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No, God. That couldn’t be her.
“Damn, baby,” Roselle whispered as he leaned into her, “this shit got me right. Dick harder than a muhfucka. Take your panties off,” he said in a seductive whisper.
“Right now?” she asked, glancing around her.
“Yeah. Let me get them panties.”
“Nasty ass,” Brenda murmured, before quickly glancing over her shoulder. It was dark enough. She slowly lifted her hips up from her seat and discreetly slid her pink Stella McCartney lace-trim bikini briefs down over her curvy hips.
She stifled a giggle as she eased her panties down to her ankles and stepped out of them. Roselle licked his lips as she reached down and then placed the lace and nylon/spandex undergarment in his hand.
He placed her panties up to his nose, as if they were a handkerchief, and inhaled.
Brenda felt her nipples tighten, and she—
“Kendall,” Krista whispered, “why exactly are we—?”
“Ssh,” he whispered, cutting her off. “Looks like the show is about to start. We’ll leave in a few—if you want.” He reached for her hand. Krista’s body stiffened, then relaxed as he lightly stroked his thumb over the top of her hand.
LaQuandra wished—whatever the show was—that it would start already. The waiting was a sweet torture, one that had her cunt aching in anticipation. Staring at those human statues—Lord-Jesus—made her skin heat. Isaiah had better fuck me tonight, she thought as she cut an eye over at him.
Synchronously, the male statues moved again; hips retreating, the tips of their dicks barely touching their female counterpart’s slits. In. Out. In. Out. And then they froze again.
Living, breathing, erotic art . . . that was what this was.
Colorful fish swam around the glass encasements.
The females threw their heads back. Then slowly thrust their pelvises forward, sliding their pussies over the dicks, then sliding back in slow motion, just to the tips of each dick.
How did they do that? Not shiver and whimper?
“Mm . . . pacify . . .”
Self-control, that’s all it was.
But damn if Isaiah would have any. He pressed his legs together, feeling his arousal bubbling up to the tip of his hard dick. Three drinks in, and he was horny as fuck.
He leaned into LaQuandra, and then, with his warm lips, flush to her ear, he whispered, “You wanna suck this dick, tonight?”
His breath heated LaQuandra’s skin and she felt her legs closing as if to stop the sensations she was suddenly feeling. Yes, she would suck his dick. But she wanted, needed, much more than his dick wedged between her lips. She needed him embedded deep inside her body.
“Are you gonna fuck me?” she hissed; her tone louder than Isaiah would have preferred. “I need some dick, Isaiah—inside me. Tonight.”
“Yeah, maybe,” was all he said, before his attention got lost on what was rising up from the glass cylinder’s floor on a huge glass pedestal.
A woman.
Bronze-dusted.
Goddess-like.
Nude.
A dangerous mixture of . . . seduction and sin.
Her head thrown back, her arms up over her head, right hand clasped over her right wrist. She stood motionless as the pedestal slowly rotated.
Kneeling in front of her was a man—and woman.
