This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Pynk
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The quote on the front cover of this book ran in the February 25, 2002, issue of
May December Souls
, which was published under Pynk’s real name.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
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First eBook Edition: November 2008
Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Summary: “A fast-paced, sexy ride through the very liberated and very free life of Atlanta club owner Milan Kennedy”—Provided by publisher.
This Pynk book is dedicated to past, current, and future swingers everywhere. Swing on!
Thanks for experiencing my virgin erotica ride. It’s been a steamy journey as I’ve traveled into the amazing world of swingers, not to mention the juicy world of erotica. I wanted to create a piece that was about more than just sex. I wanted
to be about the lives of swingers.
First and foremost, I offer deep love to my cherished family and friends, those of you who support me and understand that I write so that I can breathe, and for accepting the oh-so very erotic side of me.
I want to express my sincere appreciation to my grand editor, Karen Thomas, to Jamie Raab, Latoya Smith, Linda Duggins, Sam Kelly, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing who has contributed to the debut of
To you, the readers, thanks for picking up this book. Milan Lee Kennedy is more than happy to host you at her dirty south, sexual playground.
To Brent for the “life” e-mails, Mz. Poison (the flogging mistress) for agreeing to be interviewed, to Anthony for your hot, invaluable information, to HB for hanging tough, and to Adrienne, my test reader—thanks, thanks, and more thanks.
And, I am very grateful to Maureen Walters at Curtis Brown, Ltd., for negotiating this deal.
In October 2009, I’ll give birth to my sophomore erotica novel,
, also from Grand Central Publishing. My characters, Miki, Valencia, Brandi, and Teela are in sexual rehab, and, if you let them, they will turn you out! Who will break their addiction to sex, and who will fall off the no-fuckin wagon? A wild preview chapter is at the end of this book.
Also, please check out the “shop” page on my Web site at
, where you’ll find hot items for your own personal enjoyment, as well as my official
book thongs. Consider it a sexy piece of jewelry for the crack of your book!
Until then remember, no glove no love, and twenty-one and over. Keep it tight and keep it pynk!
If nudity or sexual acts offend you,
please do not enter.
Signed: Erotic City Management
Milan Lee Kennedy:
thirty-two-year-old owner of Erotic City, where the hot and hip Atlanta swingers swing
DeMarcus “Lavender” Lewis:
Milan’s thirty-year-old boyfriend, a former professional boxing champ
Lavender’s crazy-ass ex-girlfriend
Tamiko Rae Kennedy:
Milan’s baby sister and best friend who’s a virgin swinger
Mr. Big Stuff with a fetish or two
Nancy Clark Kennedy:
the forty-two-year-old, vanilla ex-stepmother who prefers young chocolate studs . . .
. . . all make Erotic City cum alive!
Sunday, March 30, 2008
wanna be your bitch, mistress.” He was muscular and hairy, wearing pink lingerie and high heels. His submissiveness reeked.
The curvy mistress replied, “Follow me, my slave.” Her domination made his torpedo salute underneath the sheer lace fabric of his panties.
“Can I lick your feet?” a naked man asked a heavyset woman.
“Only if I can give you a foot job.” She took his hand as he led the way into fetish mania.
“Do you want some?” the tall lady asked the short lady who was fixated on her beautiful, bountiful ass.
“Hell yeah,” she replied with a look like she was about to rob the National Bank of Pussy.
She was about to get her swinger-newbie cherry busted.
That’s just how the shit went down.
Fuck so pretty you and me, Erotic City come alive.
Coming alive four nights a week Erotic City did indeed. Fucking so pretty its members did like clockwork. Each and every Thursday through Sunday, hidden among the alluring, sophisticated nighttime bling of midtown Atlanta’s sexy cityscape. It was the perfect place for a whole lotta dirty-south, sex-in-the-city encounters. Folks were getting down, shakin the sheets until the sun came up.
And not always in that order.
Sometimes cumming before talking.
Three scantily clad, twenty-something women, one white, one black, one Asian, sat at the circular studded bar, bouncing their heads, singing in unison, sipping on pink champagne in the main purple room. One wore red, one wore white, and one wore blue. A red bustier and strategically ripped black denim jeans, a white bikini top and low-rise boy shorts, and a blue teddy with lace-up thigh-high stiletto boots.
The sounds of “Erotic City” by Prince, the club’s theme song, bumped through the air, mixed with the moans of passion and pleasure, all illuminated by soft, mood-setting, dim lights.
The red room smelled like Butt Naked incense. The dance floor included a stage with two brass stripper poles, just in case the introverted had suddenly turned extroverted and desired to show off his or her suppressed seduction skills. The wide-screen triple-X-rated fuck flicks showed along the wall of the gold orgy room as a visual reminder of what folks had cum there for. And the blue room, the S&M dungeon, was equipped with a spanking bench, shackles, and every bondage toy one could ever beg for, and of course there was a pink pussycat room for ladies only.
Sex seeking, upscale club members walked by striding smoothly, exacting the speaker-banging beats with each step.
The sexy Asian woman turned coolly and came face-to-face with zebra-printed drawers being worn by a sculpted, tanned white man with a six-pack. He strutted behind her back, looking edible. Her look devoured him from head to toe. She licked her lips from west to east. It was clear he was at full attention. He approached a short, lean woman who was wearing fire engine red lipstick to match her red pussy hairs. He took her welcoming hand. The woman looked back and winked at her man’s admirer as they headed off to the hot tub. The Asian woman blushed and nervously fingered her jet-black hair. She darted her sights away with demure hesitation, as if to excuse herself for raping the model-like man with her hungry dark eyes.
Her guilty vision then stopped at an open door. A group of three women and two men in the intimate silver room, most of whom were naked, were twisted up together in X-rated entwinement upon burgundy loungers. Two fucked missionary. A chocolate woman with a more than healthy amount of round ass was riding seven inches of tricky-dick for dear life. And then there were two Coke bottle shapely women frantically muff diving in a sixty-nine that looked more like a ninety-six. It was an asses up, heads down orgy with balls swangin and titties hangin.
“Get up” was all that could be heard as a toffee-colored man walked up to the group. He had salt and pepper hairs on his head and chest, and was wearing only an ivory towel wrapped at his thick waist as he delivered his no-nonsense demand.
One of the participants of the sixty-nine let out a girlie growl and continued her face-fuck against a stranger’s fleshy inner split.
His woman, the giver, the muffin-muncher, barely twenty-nine, moved her auburn hair to the side and looked up at him with half eyes as she backed her cum-coated lips away from the smiling clay dugout. There were two looks that shone on her face. One was a look as though she was high on lust, and happy to take on the label of vagitarian, as if she were on a strict vagina-only diet. The other look was as though she’d found the sudden interruption a complete nuisance.
“Watch that group of five down on the burgundy lounger in the silver room. Brian reports a jealous man who’s pissed off about his woman who’s involved in girl-on-girl.” Milan Kennedy pressed the release button on her Nextel two-way as she glanced through the smoke-tinted one-way mirror from her office, looking down toward the first floor.
“Upset? Why? For woman-on-woman head?” her lead security person joked, sounding confused.
“Just check on it, Lavender.”
Milan disconnected the unit and took a seat at her massive mahogany desk. She was preparing to go over profit reports for her city of sex . . . her pride and joy, Erotic City.
Curly-headed Lavender sprinted down the stairway with a wireless earpiece that flashed a tiny blue light, looking every bit the professional boxer he was some years back. Lavender was the name he’d been given during his boxing days, which seemed to stick with him. DeMarcus George Lewis was the name he was given at birth, though very few called him by any name except the one he’d earned in the ring. He spoke with his heavy voice. “Hey, Jarod. Come on over to the silver room right away.”
“I’m on my way.” Bald and yellow Jarod took long hurried steps, quickly passing what he knew to be the usual . . . parted legs spread-eagle, deep-throating females swallowing long tools while getting fucked by nameless studs who came to play, deep, sweaty pussies drenched with desire for penetration from a willing penis hard enough to break glass, and masturbating singles in feverish strokes, attempting to reach their peaks . . . all in the name of getting off.