Page 37 of The Pleasure Zone

Ohmigod!! Seeing Pleasure up on the stage w/Carlos’ sexy-azz at the concert last night gave me my whole life back! That bish my idol!

I’m not a lesbian. But she can get it.

Yasss, bish! Yass! Lawdgawd! Pleasure u did me right sugah-boo! U stole the show n tore yo’ stank drawz at the concert, gawtdammit! Witcho ole slutty-azz! U made my cootie-coo real soggy! Had to get me some dingaling!

Twitter:

@CarlostheCrooner I love u baaabeee! Itz ya number 1 boo!

@CarlostheCrooner Y u all hugged up with that [email protected]? She cute tho!

Follow [email protected]! Please! U [email protected]!

@PleasureZone I can be a freak 2 baby! #PornStarsCanGgetIt2!

Follow me baby @PleasureZone

@PleasureZone Saw u @ concert! Damn u fiyah! My girl mad I wanna fuk u!

@PleasureZone next time u @#NappyNoMoreII Ya ole stuck up azz better speak! Don’t do me! @PleasureZone follow me sugahboo!

@PleasureZone cum get this nut baby!

@PleasureZone u stolllll the show! Follow [email protected]! Pretty please!

Lamar shut his iPad. “You an’ Pretty Boy are all over social media,” he stated, as he strapped himself into the plush leather seat across from her. Nairobia had no interest in flying back to New York on a commercial flight. She’d already tortured herself by flying the friendly skies’ public transportation, as she called it, coming to L.A. Something she’d only done to test Lamar’s skills—well, one of them. And he’d passed with flying colors.

Now she could luxuriate on her early morning flight back to the Big Apple in the comfort of her private jet. She’d summoned her pilot last night to have him fueled up and ready. She glanced up from the magazine she’d been reading, which had a series of ten pictures covering two pages of her and Carlos. Speculation was written across the pages, that somehow the two were lovers, that they were having a torrid love affair. She’d been half-reading the story with the headline: HOW MANY KISSES DOES IT TAKE TO GET TO NEXT BASE?

Nairobia shut the magazine and stared at Lamar thoughtfully, before shrugging dismissively at his comment. Although she had Twitter and Instagram accounts, and a Facebook Fan page—which were all managed by one of her production assistants at Sweet Pleasures, she couldn’t be so bothered with social media.

She found it too messy, and too trashy.

“Am I not always, my love?” She tilted her head. “Talked about?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said curtly.

“Then it’s not newsworthy to know that I am, no?”

Lamar frowned. What the fuck crawled up in her ass? Last night she’d been all up his face, taunting him with her sweet, juicy ass and those big, fluffy breasts of hers; now she was coming at him sideways. Moody-ass broads. He sighed inwardly, shaking his head. He wasn’t about to let her give him a headache. Not at six in the fucking morning. Shit. He was tired as fuck. He didn’t get much sleep.

After the concert, he’d been dragged to some big-shot after-party out in Malibu. And, yeah, he was supposed to be her date—as she referred to him—but the shit felt more like work trying to keep horny-ass “muhfuckas”—as Lamar called them, from swarming her. The whole night was one big headache. They hadn’t gotten back to her spot until well after two in the morning. Then, by the time he’d gotten in bed, he’d tossed and turned unable to get to sleep. The pressure building in his dick had become too much to ignore. He had to literally take another shower—a very cold one at that. And, still, that’d done nothing for the heat that he had boiling through his body, or the steely erection that ached painfully for release. He needed some pussy. He needed to fuck.

Yet, the only thing he had at that moment to ease the pressure was his hand, a hand that hadn’t been used to jack off his dick in years. Masturbation wasn’t Lamar’s thing. Fucking and getting head was.

Glancing at Nairobia sideways, behind mirrored shades, Lamar wondered what it must be like to be her. It had to be lonely. Spending her whole life fucking a bunch of random men. It had to do something to her self-esteem. He didn’t know. He wasn’t a shrink. Maybe it didn’t affect her at all. Hell, he didn’t care. But, after everything he’d experienced in the short time having her as a client, he surmised he didn’t need a college degree to know Nairobia was nothing more than an attention whore who loved to be seen.

He needed a blunt. Bad! He cursed under his breath for stopping one of his favorite “chill-out” pasttimes. Taking a deep breath to relax himself, he surveyed the jet’s main cabin. There were ten oversized seats, along with a plush leather sofa, a fifty-five-inch flat-screen, a stocked media console, and an extended dining table. In back of the jet were two suites, each with its own bathroom.

Lamar glanced back at the sofa and wondered how many times she’d been fucked on it, over it. Wondered how many times her pussy had soaked into the leather cushions. He wondered how many babies she’d swallowed right there on that sofa. And then his mind swirled to the left as the nose of the plane rose, wondering what it’d be like fucking her on her own plane.

Groaning inwardly, he scolded himself. “Muhfucka, what the fuck is wrong wit?

?? you? Pull ya’self together.” He eyed Nairobia as the jet roared down the runway, the outside world zooming by.

Keenly aware that he was watching her—the same way she’d known, felt, his eyes were on her all last night, burning over her—Nairobia looked over at Lamar.

“Why do you hide, my love?”