Curiously, Jasmine's dream turned out to be prophetic. Not, of course, that the doctor or nurse ever had her undress for them, as they had in her dream. They didn't massage her breasts and certainly never slipped gloved fingers in between her damp pussylips to caress her G-spot. In fact, Jasmine never saw a nurse at the clinic. The only medical professionals she encountered there were the doctor and the nutritionist.
The nutritionist she had *regular* meetings with, establishing a very *special* routine behind his locked office door. He would read from his notes about her schedule of diet and exercise and reports on her performance; she would get on her knees and unzip his trousers, sucking expertly on his cock, keeping him just below the threshold of eruption as long as she could manage while he struggled to keep his voice steady. Sometimes he had updates for her schedule twice a day!
What was prophetic, what puzzled the doctor (and the nutritionist as well) was the same thing the doctor of her dream had been concerned about: Jasmine's progress with her weight.
Throughout the succeeding weeks she kept very busy dieting, exercising and collecting cock trophies (tongue exercise, as it were!), sometimes even losing count of how many she had enjoyed from one day to the next. She also took souvenir selfies with those handsome young men - all modestly clothed, of course. Despite all that calorie-burning activity, the glowing numbers on the scale were just as in her dream. They refused to deviate by more than one or two kilogrammes from the value she'd first seen in the doctor's (non-dreaming) office, no matter how diligently she dieted and exercised.
The clinic personnel, from the doctor on down to the cooks (and the cocks!) in the kitchen and the youngest, newest waiters, were equally diligent. She found out how diligent they could be the first time her boyfriend came to visit.
A young woman she'd never seen before escorted Alder to her rooms that afternoon. Jasmine thought she must be one of the fitness trainers because she was energetic and muscular, wore tight short-shorts that flattered all of her curves and an athletic crop top over firm breasts. Her nipples made only modest, hardly noticeable bumps in the white spandex material, but nipples and areolae were plainly visible dark shadows underneath. She introduced herself as Iris.
They arrived only minutes after William had left with her laundry (and a pair of thoroughly drained balls). Jasmine hurried to take a swig of (zero-calorie) lolly water before she kissed Alder, knowing if he detected a hint of boyish semen on her breath, her pretence of faithfulness during her stay at the clinic would be found out.
"She's quite a dish," Jasmine said, as Iris and her curves walked off, then broke into a run, heading in the general direction of the clothing-optional area, "Even for a fitness trainer."
"Indeed!" He knew he had no hope of concealing the way his eyes had roved over her body, coming back again and again to her prominent cameltoe, so he said, "She must have had a previous career as a customs inspector, though."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I brought you the stuff you asked for," he held out a small duffel, "Some extra bras, panties, sweatbands for forehead and wrists, and those two small hand weights." Guests weren't allowed to remove hand weights from the exercise rooms. "She made me open it and searched it. Said so many well-meaning friends and family sneak in their favourite energy drinks or protein bars."
She imagined Iris's fingers running through the crotch of her panties and the cups of her bras. Then she realized somebody must have gone through her own luggage too, when she first arrived. Had Ren not just carried her bags but also searched them? She imagined him looking for Liquorice Allsorts and Turkish Delight but finding silk panties, fishnet stockings, a 23-centimetre dildo and a jewel-topped buttplug!
"She not only searched the bag," he continued, "She patted me down like she was worried I had a Cadbury Curly Wurly hidden in my pocket."
"Did you?" she laughed. Alder loved chocolate.
"The only thing poking out was my hardon when she touched my arse," he laughed back, "So, were you in her spin class?"
Spin classes? Oh, that weird name for exercising in a room of stationary bicycles. Jasmine wondered if he was dreaming of licking a sweaty saddle that Iris had ridden hard.
"No," she said, "I'm still keeping with the water aerobics. Easier on the knees." She flexed her knees: she'd spent so *long* down on them in front of William she had almost been willing to invite the boy to lie on her bed to finish him off in comfort. Almost.
"And you can do it in the nude?" he smiled -- she had told him how much she enjoyed the clothing-optional swimming pool.
"Would you like me nude now?" She shrugged, her breasts bouncing braless under thin grey fabric, "I brought a few old T-shirts with me, like this one," she pulled down the hem, tightening the fabric over her nipples, "It's already starting to come apart, you can finish the job." She pointed to a small rip just above her left nipple, "Tear it off me, boy. Fuck me like you hate me!"
He pushed his fingers into the rip, pulled, his muscles bunched and her T-shirt ripped down the middle. "It's been too long, Jasmine. I wish I'd made this trip days ago. Wanking off over the phone just isn't the same as getting my hands on your titties!"
She backed into the bedroom, leaving the fragments of cloth in his fists, beckoning him to follow her. "Now reach under my skirt," she said, standing with legs spread, "Tear away my panties like in that movie *Last Tango in Paris!*"
"I don't want to be Marlon Brando," he said, taking her in his arms, "He couldn't act worth a damn." The two of them only watched the movie for the disturbing sex scenes. "Even when he could remember his lines, he mumbled them like he was plastered!" Reaching under her skirt, he seized the waistband of her panties in his fist.
She gasped, held on tighter to him, "But you want to tear off Maria Schneider's panties? She's much prettier than me!"
"Perhaps," he said, pulling down hard, ripping away her knickers (they weren't her precious silk panties), leaving thin red welts on each of her hips. "I'm sure you suck cock better than she does!" He pushed her to her knees and opened his trousers.
"Thinking of a 19-year-old Maria Schneider greased with warm butter and fucked up the arse gets you hot, eh?" She took his cock in her mouth and swallowed it even before he could put his hand on the back of her head and pull her toward him.
As the head of his cock nuzzled the back of her throat, she thought of the last time she'd got her hands (and lips) on his cock. He'd kept his trousers (mostly) on in the taxi. Now she had access to his arse! She didn't have a stick of butter (the Demeter Clinic would never allow that many calories anywhere near a guest's rooms!), so she dragged her index and middle finger across her chin, catching the spittle already dripping from her lips. For *days* now, she had been drooling for his cock!
