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Nairobia purred, pulling him from his lustful reverie. “Mmm. Is that so, my darling?”
He licked his lips and grabbed at his dick. “Straight up. I want my dick deep in you,” he said, a thick lusty heat coating his tone. “Je veux te baiser.” I want to fuck you.
His erotic words caressed her insides.
She licked her lips at the thought of him stretching her, loving her, fucking her.
“Tell me, my love. What else do you want?”
“C’mon, baby. Let’s not play games. You know what I want. I think I already made it clear.”
“Yes, my darling, you have.” She grinned. “But I want to hear it again, anyway.”
He groaned at the ache in his balls. He needed release. “I’m sitting here with all this big, hard dick. I’ve gotta thick creamy load just for you. I’ve been saving it up so let’s stop all this chitchat and make it happen, baby.”
Nairobia moaned, her mouth practically drooling. One of the many things she enjoyed about Marcel was his straightforwardness about sex. He was a man who had no problem telling a woman exactly what he wanted from her. And how he wanted. She found that refreshingly sexy, a man not afraid to express his sexual desires.
Another thing was that he was clean; so, so very clean. And he drank lots of cranberry and pineapple juices, always ensuring he had a sweet, thick, creamy treat for any wet, waiting mouth hungry for his semen.
She despised men whose ejaculate smelled rancid—like the back of a garbage truck, or had spunk that tasted like spoiled blue cheese, or tasted like he’d been licking an ashtray. Smelly sperm was a no, no for her. And she refused to let any of it enter through any of her orifices. And she wouldn’t dare allow a facial to be given.
The thought made her cringe.
As far as she was concerned, a man who didn’t/couldn’t have enough pride in himself to eat right and drink right to provide sweet, nutritious loads of man milk was not worthy of release in her mouth, her ass, or her juicy kut.
She thought it disrespectful; an egregious act for any man to boldly offer his cum to her when his insides were rotted to the core.
No. Her pussy would never be contaminated with such nastiness. Which is why she always milked her lovers to orgasm with her hands—or her feet, first round. She needed to see and smell their excitement before she’d ever wrap her pillow-soft lips around a cock, before she’d ever swallow it to the back of her throat.
She believed a lady never wasted good nut. She gobbled, gulped, and drained it right down to the very last drop. But she dared not ever slosh a dirty, foul-smelling load into her velvety mouth unless she was—(how you say?)—slutty trash.
And slutty trash she was not.
She stepped into a sumptuous pair of six-inch red stilettos and sauntered over to her French carved Trumeau. The eighty-four-hundred-dollar, nineteenth-century antique mirror had been a gift from her late mother before she’d died several years ago.
Losing her mother had been devastating for her. She’d been the only one who had always been suppo
rtive of her chosen path as a porn star, whereas her conservative father saw it—and her—as a disgrace. In his eyes, she’d brought shame and dishonor to her family. And he’d disowned her.
Sure, it had hurt her deeply in the beginning, being shunned by her own father. But, thankfully, her liberal-minded mother had been the one to encourage her to follow her heart, live her dreams, and do whatever it was she aspired to do—regardless of who else didn’t approve of it. And at that time in her life, fucking (and being fucked) was what she’d wanted to do. She hadn’t wanted to escape poverty to be in the porn industry, like so many young men and women she’d known. Nor had she’d been molested as a child. No. She’d been flouncing her gorgeous body naked on Plage de Tahiti—a beach in St. Tropez, France—when a renowned French photo-grapher approached her with his card to pose nude for him at his studio. A few months later, a production company that had purchased some of his works of her eventually recruited her for a softcore DVD.
And the rest was history.
She blinked back the memory, staring at herself. Every time she looked in this mirror and saw her reflection, she was reminded of her dearly departed mother. She smiled, taking in her naked body shimmering in glitter lotion.
“Allez, bébé,” Marcel said, pulling her from her musing. “I can be at your spot in about”—he looked at his watch—“thirty minutes, so—”
“So you can feel the heat of my cunt, my love?” she inquired, cutting him off. She wanted to be fucked deep and delicious. Wanted to claw at the sheets. And scream out in ecstasy.
But—
“You already know,” Marcel murmured.
She cupped her breasts, then made them bounce. She turned sideways and marveled at her magnificent, traffic-stopping ass. She slapped it, then made each cheek pop before turning back full view. She wasn’t vain, but she loved her body. She slid a hand between her thighs, and moaned in Marcel’s ear. “You want my kut smeared all over your big, juicy dick? You want me riding your face, your tongue, like I’m taking cock, until I explode into your mouth?”
Fuck yeah. He wanted to lick, feast, suck, slide his tongue inside her and over her sweet, puffy lips and clit. He groaned. “Yo, you need to stop effen with me, baby. You know you want me stretching that shit.”
Nairobia couldn’t help but laugh. She loved the sound of his Brooklyn accent, one he’d gotten good at hiding when needed.
