Queen of Queens

This is the first of a string of stories and series, both loosely and tightly connected together and all dealing with strong Asian women who are or end up in control of their own sexuality and sexual needs. It will also be an unapologetic stream of filth with some extreme fetishes and the constant fetishization of race.

There is a little shop back in my ancestral home-town where they make the most wonderful custom dresses. You wouldn't think it from the outside, wedged as it is between a dumpling seller and a butchers, but the family has been working there and abouts for more than a hundred-and-fifty years, way back to when we still had emperors. When I say family, its now just an old grandfatherly guy and his wife. The son has started a his own mobile phone business in another province, so when the old folks pass on, so will the old traditions. It's a sad really, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to take advantage of their remarkably craftsmanship now. I've wanted to do this for years, but what with one thing and another, I've not been able to get back home for ages.

The craftsman, naturally, doesn't speak a word of English and has no idea of the cultural significance of what I'm asking for. There is no way this would be possible otherwise. He is bemused by my ideas, and I explain, in the broadest terms, that I'm taking part in a special cultural even themed around Alice in Wonderland.

It's not exactly untrue. I did fall down a snowbunny hole years ago.

I spent almost an hour working with the old fellow to get exactly what I wanted and it took a week to make, expedited because that's all the time we had for this trip. I picked it up on the evening the day before we were due to leave. I could go into the details of these negotiations, but probably the best way to present the dress to you, the reader, is the same way I did to my husband.

I return from collecting the dress and enter our hotel room. David is sitting on the bed with his laptop on his knees. He doesn't flinch or try to shut anything down, so I suppose he's doing something innocent enough with it. Instead, he looks over casually and sees the bag I'm carrying.

"Something expensive?" he asks.

"Annoyingly reasonable for how great it is," I tell. "I will have to max out your credit card at the duty free tomorrow. What have you been up to?" I ask. "Something naughty?"

"Of course not," he replies. "I'm just checking the flight details back home."

"So you finished the naughty stuff early?" I purr. He shakes his head. My policy with my husband has always beenguilty, whether proved innocent or not. "Strip for me." I order.

He's only wearing shorts and a T-shirt in this weather, so it doesn't take long. His cock wasn't hard when we started, but it is by the time he's naked.

I reach over to the bedside table and take a pair of free disposable chopsticks out of their packet. I use them to inspect his tiny little member moving it left and then right, scanning for any lingering signs of self-abuse. I lean in to get a closer look.

There's a scent. Fortunately for him, it's chlorine.

"I used the hotel pool just now," he explains. "I thought it would be nicer to shower back in this room, but then got distracted."

"Do it now," I tell him.

He goes into the bathroom and I use the bedroom to change into my new outfit. I start with my long silk stockings and crotch-less lingerie. David is unlikely to see them this evening, but it feels wrong to have this new dress over ordinary underwear. I pull it on over my head and reach round to do the zip. I slip on my long black stilettos and go to the mirror. I give my hair a good brush and then tie it in a high bun. I put on just the slightest amount of blush and eye-shadow but then go with a strong red lipstick. By the time I hear the shower stop and the hair-dryer start, I'm just about ready.

"Crawl out," I instruct when the hair-dyer stops. He does so, a big hairy bear on his hands and knees. I've trained him never to look up without permission. This time I want him too. "Observe."

When his eyes come up, he lets out a gasp.

It's what I would call qipao. You might know it better as a cheongsam and David's mother calls it a Suzy Wong dress. It's jet black with gold trim and it hugs my figure while leaving my forearms and legs bare from just above the knees.

On the front of the dress, in a perfect embroidered outline is the playing card symbol for spades and above that is a delicate crown. The borders of the skirt are patterned with appropriately regal flourishes. He studies it from his position on the floor. It takes him a while to take it all in, but then he focuses on the initials on the left breast.

"Q. o. Q?" he asks. "Is that a misprint? Shouldn't it be Q. o. S.?"

I laugh. "No, it stands for Queen of Queens."

"Ah, I see," he replies. "So I guess that means you're serious about this?"

"Was there every any doubt?" I laugh as I answer. I stick out a heal and he starts to suck on it. His hand starts to reach back between his legs and I rotate my heel so I'm kicking him gently in the face with the body of the shoe even as he sucks on the end. "Just because we've not been able to bring your cage, doesn't mean you can take liberties."

One of these days, I'll make him go through Shanghai airport security in a cock-cage. Till that day, he gets a week's freedom from our usual routine. I've been so busy with both family and shopping that hope he isn't developing bad habits left on his own for so long.

"Turn," I say. Slowly he obeys. Instinctively he raises his arse as he reaches one-hundred and eighty degrees.

I take out a few tissues from the box the hotel has provided and make a little mat directly underneath him. Then I reach into my bag and pull out my little bottle of lube. I rub a couple of drops on my fingers and then shove them up his bum. As always, his hole is remarkably quick to accommodate.

Then I pick up the chopsticks with my left hand and use them to wank his cock. It is, naturally, impossible to give a good handjob this way, but then my total disinterest in his pleasure gets him off more than any physical sensation. His orgasm, which arrives quickly, comes from his prostate rather than his dick. As he tenses, I make sure his spunk goes on the paper instead of the carpet.

I pick the wodge up with the chopsticks and toss it under his nose. "Does this look like a week's worth to you? You've been playing with yourself while I've been out."

"I haven't..."

I slap him hard on the cheek. "Don't lie to me! I will leave you."

He looks resolutely at the floor, silent.

"What?" I say irritably.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Yes, Mistress what? Yes to what? What does that even mean?" I roll my eyes. "You know what, forget it! I'm going to the gym. I expect you to be in the same position when I get back."

"Don't you want me to..." he starts to say, obviously wanting to attend to his mistress' pleasure but I've already grabbed my sports bag and am out of the door.

It's only when I'm in the elevator that I realize I'm still wearing my Queen of Spades outfit, but there's no way I'm going back after making the perfect exit.

* * *

The gym helps me work out some of my tension. I go straight for the punching bag and alternate between that and the weights for an hour.

My hometown is a small city which means there are virtually no foreigners, but equally the best hotel in town is the only one that is allowed to accept foreign guests. I'm not surprised, therefore, when halfway through my session, I'm approached by a tallish blonde guy with some kind of European accent.

"Hey, there. I saw you come in," he says, in a way that suggests he thinks he has game.

"So?" I reply.

"I just wanted to say I loved what you were wearing when you came in. Exquisite. Such a lovely design."

I look him up and down. I've been in China now for a week with only my sad-sack husband for company and God help me the muscles on this guy are starting to look good.

"Do you know the symbolism of the queen of spades design?" I ask, not quite licking my lips.

He looks me up and down, very clearly taking in the whole of my figure. "As a matter of fact I do."

"Then why in the hell do you think I would be in any way attracted to you? If you try to talk to me again, I'll consider it harassment and contact the hotel management."

To make my point I go back to throwing punches at my bag. He stands there for a second as if he's trying to think of something else to say and then wanders off.

The incident has tested my resolve though. For a second there, I nearly weakened and gave him the time of day. I'm been so horny cut off from my usual stable. I don't shower on leaving the gym and stay in my sweats. Next to the gym reception is the entrance to a spa. I sit and watch for ten minutes to get the measure of the place. Then I go and ask to speak to the manager. We talk in code. He's hesitant at first as he thinks I'm going to make a fuss. Eventually, I persuade him that I just want the same treatment as the men.

I'm show past bonsai trees and delicate wooden flooring to a private room. I'm offered a choice of tea or hot water and a plate of sunflower seeds. I crack some between my teeth as I wait for the masseuse to arrive. It takes ages, to be expected as this is hardly a standard request and they need to find a girl willing to oblige. Still, when the first arrives I send her back as too ugly. The second one, ten minutes later, is nicer but nervous.

I let her do my feet, they need it after the week I've had. She brings in the usual enormous tub of hot water and herbs and let's my feet soak there for ten minutes. When they're done she delicately wraps them with two small towels, lets them dry and then rubs lotion all over my soles. It's only when she moves round to massage my shoulders that I go in for a kiss.

"I don't..." she starts to say in locally-accented Mandarin.

I reach into my handbag, pull out a roll that I know has exactly twenty red notes in it and set it neatly on her plastic box of massage tools. "I don't want to hear any more about what you don't do," I tell her firmly. Then I stick my tongue down her throat.

The girl is young and however many male customers she's had, I can tell she's still green. Getting her to service me properly is going to be a chore, but I can have fun making her cum and that might loosen her up. I quickly pull off her shirt and bra and attack her breasts. Then, I grab her hand and thrust it down and inside my sweat pants and then my underwear. I want her to feel how wet I am.

"Dog style," I order. She looks at me confused. "You. On the bed. Dog style. Now." I repeat.

She hesitantly obeys. I pull down her tights and then her knickers and bury my head in her snatch. It taste divine and it's only after I've eaten her delicate little folds for a little while that I stop to wonder how many pathetic little pricks she's had up there today. Or this week. Or this month.

"You fuck without a condom?" I ask. Again, she's confused. "You fuck men without?" I clarify.

"No, never," she says quickly.

I pull out my phone and open up a photo of David. "My husband," I tell her. "Would you fuck him? Without a condom?"

"That's an extra three hundred on top of the usual rate," she says immediately. "Now?"

"Later," I lie. I just wanted it confirmed. I'm not fazed. I like my whores dirty, but I give my mouth a rest and shove my fingers inside her instead. I search for her g-spot and her sudden scream tells me I've found it. The way she suddenly clams up afterwards tells me there is a noise policy at that is establishment. She struggles to keep her moans down as I attack her insides. The way her cunt spasms against my palm tells me when she reaches her end.

"Lie down," I order. She rolls onto her back and struggles for breath. Her head is now where my feet started their massage. I pull her down so her head is over the tub of water. It's cooler now, but still fragrant. "Open your mouth. Close your eyes." I trace a finger around her lips.

I climb onto the bed and squat over her face in the Asian style. "I'll pay you another thousand if you stay exactly where you are and don't close your mouth. And remember, there is nothing that you don't do."

She opens her eyes long enough to see me holding my pussy lips apart and then closes them immediately. She maybe realizes what is about to happen as she doesn't flinch as my golden stream hits her face a moment later. I adjust my angle sightly so she can drink, and, bless her, she tries. Eventually the volume is too much for her and it leaks out and spills down into the tub. As I feel my pressure waning, I take the last opportunity to make sure her whole face is covered in it. Her hair is soon soaked with my piss. As my flow ends with a trickle, she reaches over for a towel. She picks up one of the ones that was just wrapped around my feet, but she doesn't care how it's been used previously.

I pull it out of her hand. "Not yet," I tell her. I put the foot towel on the bed so she can rest her head on it. Then I squat over her bringing my pussy onto her face. "You can only wash once you've made me cum," I tell her as I sit on her.

As I say, I like my whores dirty.

* * *

When I get back to my room, David is still in a kneeling position on the floor.

"You were a long time," he remarks.

"I need a drink," I tell him. I grab a miniature bottle of baijiu and a tiny glass from the mini-bar. I rest the bottle on his back as I take a shot.

* * *

We spend so long shopping in Swarovski at Pudong Airport that we end up rushing to board and don't go through the business class lounge but straight through the main gate instead. It's one of those annoying flights where you have to sit on a little bus and they drive you out to the plane on the tarmac a mile away. It's the final run and we're practically the only people on it. Just as it's about to drive off, a youngish girl gets on. She has first-time international student written all over her, especially as she seems to have not even the slightest clue how airports work. She's not so much cute as she is virginal, although those two are much the same in my book.

We climb the mobile stairs onto the aircraft at about the same time, but of course, she turns right into economy and we are shown through to business class. Our section is only about half-full. David is by the window and I'm by the aisle and the seats opposite in the middle of the plane remains tantalizingly empty. There's no way it's going to get filled now.

I call over a stewardess. "If you have empty seats, do you upgrade people from the other sections?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "That's not this airline's policy."

I discretely reach into my bag and pass over a few notes, British ones this time. We go to stand at the curtain to economy class and I scan the seats trying to pick out the girl I'm interest in. I indicate her to the hostess. "Don't tell that I'm arranging this."

The hostess is clearly now well out of her comfort zone but also too far along, and too interesting in the money, to back out now.

I return to take my seat and sure enough a few minutes later the girl is shown through. She puts her bags in the overhead locker and makes herself comfortable in her new seat, clearly unable to believe her luck. I don't rush. I have twelve hours. But Chinese people are much more comfortable making conversation with strangers than the British ever are and shortly before take off I say hi and get some basic information from her. She gives me a Chinese name, but when she's in the UK she's going to be going by Anna so that's what I use. It is, indeed, her first time traveling abroad on her own although she went to Australia when she was seven. She is going to be studying Chemistry in Warwick but doing a pre-sessional English course first in Cambridge. We take off and I leave it there. Once we're at altitude she watches a movie, I watch a different movie and, as the first meal of the flight comes round we compare notes.

A little while later I ask her the time as a prelude to another information session and when she pulls out her phone to check, I can see she's got a photograph of her and a guy. It's kind of a candid shot where they're doing a goofy hand-holding thing but are still a mile apart. It screams that they haven't fucked yet.

"A special guy?" I ask and she blushes. "It's okay, I won't judge," I tell her. I'm old enough that theoretically I'm supposed to be against relationships during the student years.

"Oh, no," she replies. "He's just... we're just... my parents introduced us..."

So it's like that. Sneaky. Traditionally university wasn't a time for dating, but hooking her up with an arrangement before sending her off thousands of miles is probably better, in their minds, than having her on her own and trusting her to be good. "Long-term relationships can be tricky," I say.

"We've promised to make a video call every night," Anna says, firmly.

"That's nice," I say. "Still you can only be so intimate over the Internet."

I've though I'm only twenty-seven, I'm still playing in respectable big-sister mode, but the way she hesitates and then brushes over my comment tells me she's definitely still pure. Video calls or not, she's going to be swarmed by young, attractive white guys from freshers week on. And unattractive ones as well. Still, she's only going to be able to hold out so long. The question is how long. I decide to tease her.

I tell her about a friend of mine who married a guy she met over here while studying. I play up the whirlwind romance and then fairy-tale wedding aspect. I can tell, from about two sentences in that she's genuinely interested.

"I've got some photos here on my phone, I think," I tell her, knowing damn well I do. "Let me see if I can find them."

I flick through and decide to lead with my favourite. It's pose photo, but it still feels natural. She's sitting on a chair, beautiful in a white-wedding dress. He is in a neat suit and tie, kneeling putting a hand on her belly. A black hand, of course. On a belly that is clearly seven months along.

"Oh, he is... she is..." I smile as Anna becomes tongue-tied. She's surprised, shocked even, but she's still not quite horrified.

"As I say, they did things fast," I tell her. "Motherhood really suited Amy though. And she's absolutely devoted to him, of course."

I talk her through some of the other pictures. Before we get off the plane we exchange WeChat numbers and I tell her to contact me if she ever needs any help.

* * *

It's already dark and cold when we land at Heathrow. Once we've grabbed our bags and are through customs, I start to head towards the car park. David touches me on the shoulder and starts to guide me in the other direction.

"I have surprise. You've had a long flight," he tells me, "I thought this might be nice."

I soon realize that we are headed towards one of the more luxurious airport hotels. "You didn't have to," I tell him.

"I wanted to," he affirms.

We check in and are shown to a nice room. We've been fed multiple times on the plane, so after a shower and a change of clothes there doesn't seem to be much more else to do. David, however, is not terrible subtle. Our room is a double with an extra single. I know what that means and it's not much surprise when ten minutes later there is a knock on the door.

Martin has escort written all over him, however covert David is at slipping him the payment. Something like six-foot four and a physique that only comes from living in the gym. He's dressed the part - Armani, Rolex and cologne, he's as obviously top end as his attire.

"Look what I got you," David says proudly once our guest is fully in the room.

"You shouldn't have," I tell him.

"I wanted to," David repeats.

"No," I yawn. "You really shouldn't have. I've just had a twelve hour flight. I'm exhausted."

David looks crestfallen.

"If you don't want the booking..." Martin begins.

"Just wait a moment," David says. He looks at me with a pleading.

"How long have you arranged with him?" I ask.

"Two hours," David replies.

"Are you available longer?" I ask Martin directly.

"Of course," Martin says. "I only take one booking a day for obvious reasons."

"In which case," I pause as though I'm thinking. "It would be nice to have someone hold me as I sleep. You can undress and get into bed."

I watch him so intently that he gets embarrassed as he is pulling his clothes off. Which is pretty funny considering how many women he must have slept with. As he pulls off his boxer shorts, it is confirmed that, yes, he is enormous. David would hardly have booked him if he weren't. I pay it no mind, but only once Martin is firmly under the covers do I strip myself. Martin makes an appreciative comment once I'm half-way done, but I ignore him and slide into bed next to him when I'm fully naked.

"What would you like to...?"

"I sleep like this," I tell him, rolling onto one side. "Put you arms around me and we can spoon."

It feels nice being held by big strong arms. He smells great as well. A hand slides down to my arse, but doesn't do any more then rest there. I do feel his massive hardness press against my thighs. I reach up and turn the lights out.

David undresses to his own underwear and gets in the spare bed.

Honestly, I do need a really good fucking, but tripling the price of this, already expensive, rent-boy just for a cuddle? This is going to be one of David's greatest pay-pig moments.

* * *

I could have started this story at the beginning. I may still flit back that, though honestly, I was less fun when I was just fumbling around, and before I'd developed a coherent philosophy. You've just seen a fairly regular, if admittedly eventful, forty-eight hours in my life. Now is probably a good time to slow down for a minute and let everyone get their bearings.

My Chinese name is Li Caihong, though I try to use it as little as humanly possible these days. I do though also make it a policy to change my English name every few years, but never to Rainbow, which is the literal meaning of my birth name. I have a bachelors degree in Finance from Birmingham University and a masters degree from Nottingham. I nominally worked as an accountant for a stock brokers in Oxford for five years for visa purposes, but rarely turned up at the office.

I'm currently twenty-seven and a recent trophy wife. I never saw myself marrying, and especially never saw myself marrying a white guy, but David was too wealthy to turn down, particularly as many of his proclivities dovetail nicely with my own. If you are expecting me to say I love him, then sorry. He loves me though.

I have had sex, by which I mean full vaginal sex, with eighty six men in my life. The first three of them were Chinese. The last sixty three of them were black. David is not one of those eighty-six and hopefully will never again ask to be. Lesbian sex is a little more difficult to formally count. Girls, I've had a few, but then again, not too few to mention.

There's one more thing that you should know about me in case you think it is relevant. We'll do it as a lightning-fast flashback to last year. It's the week after David took me to seeLa Traviata at Covent Garden. I'm having a conversation about it with Roger.

"I don't get why Violetta would leave Alfredo," I am saying.

"Well, his father asks her to because their scandalous relationship is damaging the marriage prospects of Alfredo's sister." Roger replies.

"So?" I reply. "She gets a man or the sister gets a man. What difference does it make?"

"Well perhaps she wants to be nice?" Roger replies.

"Why doesn't the sister want to be nice to her instead?" I reply.

"It is kind of Violetta's fault. She has been a courtesan and so the fact that the relationship is so controversial is kind of the result of her previous actions."

"So the moral of the story is that there's not a lot of point in behaving well if you've behaved badly before because it'll all turn out the same in the end anyway? Just keep on straight down that road to hell?"

"Violetta is dying from TB. She probably feels that a few months of her own happiness is worth less than the sister being happy for her own long life."

"So, your argument is, people who are fatally ill are less worthy of happiness than those who are perfectly healthy?"

Roger, and he insists I call him that, is my psychologist and four weeks after this conversation he will officially declare that I suffer from psychopathy. I've largely taken this diagnosis in my stride.

* * *

My dress goes down a storm at the meeting. I'm hosting, so I do all the set-up and initial hosting in an ordinary black number. Then, just before the I need to call things to order, I slip out and change into my Queen of Queens qipao. As I walk back in, all heads turn and the room goes quiet.

And then someone starts to applaud. I'm not even sure who it was and for once I haven't prearranged it. It's glorious. I make my way to the head table and tap a glass.

"Welcome and thank you for coming to the first official meeting of the Asian Queen's Network," I say. A few cheers go up and I wait again for silence. "Now, if you are looking around the room and thinking there are not many people here, then I would remind you that this is the inner circle. We will be going increasingly public as the months go by, but for the moment, discretion is still our watchword. We are still growing, but we're deliberately keeping these meetings small and 'for the faithful'"

I scan the piece of paper in front of me on the table before continuing. "A couple of small items before we get down to the meat of tonight's agenda. There was a lot of discussion and not a little bit of confusion about tattoos that I'd like to clear up. Firstly, I want to say that you absolutely should not pressure any new members into getting tattoos until they feel absolutely ready and it can be a deal breaker. However, tattoos are required for all Inner Circle members as it shows their dedication to the cause. Now, Lucy has done sterling work on a special Asian Queen design, and I believe that Melissa... yes, are you prepared to model?"

Melissa stands up, drops her skirts and bends over just a little to display her new tattoo on her bum. A few members crowd in for a closer look. Once they've had a reasonable shot at inspecting, I draw their attention back. "Now, Melissa was one of the last hold-outs on a tattoo, so she got the full clean design. I want to stress that any reasonable QoS design is fine. It doesn't have to be this one, although as new members come through we'd like to encourage them to fly the official flag. If you already have the classic spade symbol, that's fine, although they way Lucy has done the design, it's should be easy enough to add the A and Q around what you already have if you want to. But it's your decision."

"Secondly, we're going to be narrowing down exactly what we think the aims of the Network should be tonight. I just want to clarify a few key points. The first and for many of you, the most important goal is to maintain a good, up-to-date list of bulls -- emphasizing quality over quantity." This gets a cheer. "Now please pay attention to the terms 'recommended' and 'banned,' the conflicting ways people were using the word 'blacklisted' in the e-mail chain was not helpful." This gets a laugh.

"We'll circle back to this later. Next, the Network believes passionately that sex work is valid work for both men and women. To that end, we will provide be providing all kinds of support and training and events to raise public awareness and will support those of our members who are involved in sex work. We cannot, however, profit in anyway from any sex works. Linda's husband is a lawyer in this area, and he will be working with us to make absolutely sure our books are clean."

"Next, stories people. We've had some, but keep them coming. Not everyone is going to have their own fans site or social media accounts, but even if your shy, we want stories of how you all became Queens and some of your more memorable encounters. If anyone wants me to proof-read anything, especially those of you whose first language isn't English, I'm happy to help and I'm sure there will be other volunteers as well."

"Finally for the small line items, and because I know none of you are going to focus on the task in hand until we've done this, I'd like to get the party stuff out of the way. Now, we've booked the house for the fifteenth, which is a Friday night. Now, the rules state one cuck and as many bulls as you like for each lady. Now, in the future, all bulls will need to be on the approved list, but we're probably still going to be putting the finishing touches to that, so for the first one just try to keep it to people who many of us know. There won't be any shortage of good guys, I promise. We will work out a way to have events with new potential bulls, but we've got too much on today's agenda to discuss that now. The first hour of the party will be devoted to two greedy girls. I've got ten guys lined up and the expectation will be that the pair will taken on all of those. After than any other bulls can join up, but at that point the girls can tap out any time they like. Now, as part of your new membership, everyone will get their own special black ball for the draw. Meiling is handing those out now, they should have your name and membership number on it. Now, I've got mine here, but I'm not going to put it in the bag today, much as I'd like to, because the President winning on the first draw would be a bad look. I'll definitely put in at all the subsequent events. Now, if anyone else doesn't want to be included, just keep hold of your ball. Otherwise drop it in the bag... Thanks... Don't be shy... No, not this time, Lina, not to worry... okay, good. Now, let me see. The first greedy girl is... Hannah... and the second is... Noriko. Okay, wow, I may need more bulls."

With that settled, we really get down to business.

* * *

This gym is the dirtiest and most run-down in the city and isn't exactly the place for the average women to tone, so, as usual, I have the female changing rooms to myself. It's the perfectly place to meet with Charles and not just because he's always here keeping in shape. He enters with his 'friend.'

"This the guy?" I ask. I'm not hopeful at first glance but it's also not like Charles to waste my time. His contact though has to be less than five foot six and is standing next to him wearing the goofy smile of an eighteen-year old who can't believe his luck.

"This is Omondi," he says. "A distant cousin come to study here." Charles is third generation but still has family back in Kenya.

"Good morning, Omondi," I say and wait. I want to see if and how he takes charge of a conversation.

"It is a good morning, a beautiful morning, praise the Lord!" he replies.

"Sorry," Charles says. "We're trying to train him out of that."

"Let me see," I say. Omondi exchanges a worried look with Charles and Charles says something in Swahili. Before they start a conversation, I interrupt. "I haven't got all day."

The joke length for a big penis is twelve inches. That's comically long. Eight inches is large as long as it's always thick. Ten is a good two-hander and vanishingly rare.

Omondi's has to be fourteen, flaccid.

It's absolutely ludicrous. It's hanging down practically to his knees. Charles has done well, though it's not my style to be too effusive with praise.

"Does he have a lot of experience?" I ask Charles. Omondi opens his mouth. "I'm asking Charles."

"He's a virgin.

"Oh, brother," I sigh.

"I still got him a full check-up," Charles says quickly, reaching into his pocket for the mandatory paperwork.

"That can wait. Go and do some reps or something for ten minutes or so."

He hesitates for a second.

"Don't worry, he'll still be a virgin when you come back."

Charles grabs his gym bag and leaves. I reach into my handbag and get out my little bottle of lube, some tissues and my phone. I navigate to the timer app and start the stopwatch. I squeeze some of the lube out onto my palm and them put my hand flat on his dick. Omondi moves back a little bit in shock but then stays put.

"I'm guessing Charles has told you all about me?" I ask.

"He says you can help me make some money," he replies.

"And have some fun doing it," I tell him. I'm now working my hand up and down his shaft. I'm still nominally just applying the oil, but that isn't stopping his cock getting hard from the wank.

The thing about being a size queen is that it's not just the feeling of being fucked that gets me off. The size is, in itself, a kink. So, as I start to go to town on his shaft, rubbing both hands up and down it, I'm incredibly turned on. I find it difficult to maintain my dominant composure and my underwear is completely soaked through. This is the biggest best, black cock I've ever encountered. It's a pity it's not attached to a better specimen. Omondi is short and scrawny and all-round a bit pathetic, except where it really counts. This cock, though, I still have to fight the urge to lick it as I massage. Hell, I'm fighting back the urge to let him fuck me here and now. But if there's one thing I'm not, it's easy and, however horny I am, he needs to prove himself.

This policy is entirely justified a moment later when Omondi leans his head back, moans and his cock explodes, sending a gush of cum over the other side of the room, followed by a few leaking drops onto my thumb and forefinger. I reach over and hit pause on the stopwatch app. It says one-minute and five seconds. I wipe my hand and pass the packet of tissues up to him. He does his best to get his massive oily cock clean again.

"Go and shower in the men's," I order. "And send Charles back in here."

"Did I...?"

"Run along, there's a good boy," I insist. "I'm going to talk to Charles first."

He gets his dick back into his trousers and takes his own sports bag out with him, using it to mask his still fading erection. A moment later Charles comes back in.

"Well?" he asks.

"He's needs work," I tell him. "Get him in here regularly and teach him how to talk to women."

"But...?" Charles prompts.

"We'll see," I say. Then a though occurs to me. "Oh, his English needs work. I'm going to send him down to Cambridge and do a little pre-sessional English course. We'll fund it, of course. He doesn't seem like the type, but let him know his cock is now under retainer. He doesn't fuck anyone unless I say so."

Omondi's English is fine, but Charles is also bright enough not to argue. I'm thinking of my recent flight buddy and her hymen. There's this whole thing lesbians have about having a gold star -- women who have only ever slept with other women. I'm suddenly thinking about instituting a black star award. How fun would it be starting adorable little Anna on a path whereby she only ever takes big black cocks her whole life?

That's a thought for the future. I have a better thought right now, one both you and I have been waiting for since this story began. Without saying a word, I drop my knickers, bend over the dressing room bench and let Charlie just fuckingtake me hard.

After my experience just now, I'm initially slightly disappointed by his 'only' nine inches. I'm a lot more happy by his thirty-six minutes and leave the gym with my cunt leaking.