Erotic City (19 page)

“Actually, my dad came down to the club one night and he was proud of what I’d done. He wasn’t one to judge since he’d been around the block more than a few times, if you know what I mean.”

“He was very well known, so I’m sure he had a lot of opportunity to do a lot of things. Let me ask you this. Does size matter?”

“I think width matters more actually, just so it can be wall to wall. The top two-thirds of a vagina have no nerve endings anyway, and the G-spot is maybe three inches in. Most women reach orgasm with clitoral stimulation, which has twice as many nerve endings as a penis, so if a man knows how to satisfy in that way, most of us women are cool.”

“I see. Not that I needed to know. I don’t have that problem.”
Maurice chuckled and cleared his throat.

“Yeah okay.”
Milan laughed.

“Lastly, is it true that fathers bring their sons into the sex clubs to turn them into men, so to speak, and do women take their husbands there as a birthday present?”

“That’s very common, yes. Both of those scenarios.”

“Well, this is a hot topic for sure. Hey, I hope you stick around because we’re going to interview other female business owners whose lines of work have to do with sex. One owns a sex shop, one runs a brothel in Vegas, and the other woman owns a strip club in Los Angeles. The trip is that more money is spent on the sex industry than motion picture and sporting events combined. Are women just as freaky-deaky as men? Stick around. We’ll be right back with more of Black Adult Radio.”

Thursday, May 15, 2008
3:48 p.m.

Lavender had taken Taj to school the next morning. And by the afternoon, Milan had already said all the things your mother would wash your mouth out with soap for. And she said those things in about twelve different ways.

They were in her kitchen, she and Lavender. And in celebration of her highly rated interview with Maurice Black, her man was playing with her.

The flesh of her soft ass rested upon the gray and white, slab granite countertop. She wore a psychedelic skirt. Her bare feet rested along the edge of the now-heated counter. Her legs were bent with her knees spread apart. It was time for a little afternoon delight.

A crystal cake plate rested a few inches from her hands. A few hearty slices of yellow, caramel cake were missing. And the icing from half of what was left looked like someone had been finger-painting in swirling motions.

Lavender’s fingers were the erotic culprits. And the object of the scooped caramel was Milan’s opening. Lavender’s fingers and tongue were swooshing the sweet, light brown frosting inside and outside of her own girlie cake. And he was feasting upon her pussy-dessert like he had a serious sugar habit.

She looked down at his cunnilingus precision and said, “Damn, you’ve got that shit on a plate.” It was like she was his naked dinner.

He smacked and licked his meal in reply. He swallowed and added more icing and repeated his insertion, first his finger and then his wide, stiff tongue, in and out of her sticky hole. He twisted and teased his tongue to her hood and swirled her clit, gently scraping the tender organ with his teeth. He was an oral chef on a mission. He pressed two fingers inside and she rocked back and forth in reply.

She could hear him lap her up like he was a parched dog drinking water for the first time in days. And he would not stop. It was so intense that she quickly felt like she was about to lose it. She felt herself expelling onto his waiting face, saturating his skin with her love juices. She gave a sigh of pleasure and a look of appreciation.

Within one second, with his hard love muscle at full attention, Lavender stood and pulled Milan off of the counter, bringing her post-orgasm body to a standing position. Just as her feet hit the floor, he turned her around and bent her over, with her chin to the exact level of the counter. His favorite position.

She stuck her ass out toward him and he stood firm, bending so he could get inside. He spread her fleshy lips apart and inserted his cock, incrementally, pushing gently at first and then more with each thrust. Her boobs bounced beneath her body. Her slick pussy eased his entry. Her movement spoke of begging for more. He filled her up and she thrust against him, sliding her hips back at him, squeezing her cunt around his relentless dick. His heavy balls pounded against her ass.

“What do you think? Do I have enough width?” he asked.

“Oh hell yeah.”

“Am I hitting that spot?”

“Shit yeah.” She took his full entry. The crescendo of their rhythms meshed well.

After a few minutes of slamming into her caramel vagina, his body spasmed and his orgasm blossomed, causing him to shoot hot sperm that filled the depths of her womb. She inhaled as she took every last drop.

He pulled out, exiting where he’d been, leaving her lips wide open from his departure. His fluid leaked from her split to the inside of her legs.

He walked to the bathroom with his hand on his dick, shaking his head. “Damn. That was a record-breaking quickie.”

She pulled down her skirt, also adjusting her top. She glanced over at the golden molested cake with her man’s fingerprints all through it, and picked up a knife to cut herself a big piece. “I’ll never think of a caramel cake in the same way again.” She asked loudly, “Do you want some?”

“I’ve had enough, thanks,” he said from the hallway.

“I ain’t mad at you.” She took a bite.

“Tomorrow’s our big day in court,” he yelled.

“Oh Lord, don’t remind me please,” she said while chewing.

“No worries.”

“Lavender, you sure know how to ruin a fuckin celebration,” Milan said, tossing the remaining cake into the trash. “That’s bound to be one hell of a trip.”

30

“Déjà Vu”

Friday, May 16, 2008
9:17 a.m.

T
he court date for the negligence charge against Erotic City had finally arrived. Milan had about five cups of coffee before they left her home. Lavender had major problems dozing off. He just couldn’t seem to shut his brain down. It was another day of battling Ramada in court.

Milan and Lavender’s attorney, Hunter Wyatt, was tall, mid-fifties, with slightly graying sideburns that added to his look of distinction. He spoke authoritatively. “Your Honor, the prosecution has repeatedly appealed for potential witnesses to this alleged sexual assault. Mr. Mac McCoy aka Big Mack has denied the allegations. Other than the plaintiff claiming that he brandished a knife, we have not identified anyone who actually saw a weapon. Not the security people. Not the bouncer. Not the front desk person. Not the other people in the VIP room. No one.”

The large downtown courtroom was full. The room was cold and everything was beige, from the bench seats to the beige carpet, to the scuffed-up tile flooring and the dingy latex paint on the walls. Bland was the theme.

The only movement was that of the attorneys, judge, and a court reporter. A guard stood by the door. There were a couple of news reporters who stood against the back wall. One scribbled on a tiny notepad.

Both dressed in slate blue, Milan and Lavender sat together next to Attorney Wyatt.

Ramada Hart wore a gray skirt suit with red-bottom shoes and she sat next to her attorney. Big Mack was absent.

Ramada’s attorney, Judith Berg, said, “Your Honor, in spite of the fact that Miss Hart has dropped her criminal case against Mr. McCoy, this is a valid criminal claim against Erotic City for negligence in connection with assault on a patron.” Her off-white Ann Taylor suit was classic. It framed her slender silhouette.

The white-haired, heavyset judge lowered his reading glasses to the tip of his nose. “Ms. Berg, I suggest you listen up and listen up good. There was no evidence of threats, grabbing, destruction of property, or other indications that an assault would occur against the plaintiff until the moment it allegedly happened. The evidence is insufficient to create duty upon the part of the club to prevent an assault, or to protect Ms. Ramada Hart against it. You can’t apply hindsight in determining what a reasonable person would do. I’ve looked at how quickly the alleged events occurred. And from what has been proven, the club owners not only could not have anticipated something of this nature, but once they were notified, they immediately removed the accused and the accuser, secured the premises, and called the police themselves within two minutes after the plaintiff dialed 911 from her cell phone.”

Ms. Berg replied, “Your Honor, we believe the owners should have had more control over the situation. Claims involving forced sexual activity can occur, and they need to be responsible when they do.”

“Ms. Berg, this is a sex club.”

Milan looked down at a ruled notebook and took notes.

“But, Your Honor, club owners at sex clubs should not be held to a different standard than any other club owner,” Ms. Berg insisted.

“Perhaps. But right away, those patrons, as soon as they enter the premises, are subjected to violations simply due to the intimate nature of the acts they embark upon. I have read over the club’s membership agreement, and the rules for this ‘Alternative Lifestyle Swingers Club Agreement’ clearly states that there may be nudity and sexual activity on the premises and that if it offends or makes one feel it constitutes lewd or lascivious acts, then they should not complete or sign the application and go home. But she has already admitted to having oral and vaginal group sex minutes prior to having oral sex with Mr. McCoy.”

Ramada looked over at Lavender, who focused straight ahead. She turned and glanced back at a blonde female with big eyes who smiled.

The lady attorney said, “No still means no, Your Honor. You can’t force someone if they decline, even half way through an act. Plus, there was no security readily available.”

“This agreement, which Ms. Hart signed, does state that no means no. The question is did the accused adhere to that statement? And, Ms. Hart’s signature is right here, agreeing that she releases the club, its owners, managers, directors, employees, agents, and servants from any and all liability arising from her participation in activities or events. That means if assumed or implied incidents occur as a result of personal activities or consequences of lifestyle choices, would the club be to blame for the fact that Ms. Hart’s decision to say no was not honored? I don’t think so.”

The female attorney said with certainty, “Yes, but it also says no weapons are allowed. The club failed to detect weapons.”

“And you, Ms. Berg, have not proven that there were weapons on the premises. And in my opinion, if that were the case, it would have been Mr. McCoy who violated the harassment and weapons policy. So convince your client, Ms. Hart, to sue him.”

“Your Honor—”

The judge cut her off. “I’m about to make my ruling. I also have a copy of the agreement that Mr. McCoy signed regarding what he agreed to do. Need I remind you of that as well?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Attorney Wyatt bent down and whispered in Lavender’s ear. Lavender then whispered in Milan’s ear. She nodded.

“Ms. Berg, since Ms. Hart dropped charges against Mr. McCoy, who in my opinion is the one who the civil and criminal charges should be directed to, then I don’t know what else to say. So, if Ms. Hart wants to file a civil claim to see if a jury will find the club civilly responsible, meaning they determine the club is the reason for the cause, then so be it. But as for now, I do not recommend this case for criminal trial. This case is dismissed. Next case.”

The attorneys gathered their files and stepped past the swinging doors with their clients. Attorney Wyatt patted both Lavender and Milan on the back, and Milan kissed Lavender on the cheek. He returned her gesture of congratulations.

Ramada stepped along in her tight skirt and stared Milan down, cutting her with a prolonged slice of her eyes. Ramada’s blonde female friend stood and took Ramada’s hand as they proceeded toward the door, but not before the female made a point of giving Lavender a lingering smile.

Milan caught the smile and asked, “Who’s that? She gave us the eye earlier.”

“That’s the same woman Ramada and I got with at your club last year.”

“I thought she looked familiar. Why am I not surprised?” Milan rolled her eyes.

Lavender and Milan followed their attorney into the hallway.

With briefcase in hand, Attorney Berg approached Milan, Lavender, and Attorney Wyatt. “So, do you want to discuss a settlement?”

Attorney Wyatt spoke right up. “No civil charges have even been filed yet.”

“I’m saying just so we can save everyone the time and expense,” Attorney Berg said. She looked at Milan and then Lavender.

Attorney Wyatt replied, “We need some time to discuss this. I’m inclined to say no.”

“I agree,” Lavender said.

Milan crossed her arms. “We’ll see. We’ll get back to you.”

Attorney Wyatt added, “We’ll be in touch.”

Ramada and her friend walked on to the elevator with Attorney Berg. Ramada turned back, giving an evil look down toward Milan’s feet and up at her face, shaking her head.

“She needs to quit,” Lavender said with a deep exhale, noticing her stare of dismissal.

“That’ll be the day,” said Milan, looking everywhere but at Ramada. “And you need to get that restraining order filed that we talked about before.”

“It’s been prepared, we just need you to sign one, too. It’ll be filed. Don’t worry.” Lavender took Milan’s hand and they took the stairs to the parking garage.

31

“Brick House”

Saturday, May 17, 2008
10:51 p.m.

T
he almost-full moon cast its glow high in the almost-black sky. It was barely eleven o’clock at Erotic City. And just as it had been since the fateful night that Ramada made her accusations, the club was full.

Dakota, a regular, was also known as Dee, though some called her Good ’n Plenty. She wore a generous princess-cut diamond that glistened as her hand moved. Her shoulder-length hair was dyed sandy brown for the month and was gelled back away from her face. She wore a peach-colored teddy and a matching pair of sheer bottoms that were slit all the way up her thighs. Her cheetah-print thong was buried deep into the crack of her behind. And her hips devoured the leather stool beneath her. Even though Dakota was extrathick, thicka-than-a-snicka thick, two biscuits short of two-hundred thick, she was well proportioned.