Thicke Effect - GK

Chapter 6: Plumber Kayla tt wrsh

Her hand was on the red strap.

The room had gone still around her. The softboxes hummed.

She had kept her fingers hooked there for a long moment, letting the tension build, letting Wesley watch her hand. She saw his throat move when he swallowed. She heard the hitch in his breath, the whisper of air catching in his chest.

"Now," she said, "let's get to work."

Her thumb found the clasp at the front of the bra and pressed. The red fabric released with a small, soft pop. Her fingers dropped away.

The cups fell. The bra slid.

And Kayla shook her chest until the red bra fell away completely.

The bare tanks swung free with the motion. The weight of them was enough to carry them forward, gravity pulling them down toward the camera, toward Wesley, toward the small, hard breath that escaped his lips. They did not just hang. They moved. They swayed with a liquid grace, each tank enormous, full, dense, swinging like twin pendulums of pale flesh.

The bra fell past her ribs and landed on his thigh. Neither of them looked down.

They were in the open sunlight of the rental kitchen, raw and white, soft and immense. Ten inches of projection off her sternum. The room's eye impossible to argue with.

"Oh my fucking god," the cameraman said.

The lighting guy said nothing. He had gone very still behind his softbox. The director's hand hung frozen in the air.

Wesley's mouth had fallen open.

"Never," he said. "Never. I have never—"

His voice cracked on the words. He could not finish the sentence.

Kayla sat on his lap, the tanks bare, the weight of them pulling her slightly forward. They rested heavy on her chest, still swaying from the shake. The veins traced across the tops of them in pale blue rivers, mapping the warm slopes of her breasts, running from her collarbone down into the wide saucers of her areolas. The skin was almost translucent in the softbox light, the pale flesh, pale as milk, dotted with the faintest goosebumps from the cool air.

Her stomach was slim and white and flat, a dancer's stomach, leading down to the deep dark hollow of her innie.

Wesley tried to breathe. His voice cracked."Hold still. Hold still. Fuck. Hold still."

But she knew he was not talking to her. He was talking to himself. He was trying to keep his body still, trying hard to hold himself back from the brink. His hands had found the armrests again, gripping them so hard the wood creaked.

Kayla watched his face, reading the war happening behind his eyes. He was a professional. He had worked with women whose bodies were built for the camera.

None of them had been like this.

He shifted underneath her. His jaw clenched. He looked at her chest. He looked away. He looked back.

It was too much. She could feel it in his body, the spike of his hardness beneath her, thick and urgent through the denim. The barest jiggle of the tanks sent ripples through him like a current.

Then his set voice broke.

"Aye, man." His voice dropped an octave, losing its polished edge. The smooth professionalism cracked open to reveal something raw.

His shoulders went back, his posture changed. The lines of his face tightened by an aggressive, hungry edge. "Fuck you doing to me. You know what you doing to me. Got these big-ass—"

He could not finish. He shook his head, looked at the ceiling, then back at her chest. Kayla felt a thrill run through her body at the rough, thugged-out tone of his voice. It was the first time he had sounded real. It was the first time the mask of the professional performer had slipped.

She realized, then, what he still was beneath the professionalism of the scene. He was young. He was twenty-five and he was a man who had thought he had seen everything. And she had just shown him she was the one thing he never expected.

That voice turned her on.

"You like these white tanks?" she asked, her own voice dropping to match his register. "You like the heavy white tanks I brought for your pipe?"

"I like them," he said, his voice thick. "I like them like I never liked nothing. You got the realest shit I ever saw. You got the biggest, whitest, realest shit I ever got to put my hands on, and you telling me I ain't allowed to touch yet?"

"I didn't say that."

His eyes snapped to hers. "You gonna let me touch?"

"I'm gonna let you do whatever you want, as long as you don't break the equipment."

He did not need to be told twice.

His hands left the armrests. They came up and seized the bare tanks like a man who had been drowning, palms slapping against the pale flesh, fingers spreading wide to claim as much as they could. He grabbed them hard, squeezed them, dug his fingers into the soft white meat of her breasts.

"Fuck," he breathed. "I can feel how heavy they are. I can feel the weight in my hands. I have never felt something this heavy on a woman in my life."

"And the skin? Feel how soft."

He ran his thumbs over the surface, tracing the cool, creamy skin, following the paths of the veins.

"It's like silk," he said. "Like warm silk."

He was gripping, squeezing, kneading. Then he leaned forward and his mouth was on them.

The first touch of his tongue on her nipple sent a jolt down Kayla's spine. She had never been in this position on a camera. She had never given her breasts to a Black man. She had never done this as a job.

This was different. This time the man's mouth was hungry. This time the man's hands were shaking.

That voice turned her on.

"You like the tanks?" Kayla asked, her voice low and rough. "You like the white tanks on your face?"

"I like them," he said. "I like the taste of them. I like the heaviness of them pressed up against my face."

And he moaned.

She let him work. She let him kiss, lick, taste, bite gently at the pale flesh. He went from one breast to the other, devouring her, his tongue tracing the veins, his lips closing over one nipple, then the other.

He leaned her back slightly, and his mouth found the underside of one breast, the heavy, soft weight of it resting against his jaw. He worked his way up, tracing the blue veins with his tongue, mapping the geography of her. He took the whole areola into his mouth in a way she had never felt before.

He leaned her back further, and his mouth followed the blue maps of her veins. He lapped at them like a man who thought they held secret treasures.

And then he placed his mouth over the whole areola, his lips stretched so wide to take it all in. She felt the suction of his mouth, the pull of his tongue against the sensitive skin.

"That's it," she said. "You take the whole thing. That's a good thick black mouth you got."

He spread his hands over the tanks, then, a strange expression crossing his face.

"Wait," he said. "Turn."

"What?"

"Turn around. Let me get them together." He grabbed her hips and twisted her, turning her so her chest faced one of the softboxes, so the new angle gave him access to both tanks at once. "Like that. Now bring them together for me. Yeah. Like that."

She reached up with both hands and pushed her tanks together. The pale flesh mashed against itself, the nipples pressing into each other, the areolas flattening against each other.

"Oh," she breathed. "You want to work both of them."

"Both. At once. I want the both of them in my mouth."

He leaned forward, and his mouth found the seam. His lips covered both nipples as he sucked them together, drawing the full flesh out of the mashed valley.

Kayla's body convulsed. A genuine sound escaped her. She had never felt anything like it, the two areolas crushed together in his mouth, the suction pulling at both nipples at once.

"Wesley," she said.

She kicked her hips forward, grinding her lap into his as he licked the seam. Her voice broke down into a moan that was all porn, all theater—

But, underneath it, raw and real. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying this too much.

"Aye," she said, picking up the thick thug cadence he had abandoned. "You think you feel good playing with my white tanks like that? You know what I feel up against my drain? That thick black pipe of yours is pressing so hard. I ain't never felt a pipe like that."

His hands came up, pressing the tanks together as his mouth worked across them. "Fuck, man. Fuck. You cain't be serious with all that. This real? This whole thing real?"

"You think I'd shake something fake at you like that? Feel how heavy they are." She grabbed one of his wrists and pulled his hand down, pressing it against the underside of one heavy tank so he could feel the weight of it in his palm. "That's all real weight. That's the white tanks I brought for your black pipe."

"You got the biggest tits I ever touched," he said, letting the last of the polished set voice fall away completely, letting himself sound like the young man he was. "Realest. Heaviest. You got them veins running like rivers. You got them big-ass saucers so wide I gotta open my jaw just to take one."

His voice was all bass now, rough and unpolished, and every word made her warmer.

She leaned forward.

The motion was sudden and heavy. She leaned forward, her whole body tilting toward him, and the full weight of her chest found his head. The tanks swallowed him. The plush flesh smothered his face, his head disappearing between them. The skin pressed against his ears, his closed eyes, his open mouth. His shouts became muffled vibrations against her sternum.

She held him there.

She let him feel the weight. She let him feel what it meant to be entirely buried in her.

His hands came up, grabbing the backs of the tanks, holding them against his face, pressing himself deeper into her...

He was making sounds. Muffled, desperate sounds.

Then she leaned back, and his head came out from between the tanks. His face was flushed, his eyes wild. His cheeks were wet.

"I told you," she said, "the equipment is real."

He grabbed her waist and pulled her close, burying his face between the tanks. He ground against her as he kissed, licked, lapped at them. His hands moved back to her chest, then slid up her neck, cradling her head as he pulled her down into a soft sigh.

He licked the undersides of her breasts. All the while, he moaned against her skin, his voice vibrating in the flesh of her chest.

She was leaking heat through the denim of his jeans. The thick black pipe was pressing so hard against her that she could feel every inch of its length. She ground down, letting him feel the pressure of her weight, letting him know she had all night, that the job stayed open until the payment was extracted.

"That's it," she said. "You put your thick black mouth on my white tanks."

She held the back of his head, guiding him from one breast to the other, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"You work those white tanks until you got the payment ready. You get that thick black pipe of yours throbbing. I'm going to drain you dry. I'm going to extract every last drop of payment from those heavy black reservoirs of yours."

He moaned against her right breast at that. His lips wrapped around her nipple and he sucked hard, pulling the sensitive flesh deep into his mouth. She watched his cheek hollow with the suction. She felt the tug deep in her belly.

He released her nipple with a soft pop, then went for the left one. She held his head to her breast, pressing him into the flesh, feeling the scrape of his teeth, the rough stroke of his tongue.

"Open your mouth," she whispered. "Take the whole thing. You want to feel the whole areola on your tongue?"

His jaw went wide. He covered the entire saucer, and she felt the heat of his mouth engulf her, the pressure of his tongue against the flat center. He pulled hard enough that she felt it in her sternum.

"That's it," she said. "That's a good mouth. You got a real hungry mouth."

He let go of her nipple. "A real hungry mouth for a real heavy chest."

He nuzzled between the tanks, pressing his face into the bony cleft of her sternum, then came back to scrape his teeth across the vein lines.

She was soaked. She was sitting on his jeans in the kitchen and she was absolutely soaked.

"You feel that?" she asked, rolling her hips against his pipe. "You feel how wet this white drain is?"

He groaned and grabbed her ass with both hands. The first real grip of him on her. He kneaded her through the denim, pulling her against him. The pipe jumped against her.

"Aye," he said, his voice low and rough. "I can feel it. I can feel the wet. You want this. You want this thick black pipe inside you."

"I want it. I want to feel it stretch me apart. I cain't wait to feel something new."

He grabbed the hem of his white tee and started to pull it up.

"No." She put her hand on his stomach, stopping him. "The shirt stays on."

He looked at her, confused. "What do you—"

"The job is the pipe. The shirt stays on."

"Even my shirt? Ain't nobody tell me I had to keep my shirt on."

"Now they tell you. Professional rules. The jeans stay too. You don't need to take them off for me to feel what I need to feel."

She sat up then, straightening her shoulders. He took his mouth from her chest and looked at her, his eyes dark.

"Then what do you—?"

"I do the work." She reached down between them and found the thick ridge of him through the denim. He jumped at her touch. She squeezed him along the length of the heavy shaft.

"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck, your hand."

"That's my thick black pipe," she said. "That's the line I'm here to service. My white tanks and your thick black pipe. That's all we need."

She ground her hips into his lap, feeling the long, thick shape of him pressed between them. He was massive. She could feel the weight of him, the heat of him through the layers of denim and cotton. It was the most direct contact she had made with him so far, and it sent a shiver through her entire body.

He was huge. He was bigger than any other man she had ever been with.

She ground down harder, feeling her wetness soak through her jeans.

"I'm gonna work this job until I extract every drop of payment," she said. "You ready for that, Wesley?"

"I'm ready" he said, voice cracking. "I been ready since you sat on me."

"You been ready since the pipe came into the kitchen, you mean."

He laughed at that, but the laugh died in his throat as she ground down again.

"Now get your mouth back on the tanks," she said. "The job don't stop till the payment's made."

He did not need a second invitation. His mouth was back on her chest instantly, lips finding the seam between her tanks, tongue tracing the thick blue veins that ran over their tops, the ones that marked her as something rare and real.

Kayla leaned forward. The motion pressed her chest deep into his face. The tanks swallowed him, and his muffled sounds of pleasure vibrated through her, driving a low moan from her throat.

She could feel him getting close. The twitch of his length beneath her, the way he clutched at her with hands that were too full. The work was doing its job. Payment was building in the reservoirs.

He made a sound against her chest, the vibration of a desperate plea muffled in the white flesh.

She lifted off him. The absence of her weight made him gasp. He was left gasping, his eyes wild, angry that she had pulled away.

"No," he said. "No. Get back on."

"Too close?"

"Too close, yeah. I need a minute. I need to—"

"Get back on," she said.

And she did.

She didn't give him a minute. She settled her weight back onto his lap and pulled his face into the valley between the tanks. His hands came up instantly to cup the undersides, his thumbs pressing up against the heavy weight of her breasts. His mouth found the seam, and the relief on his face was immediate.

"That's it," she said. "You stay right there. You keep that good mouth on my white tanks."

He grunted in agreement, his tongue working against the warm flesh. He moaned against her, the sound vibrating through the pale meat.

She ground her hips into his lap. She was still fully clothed from the waist down, but she could feel everything. The thick length of him through his jeans had her melting. She lifted off him again, and he moaned in protest. She lowered herself back onto his lap, then lifted again, settling into a rhythm.

He was getting close again. She could feel it in the way his mouth became more desperate, his breathing faster. She sat heavy on his lap, trapping the thick black pipe beneath the weight of her body. She would not let him breathe. She wrapped her arms around his head and pulled him deeper into the tanks. The white flesh swallowed him whole.

She held him there.

His hands, which had been gentle, now gripped her harder. The shaking had returned. He sucked her nipple into his mouth, pulling hard, and she felt his hips twitch beneath her. The reservoirs were full. Payment was ready.

"Please," he said against her chest. "I'm trying. But I've never had a pipe this heavy on my face before. I'm trying to enjoy you. I'm trying to be a professional. But the way you talk, the way you moan, the way you move—"

"Shhh." She stroked his head gently. "You're doing good work. You keep that good mouth on my white tanks. This is my job. I am going to finish it."

He went back to work with renewed determination, his mouth tracing hot paths across her chest.

Kayla shifted. She lifted her hips and pulled his face down with her until his mouth was pressed firmly between the mashed areolas, his lips stretched wide over both, his tongue licking the seam where they met.

He made a sound of pure animal relief, muffled against the white flesh. His hands came up to cup the backs of the tanks, pressing them together, to hold them in position for his mouth. His thumbs traced the veins. His tongue worked the seam. The whole areolas fit inside that wide black mouth.

Kayla saw the director start to lean forward, eyes fixed.

She didn't care. She pressed him deeper against her bare chest, and a sound came out of her mouth.

It was not a professional moan. It was a real one.

"You like that, Wesley?" Her voice was thick with pleasure. "You like that thick black mouth stretched wide over my white tanks?"

He made a sound of deep, masculine approval, muffled by the flesh that surrounded his head.

"You feel how hard that thick black pipe is? You feel how it's pressing up against me? You ready to make payment, baby?"

He nodded against her chest. His lips, his tongue, his face were still buried in the yielding warmth of her. He groaned, the sound vibrating through her, and she felt his hips twitching against her.

Kayla held his head, her fingers threading through his close-cropped hair. She stared at the ceiling and let the feeling wash over her. This man. This thick black man with his shaking hands and his rough voice and his hungry mouth. She had never felt a pipe like the one she'd found pressed against her. She had never met a man who made her feel like she was the rare thing she knew she was.

He moved against her, and then stopped. His whole body was trembling under her. She could feel him at the edge, could see the whites of his suffering in the tightness of his jaw. His mouth was on the mashed seam where her nipples pressed together, lips stretched wide, tongue working the sensitive ridge. And he stilled. He did not meet her eyes.

She held perfectly still. She gave him the frame to hold, letting him ride the edge. Then she eased back down into his lap with a slow, deliberate motion, pressing the length of his thick black pipe firmly between them.

"Almost done," she whispered.

His mouth was still on the mashed areolas, working the seam like a man gone mad with thirst.

His whole body was shaking. One hand gripped the underside of her right tank. The other pressed flat against her ribs, fingers splayed across her deep white belly, thumb stroking the ridge of the last rib, rising and falling with her breathing.

He moaned. It came from deep in his chest, muffled by the flesh. The sound of a prayer answered.

His mouth worked the mashed areolas. His tongue traced the seam.

The room was silent except for the hum of the softboxes and the sound of him worshiping her.