Chapter 11: More Riding
She lowered herself onto him with a slow, deliberate finality, a pale queen reclaiming her dark throne. The thick, wet length of him filled her completely, a stretching ache that was becoming familiar, necessary. For a long moment, she didn’t move, just sat there, impaled, her body humming with the aftermath of her last climax and the promise of more. Her own slick cream, proof of her white surrender, coated his shaft, a glossy sheen in the dim light.
“There,” Summer breathed, her voice a raw scrape. “Final inspection in progress. The white auditor is seated. Now she needs to… take inventory.”
She began to move.
It was a slow, almost meditative rise and fall at first. She used the formidable strength in her thighs and ass to lift herself until just the broad, purple tip remained inside her, then sank back down with a gravity-assisted sigh. Each descent painted more of her wetness along his dark length, a glistening, intimate record of her body’s compliance. The sound was a soft, wet whisper in the perfumed quiet.
Jovan’s hands came to rest on the dramatic shelf of her hips, his dark fingers splaying across the pale skin. He didn’t thrust up, didn’t guide her. He just held on, a passenger on a breathtaking, flesh-and-bone vehicle. As she rose, the skin of her taut stomach tightened, the muscles beneath defined and quivering. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh just above her hip bones, and when she sank down, the skin scrunched up in a sexy, adorable ripple around his grip, a testament to the thinness of her waist against the monumental curves above and below.
“See how the white framework adjusts?” she murmured, her head tilting back, eyes closed. She placed her hands over his, pressing them harder into her. “The pale infrastructure is so narrow… but it’s built to handle the stress of the oversized, black support beam.” She began to rotate her hips as she sat fully on him, a slow, grinding circle that made them both groan. “It’s a custom fit. Your wife’s dresses are off-the-rack. This… this is bespoke.”
For twenty minutes, the world narrowed to the chaise, to the slick connection of their bodies, to the symphony of their breathing. Summer established a languid, punishing rhythm. She’d ride him with deep, measured strokes for a while, then switch to those slow, circular grinds, milking him with the tight, clenching muscles of her pussy. Each rotation smeared her cream around his cock, the friction a delicious burn.
His hands explored the map of her. They slid from her scrunching waist up the quivering plane of her stomach, feeling the hard ridge of her ribcage beneath the alabaster skin. Then they slid back down, over the curve of her hips, to settle on the colossal, round hemispheres of her ass. He grabbed two handfuls of firm, pale flesh, squeezing and kneading as she moved. The sheer mass of it was incredible, each cheek a heavy, perfect globe that filled his hands and then some. When she rose, he felt the powerful flex of her glutes. When she slammed down, the impact reverberated through his palms, the flesh jiggling in a mesmerizing, pale wave.
“That’s it,” she encouraged, her voice gaining a husky confidence. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders, bringing the incredible, swaying weight of her QQ-cup breasts to his face. “Inspect the premium assets. The white, round display models. Your wife’s gonna stuff a bra. You get to bury your face in the real merchandise.”
He did. As she rode him, he turned his face into the deep, warm canyon of her cleavage. The scent of her skin—perfume, sweat, and sex—was overwhelming. He nuzzled the soft, veiny skin, then took one of her large, dark nipples into his mouth, sucking hard. Summer cried out, her rhythm faltering for a second before becoming more urgent.
“Yeah,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Suck on the white inventory. Taste it. That young, red-headed customer… she had samples. I’m the whole goddamn warehouse.”
She changed position, rising up on her knees. She turned her body slightly, presenting her profile to him, one hand braced on his thigh, the other gripping her own breast, offering it to him. From this angle, the sight was obscene, beautiful. The incredible, round swell of her breast in her hand, the insane narrowness of her waist, the even more incredible swell of her hip and the full, bouncing curve of her ass as she fucked herself on him. The visual of his dark, thick cock disappearing over and over into her slick, blonde-curled pussy was a lewd masterpiece.
“Look at that,” she panted, her eyes locked on his, watching him watch. “Look at that black pole vanishing into the white silk. That’s not a customer trying on a dress. That’s a permanent alteration.”
His hands were everywhere now. He grabbed her tit, his hand barely covering the mound, squeezing the soft, heavy flesh as she rode. He pinched her nipple, rolling it between his fingers, making her gasp and clench around him. He smacked her ass, a sharp crack that echoed, leaving a faint pink handprint on the pristine white skin. She yelped, then moaned, driving down harder.
“The white management… approves of quality control,” she breathed, her tempo increasing. The slow, sensual ride was heating up, the slaps of their meeting flesh growing louder, more frequent. The smell of sex was now a tangible fog in the boudoir—musky, sweet, and profoundly animal.
She leaned back, planting her hands behind her on his knees, arching her back into a breathtaking bridge. Her breasts pointed to the ceiling, her stomach a tight, glistening concavity, her hips rolling in a frantic, chasing rhythm. This was the view he’d never forget. The full, panoramic spectacle of her: the pale, heaving mountains of her tits, the deep valley of her cleavage, the frantic, wet join of their bodies. Her face was a mask of ecstatic concentration, blonde hair sticking to her damp neck.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna make this white franchise cum again,” she announced, her voice strained. “The black investor is about to see a serious return on his… deposit.”
The pace was no longer languid. It was driving, needy. She was slamming herself down onto him now, using all the power in her legs and that magnificent, cushioning ass. The chaise protested with a rhythmic groan. Jovan just watched, his hands gripping her thighs, his face a portrait of stunned, wordless pleasure. He was in heaven, smothered in her scent, her sounds, the breathtaking visual of this tall, stacked, white goddess using his body for her own pleasure.
“Come on, you black… bastard,” she snarled, the profanity a prayer. “Make this white corporation scream. Your wife’s at home. You’re in my store. My pale, empty store that’s now so full of you!”
The coil snapped.
Her next orgasm hit like a freight train. It wasn’t the shattered, squirting detonation of before. This was a deep, rolling quake that built from her core and radiated outward. A long, guttural moan was torn from her throat as her body locked, her back arching even further. Her internal muscles clenched around his shaft in a rapid, fluttering series of pulses, a desperate, rhythmic milking. “F-fuck! The black foundation… it’s shaking the whole… white building apart!”
She collapsed forward onto his chest, trembling, but the relentless, hungry need didn’t subside. It was as if the orgasm had opened a floodgate. After only a few gasping seconds, she pushed herself up, her eyes wild, and resumed riding. She was sloppy now, lost in sensation, her rhythm erratic but powerful.
“Again,” she demanded, sweat dripping from her chin onto his chest. “I want another. This white retail space… it’s got a new addiction. It needs the black remodeling tool. It needs to feel that dark, thick inventory… bruising the pale shelves.”
She rode him with a frantic, abandon. The confident businesswoman was gone, replaced by a primal, needful animal. She came a third time just minutes later, this one a sharp, surprised cry that broke into sobs. Her body convulsed, a series of sharp, involuntary shudders that had her clawing at his shoulders. “No, no, no… yes! God, it’s too much! That black… pillar… it’s hitting a white nerve no one’s ever… touched!”
Before the last tremor had even faded, she was moving again, a relentless, pale piston. A fourth climax followed, a deep, throbbing wave that made her see stars. She barely made a sound this time, just a choked gasp, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide and unseeing as pleasure, pure and undiluted, electrocuted her nervous system. Her body was no longer hers to command. It was a vessel being filled, used, and rewritten by the thick, dark stranger beneath her.
It was a vessel being filled, used, and rewritten by the thick, dark stranger beneath her, and the story it now demanded was one of drowning. Summer pushed herself up from his chest, her arms trembling not from weakness but from the sheer voltage coursing through her. Her huge, sweat-slicked breasts swayed heavily before his face, their dark, swollen nipples almost brushing his lips.
“You’re not breathing right,” she panted, a wild, possessive light in her blue eyes. “The air in here’s changed. It’s all white musk and black sweat.” She leaned forward, her movements deliberate, and pressed the immense, soft weight of her left breast against his mouth and nose. The world for Jovan became a warm, perfumed darkness of alabaster skin. “Smother on it. Breathe the white product in.”
He grunted, his hands coming up to try and manage the overwhelming softness, his fingers sinking into the pillowy flesh as he turned his head to gasp. “Shit, girl. You tryna kill a nigga?”
“Just a quality test,” she breathed, riding him with slow, deep rolls of her hips as she kept his face buried. “See if the black customer functions with a white airbag deployed.” She shifted, pulling back just enough to let him suck in a ragged breath before smothering him with the other massive globe. The effect was dizzying, a cyclical suffocation of pure, scented flesh. He could feel every inch of his cock being milked by her tight, fluttering channel as she controlled his very air.
After a minute of this, she relented, letting him breathe freely. Her own breath was coming in hot, shallow pulls. “Hold them up,” she commanded, her voice husky. “Present the merchandise. Your wife needs you to hold a purse. I need you to hold my world.”
His large, dark hands obediently cupped the undersides of her colossal breasts, hefting their impossible weight. The contrast was stark—his skin against her paleness, his strength supporting her softness. She looked down, watching his fingers disappear into the creamy flesh, and a fresh wave of wetness coated his shaft inside her.
“Good,” she moaned, her rhythm stuttering for a second. “Now… assist the white management with a taste test.” She leaned forward, her tongue snaking out towards her own left nipple. With a grunt of effort, Jovan lifted the heavy orb higher, pushing it towards her seeking mouth.
She caught the dark, pebbled tip between her lips, sucking it in with a hungry, wet sound. Her eyes fluttered closed. “Oh, God… yes. The white inventory… is self-sustaining.” She suckled herself, a lewd, autocrotic spectacle, while her hips kept their slow, grinding pace on his lap. The sensation of her own mouth on her sensitive flesh, combined with the deep, filling stretch of him, sent fractured lines of pleasure through her core.
“The other one,” she gasped, releasing her nipple with a pop. “Lift the other sample. I want… a comparative analysis.”
He obeyed, shifting his grip, his biceps corded with the strain of holding up such massive, soft weight. He pushed her right breast up to her mouth. With a leonine flexibility, she stretched her neck, capturing that nipple too. For a breathtaking second, she held both in her mouth, her lips stretched around her own areolas, a stunning tableau of self-consumption.
The visual broke something loose in her. A raw, guttural sound vibrated around her own flesh in her mouth. She released her nipples, throwing her head back with a shattered cry. “Fuck! They fit! The white samples… they’re a matching set for the white mouth!”
This was the trigger. The profound, narcissistic shock of it—of taking her own overwhelming body into her mouth while being impaled by a stranger—ignited a firestorm in her nerves. Her riding, which had been a deliberate, grinding pursuit, became a frantic, piston-driven race.
She slammed down onto him, her thin waist flexing like a bow, her huge ass crashing against his thighs with a force that shook the chaise. No more metaphors, no more clever talk. Just a primal, driving need. “Gonna cum! This black machinery… it’s making the white factory… malfunction!”
Her fifth orgasm was a straight, white-hot wire of pleasure shoved into her spine. It locked her body into a rigid arch, her back straining, a silent scream etched on her face. Her internal muscles spasmed around his length in a rapid, desperate clench, a frantic attempt to keep the sensation inside. It lasted for ten seconds of breathtaking, paralyzing intensity.
As it began to ebb, a deeper, stranger pressure built behind it, a rising tide with a different texture. Her eyes flew open, wide with panic and a dawning, impossible realization. “No… wait… what is…?”
It burst from her.
A hot, frantic gush of fluid erupted, soaking his lower abdomen, his balls, the damask fabric beneath them with a sound like a sighing rain. It wasn’t a trickle. It was a sudden, generous pulse, then another, a helpless, squirting release that she could not control. Her body convulsed with it, each pulse wringing a choked, sobbing gasp from her throat.
It went on for what felt like forever, a humiliating, exhilarating baptism. When it finally stopped, she collapsed forward, her body a boneless, trembling wreck against his chest, her own release cooling between them. She was utterly spent, hollowed out, her mind blank. A weak, shuddering breath hitched in her chest.
Jovan let out a low, appreciative whistle, his hands still resting on the curves of her ass. “Damn. The white storefront just… hosed down the whole damn block. That’s a new feature.”
His words, laced with crude admiration, filtered through the haze of her exhaustion. She lay against him, a ship run aground, feeling the rapid drumbeat of his heart against her ear. The cooling wetness between them was a map of her surrender, a pale lake on his dark skin.
Her mind, stripped bare by sensation, began its slow crawl back from the edge. It gathered fragments: the scent of sex, the ache of overused muscles, the profound, stuffed fullness that remained. The bet was lost. The discount was given. Yet the transaction felt incomplete.
With a grunt of effort, she pushed herself up, her palms sliding on his sweat-slicked chest. Her long blonde hair, tangled and damp, curtained around their faces. She looked down at him, her bright blue eyes glazed but sharpening, focusing on his.
“A new feature,” she echoed, her voice shredded. “But the white operating system is still online. It just… needed a reboot.”
She leaned down and kissed him.
It was not a tender kiss. It was a claiming, a sealing of a contract written in sweat and other fluids. Her lips were swollen, moving hungrily against his, her tongue pushing past to taste herself on him—salt, musk, and the faint, clean tang of his own skin. She poured the last of her defiant energy into it, a five-second assertion that even broken, she was still the proprietor here.
She broke the kiss with a wet sound, staying close enough for their breath to mix. “Get up,” she whispered, the command barely audible.
A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “Orders from management?”
“The white floor plan is changing,” she breathed, shifting her weight off him. The separation was a shock, a sudden, empty chill where he had been. She stood on trembling legs, her naked body gleaming under the low lights, a stunning, messy monument. “New display configuration. Get up.”
He complied, rising from the chaise with a languid, powerful grace. He stood before her, fully exposed, his body a testament to the last hour. She was, as always, an inch taller. Her eyes leveled with his, then traveled down the hard plane of his chest, over his stomach, to where his cock, still thick and glistening with her, hung semi-hard against his heavy, low-slung balls.
“Your wife,” Summer said, her voice regaining a sliver of its calculated steel as she took a step back toward the chaise. “When you fuck her… is it like this?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned her back to him, the breathtaking expanse of her pale shoulders and the dramatic shelf of her ass on full display, and lowered herself to sit on the edge of the damask chaise.
Then she lay back.
The effect was immediate and gravitational. As her spine met the fabric, the colossal, round weights of her QQ-cup breasts surrendered to physics. They spilled violently to either side of her ribcage, spreading out like two pale, veiny moons escaping their orbit. The deep cleavage vanished, each massive mound settling heavily against the inside of her upper arms, their dark, swollen nipples pointing at the velvet-draped walls.
She had to physically lift them.
With a practiced, almost casual motion, she hooked her hands beneath the outer curves of each breast, hefting their impossible softness. She brought them together, centering them on her chest, creating a towering, precarious pale mountain range above her thin frame. The effort highlighted the sheer mass of them, a daily reality of her anatomy that was now part of the show.
“Missionary,” she stated, looking up at him from the nest of her own hair. Her eyes were dark, demanding. “The classic view. The customer-on-top position. You were just in it, what, an hour ago? With that young, red-headed shopper in the dressing room.”
She shifted her hips, settling her weight, spreading her legs. The blonde curls between her thighs were soaked, glistening. The lips beneath were flushed a deep pink, slightly parted, swollen from use. “But she was a trial size. A sample. You’re looking at the full, white, retail edition now. Come claim your purchase.”
He moved then, a dark shadow shifting between the boudoir’s jewel tones. He placed one knee on the chaise between her legs, the damask dipping under his weight. Then the other. He loomed over her, his muscular arms caging her head, his gaze traveling down the landscape she had arranged for him: the reconstructed cleavage, the narrow waist, the flared hips, and the open, waiting center of her.
“This the main display,” he murmured, lowering himself. The broad head of his cock found her entrance with an unerring, slick ease. He paused there, applying pressure, not pushing. “Ain’t no hiding this merchandise.”
“No,” she gasped, feeling the blunt stretch begin anew. “No hiding. This white shelf space is permanently reserved. Now stop browsing and fuck your store owner.”
He sank into her.
It was a different fullness. Deeper, somehow, with his weight atop her, pinning her to the chaise. She was engulfed, her body accepting the renewed invasion with a wet, willing sigh. Her hands, still cupping her breasts, pressed them together tighter, offering them up as a pale pillow for his chest.
“That’s it,” she urged, her head tilting back. “Just like you did with her. But my white walls are tighter, aren’t they? More experienced. They know how to grip a black customer… make him forget his shopping list.”
He began to move.