I linger awkwardly at the penthouse clinic’s exam suite door. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame volcanic peaks glowing at dusk. Cool marble chills my feet. The brunette nurse, forties, tall, eyes me sharply. ‘Come in, I won’t eat you. Name?’ ‘Patrick Hernandez.’ ‘Like the singer?’ She hides a smirk. Classic. I shut the heavy oak door. Leather exam table gleams under crystal lights. ‘Strip for the check-up.’ Cheeks burn. My trucker sweater, corduroy pants pile behind a silk screen. Keep boxers, she says. I step out, socks on cold tile, 6’4 frame exposed. She glances. Notices. My difference. Huge even soft. Stress hits. Itch. Swells. Boxers tent. Balance next. Her blouse gaps, black lace bra spills creamy swells. Tension cuff tightens my arm. Cock slaps gut. Elastic snaps. Silence. Her cheeks flush. Fingers point timidly. ‘Girlfriend? Seen a doc for… that?’ I snap. ‘Can’t fix it! Born this way!’ She grabs my arm. Devours it with eyes. ‘So… beautiful.’ First time ever. Girls mocked. ‘Elephant man.’ She palms base. Fingers barely circle girth. Slides up veined shaft. Peels foreskin. Gaping mouth at purple helmet. Breath hot. Lips near. Knock. Young redhead stagiaire peeks. ‘Amuse yourselves!’ Myriam shoos her. Cock wilts. ‘See you tomorrow, my place. Quieter.’ Note: ‘Your cock’s genius. I’ll handle it.’ Penthouse address. Attestation stamped. I leave smirking. Past disasters flash. Chloé, two years back. Bike fix led to dates. Virgin try. Lubed. She rode. Ripped her. Hospital threats. ‘Baseball bat damage.’ Parents banned me. Prostitute fled cursing. Tonight, hope stirs. Her luxury pad awaits.
Silk robe hugs her curves. Low leather sofa sinks under violet lamps. Erotic art photos line ochre sponged walls—nude teens, her younger self posed obscene. Incense curls rare oud notes. Gypsy violin whispers. No chair. I perch distant. ‘Water?’ ‘Better for erections.’ She hikes robe. Sheer black stockings. Garters. Bare mound. Thin black landing strip. Fat clit juts oily lips. Pussy scent overpowers incense. She masturbated thinking of me. Cock strains jeans. I free it. She halts. ‘Conditions. Mold first. Train for your monster.’ Custom gray tube. Kneels. Menthol cream heats shaft. Tongue swirls helmet. Sucks what fits. Hands pump. Cockring binds base. Purple balloon. Tube engulfs in cold gel. Perfect cast. Shower now. Italian marble, mosaic shards. Rain head blasts ice. She soaps. I lather her silk skin. Kneel. Scrub thighs. Pussy lips part slick. ‘Deeper, slave.’ Four fingers plunge easy. Wide cavern. Tongue laps clit. She squirts clear jet. ‘Fuck yes!’ Fingers her ass. Loose ring swallows three. She grunts, fists pussy. Squirts again. Kneels. Jerks me. ‘Cum on ass?’ Four paws. Cheeks spread. Anus winks pink. Helmet nudges. Bites rim. Won’t breach. Phone shrills. She bolts. ‘Bed. Gel awaits.’ Canopy silk sheets. BDSM art walls. Dildo trophy case—initialed cocks. Wait. Sleep. Dawn. Empty. Note: ‘Training soon. Both holes.’ Clothes folded. Steal her cum-soaked thong.
The Privilege
No calls. Week ghosts. Clinic: gone. Stakeout: void. Luxury erotic boutique near station. Spotlight: my silicone twin. Massive, veined, lifelike. ‘Custom mold. Imagine!’ Owner leers. Horror dawns. She took the cast. Fucks replica. Needs nothing more. Rage boils. Home. Sniff thong. Stroke fury. Pump cum. Shadow of her lust. Penthouse discretion seals the secret. Elite game. Used, discarded. Yet crave her walls of glass hiding sins.
