The Pleasure Trap (17 page)

Long after Smyth washed up and changed her panties before returning to the penthouse apartment she shared with her husband, Pleasure was sitting on the ledge of one of the many windows lining the apartment in nothing but cotton sleep pants. His textbook was in his lap as he prepared for a test the following day. Because of his GED and his last-minute decision to start school, Pleasure was attending a community college, but he intended to transfer to NYU to complete his bachelor's degree in mass communications.

It felt good to have a goal outside of making a woman cum.

Closing his book, he looked out at the varying heights of the many buildings comprising the New York skyline. His eyes were troubled, reflecting his heart, as he thought of his father. He had called to check on him and his mother said he was resting but stable. Still, he was concerned.

A bright spot in the darkness was seeing his parents united.

Turning away from the window, he looked at the stylish décor of the spacious Upper East Side apartment. It was all very Smyth, with its subdued neutral colors and posh accessories to give it a feminine feel.

He didn't care.

He had given up his apartment in Newark, placed his things in storage, and was saving the money he made from Smyth's stipend and still dancing to grow his already sizeable bank. Stripping and selling dick was not brag worthy, but it afforded him a nice lifestyle and plenty of savings.

Because her husband lived right upstairs and required her at his side for social events, Smyth was hardly ever underfoot and he was left alone in the luxury she provided. And he took full advantage of being in the middle of an existence so different from anything he knew. Wanting to attain that level of life for himself was part of his motivation to go to college. Pleasure was under no illusions that he could strip and sell dick forever.

Standing up, he stretched his arms high above his head and rose on his toes for as long as he could. Every muscle in his body flexed as he moved. He spread his legs wide and tilted his head back so far that his dreads, now a good length beyond his shoulders, touched his lower back. Lowering his arms, he jumped up and down in place lightly before bending over to touch his toes.

He turned to pick his iPhone up from the pale gold padded window seat. No one had the number for that cell but Smyth, she insisted on that. His trick phone was working, but he kept it powered off with a voice mail saying he was on “extended vacation.” Sometimes for kicks he would listen to the messages a lot of his clients left. Most were annoyed, but a lot were playfully chastising about him holding out or playing hard to get.

He frowned when he opened and read Smyth's text.

COME UP.

That was a first. In the two months since he'd moved into the building, Pleasure had never been inside the Grants' apartment. It felt like a major violation to him.
So is fucking the man's wife.

Shaking his head, he slid the phone into his pocket and strolled across the travertine floor to the bedroom to pull on a long-sleeved tee and his Air Jordan sandals. Grabbing his keys and a couple of Magnum condoms, he left the apartment and walked the short distance down the hall among its elaborate architectural features. The elevator was empty as he rode the four floors up to the top level.

As soon as he stepped off onto a rug that could only be Persian, there was just a small foyer with two front doors facing each other. One was to his left and the other to his right. The door to his left opened but Smyth never appeared.

Is this some
Law & Order
type shit?

He walked the short distance down the hall and pushed the wood door open just enough to peek his dreadlocked head inside. Smyth was leaning against the wall in nothing but a satin robe with tears streaming from her closed eyes, her head tilted back against the wall.

Kissing boo-boos—physical or emotional—was not a part of the deal. It was scenes like this that made him avoid a serious relationship.

He stepped inside the apartment, and the grandeur of it made him pause. The high ceilings, views of Central Park, columns and lit marble fireplaces made the apartment downstairs look low-rent.

Smyth pressed her slender body against his as soon as he shut the door. “I want you to fuck me in our bed so I can think about you when he makes love to me,” she said in a whisper against his ear.

“Smyth, this is crazy,” he said.

“He's not here. He left. He won't be back,” she said, stepping back to turn and walk away. “He's with his white whore.”

Pleasure let his head drop. He hated watching soap operas, and for sure he cared nothing about being a part of one.

“I guess he's tired of dark meat,” Smyth said bitterly as she turned to face him. “But I'm not.”

She untied her robe and let it drape off her thin shoulders, exposing her full breasts and white lace thong that looked brilliant against her skin. “He can have that minimum-wage ho,” she said, her diction making the words seem even more crass. “I have you.”

Pleasure watched as she swiped away her tears and walked over to him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. He had always wondered just why a woman like Smyth would “keep” a man, but now he knew. For her there was power and redemption in not just having a love, but having one stashed right under her husband's nose. If he thought he was smart, she knew she was smarter.

Pleasure was just a pawn in their chess game.

The doorknob rattled.

Smyth pushed past him to silently but quickly slide the chain lock on the door while she motioned for him to get down behind one of the four couches situated around the spacious living room.

Pleasure threw his hands up in the air, his face incredulous, and did just as she bid; she backed away from the door, tying her robe before she sat on one of the sofas.

Just a moment after Pleasure knelt down, her husband pushed the door, but the chain kept it from opening wide.

“Honey, honey, come take the chain off the door,” Baldwin called through the slim opening.

“I'm coming,” Smyth called out, rising to move to the door.

“So you didn't have an emergency at the hospital again?” she asked.

“Dr. Harmon is on duty. I asked him to check on the patient for me and call if I'm needed,” Baldwin said.

Pleasure assumed Smyth would lead him out of the living room as soon as possible to allow him to escape the drama. He frowned when he heard them settle onto the couch.

“So we can finish what we started?” she asked, sounding coy.

“I'm tired, Smyth, I just—”

At the sound of their kissing and moaning, Pleasure fought the urge to calmly stand up and walk out. It took him a moment to notice he could see their reflection in the windows. They hadn't been kissing. It was Smyth on her knees desperately giving her husband head.

Pleasure wiped his eyes with his hand and just shook his head.
I must be a magnet for crazy bitches. Rich ones, poor ones. Black ones, Latina ones.

He sat quietly on the floor behind the sofa as Smyth gave her hubby the “happy ending” and all, causing the middle-aged man to squeal like a pig. Pleasure was embarrassed for them both. It was a lot more of Baldwin Grant and his six thin inches than he needed to see. Ever. In life.

“Let's go to take a bath,” Smyth said, rising and wiping her mouth with one hand while reaching for her husband's with the other.

Soon their footsteps and voices faded, and Pleasure wasted no time rising and walking out the front door, quietly closing it behind him. He had just stepped on the elevator when his phone vibrated against his thigh in his pocket. He didn't bother to pull it out.

It was Smyth playing more games—or better yet, feeling as if she had just made a move to checkmate.

Smyth

P
leasure had become the headliner at Club Trick a long time ago, but he always insisted on performing during the earlier shift on Thursday's ladies' night as well. Always. He felt he couldn't break their ritual. If she—Miss Prim and Proper Pearls—could continue for all these years to never miss her once-a-month show, then he would hold up his end of their unspoken bargain and perform during that five o'clock hour.

He watched her take a seat down at the base of the stage in the middle. As Jamie Foxx's “Blame It” faded out and Usher's “U Got it Bad” began to play, Pleasure rotated his hips to cause his thick semi-hard dick in a neon green sleeve to swing back and forth as he also worked his abs. He moved his body down to the floor, as fluid as that of a snake, as he imitated fucking in a way that would make her never forget him.

The women in the audience threw money on the stage, cheering his movements, but it was her he noticed squirming in her seat as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. He could see her heat in her eyes as she sat and watched him perform as if he took her to a place—a very good place—where desire and passion and hunger reigned.

A place he knew she had yet to explore.

He could tell in the reserved way that she carried herself. Even in the midst of women screaming, hollering, and gyrating, she sat with dignity, only revealing her lust in her eyes or maybe a gentle nibble of her bottom lip.

When she eased money from her purse and held her hand up to him like a schoolchild requesting permission to go to the restroom, he moved away from some customer that he would never remember to dance over to where she sat. He performed for her, wanting to please her. Tantalize her. Turn her on. She tentatively reached out to tuck the folded bill into the front of his thong. He followed his instinct and grasped her wrist to guide her hand to his dick.

“Don't be scared,” he told her loud enough to beat out the pounding music as he felt her slight resistance.

He wanted her touch. He wanted her to feel him. He wanted her to get more out of her monthly trips to Newark just to see him.

“You know what? You need a private dance,” Pleasure whispered in her ear, liking the subtle scent of her perfume. It intrigued him. “You game?”

He surprised himself. He wanted her to say yes.

“I'm married,” she said, looking nervous.

“I don't give a fuck,” he told her. And he didn't.

Her monthly trip to find passion let him know that the addition of her husband to her life had done absolutely nothing to alter it. He didn't know this woman, but he knew that. And he wanted to change it.

Pleasure took her hand and he was surprised when she so easily rose to her feet. He massaged circles against her wrist as he led her to one of the private rooms at the rear of the club and pulled her through the curtain. They entered to the sound of Ginuwine's “So Anxious.” The lone red light gave the darkness a fiery glow as he sat her in one of the few chairs before stepping up onto the small stage.

Pleasure gave her a slow and sensual dance, his eyes locked on her as he let the combined effects of the red light, the music, and his body tantalize her.

What he didn't expect was his own titillation. Not the bravado he put on for the customers. Maybe it was the awareness of her over the last five years or just the sight of her sitting there, all prim and proper, but giving off a vibe that beneath the layers of propriety was a hellcat.

He was caught up too. The real deal. Desire.

Pleasure moved his hips in tight ticking motions in sync to the sudden flickering lights as he worked the custom-made sleeve covering the length of his thick dick and flung it away. He massaged the length of his dick, biting his lip as he looked at her with intensity.

“What exactly happens during a private dance?” she asked when he stepped down off the stage with dick in hand.

Pleasure smiled sexily at her as he straddled her hips and leaned back onto the stage with his dick blowing in the wind like a flagpole. Rolling his hips, he teased the tip just as his eyes locked on her licking her lips like she wished his dick was in her mouth. He wished the same.

He stood up before her, and although he knew he could probably guide it into her mouth with ease, he refrained. “Touch it,” he told her. “Come on, you been coming to my shows for years. You know you wanna touch it. Go ahead, I won't tell.”

At the first feel of her hand surrounding his hardness, his hips thrust forward and the pulse of the vein running down the side quickened in unison with his heart rate.

They were in the midst of something and he couldn't stop it. He doubted she wanted to. It was five years in the making.

“That's right. Beat that motherfucker.” He tilted his head to the side to watch her. It thrilled him to see her, his Miss Prim and Proper Pearls, uninhibited and free. He wanted to push her even further.

“You need to be fucked, don't you?” he observed, freeing his dick from her touch as he dropped to his knees and pushed her skirt up around her hips to open her legs with a guttural moan filled with the fire she stoked in him at the sight of her spread out before him. The sheer, delicate lace bikinis she wore were so different from the demure clothing. “Damn, that pussy smell good.”

She shivered as he rubbed her quivering inner thighs, loving the way she arched her back, causing her hard nipples to press against the thin silk of her shirt. His heart pounded as he pulled her moist panties aside to slide his middle finger deep inside her. There was tightness and heat, and her cry of passion made him hungry to please her. To taste her.

“Your husband ain't taking care of this pussy, is he?” Pleasure asked as he spread her legs wider and dipped his head to lick the length of her pussy before he circled her clit with his tongue.

She shivered as she brought her hands up to grip his shoulders. “Do it again,” she begged in a hoarse voice.

Pleasure enjoyed the taste of her. The feel of her clit throbbing against his tongue. The sweet smell of her core. The way her body reacted to him.

“Yes,” she sighed, her hips jerking with each stroke of his tongue.

Pleasure reached inside the top of his boots and removed the condom he had stashed there to use during his performance. He wanted to be inside her. He tore away her panties and sat back from her just long enough to sheath himself with the latex.

“You want me to fuck the shit out of you, don't you?” he asked her, feeling more of a thrill about sex than he had in years.

“Yes. Please.”

“What's my name?”

“Pleasure.”

“And what do I give?”

“Pleasure.”

His hand trembled as he held his dick and guided the tip inside her, finishing with a strong thrust of his hips that sent his hardness deep inside her. He swore at the tight feel of her surrounding him with heat. He paused, giving him a few precious moments for his climax to subside.

Everything about her and being in her in the red-lit room with some slow jam playing in the background was thrilling to him. Her face was lit up with her passion. Her mouth was slightly ajar. Her pupils dilated. Her nipples hard. Her clit swollen.

“Fuck me.”

Those words from her mouth were his undoing.

“My pleasure.” He gave her fast and deep strokes before alternating with a wicked slow grind.

He picked her up by the waist and stood, kicking the chair away to slam against the wall as he worked her hips. Pleasure pulled out every move in his arsenal and made use of any available space in that small room as he did as she bid him. With his strength and her flexibility, he switched positions at a mind-blowing pace as she tugged at his dreads and he removed her clothes. Although she let him know with moans and cries each and every time he made her cum, he could feel her walls spasm and the wetness soak him with each release.

“Have you been pleasured?” he whispered in her ear from behind before twisting his hand in her hair to ride her hard.

“Yes,” she cried out.

“This dick 'bout to cum,” he told her.

He leaned his head back until the tips of his dreads stroked his buttocks as he quickened the pace of his thrusts like a well-oiled piston. Slick and fast. Back and forth.

His explosion was like nothing he'd ever experienced, and that surprised him even as he hollered out with each spasm of his release as he slid his dick out of her and removed his condom to jack his nut onto her trembling butt. All of his senses were alive, and he felt light-headed and electrified from their chemistry as he rose and stumbled back from her.

He didn't have enough fingers and toes to count the women he had sexed and pleasured, but Miss Prim and Proper Pearls had just given him an experience that scared the shit out of him. “Shake it off, Pleasure,” he told himself, still weak and trembling from his release and the rush of endorphins.

He looked at her, slumped on the floor, naked and fighting to breathe. Everything about what just happened had her messed up too. He turned on the regular light and quickly slid his thong and sleeve back on, wishing he could get his shit together and wondering why she had such an effect on him. He didn't even know her name.

Needing to be freed from her and the spell broken, he picked her purse up from the floor. “That's two hundred dollars,” he said, needing their roles clearly defined again. He needed that line up between them.

Her eyes popped open and she quickly sat up to take the purse and shove cash into his hand. The fact that he recognized and felt pained by her obvious shame was even more confusing.

“Um, thank you. I guess,” she said, rising to her feet to rush into her clothes and shove her torn panties inside her purse as she raked her fingers through her wild hair.

“You're more than welcome. Call me sometime,” he said, careful to remind her that what they shared was just that. But then he felt like this would be the last time he saw her because of the line they'd crossed, and he surprised himself when he stepped close to press a kiss to her forehead before he walked through the curtain.

Pleasure headed straight for the bathroom downstairs in their locker room and disposed of the condom he'd left clinging to the tip of his dick. He leaned against the sink and looked up at his reflection. “What the fuck was that?” he mouthed, before shaking his head.

Miss Prim and Proper Pearls had surprised the hell out of him.

He had given her his all and he could only hope that Smyth was busy with Baldwin and didn't require his servicing, because he had absolutely nothing left to give her.

 

 

Pleasure was surprised to find Smyth in the apartment when he walked through the door. She was sitting on the couch in a beautiful bright red blouson shirt and matching high-waist pants as she flipped through a file. He paused at the sight of her before closing the door and setting his duffel bag onto the floor.

“Hi, Smyth,” he said, setting his keys on a foyer table.

She glanced up at him briefly. “How was class?” she asked, sounding more like his mother than his lover.

“Good,” he lied. He didn't have class on Thursday evenings, but she thought he did. “I'm going to take a shower and get some studying done.”

Smyth shook her head and raised her hand to beckon him as she closed the folder gracefully and sat back to drape her arm over the back of the sofa. She smiled at him as he crossed the room to reach her, but her eyes were troubled and she looked distracted.

He briefly eyed the folder as he sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Something wrong?” he asked.

She kicked off her black patent leather Walter Steiger heels to place her feet in his lap. “I hired a private detective to catch my husband cheating,” she said, lightly biting down on the tip of her crimson nail as she looked past him out the window in the distance.

He said nothing, even though he was mildly curious if her husband's adultery was true or a fabrication of her imagination.

“When I first purchased this apartment, I thought I honestly did not care if I got married or not,” she said with a light shrug of one shoulder. “I had seen all of my friends putting up with enough drama that I was content with my beautiful apartment, my career, my inheritance, and a lover here or there to shake out the cobwebs.”

He massaged her feet even though she didn't ask.

“And then I met Baldwin, and he just seemed so perfect for me and before I knew it, I was daydreaming about elaborate weddings, honeymoons, and babies.” Smyth snuggled down deeper onto the couch.

Pleasure didn't think that boded well for him enjoying the rest of his night alone. He honestly had no desire to make love. He was still trying to recover from the rendezvous with Miss Prim and Proper Pearls.
I really should have asked her name.

“He proposed. I accepted. We wed,” Smyth was saying with sadness. “And now, seven years later, I'm hiring PIs to track my husband because something is not right in our marriage and it hasn't been in a long time—way before you,” she added, as if to defend her actions.

“Where exactly is Baldwin?” Pleasure asked.

“Upstairs,” she answered simply. She shifted her eyes to look at him. “I told him I had dinner plans, but that was just a ruse to get some privacy to read this report.”

His eyes studied her face for some hint of the file's details.

“You wouldn't lie to me, would you?” she asked, choosing as always not to address him by the name Pleasure and abiding by his request to keep his real name just for himself.