The Pleasure Zone

by Cairo

  “MarSell, my darling. You know a lady never kisses and tells.”

  He smiled. That’s what he loved most about her. Her ability to keep her mouth shut. But today he hoped like hell she’d open it wide for his hard cock.

  “Oh, aiight,” he said. “Then how ’bout you kiss on this dick, then tell me how good it is?”

  “And why would I do such when you have not earned my sweet kisses?”

  “Because my dick misses you,” he murmured into the phone. He called her for one thing, and one thing only. Pussy. He had no time for games. It had been weeks—shit, longer than that—since he’d gotten laid. And his swollen balls were dangerously full from the drought. Getting pussy wasn’t a problem for the music mogul and radio show host. He had access to some of the most exotic, beautiful women from around the world. The problem was, since the death of his wife, his sex drive hadn’t been—well, let’s just say his dick didn’t always come alive when called upon.

  But over the last several weeks it’d been throbbing for some pussy—Nairobia’s pussy. He was a man who went after what he wanted. And what he wanted at this very moment was to bury his dick deep inside Nairobia’s silky walls. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her.

  Ever since seeing her down at the radio station during her interview with him, then talking, well, listening to her on the phone some weeks ago—moaning in his ear, then watching her between his legs on the car ride to Rhode Island sucking his dick…well, shit. All he could think about was having her in his bed, her bed, or any other bed. Hell, he’d fuck her over a ledge, up against a wall, on the hood of his Bentley…or wherever else as long as he could feel the inside of her warm guts. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d parted her thighs, teasingly, showing him her golden brown pussy lips in the studio. Her pink, creamy center was all that kept flashing through his mind during their interview segment. It had been hard for him to concentrate.

  And he damn sure couldn’t get the image of her soft, buttery lips wrapped around his dick, licking and teasing its head, suckling it the way a newborn nursed its mother’s nipple.

  Over the last few weeks, she’d been fucking with him—without knowing it, haunting his thoughts. And he knew the only way he’d be able to shake her from his brain was busting the thick-ass nut he had swelling up in his balls. He’d been saving up this nut for her. And now he was ready to pop off in her cunt.

  Shit.

  Nairobia was dangerously addictive. And he knew it. And his wife had known it to when she was alive. The two of them hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Still to this day, he believed his wife, Marika, had caught feelings on the low for Nairobia, even if she’d never admitted to it.

  Hell, he wouldn’t have ever blamed Marika for falling for the exotic sex goddess if she’d confessed her true feelings for her. He would have understood. Hell. Who the fuck was he kidding? He knew he’d have welcomed it with open arms, and a hard damn cock, like right now. His dick was bricked. He felt pre-cum seeping from the tip of his dark chocolate-colored dick, wetting his drawers. And all he could imagine at that very moment was Nairobia’s beautiful lips caressing his cock, her tongue flicking over his mushroom-shaped head, her soft hands cupping his cum-filled sac.

  Marcel glanced at his Omega Skeleton. It was close to seven p.m., and he was still in his office looking over the contracts of three new artists MK Records was signing on. But to hell with work!

  He had to stand and stretch his legs. He needed to free his dick from the constraints of clothes. He wanted to fuck. He wanted some ass. Jacking off wouldn’t suffice. Getting just head would only frustrate him. He needed the wet grip of a pussy. He groaned inwardly. Shit. His dick was stretched down his leg, its head practically brushing his knee.

  Besides his wife, none of their other sexual conquests that they’d shared together during their marriage—with the exception of Nairobia—had ever been able to handle all thirteen inches of him. But like his wife, Nairobia rode his cock like a roller coaster. She was a pro. He loved watching her throw her luscious ass back on his dick, watching her pussy make his dick disappear in her slick heat. She wasn’t afraid of a big dick. She’d always welcomed it.

  Marika had had some good pussy. No, scratch that. It’d been superb. But Nairobia’s was like floating on clouds. Every time he had slid his dick into her deep, wet tunnel, he’d felt like he was fucking his way into heaven. Her chatte was simply heavenly.

  He knew he should probably fall back and leave well enough alone. But he had to have a taste of her. He needed the warmth of her. The only woman he’d ever begged for pussy from was his wife. And, even then, it was done playfully, knowing she’d give in. Or else he’d take it. But Nairobia wasn’t Marika. And he wasn’t interested in taking what was between her legs. He wanted her to give it to him willingly. He wanted her to want his dick buried inside her, fucking into heat and desire, as much as he wanted it.

  Nairobia purred, pulling him from his lustful reverie. “Mmm. Is that so, my darling?”

  He licked his lips and grabbed at his dick. “Straight up. I want my dick deep in you,” he said, a thick lusty heat coating his tone. “Je veux te baiser.” I want to fuck you.

  His erotic words caressed her insides.

  She licked her lips at the thought of him stretching her, loving her, fucking her.

  “Tell me, my love. What else do you want?”

  “C’mon, baby. Let’s not play games. You know what I want. I think I already made it clear.”

  “Yes, my darling, you have.” She grinned. “But I want to hear it again, anyway.”

  He groaned at the ache in his balls. He needed release. “I’m sitting here with all this big, hard dick. I’ve gotta thick creamy load just for you. I’ve been saving it up so let’s stop all this chitchat and make it happen, baby.”

  Nairobia moaned, her mouth practically drooling. One of the many things she enjoyed about Marcel was his straightforwardness about sex. He was a man who had no problem telling a woman exactly what he wanted from her. And how he wanted. She found that refreshingly sexy, a man not afraid to express his sexual desires.

  Another thing was that he was clean; so, so very clean. And he drank lots of cranberry and pineapple juices, always ensuring he had a sweet, thick, creamy treat for any wet, waiting mouth hungry for his semen.

  She despised men whose ejaculate smelled rancid—like the back of a garbage truck, or had spunk that tasted like spoiled blue cheese, or tasted like he’d been licking an ashtray. Smelly sperm was a no, no for her. And she refused to let any of it enter through any of her orifices. And she wouldn’t dare allow a facial to be given.

  The thought made her cringe.

  As far as she was concerned, a man who didn’t/couldn’t have enough pride in himself to eat right and drink right to provide sweet, nutritious loads of man milk was not worthy of release in her mouth, her ass, or her juicy kut.

  She thought it disrespectful; an egregious act for any man to boldly offer his cum to her when his insides were rotted to the core.

  No. Her pussy would never be contaminated with such nastiness. Which is why she always milked her lovers to orgasm with her hands—or her feet, first round. She needed to see and smell their excitement before she’d ever wrap her pillow-soft lips around a cock, before she’d ever swallow it to the back of her throat.

  She believed a lady never wasted good nut. She gobbled, gulped, and drained it right down to the very last drop. But she dared not ever slosh a dirty, foul-smelling load into her velvety mouth unless she was—(how you say?)—slutty trash.

  And slutty trash she was not.

  She stepped into a sumptuous pair of six-inch red stilettos and sauntered over to her French carved Trumeau. The eighty-four-hundred-dollar, nineteenth-century antique mirror had been a gift from her late mother before she’d died several years ago.

  Losing her mother had been devastating for her. She’d been the only one who had always been suppo
rtive of her chosen path as a porn star, whereas her conservative father saw it—and her—as a disgrace. In his eyes, she’d brought shame and dishonor to her family. And he’d disowned her.

  Sure, it had hurt her deeply in the beginning, being shunned by her own father. But, thankfully, her liberal-minded mother had been the one to encourage her to follow her heart, live her dreams, and do whatever it was she aspired to do—regardless of who else didn’t approve of it. And at that time in her life, fucking (and being fucked) was what she’d wanted to do. She hadn’t wanted to escape poverty to be in the porn industry, like so many young men and women she’d known. Nor had she’d been molested as a child. No. She’d been flouncing her gorgeous body naked on Plage de Tahiti—a beach in St. Tropez, France—when a renowned French photo-grapher approached her with his card to pose nude for him at his studio. A few months later, a production company that had purchased some of his works of her eventually recruited her for a softcore DVD.

  And the rest was history.

  She blinked back the memory, staring at herself. Every time she looked in this mirror and saw her reflection, she was reminded of her dearly departed mother. She smiled, taking in her naked body shimmering in glitter lotion.

  “Allez, bébé,” Marcel said, pulling her from her musing. “I can be at your spot in about”—he looked at his watch—“thirty minutes, so—”

  “So you can feel the heat of my cunt, my love?” she inquired, cutting him off. She wanted to be fucked deep and delicious. Wanted to claw at the sheets. And scream out in ecstasy.

  But—

  “You already know,” Marcel murmured.

  She cupped her breasts, then made them bounce. She turned sideways and marveled at her magnificent, traffic-stopping ass. She slapped it, then made each cheek pop before turning back full view. She wasn’t vain, but she loved her body. She slid a hand between her thighs, and moaned in Marcel’s ear. “You want my kut smeared all over your big, juicy dick? You want me riding your face, your tongue, like I’m taking cock, until I explode into your mouth?”

  Fuck yeah. He wanted to lick, feast, suck, slide his tongue inside her and over her sweet, puffy lips and clit. He groaned. “Yo, you need to stop effen with me, baby. You know you want me stretching that shit.”

  Nairobia couldn’t help but laugh. She loved the sound of his Brooklyn accent, one he’d gotten good at hiding when needed.

  “MarSell, my lieveling. I admit. You make me want to ease out of my panties—wait. I’m not wearing any…”

  Marcel pushed out a breath. “Damn. What else is new? When do you ever wear them shits? Let me cover that pretty pussy with my mouth. We can sixty-nine. I don’t have to put this dick in you. Not tonight.”

  Nairobia swallowed. She was tempted. Oh, so, so very tempted. His touch was intoxicating. His thick cock was…mmm…it was delish. But she would not allow herself to be lured into Marcel’s burning want. She knew he’d worship her pussy, lave it and love it all night long, fucking her on her back, on her side, on her knees, upside down. He’d give it to her just the way she liked. Yes, God. He’d give her orgasm after orgasm after orgasm with his hands, mouth and tongue, and with his big, juicy dick.

  He’d indulge her every whim.

  Melting and mewling, Nairobia knew her body would respond to him in every way imaginable. There was no denying it. She adulated Marcel’s sexual freedom. She adored his freakiness. They’d own each other’s bodies until the sun rose. Then after they’d worn each other out with kink and sex, they’d return to their corners of the world until his loins longed for her warmth again.

  So what was the dilemma then?

  The problem was, goddamn it…she’d never sexed him without his lovely wife. And, quite frankly, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be bedded down, fucked into a mattress, by Marcel without her.

  Marika.

  Sex with the two of them had always been full of heat and passion. She just couldn’t fathom it being the same without her. Besides, she had to be in the mood for his ginormous cock. She loved big dick, but colossal cock wasn’t made for everyday fucking. No, no, no. It was a nice treat on those days/nights she wanted to feel the stretch and burn of her cunt as each inch delved inside her.

  Tonight she was hungry for nothing more than ten inches.

  “So what’s good?” Marcel said, slicing into her thoughts again. “Papa peut obtenir le qui chatte douce, bébé?” Can Daddy get that sweet pussy, baby?

  Oh yeah. He wanted her. She had him practically begging. She wanted him, too, but on her terms, and on her time. She’d fuck him when she was good and ready to melt her pussy over the length of him. Not when he called on her.

  True they had history, a scrumptiously rich one. And she loved the feel of him fucking into the folds of her natte, sappige kut. But her wet, juicy pussy wasn’t his to have on-call. No, no, no. She wasn’t his fuck-buddy. They weren’t friends with benefits.

  Still…

  She was in heat.

  She snapped open her bejeweled fan and fanned it over her pussy. Marcel was heating her. She moaned, and closed her eyes. “Mmm.Zijn stem maakt mijn kut nat.” There was no denying it. His voice made her pussy wet. Soaking wet. But so what? So did several other men in her life.

  Marcel grinned. “So we fucking, baby?”

  “Mijn liefde,” Nairobia said softly. “You know I adore you, my love. And your big black cock, but…”

  “No ‘buts,’ Nairobia. This dick misses you. Let me show you how much. Tonight. I want you to sit on my face while I lick that sweet pussy, baby.”

  Marcel’s dick was about to bust out of his black boxer shorts. He would have pulled it out and stroked it while he listened to her breathe softly into his ear over the phone, but he wasn’t in the mood for stroking his own dick—not tonight. Tonight he wanted some pussy. And he was tired of sucking his own dick, something he’d been doing—from time to time—since he was thirteen. A skill he’d haphazardly learned during one of his many jack-off bathroom sessions. He’d leaned in to spit on the head of his dick and realized he was flexible enough—and his cock was long enough—for him to lick it. So he did. And liked it. Licking his own dick eventually evolved into him sucking the head into his horny, wet mouth.

  And he liked it.

  His wife had loved that about him, being a self-sucker. She’d always said it turned her on. Made her pussy wetter every time he’d give her a show.

  Nairobia closed her eyes and—as if she’d read Marcel’s own lusty thoughts—imagined him bowing at the crown of his cock, worshipping it with his tongue, pumping it into his mouth, bobbing his head up and down, taking his long cock all the way to the back of his tonsils, sucking himself to the edge of bliss.

  She felt her pussy heat as she relished in the memory of watching Marcel suck his own dick. She’d thought the act erotic. Seeing a masculine, rugged, sexy man like Marcel with his cock in his mouth. She wasn’t sure how’d she’d personally feel about being exclusive with any man who enjoyed sucking his own dick. But the act had been spectacular to watch as he watched her make sweet love to his wife with a pink strap-on from her Nasty toy collection.

  “Look, baby,” Marcel said, deciding he’d had enough idle back and forth. He wasn’t for a lot of chitchat when it came to wanting to get his dick wet. He wanted to fuck her senseless, but—

  “Come lécher mon minou doux,” she murmured seductively into the phone, her voice sweet and husky.

  True she didn’t want him fucking her. But it was a woman’s prerogative to change her mind as often as she wanted. And Nairobia had quickly changed hers; just like that. Marcel desired her. So why should she not allow him to pleasure her? Why should she deny herself his touch? His lips? His tongue?

  He could massage her walls with his long, thick fingers. Caress her clit with his wet tongue. But he could not have her kut stretched over his cock…not tonight.

  But he could come lick her sweet cunt until the sun rose.

  EIGHTEEN

  Ma
rcel arrived at Nairobia’s building in record time, his dick throbbing the whole drive over. A doorman and security guard, along with surveillance cameras, manned the luxury high-rise 24/7. The minute he stepped through the sliding glass doors, the freckle-faced doorman recognized him and let him in. He smiled at Marcel, his glimmering white teeth sparkling under the bright halogen lights of the lobby.

  “Ms. Jansen is expecting you,” the doorman said, accompanying him to the elevator. Marcel wondered how he knew whom he was there to see since he’d never visited her there. He first thought it was that the doorman had assumed he was there for Nairobia because she was the only woman of color in the building. But he quickly learned she had texted the doorman a photo of him. In case he turned out to be a psycho. Marcel shook his head, smiling.

  He couldn’t wait to get upstairs. Nairobia’s voice had been unimaginably sexy on the phone, stoking the fires in his loins higher. Until it was an inferno, boiling in his balls. He’d respect her boundaries and not force his dick on her, in her. But by the time he finished fucking her with his tongue and fingers, she’d wish he had stretched her around his wide, long dick.

  He planned to have her body begging for him. And he’d gladly reward her with every inch of his cock. Punishing and pleasuring her for making him beg for her, for making him crave her.

  Ever since his wife’s murder, he’d been extremely cautious about fucking random women. So no. Stray pussy was out. Random pieces of ass were troublesome. Period. The last random fuck had proven fatal. And had cost him his wife’s life.

  And dating had been a challenge since he’d always find himself comparing them to his wife, dissecting them, pulling them apart, then trying to put them back together again in her likeness. It’d made him crazy. It was too much for him, and for them because he wasn’t able to give them what they wanted. Him.