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She’d never been into sex toys. Hell, she didn’t even masturbate. And on those rare moments when she climbed on top of Kendall and rode him, she didn’t even touch her clit or squeeze her own breasts or lick over her nipples.
That was what Kendall was for.
And she dared not ever—she plucked Good Pussy from the back slit of the gold cellophane wrapping—read this shit. But that didn’t stop Krista from flipping the book over and staring at the face of its author. Just look at her. Looking like some damn call girl. She was nearly naked. Practically covered in diamonds. Her hands crossed over her breasts. Sprawled out on a white mink rug in a very sexually suggestive position—her beautiful legs spread open, the puffy print of her sex on display beneath a diamond-encrusted thong.
Good Pussy.
More like a community hole, Krista mused as she grunted, letting the hardcover book clunk down onto the table. She was so over all of this shit. All this sexual energy swirling around her was too much for her. The devil was everywhere. And this island was nothing but its dirty little playground.
Krista missed her church family. She needed more than just reading scriptures from the Good Book. She needed her soul feed with a good sermon, with a little praise and worship. She needed to be surrounded by church saints, not a bunch of damn sinners.
Shaking her head, Krista scooped up the basket of filth, but before she could make her way to toss it and its contents into the trash, there was a knock at the door. Krista froze, dismay coursing through her veins as she knew Kendall wouldn’t be knocking since he had a key. So who the heck was it?
She could ignore the door, but the knocking was incessant. Krista sighed, setting the basket back down on the coffee table. It had to be Brenda, because she knew that ghetto-bitch, LaQuandra, wouldn’t dare be at her door. She wasn’t in the mood for company. But maybe it was housekeeping, she mused as she went to the door. Taking a deep breath, she opened it. Blinking in shock, Krista took in the fact that it wasn’t housekeeping. But as she stared wordlessly at the woman standing before her, she suddenly wished that it had been LaQuandra instead.
Krista blinked again, suddenly feeling dirty and unkempt. “Can I help you?” she said, her voice coated with disdain. She tried not to inhale the sweetness of her scent.
“No, my darling. You can’t. I’m here to help you,” Nairobia said sweetly. “May I come in?”
“Hell no! You may not,” Krista heard herself saying as she stared at Nairobia, dressed in some sheer pink gown—long, flowy, fitted waist, plunging neckline—that once again left nothing to the imagination.
Krista caught the dark prints of Nairobia’s peaked nipples and quickly shifted her eyes. The tramp had no shame. She wanted to slam the door in her face. Tell this slutty bitch how she really felt about her and her wicked island. But she wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. For she knew the devil was a damn lie.
Krista stepped back, motioning for her to come inside.
Nairobia grinned. She made the church frump nervous. Without invitation, she took a seat on the love seat. And then Nairobia patted the empty space beside her, ignoring the indignation on Krista’s face. “Come, my love. Sit. Let us get better acquainted.”
Krista folded her arms. “No. I’m perfectly fine standing.”
Nairobia offered her a smile. “You do not like Passion Island, no?”
Krista shrugged. “No—yes. I mean, it’s a beautiful island. But . . .” Krista shook her head. “This island is not for me.”
“You wish to leave, no?”
Krista shifted her weight again, and the look of contempt in her eyes did not go unnoticed. “Yes. I’m ready to get home.”
Nairobia nodded, knowingly. “My loins ache for you, my darling,” she said as she ran a hand through her hair. Women like Krista might have found Nairobia repulsive because of the fact that she proudly wore her sexuality like a second skin. But Nairobia found women like Krista just as revolting. A bunch of frigid, prudish bitches who lived their lives sexually repressed, simply because they were too afraid of letting go, too fearful of giving into their deepest desires.
Krista scowled. “Excuse you?”
“Your enslavement, my darling. It aches my loins knowing you are so trapped, sexually, my darling.”
Krista blinked.
“Yes, my love. My kut weeps for you. It aches for your liberation.”
Krista gave her a quizzical look, one that Nairobia purposefully ignored. She glanced over at the basket on the table. “You do not like my gifts, no?”
“The basket was thoughtful,” Krista said, shifting her weight from one flat foot to the other. “But it’s not for me?”
Nairobia gave Krista an amused look. “Why not, my darling? Do you not enjoy the hum of a vibrator rolling over your clit, or wetly wedged inside your kut, humming along your walls?”
Krista swallowed. “I just don’t like them.”
“Shame, my love. Do you not touch yourself?”
Krista frowned. “That’s none of your damn business,” she said indignantly. “Now why exactly are you here?”
