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The Pleasure Zone was more than sordid sex. It was a journey into the unknown. It was exploration. It was a voyage to toe-curling pleasure. It was uncovering passion. It was being tested beyond one’s own limits. Completely surrendering.
As far as Nairobia was concerned, entrance into her private club was a privilege, not one’s right. Holding partners accountable in bed was a right, as was being sexually fulfilled. But the doors to The Pleasure Zone were for the elite, for the uninhibited, for the freaky.
Shame and guilt had no place there. It wasn’t welcomed. They were simply useless emotions. And Nairobia had no tolerance for either. She believed in the motto: live and let live. But she’d be goddamned if she’d ever allow her establishment to be infiltrated by a bunch of pillow princesses, frigid bitches, or prudes who lived their lives sexually repressed because they feared giving into their deepest desires, which is why every member was rigorously screened—once, twice, three times—before offered their exclusive membership.
No, no, fear kept you trapped and stuck in mediocre sex, in unhappy marriages, and screwed-up relationships. It kept you enslaved to misery. And Nairobia knew plenty of men and women who were stuck in sexless situations, or in relationships where the sex lacked sparks, where their libidos remained neglected. She knew men and women who were too afraid to expect that their needs be met in the sheets by their partners. Too afraid to open their mouths and let their mates know what they yearned for.
Mmph.
Sinful.
Her cunt ached and wept for them. Bless their little clogged, horny souls, she thought as she slid a hand between her legs, then smacked her pussy, hard. She smacked it again, harder.
“Slecht kitty,” she pushed out in a whisper. Bad kitty.
She lovingly scolded it for giving a damn. Their neglected loins weren’t her crosses to bear. If they wanted to be sexually frustrated, then let them. She’d been demanding good fucking since her days in the porn industry.
Staged scripts or not, she refused to feign orgasms when she was nowhere near the edge. She refused to pretend the dick was good when it was trash. She despised trashy dicks. Despised lazy-dicked men. And she hated rabbit-fucking even more. And lots of her porn-star counterparts—with the exception of Lexington Steele who knew how to fuck, and made her cunt cream every time he’d fucked her in the ass with his eleven-incher—were only good for that. Rapid pounding. Oh no, no, no. No man was going to pull her hair and pound her pussy or slap her ass and bang it out its frame unless she demanded it, unless she begged for it.
Paid profession or not, she never gave a damn about porn protocol. She’d always been vocal about her needs, her wants, during her whole career as Pleasure. And she’d been known to walk off sets right in the middle of a scene if she wasn’t being sexed right.
Just like all women wanted to believe they had good pussy, men wanted to believe even more that they had good dick. Their egos depended on it. But Nairobia refused to stroke either their fragile egos or their good-for-nothing dicks. White, black, Latino, Asian—and she’d let her share of them fuck her too (only in the ass though)—it didn’t matter. Trash dick was trash dick no matter whom it was attached to.
Why call herself Pleasure if she wasn’t being pleasured, if she wasn’t able to be a pleasure to others, because the dick was attached to a worthless fuck?
She was porn-star royalty. Period. Goddamn you. Thank you very much. And she’d demand nothing less than premium dick and top-of-the-line fucking.
However, in the beginning of her fifteen-year career, she’d been labeled difficult. Called a bitch. Told she was hard to work with. Had been threatened with being blackballed from the industry. But in the end, her relentlessness and amazing bedroom skills won out. Her pussy was her prized possession. And many craved it. Her name rang bells in the industry. And she eventually became one of the most sought out porn-stars in the adult entertainment industry, nationally and internationally. And she had the numerous XBIZ, XRCO and AVN award trophies in the best actress and best body categories, as well as the many Porn Star of the Year and Twistys Treats of the Year awards, to prove it. And being inducted into the AVN hall of fame in 2013 had really been one of her greatest moments in her career.
Not to mention the fact that she’d won the AVN Female Performer of the Year Award three years in a row. And had snagged the TLARAW Best Sex Toy Award for her two most popular, best- selling sex toys: the Pleasure Deep Penetration Vibrating Pussy and Ass doll, and the Pleasure Cream Pie Pussy. Men paid a pretty penny to fuck her molded genitalia, while fantasizing about having the real thing.
Oh how the imagination could be so beautiful with the aid of good lube and a delectable sex toy.
Nairobia looked up at her eleven-foot ceiling and smiled. She’d been officially out of the industry for the last three years, however, her reputation still followed her. She’d made her mark and had retired from the industry still beautiful, still healthy and—thank God, still sane—and with tons of contacts.
She had a lot to be proud of.
Never one to let good talent go to waste, she took her skills and her most lethal assets and founded her own production company, Sweet Pleasures. In the beginning, she’d performed exclusively for her own company for a few years before bringing on other aspiring and well-seasoned porn-stars into the company’s fold. Now her company—based in California—had annual revenue of twenty million dollars, with a staff of ten.
Nairobia was thirty-six, wealthy, and so very thankful she hadn’t succumbed to AIDS or some other filthy STD or a drug addiction like so many others she’d known during her career.
She shuddered at the thought.
Bottom line, after years of award-winning performances and limitless fucking, Nairobia knew a thing or two—or three—about mind-blowing orgasms. And pleasuring.
She swallowed back the recollections of her days as Pleasure just as erotic heat roiled its way to the pit of her pussy. The memory of Lexington Steele was the sizzling source of her budding need for release.
Zoete hemelen (sweet heavens)! She couldn’t help herself. Lexington Steele had been her first encounter, and had ripped her ripened cherry to shreds. He’d fucked her senseless. Fucked her inside out and upside down. Then fucked her all over again. And thinking back to the first time he’d plowed his big, juicy black cock in her asshole, making her cream heavy out her cunt, out her ass, all over his dick—had her dizzy with lust. She remembered vividly how she’d gotten her first taste of her ass slathered on his cock, before he’d yanked it from her mouth and shot thick ribbons of his gooey spunk in her mouth, her face, and all in her luscious mane.
Nairobia was eighteen.
My how time flew. Eighteen years later, and she was a well-seasoned, well-fucked, multi-orgasmic, dick-riding goddess. Her tongue slid over her lips. Then curled into a sly grin. She made a mental note to give Lexington a call. Just to say hallo, of course.
Thoughts of him made her horny. She spread her
smooth thighs, wide. Slid a hand over her hungry sex. Toyed with her clit. Teased it ever so lightly until her nipples peaked and goose bumps lined her skin, and her body began to shudder.
Mmm.
