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The Pleasure Zone

By:Cairo

gue over her lips.

Oh how she could milk him to release with her hungry, wet mouth. Or bend over the bar and offer him the inside of her pulsing pussy.

But she wouldn’t.

The Weeknd sang about a girl being worth it when she finally let go of Josiah’s throbbing cock and he took it into his own eager hand, fist pumping away.

She smiled watching him watching her with hazy eyes. She told him to come for her, to get lost in the pleasure. After all, this is what her club was all about. Pleasure. Sweet release. A split-second later, he was growling, throwing his head back, roaring over the music, bellowing.

And then…

Heat jetted out from his cock, his milky seeds spilling out onto the bar’s floor. She stalked over to him. Lifted his hand to her mouth, and licked his thick fingers clean, sucking them into her mouth—one by one, before easing up on her tiptoes and kissing him ever so lightly on the lips. Then offering him her tongue. He sucked it into his mouth, and their tongues danced in the remnants of his juices and hers.

“Allow your balls to fill, my love,” she said, finally pulling away from him. “And prepare for opening.” And then she was gone, stepping into the glass elevator, ascending to the second floor. The doors slid open, and she stepped off. She looked down over the elaborate gold railing, taking in the spectacular view. The club was certainly a breathtaking sight to behold.

Red-bottom-heeled models—a dozen or so, beautiful women she’d hand-selected from around the world to work in her establishment—wore pasties shimmering in Swarovski crystals and matching thongs and elaborate, bejeweled masks. Their male counterparts, sun-kissed, chisel-chested male models, were donned in loincloths and wore silk domino masks. Chords of muscle in their powerful thighs, big dicks and big, heavy balls were prerequisites.

Oh how she loved big dick. Its taste, its feel, stretching her mouth, stretching her walls, stretching her ass; the delicious burn, causing her to cream and mewl in deliciousness.

Mmm.

Nairobia squeezed her inner walls as she swept a gaze around the mostly empty club, then up at the three large, white Persian-carpeted cages suspended in air by thick ropes of metal chain. In a matter of moments, each cage would lower and two female models would step in one; two males and one woman would endeavor into another; and, in the final cage, two women and one male would venture inside. Then the cages would rise midway. And the caged lovers would hover in the air fucking and sucking, feasting on their anonymous lover’s eager sexes.

Huge statues, along with life-size erotic paintings of men and women in coitus, depicting threesomes and cunnilingus, and a variation of other lusty positions were situated throughout the club under the glow of sultry lighting.

The whole vibe oozed sensuality.

It dripped sex.

Rose petals scattered about, a spiral staircase wound up to the second and third and fourth and fifth floors, where there was a bubbling fountain in the center of the second floor, flames dancing across the water’s surface, and more oversized sofas. The third floor held stadium-style seating for live shows. And behind a set of double French doors was The Playground, a room filled with every type of sex toy imaginable, exclusively from her adult-toy line, Nasty.

The fourth floor featured two large stages for the male and female exotic dancers, along with another bar and DJ booth. Down the hall there was a cognac lounge and humidor area that was equipped with a full cigar bar stocked with the most exquisite brands, where aficionadas could smoke their favorite cigars and sip some of the world’s finest cognacs.

There were floor-to-ceiling windows and transparent floors looking down the club’s five flights. Each top floor had spectacular views of the Hudson River. The fifth floor opened up to a five thousand-square-foot rooftop garden with retractable walls and roof, along with an enclosed penthouse lounge.

The spiral stairs also descended down into the basement level, or the Love Tomb, as Nairobia called it. Gas lamps lit the way to a Roman-style sauna with polished wood benches stretched along the walls; a heated pool was on the other end for those who wanted to frolic in the sparkling blue water. Several passageways led to numerous chambers beneath the club, where patrons who craved their sex with a bit more kink could indulge their fetishes.

Each floor offered a condom and lube station that was set up like a candy station, with every type of condom in large crystal bowls—in every imaginable color and size—for those who preferred to play safe.

Although every member had to be tested and was required to retest every three months—and provide written documentation—if they wished to remain a member in good standing. Patrons had the option to fuck raw…or wrapped.

The choice was theirs.

A variety of lubes were also at the ready for those who might tap out after a few rounds or who simply weren’t blessed with the juiciest cunts and needed a little something to keep from scraping up a man’s cock. There was nothing worse than sandbag pussy, and a man having to go home with a chafed dick.

Rihanna’s “Skin” poured out of the speakers as Nairobia looked over the railing one last time. Bare-footed, naked bodies airbrushed in gold paint—long dicks, voluptuous breasts, and colossal asses on display for all to see—sauntered around the club in tune to the beat, preparing to take posts throughout the exquisite space as human statues. They’d be holding gold candelabras, lighting the way to nirvana.

The lights dimmed.

Oh, yes, in less than an hour—hidden behind thick mahogany doors, a decadent sea of pleasure awaited everyone who stepped across its threshold.

The sign above the doors that opened up into the club’s Italian-marbled foyer read: ENTER IF YOU DARE. LEAVE BEHIND YOUR APPREHENSIONS. SURRENDER TO YOUR DESIRES…AND STEP INSIDE THE PLEA

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