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Text messages. Telephone calls.
Letters and notes . . .
Or in person.
The idea was to play on words, to tantalize.
Yes, dirty talk. It wasn’t what you said, but how you said it that stoked the libido.
And today Dr. Dangerfield had enlisted the help of Nairobia (the queen of seduction) to help her get the couples’ sexual juices flowing.
Roselle, Isaiah, and Kendall were seated in white leather chairs. All three men were donned in white. Loosely fitted drawstring linen pants, unbuttoned linen shirts. And they were barefoot.
Waiting . . .
Dr. Dangerfield thought the contrast of the white against their bronzed, dark-chocolate, and cocoa-brown (in that order) skin was beautiful. They looked handsome, especially Kendall—with his smooth, bald head.
For a split-second, she imagined her tongue gliding down the center of his head and nearly swooned. She almost allowed herself to get swept up in the imagery, but Asiahn singing in the background about role-playing quickly brought her back to this very moment.
“I can be whoever you need . . . we role-play . . .”
And that’s exactly what Brenda, LaQuandra, and Krista would be doing.
Role-playing.
Dr. Dangerfield and Nairobia had spent the last two hours coaching the women on the art of dirty talk. No surprise, Brenda and LaQuandra already had it mastered.
But Krista?
Krista, Krista, Krista . . .
She—Dr. Dangerfield shook her head—was a hot mess. Krista was just too tightly wound to let go. She didn’t appreciate dirty talk in the bedroom—initiated or not. It wasn’t in her repertoire to talk dirty. She was okay with a little “give me that wet pussy” this and a little “ride this dick, baby” that, but nothing more. And definitely no B-words or using the C-word. There was nothing sexy about being called a bitch or that other word. It felt dirty and disrespectful and degrading.
The three women were in the back getting dressed, getting primed, and ready to turn their men on. They were tasked with choosing an outfit, something sexy, provided to them by the island’s Passion Collection.
Red—the color of fire and passion and desire—would be worn.
Dusk was upon them.
The ocean rolled in back of them.
The candles were lit.
The music was playing low.
Now all they needed were the women.
Dr. Dangerfield was anxious to see what they’d chosen to wear to represent them—their sexy, seductive—selves.
Sevdaliza’s “Sirens of the Caspian” began to play. And, in dramatic Nairobia-style, she was the first to step through the archway. Breathtaking. Standing. Cascading in diamonds. Hands on hips. Legs spread apart. The silhouette of her sculpted body showed through her diamond-encrusted mesh gown.
In back of her, stood Brenda—her thighs and breasts on display in a red hip-hugging dress. In back of Brenda was LaQuandra. She’d chosen a red skintight silk halter-top gown, with one very long slanted split that stopped at the center of her pussy. A diamond choker dressed her slender neck.
Although she wasn’t in the mood to talk dirty to Isaiah’s ass, she wanted the bastard to see and hear what he could be getting. Besides, she was more than happy to play dress-up for a night and wear expensive gowns and exquisite jewels.
Last, but not least, was Krista in a red . . . pantsuit.
Where was the seduction in that?
