“Now, switching gears for a sec. Let’s go back ‘n’ talk a lil’ more about this new club of yours. What exactly is The Pleasure Zone, love?” Marcel inquired. “A gentleman’s club? And how can we get put on? I know the listeners wanna know how they can wave their freak flags up in that piece. Isn’t that right, Tri-State?”
“Well, my loves,” she said into her microphone. “It’s where every illicit fantasy you can ever imagine is indulged, and one’s wildest dreams become their realities. It’s an adventure where anything—and I do mean anything—goes.” Her gray eyes locked on Marcel’s heated gaze. “Entry, however,” she continued a beat later, “is tighter than a virgin in a chastity belt.” She let out a soft chuckle. “You must be on either the guest list, or own a membership.”
“Oh, word. And how much is a membership?” She told him five grand for a silver membership, ten grand for gold, and twenty thousand for platinum. He whistled. “Daaaaaaayum. That’s some expensive shit.”
“There is no price tag for the ultimate pleasure, my darling. However, the experience alone will be worth every cent.”
“Damn. I’m looking forward to coming through.”
“I look forward to having you,” she said, innuendo hovering over them. “And I promise you. Everyone who steps across its threshold will experience a night of decadence. One they’ll never forget.”
“Aiight. You heard it here, my freaky peeps. The Pleasure Zone is the spot to be. So get ya paper up. And let the freak games begin. Nairobia, mad love, baby. And much success to you.”
That was her cue. Her time on the air was over. “Thank you, my love,” she said as Liv Warfield’s “Soul Lifted” started to float through the airwaves. She removed her headset, standing.
Marcel rose from his seat, then quickly pulled her into his arms, heat covering his body. He stole a kiss, a light brushing of his lips against hers. But he wanted more. He wanted his dick in her, bad.
“Thanks for coming through, baby,” he rasped. “It was good seeing you.” His voice rolled over her, making her entire body tingle in a way that caught her off guard, but she didn’t deny herself the pleasure. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Then said, “You make me wanna throw you down ‘n’ fuck the everlasting shit out of you. All I want is to be inside you. It’s been too long, baby.” Nairobia imagined him naked, dick swinging, balls hanging, as his hand slipped down to the small of her back.
She breathed him in.
She had to capture the moment, feel him one last time.
Her hand curled around the print of his never-ending dick, arousal slowly creaming her slit. She wondered if he could smell her in the air around them.
“Marcel,” she said, the words coming out in little more than a breath. In Danish, she muttered, “Yes, it has.” She squeezed him one last time. Stroked him. Then stepped back from him, gathering her clutch, and leaving behind his throbbing cock and a burning trail of desire.
FIVE
ENTER IF YOU DARE…LEAVE BEHIND YOUR APPREHENSIONS AND SURRENDER TO YOUR DESIRES…
Nairobia’s lips curled into a devilish grin as The Pleasure Zone’s slogan played in her head over and over and over. It rotated heavily in her mind like that of one of her favorite songs in her expansive music collection.
Enter if you dare…
It made her pussy wet and tingly.
She licked her lips.
Caressed her slit. Toyed with her clit.
The Pleasure Zone was more than sordid sex. It was a journey into the unknown. It was exploration. It was a voyage to toe-curling pleasure. It was uncovering passion. It was being tested beyond one’s own limits. Completely surrendering.
As far as Nairobia was concerned, entrance into her private club was a privilege, not one’s right. Holding partners accountable in bed was a right, as was being sexually fulfilled. But the doors to The Pleasure Zone were for the elite, for the uninhibited, for the freaky.
Shame and guilt had no place there. It wasn’t welcomed. They were simply useless emotions. And Nairobia had no tolerance for either. She believed in the motto: live and let live. But she’d be goddamned if she’d ever allow her establishment to be infiltrated by a bunch of pillow princesses, frigid bitches, or prudes who lived their lives sexually repressed because they feared giving into their deepest desires, which is why every member was rigorously screened—once, twice, three times—before offered their exclusive membership.
No, no, fear kept you trapped and stuck in mediocre sex, in unhappy marriages, and screwed-up relationships. It kept you enslaved to misery. And Nairobia knew plenty of men and women who were stuck in sexless situations, or in relationships where the sex lacked sparks, where their libidos remained neglected. She knew men and women who were too afraid to expect that their needs be met in the sheets by their partners. Too afraid to open their mouths and let their mates know what they yearned for.