Clinton

"How many inches?" she asked.

"Twelve," he said.

"Really?"

"Really."

"If you're lying, you're just wasting your time." And mine, she thought.

"I'm not."

"Okay, then. It's a date."

Tiffany hoped the jerk was telling the truth. In her experience, men often lied about the size of their dicks, and she liked her cocks big--and Black.

Supposedly, Clinton, her latest client, was both. She'd see soon enough, she thought.

Tiffany wasn't a call girl. At least, she didn't think of herself that way. She was a white woman who served Black men's fantasies. All of them, it seemed, wanted nothing as much as to fuck a white girl, usually in her ass, or to choke her half to death on their huge ebony cocks before pumping a half gallon of their thick seed down their lily white throats.

That was okay with Tiffany. She loved cocks, especially Black pricks--the bigger and Blacker, the better, as far as she was concerned. To qualify for her services, a guy had to have at least twelve inches and, preferably, more--a whole lot more.

They had to have money, too, because, for her services, whether anal or oral intercourse, or both, she charged a flat fee of a hundred dollars. Breast implants, plastic surgery to shave her Adam's apple and modify her facial structure, electrolysis, collagen lip implants, and cosmetics weren't cheap. It was damned expensive to be--or to become--a beautiful woman, especially when, like Tiffany, one had been born a man. By making men like Clinton pay, and pay handsomely, for her services, she was able to pay for her surgeries and hormone therapy, even with the condition that a man had to be both Black and big to qualify for a "date" with her.

* * *

Tiffany answered her doorbell in the nude. She wasn't one to stand on ceremonies, and she wasn't interested in small talk, not when she'd scheduled three more dates back to back, the next due to arrive in an hour.