“Is there anything the doctor has told you that you’ve missed?” asked Hillary, rubbing Clinton’s knob over her tits.
“No, I’m sure,” he sighed woefully. “It’s just not possible, I mean if you can’t do it for me, no one can darling,” he lied guiltily, thinking about Meg.
His cock surged slightly at the images of his beloved Meg and Hillary felt the distant tremors. It lifted her hopes and she rubbed her hand urgently over his purple tinted dome. She aimed her face over it and let a dribble of spittle fall from her thick lipped mouth. It hit the bulls eye and she teased the puddle into the half inch long slit and sighed as his glowing, shiny knob seemed to gulp the saliva.
Sitting on his knee in the office at lunchtime was one of the highlights of her day. Days like these when the sun is hidden beneath a dark backdrop of threatening clouds and the wind was whistling round the streets, her introduction agency business booming and she has found the man of her dreams, would appear to be the ultimate antidote to her previously quiet and staid life, but Hillary Rice was so sad. Clinton fondled her tits, the huge black udders hanging near to her waist, free of the hammock like silk brassiere she was forced to house them in.
“The door is locked isn’t it?” she breathed, watching his gnarled but clean fingers pluck at her bulbous half inch long nipples, which had erected amongst a little pattern of glossy brown goose bumps, as soon as he had dropped his trousers to his knees and sat so she could straddle him.
“Shush darling. Stop worrying, we do this every week don’t we. No one can get in here. We’re three floors up and can’t be overlooked,” murmured Clinton, as she leaned back against him, her wiry black hair agitating his nostrils. “Besides it’s fun, sort of risky. Not like the safe haven of your bedroom.”
He buried his head in the back of her neck, breathing deeply at the Dior perfume. Hillary squeaked agreement and patiently reached down with one hand between her gleaming thighs and pressured his shaft against her soppy wet cunt. She sighed as she reached further and gathered up his huge ballocks and hefted them as if weighing them. She would need an industrial weighbridge to actually measure their bulk, she giggled to herself. Still holding his knob between her breasts, she kneeded the pliable thickness of his prick into the sticky mire of her aching cunt.
“Is it me, I mean are you sure it’s not just the chemistry between us that ain’t working? How long for Clinton? I’m desperate to get this monster up me. You can feel how wet and juicy I am can’t you?” she breathed.
“Of course darling, as I said. The doctor says there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me and I’m certain there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re so beautiful, so we’ve just got to be patient. I’m sure it will happen,” he breathed.
The tumble of lies, apart from the comment about her beauty, fell easily from his lips. He hadn’t seen a doctor and knew what she desired wouldn’t happen. He spoke again.
“Now I’m going to lick you to cum as I always do, in a minute, but just keep trying, I like what you’re doing,” he answered, reaching round her belly and finding her clitoris.
Hillary shuddered and groaned at the instant contact. His clever fingers frigged at her glowing red bud, making more pussy juice go into free fall from her glistening pink slit and sluice his cock. She rocked on him, holding his soft hose-like dick straight up her front, the ultimate love totem pole, lowering her head slightly to lick at his knob. Her toned legs were planted on the thick carpeted floor, giving her leverage. Her Jimmy Choo stilettos cast aside, her long yoga trained toes curled into the pile, their pink orange soles contrasting with the deep grey blue patterns. Clinton let her rock and stroked her oiled thighs, bare to her hips where Hillary had raised her navy blue mini skirt. Her pale blue French knickers were cast aside, the flimsy silk, very expensive garment treated as a rag.
Hillary could afford to be careless with her material possessions, being extremely wealthy and besotted with her new man of three months.
Three months earlier He had approached her on business terms, wanting to find a partner and during the interview, he had visited the toilet and she had spied on him as he pissed, as she did with all her male clients. The toilet cam was a boon to her business, her extremely wealthy female clients were generally on the look out for studs more than long term partners, such was the rarefied nature of Hillary’s world and contacts. She always plied her male clients with loads of drinks, whatever was their liking, tea even and coffee and she always suggested a comfort break.
She thought her cam set up had gone loopy when she watched Clinton unravel his tool over the cubicle bowl. Hillary had rubbed her eyes and glanced away from the screen, not for long you understand - as she saw the monster uncurl like a snake until Clinton held it in a gentle arc, his knob end beyond her view, below the rim of the bowl. As she gasped, watching him literally knock his helmet on the rim to rid the drips, Hillary wondered on who she could award this freak – no, that’s not right, this prize specimen to and the fees she could charge. Yes, it was a white cock and nearly fifty percent of her clients were of coloured stock, but a white monster was as much a prize as any colour. Hillary thanked her foresight in the toilet cam investment and especially the sound accessory. Often she would switch that off, not wanting to hear piss, farts and dumps. Many men were silent in the cubicles, but Clinton’s lips had moved and she had turned the volume up on her office TV/video as he pissed. It was as if he was talking to his huge appendage. She caught the words “gorgeous black beauty, big tits, just our luck” and she had preened in her vanity on the assumption Clinton was being complimentary about her.
She sighed as in the last moments of his privacy, Clinton had pulled his hose like cock up vertically to his face and then Hillary had been stunned by Clinton rubbing his knob with a tissue and then kissing it tenderly, before the reeling in and careful re-stuffing it back into his pants. She watched as there was some fumbling and then he seemed to zip up the whole inside leg of his pants. Hillary resolved to try and determine the cut of his cloth so to speak when he returned to her suite. Shit! A man who could lick his own dick, with ease and with an obvious love of it was amazing. Her very first thoughts centred on maybe he was gay or at least bisexual, but she reckoned most men would like to suck their cock. Then Hillary’s brain went into overdrive, more price wise than sex wise for a few moments, until she decided that her clients weren’t going to get a sniff of Clinton Blair.
When he’d appeared back in her reception suite, she took another look at his pants and realised that they were particularly baggy, not noticing before. He had sat comfortably and at ease and there was no sign of a zip, although she did now notice a thickening down his left leg and giggled to herself, wondering if it would poke out from his pants bottom. She had gushingly made it abundantly clear that the fees her clients paid were highly negotiable and would be added to any other expenses he may incur. Clinton had visibly licked his lips at the thought of being kept in such lavish means when the figures were mooted and he wondered in turn how she was going to break the ice and open negotiations and her legs as soon as possible. For Clinton’s part in the bargaining that would soon start, he knew he had an asset. Twenty seven inches long when flaccid or erect, when aroused it grew in thickness only, from a mere inch and a half to a cunt busting solid and rampant three inches in diameter. His rough hewn good looks got him girls but he’d never been able to have full sex with them and therefore justify the cunt busting qualification.
But he wasn’t worried. Clinton was easy going and laid back and he enjoyed his experiments and grew to be quite an expert in the foreplay department, sucking hot juicy clitties, tit juggling etc etc. As Hillary filled in the application form, with Clinton happily answering the questions, whilst thinking of the exciting deal he had done at market that morning, her secretary Cherie had knocked and entered, allowing Hillary’s boxer dog to tear noisily into the office.
“Cherie, how may times have I told you not to let Jimbo in here when I have a client,” Hillary had said coldly.
The excited dog had fussed round Clinton who gave it a lot of attention and managed to quieten it very quickly, much to Hillary’s surprise. Cherie had been dismissed with some papers as Hillary saw that Jimbo was laying at Clinton’s feet as the farmer gently stroked his shoe over the dog’s upturned belly.
“God that’s amazing Clinton, he’s never that quiet. How did you do that so quickly?” she had gushed and blushed as Jimbo’s hefty collection of genitals waggled loosely.
“I’m a farmer remember, ways with them,” Clinton smiled in his reply.
She nodded and tried to concentrate on her notes, wondering what her visitor would look like, naked, flat on his back and her stiletto rubbing across his belly. He was certainly powerfully built, with huge shoulders, a thick neck and that wonderfully open, ruddy, smiling countenance. She wondered if his cock dragged on the floor when he walked naked. Hillary felt her fanny sluice and a flush gave her a glistening complexion, completed by a languid wet lick of her lips. Jimbo suddenly raised his head and sniffed and then he sniffed again in Clinton’s direction.
.... There is more of this story ...