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Erotic passion . . .
The deliberate seeking of pleasure; it was unpredictable and defiant. It elicited curiosity and intrigue. It consisted of sexual desires and fantasies. Sadly, not many men and women paid attention to their sexual desires, their erotic needs, and sexual fantasies.
It always amazed Dr. Dangerfield how much people were willing to experiment sexually outside of their relationships, yet they willingly denied themselves the freedom to explore sexually with the one they professed to love. Instead, they went through the motions of having sex—emotionless, uncreative fucking at best—devoid of excitement and eroticism with their significant others.
So they’d rather immerse themselves in anonymous bar sex, cybersex, scouring illicit online sex sites for one night—or more—of hot dirty sex. Filthy fucking. Taboo acts.
Blah, blah, blah . . . They consumed their sexual energies on porn, and masturbation instead of having open and honest conversations with their lovers.
There was something almost pathological, almost masochistic, for someone to stay in a sexually unfulfilling relationship, for someone to deny his/her own desires.
Yes. Lord. It took a special kind of person to be okay with mediocrity, with settling. Although sex wasn’t the most important part of a healthy relationship, good sex—good fucking, good loving—was (or should be) one of the most important things.
As far as Dr. Dangerfield was concerned, nothing should be forbidden between equally yoked lovers. Nothing.
The explicitness of sex, the voyeuristic pleasures . . .
Dr. Dangerfield’s attention drifted over to the three curvaceous women over on the circular stage, the erotic sway of their hips as they stepped through the fog, their naked bodies moving seductively to “Thoughts” by Naji.
Their arms up over their heads, their arms slowing moving through the air as their hips winded, undulated, their pelvises thrusting as they inched closer to the three men swathed in ropes of muscle and dark chocolate skin, seated front and center in folded chairs—leaning back, one arm up over the back of their chairs, their legs spread wide, their dicks hanging downward over big round chocolate balls, smooth and mouthwatering.
As the women neared, synchronously, the men licked their lips, each one eyeing a dancer as she taunted them with her sultry moves, slowly prowling, slowly luring, then working their way backward again.
Twirling their hips, then slowly turning, their hips rolling.
Suddenly, the three women dropped down, then pumped the air around them, their asses facing the men, their waxed pussies facing out toward the crowd.
Slowly, their bodies turned. The women moved like snake charmers, their arms and bodies moving in sync. When their bodies were completely facing in the opposite direction, the women slowly cupped their breasts and licked over their nipples, eyeing the male dancers as they grabbed the edges of their seats and thrust upward, downward, upward—their dicks flopping up and down with every move.
One after the other—the female dancers twirled back up, then thrust their pelvises at the male dancers, taunting them. Then they simultaneously glanced over their shoulders, glancing out at the mostly male audience, before bending over and grabbing their ankles. Their ass cheeks shook, their fat pussy lips peeking out at the audience.
Kendall pressed his legs together.
Roselle rubbed a hand over his hard dick, then over the head of it, every so often squeezing. This shit was bananas. All of this seduction, it was torturous pleasure.
It made no damn sense to be surrounded by so much sexiness, so many sexy-ass women, and not be able to reach out and touch any of them. Squeeze their tits, smack their asses, finger their cunts—something. Shit.
Isaiah leaned forward in his seat, his eye trained on the mocha-skinned beauty with the elaborate butterfly tattoo in the center of her lower back, its colorful wings spreading over the cheeks of her ass.
All three women were sexy in their own way. But she had the biggest ass of them all. And fuck if Isaiah wasn’t an ass man. Yet he still couldn’t understand how the fuck he ended up with LaQuandra’s flat-ass.
She was a freak, he inwardly admitted, shaking his head as his eyes followed the butterfly as it sensually flitted around the stage. He’d fuck her too, he mused. Bust that ass wide open.
Hell yeah.
Dr. Dangerfield scanned the small audience of men, most of them with their wives or mistresses, vacationing on the other side of the island.
The couples were already in their second week on the island, and there still hadn’t been any real exciting breakthroughs made. Dr. Dangerfield was hoping to change that, hopefully today.
Kendall, Roselle, and Isaiah were here at the request of Dr. Dangerfield—without their wives. She wanted to have them alone. Get them mentally aroused. Then probe their imaginations. Assess the landscape of their erotic intelligence.
Amiah sang about having a thing for a real nigga as each female dancer straddled a respective male dancer and grinded up on him, before lifting up, reaching between their legs and in chorus, sliding their dicks inside their bodies, making them disappear.
In sync, the male dancers slapped each female’s ass.
Smack!
The sound echoing over the music, and then came the ass clapping over the dicks.
