The Pleasure Zone(70)

There was nothing shady about her, nothing remotely askew. Aside from being a freak, she engaged in no unsavory business practices. In his report of her, there was very little info surrounding her childhood. Her mother was Dutch royalty, and her father a Nigerian diplomat. From ages twelve to seventeen, she’d attended an all-girls’ boarding school in Switzerland. Strangely, there was no record of her for almost a year after that until she emerged, again, at age eighteen, appearing in her first role as Pleasure in the movie Sweet Pussy.

Yeah, he’d bet his left nut her pussy was as sweet as it looked.

Shit, shit, shit…

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He had a girl. Someone he’d been seeing for the last six months. Lana. She had nice, big cantaloupe-sized titties and a fat ass. And he dug her. He’d met her on his flight from Atlanta to Newark. They’d talked it up the whole flight back to New Jersey that by the time the plane had hit the tarmac, he’d gotten her number. And by the time they’d reached baggage claim, he’d had a date lined up for later that evening.

He liked her easy, laid-back vibe. She had a good head on her shoulders. Was into sports, like him. Was easy to talk to. And didn’t come with a bunch of drama. He liked that. And he appreciated how she made him wait for the pussy. He’d sadly admitted to himself it wasn’t really worth the two-month wait, though.

It was wet, sure. But far from juicy. And it wasn’t spectacular. And, though she sucked his dick, her head game needed work. But he’d given her a pass for her enthusiasm, and her willingness to get better. Still, after six months of practice, she’d still scrape up his dick with her teeth.

And, besides being stingy with the sex, she still ran from the dick after more than thirty minutes of him inside her, doggy-style. Truthfully, she lacked the kind of sex drive he needed in his life. He preferred access to pussy—or head, or both—every night. However, she had thought that too excessive. But agreed to sex three times a week.

Still, in spite of those shortcomings, she was a cutie. And, although he couldn’t say for sure he loved her, he did, however, enjoy spending time with her. She was a good girl who didn’t drink or smoke, or curse, not even while being fucked. She was definitely a more reserved type.

Classy.

But her ass was far from a freak in the sheets. He needed, wanted, a mixture of the both. A chick who was classy in the streets, but knew how to bring it in the sheets. And Lana fell short. So, hell yeah, he was sexually frustrated. He hadn’t really cheated on her—did getting head count?—since they’d been together. But it was becoming torturous not going back to his philandering ways.

And working here—with Nairobia—was fuel to an already burning need.

He couldn’t get the image of her dancing up against that wall earlier in the evening out of his head, the way the light from the candles and torches illuminated her smooth mocha-coated skin. Fire had speared him as he stood there in back of the crowd and watched her, his eyes locked on her every move from behind his dark shades, as she seduced her captive audience—a bunch of foaming-at-the-mouth motherfuckers—as if her pussy had superpowers. The way she glowed. The way her hips swayed. The way she stood there in her come fuck-me heels—naked!—taunting her prey as they ogled her like a bunch of horny frat boys; pulling herself open to them, baring her beautiful tits, that fat, juicy ass—and her bare pussy.

Jesus Christ!

That freaky bitch had a fat-ass pussy.

And he had to keep reminding himself that it’d been fucked inside out by a slew of nasty motherfuckers on and off the screen. That porn stars were just overpaid whores, no more, no less.

Still…

This bitch was bad as fuck.

And she was about her paper. Getting that bread. She was a hustler. And he dug that about her. So he couldn’t hate on her for using what she had to get what she wanted. Hell, he couldn’t front like he hadn’t been known to trick up his money on strippers and hoes, even taking his share to one of the private rooms for some head, or taking a ho or two to his whip and fucking their lights out in the backseat.

He’d blown thousands of dollars on tricks and hoes who’d gladly offered up a night of pussy and head.

So who was he to judge?

When the elevator doors opened, he stepped in. Then pressed the button for the fourth floor. He couldn’t wait to get this shit over with. He needed to set boundaries. He needed to check Nairobia’s ass and set the record straight once and for all, so he could do his fucking job without all the unnecessary distractions.

This wasn’t personal.

It was business.

And if she didn’t like it, then hell…she could fire him. And, if necessary, terminate the terms of their contract. Yeah, right. He sighed, shaking his head. Who the fuck was he kidding?