on the subconscious level, Christy. You’re not quite thinking it, not in those exact words, as your body convulses with wave after wave of throm and thrum. If any words come to mind at all, they’re words like “fuuuuuuckkkkk” and “yeahhhhhhhhhhhh” and “unggggghhhhhh”. And after the orgasms finally subside, the words you tell yourself are modest, reassuring ones: you were only having a little harmless fun in the bathroom. You’re just a faithful wife and mom, who just had herself a little “me” time. And it’s all true enough. But you were more than that. For that careless and fleeting moment, Christy, you were an obedient and willing snowbunny, the sole possession of a superior black bull, who just happens to be located, at present, just a few short blocks away.

And as you catch your breath and towel yourself dry, preparing to rejoin your husband and family, and the actual three-dimensional world, your phone buzzes. It’s a text message. It’s from Quenten Borders. It reads:

“Don't believe everything you read on Wikipedia. I went to 6 pro bowls. lol."



***TO BE CONTINUED***
 
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THE RIGHT CLIENT, 1.2.1

It’s the next morning, and you’re in the bathroom, putting on your workout clothes. You’re not gonna make the same baggy sweatpants mistake you did yesterday. This time, leggings: your cute pink and black number from Lululemon. They flare out a bit at the calves, and they make your beautiful butt even more heart-shaped and firm than usual. Underneath: some stretchy grey “hipster” style panties, hugging your ass tight. Up top, a breathable teal tank that “just happens” to stop short of your waist, keeping that butt in view.

“Daddy likey,” I leer, as I wander into the bathroom searching for mouthwash. A goofy comment, yes, but you’ll allow it, especially when I come up behind you and start rubbing up on your ass. You like that. After 15 years of marriage, our sex isn’t quite as frequent as it used to be (honestly, it’s down to maybe just once-a-month now, if that), so tiny unprompted moments of horniness like this are nice, and welcome.

“Wear this tonight,” I purr into your ear as I grab a handful of butt. You mumble: huh? “Date night,” I say. “I like this for date night.”

That’s right, you remember, today’s Friday. Every Friday night is date night for us. It’s one of the ways we stay connected, no matter how busy our lives get with *******, and the PTA, and my codemonkey gig, and the consultant work you do for non-profits, in addition to my breadmaking (not money… like, actual bread. How did your husband end up with breadmaking for a hobby?). It all piles up, but we always know: on Friday night, it’s just you and me.

“Not quite sure this is museum attire,” you say, “now git!” You shove me out of the room as you run a brush through your hair and put it up in a cute ponytail. Ready, you think, giving yourself one last look-over in the mirror. Ready for that Gym 68 place. Though just before turning away, you do wonder—for the most fleeting of milliseconds—if maybe you should put on a little makeup. Just a touch? But no, you immediately decide. That’s stupid. You’re not going to wear makeup to a gym.

***

The first thing you notice about Holly, at the gym, is her makeup. Particularly her lipstick. She’s got the reddest, wettest lips you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Hi, welcome,” she says to you from behind the counter with half a grin, that lasts for half a second. You can spot an insincere greeting when you get one, and that’s what you just got from Holly. You know her name is Holly because her nametag says “Holly”. It also says “’Candy Shop,’ 50 Cent,” which you’ve never before seen printed on a nametag. In any event, this Holly seems annoyed that you’ve made her look up from her phone. She’s probably 22, this Holly, a college girl. And she’s wearing mascara, eyeliner, and even a little bit of blush to go with the berry-red gloss on those lips of hers, this Holly is. Maybe the tiniest bit trashy, perhaps, but you’re not gonna judge. Holly’s got a dimple on her chin and darkish eyebrows, with long blonde hair (of the bleached variety) falling down over her barely-there jogging bra. Nestled between the cleavage of her breasts—which, there’s no denying, are perfect—is a “68” pendant dangling from a gold chain, matching the “68” belly-button ring flashing from her sidewalk-flat stomach. If this Holly is NOT a professional model, you’d be fucking shocked.

“I’m here to see Quinten,” you say. “Trainer will be right out,” is her reply, striking you as kind of an odd choice of verbiage. You ask where you can get a towel, and she sighs, stepping away from the counter, revealing that she’s wearing the shortest and tightest of short, tight booty shorts. A light lime green. She turns around to the towel rack and you notice (it’s basically impossible not to) the lines of her g-string panty, pushing its way through her lycra. You can even make out the fabric design on the g-string: looks like a tiger print. “Trashy Touch Number 2,” you might otherwise think, but again, you’re not here to judge. You just wonder how Holly can possibly work out in that. But clearly she DOES work out. A lot. Because this bleach-blonde little college chick has a bubble butt that one normally only sees on—well, let’s be blunt—only sees on black chicks. I mean, goddamn. If a team of lab-techs tried to scientifically generate the most-anatomically perfect round bubble ass ever grown on a white girl, they’d barely come close to what this Holly has on her.

Okay, you come to realize, it’s not her receptionist demeanor that they keep her around for.

Anyway, Holly plops a towel into your hand, and immediately you discover Quinten at your side (how does a man this big keep sneaking up to you unseen?). He looks down at you through those frameless glasses of his. His green eyes claiming ownership of your gaze. Without much of a smile, Quinten gestures you into his gym. You walk in, as bidden.

“Holly’s nice,” you say.

Quinten shrugs.

“What’s her nametag about?”, you ask. Nervous chatter. You don’t really need to talk, but you feel like you should talk, or at least that’s what you’re doing, is talking. Because: nervous. “It’s an interesting nametag. Caught my eye.” Quinten just shrugs again.

“’”Candy Shop”, 50 Cent.’ Right? That’s what it said? What—what is that? What’s that mean?”

Quinten sighs. He removes his glasses, rubbing them clean in his white workout top (which exposes, for a moment, his slate-hard abs). Finally, returning his glasses to his chiseled face, Quinten replies: “Know how, some movie theater workers, the nametag says their favorite movie? At Gym 68, the nametag says your favorite track to fuck to.”
 
THE RIGHT CLIENT, 1.2.2

Quentin leads you to a padded wall, touches a spot down low.

“Now put your ass right here.”

Um, okay. And do what?

“Just that. That’s plenty, girl.”

A wall-sit, this is called. You’ve done ‘em before. Okay. No biggie. You nestle that cute ass of yours up against the wall.

“Get lower, baby.”

Quinten grasps your hips in his hands—they’re big enough to envelop your hips, his hands are, and then some. His hands are like catchers’ mitts. And with those giant mitts, Quentin unapologetically pulls your hips down lower, lower… lower down the wall. Soooo low, ‘til, okay, whoa, now this is a REAL squat.

“And put those shoulders back, girl.”

He presses your shoulders back against the wall. The sweep of your frame leaves a hollow space behind the small of your back, the rest of your body curved, engaged, completely taut. Presented. Your breasts are now pushing forward tightly against the inside of your cute lycra tank. Down below your sports bra, your nipples ******* stiffen. It’s kinda hot, but you genuinely don’t notice that. You cannot. All you can notice right now is the full fucking burn that’s beginning to rise in your thighs. And also you notice the sound and, frankly, the FEEL of the rap music in this gym—so loud, so bass-heavy—just thrumming and vibrating through the wall, and right into the cheeks of your ass.

“How long do I have to do this, Quinten?”, you ask.

“In here, you can call me ‘Trainer’.”

That’s a bit silly, you think, but you’re not gonna argue with him… not when he’s the one who gets to decide when you can quit this wall-sit. You ask again: “how long do I have to do this… Trainer?”

“’Til I come back and stop you.” Quinten (er, “Trainer”) strides off, leaving you there, which you’re not thrilled about, but you don’t really mind the view of him walking away: that sooooo-muscular ass and those strong, gorgeous thighs in his black lycra. It’s not a body builder’s physique, exactly… which is good, ‘cause you’re not really into body builders. Honestly, 15 years of marriage with me has you appreciating goofy thin guys with cute little beer guts (hey, like me!). But you can certainly find a way to appreciate that body on Quinten. That big body. That strong body. That… well, that MAN’s body. A black man’s body.

Meanwhile, YOUR body is really starting to feel it. Your thighs, especially. Fucking wall-sits! Never your favorite! Trying to take your mind off the burn, you look around.

You notice that—as was the case the first time you came to Gym 68—the place is full of black men, working out. Each one is more beautiful and toned than the last. There’s a shirtless guy in baggy hoop shorts and tats. Over there’s a stocky man in a hoodie and AirPods, with his dreads pulled up in a top knot. And so many more, all around you, Christy, and all so powerful. Confident. Cocky, even. And, well… just quintessentially black. Seriously, Christy, if you were into black guys, this… this’d definitely be the place. Just nothing but black men and, yup, white women. Almost all of the white women are working out in makeup. Almost all of the white women are wearing booty shorts. Tight, daring booty shorts. “Okay… well…” you manage to think to yourself, through the rising strain in your legs, “if… if they can pull it off, I guess…”

And yes, that strain continues to increase. The longer that wall-sit goes, the more that fire spreads to your quads and glutes, your calves and core, your inner thighs… everything. Everything hurts. You desperately try to not think about the pain. You look around some more.

There’s Holly flirting with Quinten over there. Again, through her stupid light green booty shorts, you can see her stupid tiger stripe g-string panties plunging down between the cheeks of her stupid perfect bubble ass. And this time the g-string’s not simply visible through her booty shorts… now there’s a little spaghetti strap peeking up above the waistline of her shorts. So trashy! Yes, okay, THIS time you’re judging. You’re judging Holly and her tiny tiger-striped spaghetti strap that she’s pretending not to notice as she smiles up at Quinten. Laughs at his jokes. Okay, so apparently this Holly chick DOES know how to be friendly??

Thighs of jello, spicy boiling jello. Your whole body vibrating. This is so hard. Please is Quinten coming back soon please?! No more wall sit pleaseplease????

Holly is just full-on touching Quinten everywhere now, up and down his chest, feeling Quinten’s biceps (hey asshole, have you fucking forgotten about me?!). Now Holly’s moving her hips a bit to the bass bump of the rap track, and now she’s moving her lips—her shiny, wet red lips. She’s idly rapping along to every lyric (which of course she would know by heart). Each mounted television in this place has a rap video playing… some of ‘em synched with the music playing, others on mute, just moving images of shirtless rappers leering through the screen. Leering at you, Christy. Lurid. Carnal. Again, Christy, if you were into black guys…

Holy ******* your body is REALLY quivering at this point. Sensation radiating outwards, down your calves and heels, up into your groin, abs and deeper. This is 1% great and 99% the worst feeling of your entire life. You truly can’t do much more of this!! Outwardly, you whine and pant. Inwardly you fucking scream a prayer: pleasepleaseplease come back, Quinten!! Like: immediately!!!!

Now Holly is coquettishly close to Quinten. Standing below him. Dwarfed by him. But maintaining eye contact with him as she reapplies that whoreish-red gloss to her lips. And then—or are you just imagining this?—she sucks on her fingertip. Then—and you’ve GOT to be imagining this—she sucks on Quinten’s fingertip?!?!

Down you tumble! Your legs have finally given out and you’ve fallen to the floor, Christy. Gasping. Sweating. Absolutely numb from your ribs to your pinky toe. Just a helpless heap, and now Holly’s looking at you, and did she just laugh a little? Fucking bitch!!!

And now Quinten’s there above you: “Yo, what happened, girl?”

“You fucking left me is what happened, Quinten!”, you shout from the floor.

Quinten glowers down at you. He’s not happy. That’s not how Quentin Borders is talked to. Plus you’ve addressed him improperly. “T—Trainer,” you promptly correct yourself, “I—I’m sorry, Trainer, I just… I’m a klutz sometimes, and like—I get this inner-ear thing, and my stupid shoes—”. Quinten cuts you off, casually scooping you up (your whole body, the way you’d lift a rolled-up bath mat. Truly, that’s the size differential between you and this hulk of a man). The entirety of you rests like a doll in his arms as the feeling begins to slowly return to your limbs. You go quiet. You’re speechless in the arms of this Adonis.

“C’mon, girl,” he says, putting you back down on your feet. “I know you got more in you than that.”
 
THE RIGHT CLIENT, 1.2.3

As the workout continues, you become less and less sure where Quinten’s faith in you ever came from. And, worse, you increasingly fear that his faith may be on the wane.

You do bodyweight lunges until your inner thighs are screaming and you flop onto the nearest stool, resigned.

Quinten says: “C’mon now.”

You do so many sets of barbell squats that your glutes feel like they’re devouring themselves and you crumble to your knees in agony.

Quinten says: “That’s all? F’real? Naw.”

You do tricep dips until you swear that the muscles inside of your shoulders have ripped themselves free of your chest, and finally you lie down in abject surrender atop a press bench.

Quinten says: “Don’t waste my time now.”

You can only grunt. Moan. You’re done. You have no more. This was all a huge mistake.

Quinten sighs. “Hang on. I got something for you.”

You lie there, eyes closed. Your whole body is aching. Throbbing. Literally every particle within you painfully throbs in time with the rap beat that Gym 68 keeps bumping (I mean, really, does it HAVE to be this loud?!), and now your whole fucking head is throbbing too, and this will be your life now, a neverending throb of--

“Take this, girl.”

It’s Quinten. He’s returned. And, as you open your eyes, you see that he’s got something with him. It’s a black squeeze bottle. Or maybe opal. Or dark-chocolate colored? Anyway, it’s dark and it’s thick and it’s ribbed up the sides and it’s tapered at the head.

“What’s that?”, you ask.

Not answering, Quinten inverts the ebony squeeze bottle. With a gentle pinch, the tiny puckered tip of the black bottle opens, expands, ejecting two small ounces of liquid into a small, clear plastic cup.

“What is that?”, you ask again.

Your eyes are now fixed on the liquid. This fluid. It’s white (or almost cream-colored, rather) and it’s viscous (or almost slimy, rather), and… well, there’s no reason to be coy about this, Christy, it looks like cum. What Quinten has squeezed out of that black squeeze bottle looks like a small, swirling, glistening cup of cum.

“What IS that, Quin-- Trainer?”

“Supplement,” he says. “To get you right. Something I’ve had my lab work on. Doesn’t even have a real name yet, but we’re calling it black pearl.”

He hands it to you. You want no part of it.

“Swallow it.”

It smells ungodly bad. An olfactory assault.

“Swallow it.”

You reeeeally don’t want to. But you also don’t want to disappoint Quinten. You’ve disappointed him so much already today. Maybe if you take just the tiniest of tiny no-thank-you sips?

“Swallow it.”

His voice has been even throughout, but Quinten is losing his patience, you can tell. You know he’s not gonna say it again. You know this is your last chance to redeem yourself in his eyes. You know you’ve got no choice.

You bring the little plastic cup to your lips, and—GRAGGHHH!!!! FUCKING GROSS!!!! You’ve never tasted anything so disgusting! Salty and rancid! Gummy and bitter! Gelatenous! Metallic! Acrid! Fucking unfit for fucking human consumption! G’aaah!!!

With a retch, you spit that ******* out. How much of it got in your mouth? Not very much, really. But whatever got in there, you’re now desperate to eject. Still, one tiny rivulet manages to dribble down the back of your throat, forsing you to gag. You heave. You fall to your knees in misery, gasping for breath, and cursing Quinten Borders.

“What the fuck is that fucking *******, Quinten—Trainer-- whatever?! P-tah! G’ah! It’s fucking disgusting! Holy fuck! Jesus Christ! No fucking way I’m drinking that, ever!!”

You spit again. Your stomach churns. Your head swims. But otherwise, all is silent. Like, completely silent. Even the rap music has somehow gone quiet. At last you look up to see Quinten scrutinizing you from above. No emotion. No reaction. Nothing whatsoever from Quinten Borders, save for the following sentence, declared as a simple statement of fact:

“Maybe you’re not the right client.”
 
THE RIGHT CLIENT, 1.2.4

You’re at home in bed now, falling in and out of consciousness. Time slips. Becomes immaterial. The room darkens. Your head reels.

You hurt, Christy. There’s not a muscle in your body that doesn’t feel strained, pulled, ripped apart.

Your brain is convulsing, feels stabbed. Feels like a migraine, or actually like two migraines… a separate one behind each eye.

Your gut churns. Clearly some of that “black pearl” did indeed make it down your throat, and now your stomach is not the least bit happy about it. There’s a chance you’re gonna puke. There’s a chance you already DID puke, maybe several times, you’re honestly not sure. You’re not sure of anything anymore.

Actually, there’s one thing you are sure of: Quentin “Trainer” Borders is an asshole. Fuck that guy. “Maybe you’re not the right client”? What the fuck is that even supposed to fucking mean? Fuuuuuuck you, Quentin Borders, and fuck your trashy gym.

“Happy Date Night,” you hear. It’s me, poking my head into the bedroom. Date night? Oh fuck, no, it’s Friday isn’t it? Fuck. Jesus. You groan. Friday night or not, your body is just in no shape to check out a museum, or for barhopping, or for drag queen bingo, or for any other date-type activity that requires you to somehow move your broken frame out of this darkened room. You try to decide how to break it to me that you just cannot go out tonight.

“I figured we could just stay in tonight,” I say from the doorway. And you almost shed tears of gratitude. Thank you, Jesus, thank you. And now I enter the room with a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for you, the latter on a buttery rosemary brioche that I just baked this afternoon (“A little something I’ve been experimenting with,” I shrug). It’s all on a tray with a lit candle, a glass of wine, and an origami dog (I can’t do a swan).

In this moment, you love me more than you have in a decade.

“Looks like you’re not feeling very well,” I say. “Maybe tonight’s date can just be Nurse Randy attending to your wounds.”

And now, in this moment, you love me just that much more.

I spoon-feed you a few sips of that tomato soup. It’s perfect. Smooth. Textbook feel-better food.

I break off small pieces of that grilled cheese sandwich and deposit them into your waiting mouth. It’s crisp on the outside. There’s a tangy melt within. It’s so fucking good. Yeah, this is probably one of the top three sandwiches you’ve had in your life up to this point.

I hold the wine glass to your lips. Pinot grigio. The chill. The tang. It invigorates. You almost feel, with each tart sip, as though you’re slowly returning from the grave.

“Now why don’t you get some more rest?”, I say, tucking you back in. I kiss your forehead and gather the dishes. But you reach out for me, soreness be damned, and you grab my forearm.

“I love you, Randy.” You say. “You’re the only man for me.”

“Back atcha, m’lady,” I respond, which was a goofy thing to say, but you clearly don’t mind, because you pull me in for a kiss.

So that’s what we do. We kiss, and we kiss some more. Your shoulders still burn, yet you reach both arms around my neck, and pull me closer, to kiss you harder, and then to join you down on the bed, down on top of your body… which hurts!

“OWWCH!”, you bellow. I apologize. You wave it off. You kiss me some more.

“I want you, Randy,” you say to me. “But I… it hurts. Like… down there. My thighs, you know? Inside my thighs?”

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 ******* 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 *******.

“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***
 
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