Discovering Rachel

I knock on the door of Rachel’s grandparents’ house; it opens promptly. I hold out my hand and say, “Hi, I’m Andrew.” As the sight of the woman before me registers, it takes all my self-control to keep my jaw from dropping. Rachel Navarre is a little above average in height, with golden skin, deep blue eyes, and an oval face. She has thick, wavy reddish-black hair that falls to below her shoulder blades. None of these things is what gets my immediate attention.

The woman standing before me is wearing a tight T-shirt with a scoop neck that shows off the most spectacular pair of tits I’ve ever seen. She’s quite slender in build, but her breasts are huge. This isn’t just “they look large on her small frame,” either—those melons would look large on a much bigger woman. From their slope and the way they move as she turns a little in the doorway, they’re clearly entirely natural. I wouldn’t have imagined they were even possible.

I can’t help looking, but it would be exceedingly rude and crude to stare. Her amazing cleavage brands itself on my memory in a split second, then I yank my eyes back up to hers. Her blue eyes seem to glow, and she takes my hand. “I’m Rachel Navarre,” she says; I recognize her husky alto from the phone call. “Please, come in.”

Rachel leads me into the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?” she asks. I tell her I’d appreciate a glass of water, and she draws one for herself as well. Soon we’re seated in a little conversation nook, facing each other. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes on her face, but she has to be tired of guys looking deep into her tits when they talk to her. A small smile plays around her face as we talk. I decide to be optimistic and believe it means she recognizes and appreciates the effort I’m making.

“Rachel,” I tell her, “I need to ask you a few questions. This might seem a little personal, but please, I’m not being nosy; there are just a few things I need to know from my clients, in order to avoid mistakes.

“First: do you have a boyfriend?”

“Why do you need to know?” she retorts, her voice tight.

“Rachel, when I eat a girl’s pussy, she cums, and she cums hard. Making a woman cum—seeing her cum and knowing it’s because of me—is the most erotic thing I can imagine. So I’m as hard as a steel bar—and I’ve discovered that I’m pretty long and thick, so that tends to get her attention. A lot of the time, it makes her want to go all the way, even if she didn’t before.

“That might be no problem; so I carry a couple condoms with me, in case a client wants me to have sex with her and isn’t on the pill. But it might be a problem—usually, because she has a boyfriend she wants to keep. So, if a client doesn’t tell me if she has a boyfriend, I have to ask. It’s really hard—sorry, no pun intended—to say no to an aroused woman who wants to jump me when I’m even more turned on than she is. If I’m going to do it, I have to be geared up ahead of time.”

Softly, Rachel asks, “Have you had to do that?”

“More than once,” I tell her.

“Have you ever failed to do it?” she presses.

“No. But it’s been a fight every time.” I look at her. “If you want, I can give you a couple phone numbers; you can call a couple clients and confirm that with them.”