The Pleasure Zone

by Cairo

  “Nairobia,” Pasha called out as she walked toward her, her smile wide, her eyes bright. “It’s so good to see you.”

  The two women embraced. Nairobia air-kissed both cheeks, then stepped back from her. “You look delicious, my darling.”

  Pasha waved her on, blushing. Her five-carat diamond hooped earrings sparkled against the lighting. “Girl, stop. Not as fabulous as you. C’mon to the back.”

  Nairobia followed her down a long hall with glass walls to her station. Pasha was a sweet piece of ass. And she eyed the way her hips swayed in her Emilio Pucci printed, silk, lace-up dress and wondered just how sexually liberated she was.

  She was tempted to extend Pasha an invitation to The Pleasure Zone to see just how far she’d be willing to allow her limits to be tested. But she quickly thought otherwise, deciding if she ever wanted to indulge her desires, then she’d inquire about her club on her own.

  Nairobia had heard—no, no…she’d uncovered during her inquiries about the wealthy stylist—that she’d once been married to a notorious drug dealer and had come into millions of dollars from an unknown source after he was found murdered.

  Bless her heart.

  Nairobia admired her strength, raising her two young children alone—well, with the help of nannies and…

  Marques Houston’s “Always & Forever” floated through the speakers, slicing into Nairobia’s musings. She found herself humming along as he crooned about not being able to stop thinking about his love interest. Nairobia imagined herself positioned between his legs, and him staring down at her, her face so very close to his dick and him urging her to suck it. Slow and deep.

  She shook her head at the absurdity of her being his type no matter how delectably irresistible she was. Still, she grinned slyly at the memory of boldly kissing him on his succulent lips and sliding her hand over his crotch at a private release party some years ago.

  When they arrived at Pasha’s private workstation, Nairobia took her seat in the plush chair, and Pasha snapped the black satiny cape around her neck. “So how’s life over on the East Coast treating you?” Pasha asked her as she slowly spun her chair around.

  Nairobia loved the excitement and energy of New York. But it was congested. Dirty. Had rats the size of raccoons. And the beaches were filthy. It didn’t matter that it was one of the world’s financial meccas, or that some of the most powerful shakers and movers lived and breathed there.

  It lacked culture. Lacked sophistication. Lacked the openness and carefree spiritedness of Europe. Her heart was torn between her estate here overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and the palatial villa she owned in the South of France. As far as Nairobia was concerned, setting up a permanent life in the Big Apple would never be.

  New York was simply a temporary pit stop.

  “It’s interesting at best,” she said.

  Pasha smiled knowingly. “Ohmygod. I almost forgot to thank you for the beautiful gift basket. It was a wonderful surprise. But you really didn’t have to.”

  Nairobia waved her on. “Nonsense, my darling. It was the least I could do to show my appreciation.” She licked her lips. “Hopefully, you’ve found use for some of the goodies, no?”

  Pasha blushed. The basket had been filled with an assortment of dildos and vibrating butt plugs and beads and G-spot apparatus, along with whips, paddles, a pair of diamond-encrusted handcuffs, and edible panties from Nairobia’s Nasty collection.

  “A lady never kisses and tells,” Pasha teased.

  “But a tramp, my darling,” Nairobia cooed, her eyes dancing with mischief, “will confess her dirty desires. And live out her deepest fantasies. Let the tramp in you out, my love. She’s dying to be released, no?”

  Pasha felt her cheeks heat. She wondered if Nairobia knew of her whorish, dick-sucking ways. Wondered if she knew how she’d gotten aroused, so deliciously wet, from plotting the demise of Jasper and his goons—the men who’d fucked her throat raw and held her captive down in a basement for days at the orders of Jasper. Wondered if she knew how she’d fucked her own husband’s cousin as part of some twisted revenge, then carried his seed in her womb, giving birth to his son. And if Nairobia knew all of this, she wondered how the hell she’d found out. Wondered how long she’d known.

  Then she thought better of it and said to herself to hell with it. So what if she knew. She owed her nothing but top-of-the line salon service, nothing more, nothing less.

  Her personal life was none of her—or anyone else’s—concern.

  Yes, she had at one time in her life been compulsive, almost obsessed with giving head—and lots of it. She simply loved dick. Loved sucking it into her wet, silky mouth. Loved the way it hit the back of her throat and pushed past her uvula—her other clit. Loved the feeling of it stretching her neck. Spit and drool splashing out of her mouth while being face-fucked. She loved, loved, loved…sucking dick.

  She was able to admit that. She was a cock and cum whore. But, these days, she wasn’t out here sucking dick all reckless; she wasn’t brandishing her dick-sucking skills on random men. Those days were over. That was a part of her past. A past she was devoting her life to, not ever forgetting, but accepting as a consequence of her own choices.

  So to hell with what people thought about her. She was rich and fabulous. Had two beautiful children. And had a man in her life who adored her. The only regret she had was marrying Jasper.

  But he had given her, her firstborn, Jaylen. And, in spite of everything he’d put her through, she’d walked away from that life with peace of mind knowing justice had been served for everything Jasper had put her through.

  And she’d walked away with her life, and…millions.

  And there was nothing he could ever do to her again, because he was dead.

  So she was happy. Very.

  Pasha smiled, then whispered, almost conspiratorial, “Well then. The tramp in me thanks you for the treats. I love the Clit Licker and the Pussy Pounder.”

  Nairobia smiled. “Well, it’s simply a small token of my appreciation. Your referral has turned out to be more than I’d ever hoped for.”

  Pasha returned the smile. “So, I take it Lamar’s services are working out well.”

  Nairobia moaned her approval, seductively sliding a fingernail between her teeth. “Yes, my darling. His services are quite delightful. I find him most…mmm…”

  Pasha inhaled. She’d grown fond of Lamar during the six months he’d worked for her, and was forever indebted to him for all he’d done for her during his employ with her. He had been eye candy for the women who’d come into her East Coast salon, but for her, he was more than just a handsomely rugged sexual object. He’d become her lifeline when she’d needed it most.

  He was a good man. Loyal. And she knew unequivocally that he would have done anything for her—without word, without question. And he’d proven more times than Pasha could count that he would.

  And he had.

  A part of Pasha felt guilty for using him the way she had. He’d been simply a pawn, a means to a greater cause. It had been a time in her life when she was desperate to get from under her then husband Jasper’s vicious grasp. Sucking dick had become her obsession while Jasper had been incarcerated—and it had become the root of her troubles with him. She’d become the infamous Deep Throat Diva.

  And, as a result, Jasper had proven himself more dangerous and deadly than she’d ever imagined. He’d beaten her and tried to have her killed more than once. And she wanted him handled before he succeeded at putting her in a coffin.

  She had a son to think about.

  So when Lamar told her that he would “ride or die” for her, then licked his lips—in that moment she saw the hunger in his eyes as his gaze roamed over her body—she decided to test him.

  “Come eat my pussy,” she had told him over the phone.

  And he’d come to her, his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, causing heat to flare through her pussy. Pasha felt shivers traveling through her body as the recollection of Lam
ar’s pussy-eating skills slid through her memory. They’d been heavenly. And so had his smooth, dark dick. Delicious. Thick and curved. Nestled in a thick patch of black pubic hair.

  She felt drool gathering in her mouth as she remembered the way she’d cupped his balls. Massaged them. Then slipped them into her mouth, slathering them with lots of spit. He’d loved his dick sucked sloppily. Her mouth had become luxuriously wet the first time she’d sucked him into her mouth, his dick pushing past her tonsils, the warmth of her throat heating his cock until he spilled his hot, creamy seeds into her mouth, and down in her throat.

  From that moment on, a bond between the two of them had formed, something scandalously decadent and disturbingly beautiful. Lamar had taught her things about who she was, who she thought she’d never become. He’d kept her dirty secrets. Had promised to take them to his grave with him.

  And she owed him so much for that.

  Still, sucking and fucking him was only meant to be a means to an end. A good fuck for a greater cause, until he helped her carry out her plan.

  Destroying her husband Jasper. Blowing up stash houses, taking him for everything he was worth—millions. Lamar had been there every step of the way, willing to do whatever, whenever…for her.

  Even covering up murders.

  And in the end, she’d found love in her heart for him. And made a true friend.

  Pasha swallowed back the painful memories…and the naked images of Lamar. Her past was bittersweet. But her present was full of blessings.

  Nairobia cleared her throat. And when Pasha blinked her into view, she was staring back at her in the mirror, head tilted.

  Pasha blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  Nairobia raised a brow. “I was telling you about Lamar, my darling. How fascinating I find him.”

  Pasha swallowed again. “Yes, that he is. Speaking of him, where is he?” It dawned on Pasha that she hadn’t seen or spoken to him since she’d referred him to Nairobia. She made a mental note to call him first chance she got.

  “I traveled light this time,” Nairobia said. “I didn’t need my body guarded, so he has the next two days off, doing whatever fine hunks of man meat like him do.”

  Pasha smiled. “Lamar’s a great guy. He’s loyal. And…”

  “A delicious piece of chocolate,” Nairobia added, before allowing Pasha to finish her sentence. She lowered her voice. “Oh how I crave to taste him, to have him in my sheets.” She feigned embarrassment, placing a hand to her neck. “Oh my. How scandalous of me.”

  Pasha almost choked on her spit. “Ohmygod, Nairobia! You’re a mess.” She laughed.

  “No, my love. I am a woman who knows what she wants. I take what I want. I demand my own pleasure, my darling. And I deny myself nothing. And I am sure you have not either, no?” She gave Pasha a knowing glance.

  Pasha smiled, but said nothing. She tilted Nairobia’s chair back, placing her head under the spigot, then began running water through her hair. “You do know,” she hedged, moving the conversation away from Lamar, “you don’t have to fly way out here just to have your hair done. My salon in Jersey is right across the water and…”

  Nappy No More II was nothing like the salon and spa Pasha owned back on the East Coast. Nairobia had never stepped foot inside of that particular establishment, but she’d heard through the grapevine that that location catered to the hood trash and ghetto-fabulous, the wannabe divas and trap queens.

  Pasha was a doll. And came highly regarded in the hair industry as one of the world’s top stylists. But Nairobia never would have stepped foot inside her salon if she catered to that element here, too.

  Nairobia’s lashes rapidly fluttered. “Oh, no, no, my darling. As wonderful as I’m sure your other salon is, I am sure it doesn’t cater to the same clientele as the one here does.”

  Pasha chuckled. “It has its moments. It’s a more eclectic mix.”

  Nairobia heard the translation in her head: street trash with light coin. She pursed her lips. “And I, my darling, require a more—how do I say?—homogeneous experience. I need to be surrounded by good coins.”

  Pasha laughed, applying shampoo and lathering up her hair, lightly massaging her scalp. “Point taken.” Pasha pushed a digital button on the arm of the chair, and, within seconds, the chair came alive, vibrating and pulsing.

  Nairobia moaned as Pasha’s fingers tantalized her scalp. “Mmm, yes, my darling, yes…that feels good. Your fingers are delectable. This chair is orgasmic.” She closed her eyes, and moaned again. “I’ll fly to the heavens and back for such treatment, my darling.”

  Pasha smiled wide. She loved catering to her wealthy clients. Loved giving them her personal touch. Hell, she’d massage their feet; maybe even lick their toes if it kept them coins coming in heavy. Nappy No More II had been open for two years now, and had already grossed nearly $5 million, thanks to the personal and attentive care paired with her highly talented styling team committed to providing one-of-a-kind service to her salon’s exclusive clientele.

  Nairobia had been coming to the salon since its grand opening, and she was a loyal customer who had no problem paying top dollar to look her best. She also tipped extravagantly and had graciously referred several of her wealthy friends—including a few porn stars, her way. So Nairobia would always get the red carpet treatment.

  “I aim to do whatever it takes to keep my best customers coming back,” Pasha said earnestly as she combed conditioner from her new hair care line through Nairobia’s hair, then blasted it with a cold-water rinse for several seconds.

  Nairobia cooed. “And I do believe I am coming in more ways than one, my darling…mmmm…yes…I already feel my juices pooling between my thighs.”

  Pasha chortled as she wrapped a towel around her head. Raised her up from the sink. Then reached for her boar-bristle paddle brush and blew-dry Nairobia’s luxurious mane.

  “So how’s the new club? Is it everything you dreamed of? I’ve heard it’s fabulous.”

  Nairobia’s lashes fluttered. “It’s everything, my darling. And more. Perhaps you’d like to unleash your desires and step into the world of decadence, no?”

  Pasha bristled at the thought. Sure she had a freaky side. Who didn’t? But she’d rather unleash her alter ego behind closed doors, in the comfort of her own home. Still, there was no denying. She was a bit curious, but not enough to feed it.

  She smiled. “Oh, no, girl. I’ll have to kindly decline. Thanks for the invitation, though. But I have a cousin back home who mentioned in confidence that she bought a membership. However, she hasn’t used it yet. Silver level, I believe.”

  Mmm. She’d only have access to the first two floors. That’s what the five-thousand-dollar membership card afforded her. She’d need to dig a little deeper in her purse if she wanted more exclusive privileges. For another five grand she could upgrade. Gold level would allow her access to the first three levels. And for those able to foot the twenty-thousand-dollar bill for a Platinum level membership, they’d have full access to every level of the club, along with special invitations to special events.

  Nairobia smiled. “I do hope your darling cousin comes to indulge herself soon.”

  “Oh, trust. She already has. Out of her two sisters, she’s the more daring. The more sexually liberated.”

  Nairobia pursed her lips. “So she isn’t afraid to unleash her freak.”

  Pasha chortled. “I’m never one to gossip, but…that’s putting it mildly.”

  “Oooh,” Nairobia cooed as Pasha curled her hair. “I think I like her already. Tell her to be sure to introduce herself to me the next time she steps across the threshold.”

  “I most certainly will.”

  Thirty minutes later, Pasha unsnapped the cape from around Nairobia’s neck, then handed her the handheld mirror. Nairobia shook her hair, and regarded herself, moving her head from side to side, her glossy hair swinging to and fro. “It’s fabulous as always,” she said, handing Pasha back the mirror. She
stood, running her fingers at the nape of her neck and through her hair. It was silky as ever.

  Pasha took her in, admiringly. Oooh, she’s a real flossy bitch. Pasha’s Nappy No More Glossing conditioner had Nairobia’s hair shining bright like a diamond. Yassss, bitch, yass! “Girl, I know women who would kill to have your mane…and that body of yours.”

  Nairobia glanced at her over her shoulder and smacked her ass. “Nothing artificial, nothing added, my darling. It’s all natural.”

  Pasha couldn’t help herself from laughing. As classy and upscale as Nairobia was, she was surprisingly just as down-to-earth. “When I grow up,” Pasha said, “I want to be just like you.”

  Nairobia shook her head. “No, Pasha, my love. Be better than me.” She grinned. “Always better. If you dare.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Everyone desired pleasure.

  And Nairobia was an expert at using her femininity to get what she wanted. Call it manipulation. Call it being cunning. Call it whatever you liked. Nairobia called it the art of seduction. She knew all too well how to seduce. How to lure the object of her interest in, then slowly have him/her eating out the palm of her paraffin-smooth hand. And she planned on sharing that knowledge with the world in her next Tell-All.

  She believed women should know how to smile more, play more, flirt more, and tease more. Not be so uptight. Not be so combative. Not be so dependent on the attention of a man. She found most women carried lots of unnecessary baggage. And were too needy and disturbingly clingy. It made them ugly. Made them appear broken and weak.

  Nairobia despised broken, weak women. And she pitied women who didn’t know how to embrace their sexuality, their sensuality, and their femininity.

  As far as she believed, no quality man wanted a woman bearing those flaws, or scars of insecurity. He needed a whole woman—a sensual woman, a sexual woman, one who knew how to embrace her strength and her femininity, while still allowing him to be a man.