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A bare-chested man wearing a pair of black leather chaps, his dick and ass out on display, stepped into the cage on the right, followed by two androgynous females with smooth skin and high cheekbones—their breasts swollen, their nipples tightened peaks, their glowing purple cocks jutting out from leather harnesses.
Nairobia’s cunt clenched.
She eyed the two cock-wielding vixens, the promise of dirty, raw fucking flickering in their eyes as they followed their male lover inside the cage, eyeing his muscled ass.
Switchblade Symphony’s “Clown” played as the gates slid shut, then each cage slowly ascended, hovering midway in the air.
Nairobia pumped her pelvis to the beat, threw her whip up and swung it in the air, then…whoosh…brought it down, its lashes striking across the floor.
A wave of applause swept around her as everyone in view of her presence clapped in excitement at the exquisite sight that stood before him or her. Nairobia smiled. Cracked her whip again. Then continued her descent down the stairs.
Candles flickering, moans and gasps floating through the air, The Mission’s “Slave to Lust” poured softly from the lower speakers as Nairobia winded down into the Love Tomb. Firelight flickered over the rounded walls as she eased her way down one of the passageways, heels clicking toward a cluster of chambers.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nairobia saw a light-skinned woman on her knees, sucking the cock of a hooded man, standing in front of her. Though the man’s face was obscured behind the leather, his eyes looked like liquid amber through the slits of his hood as he ravished her mouth with his cock, fucking into her throat, hard and fast.
Across from them, there was a couple stretched out on a bench in the throes of something hot and sweaty. Nairobia stopped and marveled at the two horny lovers. Bald, excessively tanned and slightly wrinkled, he had to be in his late fifties, but his erection protruded out like that of a man half his age. His balls were small, but his cock was long and thick. His much younger companion, an Italian brunette, moved down his body, removed his cock ring and slipped a condom over his throbbing erection. She crawled back up over him, then positioned herself over his cock. She tilted her hips forward and took him all the way in. With each thrust of her hips, she took him in deep. Deeper. Her hair swayed about her bouncing breasts as she ground her body down on him, scraping her clit against the base of his cock.
Nairobia stood transfixed watching his young lover lift her hips and allow him to thrust upward into her wetness, closing his arms around her waist, his hips beating up against her bouncing ass. He had rhythm. He had thrusts. He had power. Nairobia watched as his cock pummeled and hammered inside her, disappearing and reemerging wetter with each thrust.
By the time Switchblade Symphony’s “Chain” started playing, Nairobia’s hand flitted to her thong and found it soaked. She licked her lips. It’d been years since she’d fucked an older white man, the last time being in her movie, Daddy Cock, where she’d fucked a roomful of old, married businessmen in suits.
She was nineteen.
Petting her wet panties, Nairobia gave the lovers one last glance, then reined in her growing desire to join them. Ordo Rosarius Equilibrio sang about tying a lover to a chair, kissing her neck and pulling her hair as Nairobia passed the pool with its shimmering blue water. An array of colorful, sordid sex played out in and around the pool.
Yes, my darling, Nairobia mused, licking her lips as she swayed her hips toward the passageways. Show me the secrets of the tortured garden.
The Love Tomb was more than a playground for kink. It was where pain and pleasure swirled into one. Each chamber held a St. Andrews Cross, a rack, bondage cuffs, an X-bar, several spreader bars, and more painfully delicious assortments of kink equipment. Vanilla play was not ever allowed down in the Love Tomb.
A guttural moan from one of the chambers drew Nairobia’s attention, and she moved toward the direction of the deafening sound. Inside there was a beautiful woman the color of maple syrup wearing nothing but a black thong and knee-high leather boots. In one hand she held a flogger. In the other, a leather paddle.
A mocha-colored Latina was hoisted up in a sex sling, legs spread, knees bent. Her husband was bent over and tied down to a spanking bench. His skin was sweating, his face etched in burning pleasure.
Swoosh!
Maple Syrup delivered a stinging kiss to the sexy Latina’s cunt causing her to scream out, her head snapping back. Nairobia found herself staring delightfully at the sight of her juices pooling out of her slit.
Nairobia licked her lips, imagining herself licking into the Latina’s sweet, tangy cunt sauce to soothe her, to bathe her searing labia with wet laps of her tongue.
Swoosh!
More screaming. More arching. The Latina was awash in pain, bathing in pain, scorching in pain, breathing in pain. Swoosh! Maple Syrup’s flogger went down across her sex again, and her hips thrust up to greet the flames. An exquisite burn that singed followed the sting into her swollen sex. Passion boiled up into the pit of her pussy, then burst out the tip of her clit.
Her slit flared open and juices spurted out.
Her husband groaned as he lifted his head and fought against the restraints, and the pain.
Whap!
He yelped.
Maple Syrup swung the paddle across his ass, its heat dancing over his reddened flesh. His cock pulsed, pre-cum leaking from its slit. Nairobia licked her lips at the exquisite welts spreading over his skin. Fluid dripped from the tip of his dick. And Nairobia longed to slink into the chamber and lick the wet streaks of pre-cum on the leather bench.
Mr. Paddle Prints growled, and raised his ass higher, pleading for more. Maple Syrup gave it to him harder, faster.
Whap!
Whap!
