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“Yes, my darling. I am a woman of many talents…” She shifted in her seat. Uncrossed her legs, spreading them open, teasingly, then closing them, crossing her legs at the ankles, revealing her thigh, and the whole side of her soft, bouncy ass.
Marcel struggled to keep focused. Struggled to keep from fucking her right here, right now. Nairobia saw the hunger in his eyes and wondered how long it’d been since he’d plunged his colossal dick into some pussy. Good pussy.
Before Marika’s death, she would have spread open her thighs and welcomed him inside her wet, silky walls, while her mouth made love to his wife’s clit, her tongue sinking into her cum-sodden cunt.
But, now…?
So much had changed.
She’d changed.
He’d changed.
Those clandestine encounters between the three of them were now bittersweet memories to be tucked away, and savored.
Marika was gone. Dead.
Still…
She fought from rocking her hips in abandon as the memory of him sucking her engorged nipples, one at a time, between his lips, into the waiting heat of his mouth; his wet tongue lashing, his teeth grazing each—
Marcel cleared his throat, pulling her from her lustful reverie.
She shifted in her seat. Crossed her right leg over her left.
Their gazes met and, in that moment, she imagined him standing. Then unzipping his pants to drag the heavy length of his cock out, it straining toward her own waiting, hungry mouth. She could almost taste the sweetness of his semen on her tongue.
Almost.
A moan caught in the back of her throat as she swallowed down the thought of him flooding her mouth with nut. Her leg bounced over her knee in a failed attempt at cutting off the budding ache between her thighs.
Marcel parted his lips to speak. But she didn’t, she wouldn’t, allow it. “The Pleasure Zone, my darling, is a club like no other,” she said, her tone coated with the slightest hint of her Danish and African ancestry—her mother was Dutch, her father Nigerian. “It’s an ultra-chic, upscale, private, For Adults Only club, where hedonistic desires unfold under one lavish roof.”
Marcel groaned. “Damn. Sounds like it’s gonna be hot ‘n’ poppin’. But, yo, let’s pause for a moment. Let’s rap a lil’ about your joint, Good Pus—bleep—sy, real quick. Why’d you write a joint like that? And what makes pus—bleep—sy good pus—bleep—sy?”
Nairobia licked her lips. “Well, my darling. Good pus—bleep—sy is what every woman likes to believe she has. But, unfortunately, it’s more than a state of mind. It’s a state of being. Good pus—bleep—sy is a mixture of things. It’s the sound, the taste, the feel all wrapped around the ability and the want to indulge in its partner’s inner-most desires. It’s wet, juicy, tight…built for every stroke, every inch, giving you limitless access. Good pus—bleep—sy pulls you in; it’s not just milking the dic—bleep, it’s gripping and sucking out a man’s soul, it’s emptying out his balls. It’s snatching his breath.
“Good pus—bleep—sy makes a man clutch the sheets and cry out and brings him to his knees. It makes an already unstable man lose what’s left of his mind, having him busting out windows and stalking you. Good pus—bleep—sy, my darling, speaks to the dic—bleep…”
“Goddaaaaayum, baby.” He licked his lips. “Yo, you hear that, Tri-State? She said good snatch speaks to the dingaling. Damn. Tell us what it’s saying, baby, when we’re balls deep in that ish?”
Nairobia slowly opened her legs. Gave Marcel a sneak peek of her smooth, honey-coated cunt. “It’s saying…beat me. Fuc—bleep me. Dic—bleep me down. Make me cum…”
She closed her thighs.
Marcel stared at her. She knew what the fuck she was doing to him. And it had his balls bubbling, his dick rock-hard. “Damn,” he breathed out, then quickly told his listening audience that they were going into a commercial break. He eased back from his microphone as Miguel crooned “Pussy Is Mine” over the air. The producer Nina walked over to them smiling. “Girl, you’re about to cause a riot up in here. The testosterone level in the back is through the roof. It’s crazy right now. I’m loving it.”
Nairobia smiled. “I aim to please, my love.”
Nia blushed. But she couldn’t help herself from sliding her gaze over the slopes of Nairobia’s breasts, her protruding nipples, before catching Nairobia’s eyes staring up at her. Nia’s face flushed shamefully. Nairobia smirked, standing up to give her—and the burning gazes in back of her—another full view of all of her lusciousness. She reached for Nia’s delicate hands and placed them up to her firm, upright breasts.
They were real. Beautiful. And always ready to be fondled.
The audience went wild watching the station’s producer sensually cup Nairobia’s breasts. The act surprised Nia and made her instantly moist. She’d never felt another woman’s breasts before, though she’d had her share of bi-curious fantasies.
Nairobia leaned in to Nia’s ear and whispered, “My hot, silky cunt feels even better.” She winked at the shocked producer, then let her hands go. Another time, another place, she might have been compelled to offer Nia a taste of her nectar. Or maybe, snatch her by her hair and snap her neck back, shoving her hand in between her thighs, then stroking her trembling sex until it clutched and dripped.
Marcel’s wife had once told Nairobia she was the kind of woman who’d capture her heart, if she were to ever fall in love with a woman. Why she thought of that at this very moment, she didn’t know. But what she did know—without a doubt, was, she could turn this little young perky tart inside out. One night in the sheets with her, she’d ruin the poor soul so damn good she’d be up late at night prowling the streets for pussy.
