Chapter 9: The First Client
The living room had become a stage.
Nicolle had spent the morning draping black velvet curtains over the windows, tacking them to the walls with pushpins, transforming the familiar space into something alien and ominous. The furniture was covered in black sheets. The lamps were draped in dark fabric. The only light came from a single spotlight Nicolle had rigged to the ceiling, its beam cutting through the gloom like a surgeon's scalpel.
The tripod stood in the corner, its camera lens a dark eye that watched everything.
Katie sat on the couch, her body thrumming with anticipation. She wore the sheer black robe Nicolle had laid out for her—a wisp of fabric that barely covered her nipples, leaving her enormous breasts on full display. The robe parted at the waist, revealing the smooth expanse of her belly and the dark triangle of curls between her legs.
She'd spent the morning preparing. Shaving. Moisturizing. Practicing her deep-throat technique on the dildo Nicolle had bought at the adult store. She could take eight inches now without gagging. Ten with effort. Twelve if she really tried.
The doorbell rang at exactly two o'clock.
Nicolle answered it with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Frank. Right on time."
The man who stepped inside was heavyset, with a barrel chest and a gut that strained against his polo shirt. His face was ruddy, weathered, the kind of face that had seen too many late nights and too many doughnuts. A thick gray mustache covered his upper lip, and his eyes—small, dark, hungry—swept the room before landing on Katie.
"Well, well," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke. "You weren't lying."
"I never lie," Nicolle said. "Payment first."
Frank pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket and handed it over. Nicolle counted the bills with practiced efficiency—five hundred dollars, all in twenties. She tucked the envelope into her own pocket and gestured toward the couch.
"She's all yours. One hour. No marks on the face. Everything else is fair game."
Frank grunted. He walked toward Katie with the slow, deliberate steps of a man who was used to taking his time. His eyes traveled down her body, lingering on her breasts, her hips, the dark space between her thighs.
"You're even bigger than the pictures," he said.
Katie didn't respond. She'd learned that lesson at the mill—silence was safer.
Frank stopped in front of her. He reached down and cupped one of her breasts, his palm rough against her skin. His thumb found her nipple and rolled it between his fingers, hard enough to make her wince.
"Stand up," he ordered.
She stood.
He circled her slowly, his breath warm against her neck. When he was behind her, he grabbed her ass with both hands, squeezing the cheeks, spreading them apart. She felt cool air against her exposed hole and shivered.
"Nice," he muttered. "Real nice."
He turned her around to face him. His hands went to his belt, unbuckling it with quick, efficient movements. His jeans dropped to his ankles, and his cock sprang free—thick, veined, already glistening at the tip.
"On your knees," he said.
Katie sank to the floor. The carpet was rough against her bare knees, but she barely noticed. Her mouth was already watering, her cunt already clenching with anticipation.
Frank grabbed the back of her head and pulled her forward. She opened her mouth and took him in.
He tasted like salt and sweat and something faintly medicinal. She breathed through her nose and relaxed her throat, letting him slide deeper. His pubic hair tickled her nose. His balls rested against her chin.
"That's it," he grunted. "Take it all."
She did. She took every inch of him, her throat bulging around his girth. Saliva pooled in her mouth and dripped down her chin, soaking the front of her robe. She heard Nicolle's camera whirring in the background, capturing every moment.
Frank began to move. Slow at first, then faster, his hips pumping with the mechanical rhythm of a man who knew what he wanted. He fucked her face like he'd been waiting years for this—maybe he had. Maybe he'd spent decades jerking off to fantasies he was too ashamed to admit.
"Look at you," he said. "Dirty little whore. Taking my cock like you were born for it."
Katie moaned around his shaft. The vibration made him groan, and he thrust deeper, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she didn't pull away.
"That's right. Choke on it. Choke on my fucking cock."
Nicolle's voice cut through the haze. "She loves it. Look at her eyes—she's not even crying. She's begging for more."
It was true. Katie's eyes were open, bright, fixed on Frank's face. She wanted him to see her. She wanted him to know she wasn't just enduring this—she was devouring it.
Frank grabbed her hair with both hands and fucked her face in earnest. His balls slapped against her chin. Spit flew from her lips, splattering on his thighs. She felt him swell in her mouth, felt his rhythm stutter, and she knew he was close.
Then he pulled out.
"Open your mouth," he ordered.
She opened wide, tongue out, and he stroked himself once, twice, three times before he came. Hot ropes of semen splashed across her face—her cheeks, her lips, her chin. Some of it landed on her tongue, and she swallowed it greedily, the taste salty and bitter and perfect.
"Fuck," Frank breathed. "Fuck."
His cock twitched, still spurting. Katie leaned forward and caught the last drops with her tongue, licking him clean from base to tip. He shuddered, his hand still tangled in her hair.
"Good girl," Nicolle purred from the corner. "Now clean him up. Every last drop."
Katie took his softening cock back into her mouth, sucking gently, milking him until he had nothing left to give. When she finally pulled away, his cock was limp and glistening, and her face was a mess of come and saliva.
Frank stumbled backward, his chest heaving. He looked at Nicolle, then at Katie, then at the camera.
"Jesus Christ," he said. "That was..."
"Worth every penny," Nicolle finished. "You can use the bathroom down the hall to clean up."
Frank pulled up his jeans and shuffled out of the room. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.
Nicolle set the camera down and walked over to Katie. She knelt in front of her, producing a tissue from her pocket.
"You did good," she said, wiping the come from Katie's cheeks. "He's already hard again. He'll want more."
Katie's eyes widened. "More?"
"He paid for an hour. That was ten minutes." Nicolle smiled. "You've got fifty more to go."
Katie's cunt clenched. She could feel the wetness dripping down her thighs, her body already preparing for round two.
When Frank returned, his cock was indeed hard again—harder than before, if that was possible. He didn't bother with preliminaries. He pulled Katie to her feet, bent her over the arm of the couch, and shoved himself into her cunt in one brutal thrust.
She screamed. Not from pain—from pleasure. He was thick, thicker than she'd expected, and he stretched her wide open. Her inner walls clung to him, gripping him like a fist.
"Tight," Frank grunted. "Fucking tight."
He fucked her with the same mechanical rhythm as before, but harder now, his hips slamming against her ass with each stroke. The couch creaked beneath them. The camera whirred. Nicolle circled, filming from every angle.
Katie's tits bounced with each thrust, her nipples dragging against the rough fabric of the couch. The friction was exquisite, a constant thrum of pleasure that built and built until she couldn't hold back any longer.
She came with a scream, her cunt milking Frank's cock, her entire body shaking. But Frank didn't stop. He kept fucking her through the orgasm, kept pounding into her until she came again, and then again, until she lost count.
"You like that?" he growled. "You like being fucked like a bitch in heat?"
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes, yes—"
He reached around and grabbed her hair, pulling her head back so she was looking up at him. His face was red, sweat pouring down his temples, his mustache twitching with each breath.
"Tell me you're a whore."
"I'm a whore," she said. "I'm a fucking whore."
"Tell me you love my cock."