It would be an overstatement to say India Cole had the best tits in the world but she definitely had the best tits in London and nobody knew this more than renowned plastic surgeon Simon Ryder.
Simon worked out of Harley Street. He’d started his business with liposuction and Botox but beauty salons run by minimally qualified entrepreneurs had bitten hard into the market and the non-surgical part of his business had now become a sideline.
Dr Ryder now did tits. His clients came from all walks of life and almost every woman he'd had in his stark white operating room recommended him to her friends, her sisters, her daughters even. The other clinics lining the affluent street hardly got a look in on the action. Simon's secretaries were constantly swamped with enquiries and his waiting list stood at over six months.
And yet, it shouldn't have been that way. The doctor himself was by no means any more charismatic than his neighborhood contemporaries. His appearance had no apparent flaws but was dampened by his air of superiority; he spoke down to his employees and insisted they only address him using his title. His frequent jokes were distasteful and often offensive. If asked, the majority of his clients would admit that they found him obnoxious. And yet they still raved about his work, directing an endless freshwater stream of clients to his door. The reason? India Cole.
Before any procedure took place, there would be a series of meetings between Simon, the prospective client and one of the nurses. Relevant medical histories would be discussed along with any concerns and ideals for the final outcome. In the second meeting, a small lineup of models would be presented before the client so she could gauge what she wanted the final product to look like.
Clients often brought in magazine images of their ideal breasts or would offer names of celebrities but Simon had found that nothing worked as well as real life models. There were usually five models present, carefully selected in accordance with the client's general requirements. But whether enlargements or reductions were requested, one of the models was always India and nine times out of ten, her tits were what the client ordered. They were beautiful, of course, as were the other models’. But something about India just clicked. Maybe it was the natural tan of her skin - she was after all quarter Moroccan - or maybe it was the way she carried herself, serene and disinterested.
Or maybe it was her tits.
They weren't overly large like one might expect but on her slim frame, their average-plus size looked positively mouth-watering. The women who tentatively touched them as they deliberated their own future breasts seemed entranced. They gazed dubiously at India’s tits as if wondering whether such things were even possible. They desperately wanted to look like her, to have their lovers stare like India was stared at and feel the breathless joy of being wanted.
Simon had a selection of what he called trial implants; variously shaped and sized polyethylene samples which clients could put into their bras to get an idea of what the finished product would look like.
“You can take them home,” he always offered. “Wear them for a couple of days, get a proper experience before making a decision.”
The clients rarely took him up on the offer.
“No,” they'd say, eyes straying helplessly towards India's tits. “I'm happy with my choice.”
And they were. The website testimonials were glowing. For all his flaws, Simon was a spectacular surgeon and even the harshest critic would struggle to find anything amiss. But it was Harley Street after all. Private healthcare and cosmetics were big money and only the most talented of surgeons could justify prices with their work. Simon was good of course but so were the surgeons at the other clinics. His secret ingredient was India. Simon knew it and her value worried him a little. Long meetings with his accountant had informed him that since she'd started working for him, revenue at the clinic had proliferated.
The money had bought him cars, houses, holidays and every girl he'd ever desired. Except India, of course. His cock still moved every time he saw her perfect tits. But wanting her was like craving snow in the desert. She was taken. He'd never seen her estate agent fiancé but had heard her gush about him to the nurses, telling them about her quarter carat engagement ring and the intimate wedding she’d planned.
Quarter carat. Simon smirked every time he remembered. Loose change. He could have given her so much more, he mused as he waited for his final consultation of the day. But of course, he couldn't really. Not while she was working for him. It was important to keep her down. There was no sense in giving her an idea of just how valuable she was.
In fact, he focused on doing the exact opposite. Micro-insults. Like at lunchtime earlier that day.
“You gonna eat that?” He’d nodded at the cereal bar in India’s hand. “It's full of sugar. You don't want to put on weight. Drink some water instead, huh?”
He’d plucked the bar from her hand and tossed it into a wastepaper basket.
“I hate him,” India fumed, when she got home that evening, damp and distressed from the rain outside. “I fucking hate him so much I can't even look at him.”
“Baby, it's okay,” her fiancé Hunter consoled. “Everything passes. Soon he'll be a distant memory.”
“But how?” India despaired. “I can't get any other job.”
She couldn't. In her late teens she'd been scouted by a modelling agent and her perfect tits, narrow waist and work ethic had almost guaranteed an eventual progression to the Victoria’s Secret runway. But an unfortunate encounter with a sleazy photographer had brought her career to a screeching halt.
Actual bodily harm, they called it. The judge didn't care that the hotshot from Vogue had hit on eighteen year old India in an elevator. All he cared about was the fact that India’s elbow had broken the creep’s already crooked nose. Goodbye glittering modelling career; hello community service and criminal record. In a job market more overcrowded than the rush-hour Tube, India’s job applications weren't even glanced at once the ever damning DBS check came through.
“I could have been something,” she wailed, dropping theatrically down onto the torn sofa. “Instead I just get old women eyeing my stupid tits.”
“We'll figure it out,” Hunter insisted. “Your DBS will stop showing the record in what? A year?”
“Five years!” India corrected woefully. “Five years, Hunter! Sixty months!” She paused to think before dejectedly declaring, “Two hundred and sixty weeks!”
“Oh, baby,” Hunter surveyed her. “Stop being extra.”
India glared at him and he sighed.
“Look. We’ll fix it. I’ll find a way.”
She brightened. “You will? How?”
Hunter exhaled. “Give me time, huh? And sugar. You think I do anything without sugar?”
India groaned and he raised his eyebrows.
“All day long you get your tits out and then there’s nothing left for me?” Languorously, he unbuckled his belt. “You’re killing me, baby.”
India rolled her eyes extravagantly. “Don’t even.”
But she couldn’t help smiling. Everything about him was so perfect. She felt like she’d do anything for him sometimes. Anything. The wind hurled heavy raindrops against the window. Upstairs, footsteps stomped back and forth. Without Hunter, life would have been bleak and depressing. But his mere presence lit everything up. She didn’t think she could ever survive the monotonous days without him.
He freed his hard cock from his jeans and stroked it, hazel eyes on hers.
“You want some of this?” His voice dropped. “Come get it, baby.”
India wanted to protest but he looked too warm. Magnetically beautiful. Slipping off the sofa, she crawled towards him, eyes on the cock in his fist.
“God, you look so hot,” he growled. “I could just die right now,”
She reached him and paused, her hand coming out to touch his cock but he moved away, walking backwards.
“Take your shirt off,”
She complied hastily, also unclasping her lacy black bra and dropping it onto the floor. Hunter’s eyes went to her tits. She saw him swallow as he stepped backwards and she followed on her hands and knees, the heat throbbing between her legs. He dropped down onto the sofa and dragged his t-shirt off. India waited haltingly as he kicked off his jeans.
“Whatcha waiting for?” he murmured. “Come get it, baby.”
India’s teeth bit hard into her lip as she closed the distance between them. Hunter’s hand was still wrapped around his cock and it stayed there as she crawled between his legs. She extended her tongue to lick the tip and only as she took the head between her lips did he let go. She swirled her tongue, her lips moving further down the rigid length. His hands wove into her hair, guiding her further. Their eyes met. His face was set in concentration.
India’s eyes watered. She paused, sucking in air through her nose, her tongue continually swirling against his throbbing pole. She pulled back, almost to the tip and then went again, moving back and forth steadily and taking in more of his cock with each push. Hunter’s hand tightened in her hair. He groaned. His body moved of its own accord, thrusting back at her searching mouth.
Everything felt like wet heat. India’s hand moved to touch his heavy balls and he grunted out loud, gasping for air. Her lips tightened around his cock as she sucked harder and his face contorted into a snarl as her tongue danced maddeningly against his flesh.
“Fucking hell, India!”
He was thrusting back at her mouth uncontrollably, not wanting to finish but wanting to feel the moment forever. Her mouth was heaven. Her dark hair had fallen forward and he could see the delicate arch of her shoulder blades, the indent of her spine, the shadowed hollow between her jeans and tailbone. It was like an invitation. He wanted to lick a path all the way down.
His cock throbbed in her mouth and he pulled her away, suddenly afraid he wouldn’t last. She looked at him, lips wet and parted, saliva dripping down her chin. He wanted to kiss her until they both passed out.
He didn’t.
“Take your jeans off,” he said.
India stood up. She slid the denim down her long legs, taking her lacy underwear with it. Hunter grasped her wrist, pulling her into his lap. He kissed her hard, his tongue pushing urgently into her mouth. His cock pushed between her legs like it had a mind of its own and she pushed back against it. The pressure against her throbbing snatch felt almost unbearable. All she wanted to do was fuck. But Hunter moved, pushing her down onto the sofa and drawing back so he could lean between her legs.
His hands slid under her ass and grasped, pulling her hard against his mouth. His tongue lashed at her wet snatch, needing to be everywhere all at once.
“Hunter, please,”
India shuddered out a breath and bit down hard on her hand as his tongue circled her throbbing clit.
His eyes flicked up to meet hers and he reached one hand up to pull her fingers from her mouth.
“I want to hear you,” he growled. His hand moved back down, fingers sliding into the wet clench of her pussy and curling.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” The word sounded like a prayer from her mouth and India repeated it endlessly as his fingers pumped in and out of her. His mouth closed around her clit and sucked until she shuddered against him and pushed back in a wave of hurtling pleasure. He didn’t let go even as she squirmed desperately beneath him and she came again, fingers pulling hard on his hair as her snatch flooded with warmth. Hunter pulled back and they watched each other breathlessly.
“Lie back,” India said.
He frowned.
“You wanna go on top?”
She didn’t answer but he rearranged himself regardless and watched, throbbing and aching as she moved on top of him. His eyes followed her hand silently as her slender fingers came out and touched his cock.
Her nails were painted silver. Her hand curled into a fist around his pulsing stalk and slid up and down.
“Baby,” Hunter's voice was a groan. He watched her helplessly, drunk on her beauty. His body strained to stay still. There were so many things he wanted to have, all at once and yet something about the way she stroked his cock rendered him speechless. Her eyes met his. Both of them were breathing hard. Hunter's hips lifted, his cock aching in her tight, warm hand.
“You're so patient,” India whispered and it was almost as though she were taunting him. A lock of damp, dark hair slid free from behind her ear and Hunter reached out to push it back. His hand stayed there, against the side of her pretty face.
“So patient,” India repeated reverently.
Hunter's hand gripped her chin hard, his thumb pushing against her soft lips.
“I'm really not,” he growled.
“What?” Her hand moved faster, encouraged by the wetness coming from the tip of his marble cock.
“I'm not fucking patient,” He almost spat the words, his thumb pushing into her mouth until she took the cue and sucked on it.
He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from his cock before it was too late. Then his hands were on her ass, pulling her on top of him properly so his cock could push between her legs. India reached down to guide him towards her entrance and sank down until he was buried inside her. She leaned forward, her hair hanging down around them as she pulled back a little as if to figure out the perfect position for him inside her.
Hunter’s grip on her ass tightened as he pushed, forcing the remainder of his cock back into her. India sighed.
“You fit me just right,” she said and she ground against him wetly. His hand came back up to grope the weight of one of her breasts. It felt so perfect in his hand; firm and warm, like everything a woman could ever be. His fingers dug in harder as she rode his cock, her palms pressed down against his chest. His hips moved upwards urgently, meeting her for every thrust until neither of them could tell who was in control.
His hands gripped tight to her waist as he pushed his cock into her desperately, chasing the impending release. She came first, her body tensing as she clenched hard around his cock. Hunter’s muscles strained as he urged himself on. His hand moved between her legs, finding her clit and rubbing it before she could stop him.
“Fuck!” He came just as she did; his cock spasming inside her as she dragged his hand away from her snatch.