The Pleasure Trap (14 page)

“Oh really?” he asked, his expression guarded.

“That was . . . good,” she said, before turning to walk between the open double doors of her large closet and emerging with a white satin robe that she left open. “But it could have been better.”

Pleasure's pride took a hit.

Assefa came back over to stand before him. “Listen, Pleasure. Your dick is more than enough, and when it comes to down-and-dirty fucking, you're one of the best,” she said, stroking his chin. “But you have absolutely no idea how to make love to a woman—
especially
a grown-ass woman like me.”

Pleasure rose to his feet and patted his pocket to make sure the envelope with his pay had not slipped out. To him that was all that mattered. Not her opinion. “I've never gotten complaints,” he told her with a shrug.

Assefa nodded as she walked across the room and turned on the light to her adjoining bathroom. The combination of her smooth chocolate complexion and that white robe as she moved about the red room was a sight to see. “Perhaps you have never dealt with a woman who's had good lovers before. Even my slut of a husband was better, and that was with almost half the size dick you have.”

Pleasure crossed his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I care?”

“Because you're still here,” she shot back quickly as if it was ready and aimed to fire from the tip of her tongue.

“I can easily change that,” he said.

“Let me walk you to the door,” she offered, coming over to wrap her arms around one of his as they left the room together.

He felt like shaking her off but he didn't.

“You have . . . potential,” Assefa said as they descended the stairs.

“Thanks,” he said dryly.

She released him with a pat that she might have meant as reassuring but felt condescending to him. As she moved ahead of him to open the door, a draft caused her robe to fly up and expose her shapely legs and rounded ass. He couldn't deny she was top notch, and although he had given her his best pipe work, she was telling him to do better. Be better.

His eyes widened when she waved to someone. “Be sure to tell Ingram that you saw me,” she said, slowly closing and tying her robe.

Pleasure stepped through the door, and he spotted two women next door on their porch, shaking their heads in obvious judgment.

Assefa made a show of hugging him close, and that actually made Pleasure smile because of the craziness of it all. “Those jealous bitches were the main ones keeping my ex-husband's secrets and smiling in my face the whole time,” she whispered up to him. “You get home safe.”

With that she released him and stepped back.

Pleasure jogged down the stairs to his truck and was glad to slide inside and drive away from the drama.

Assefa

P
leasure dropped his keys and cell phones onto the studded wooden table against the wall directly next to the front door of his two-bedroom apartment in the Twelve50 in downtown Newark, New Jersey. He'd made the decision to move to Newark to make his drive time to Club Trick a little shorter and because the high-rise luxury building was ideally situated for an easy commute into New York or any of the cities in the tri-state area where he did business. The amenities of a concierge, exercise room, and bowling alley were bonuses.

Whenever Kezia and Lola visited him, they liked to tease and call him George Jefferson for “moving on up.” That was after reminders that they had helped him become the star stripper that he was—they didn't know he sold dick too. All of their years of friendship had led to them treating him more and more like an annoying little brother they tolerated. And loved.

Pausing by the door, he looked out the row of windows at the inky night sky lit up by the bright lights of the buildings in the distance. Some of his friends at the club told him Jersey City would have been a better move for a similar building with a lower rent and a view of New York. But for now, Pleasure was content.

His mother had decorated his apartment in Tarrytown, but Pleasure had taken the time to pick out everything in this one. He felt he hadn't done too badly with the chocolate, khaki, and red décor with wooden accents. He was especially proud of all the African artwork and sculptures he'd picked out. He felt he was on his grown-man status.

He'd come a long way from his studio apartment in Tarrytown, and he had plans to go even further.

His home was his respite from the world. He never had his friends or coworkers over. He never dared to bring one of his clients there. He didn't even allow his neighbors beyond the door. This place was his and his alone. It was his needed quiet from the noise and the stench of the club. It was his solitude from the women paying him for his time. It was his shelter from his addiction.

Pleasure treasured his home. He was never wary to be home alone. He was glad for it.

Moving through the apartment, he turned on the overhead lights in his gourmet kitchen before washing his hands. His stomach growled loudly. It had been hours since his dinner of chicken piccata at his parents' reception.

The days of ordering pizza or zipping by one of the fast food joints for a burger were behind him. His body was his source of income, and Pleasure was determined to keep it in shape. A year ago he'd cut red meat and processed foods from his diet and got into juicing. That one move had led to him shedding ten pounds, and his muscles were even more defined and sculpted. It was also a change that helped him stay consistently sober since his one and only stint in rehab years ago.

He closed the fridge and decided to shower first instead. He felt sweaty from his sex with Assefa, and he knew his dick smelled of a blend of latex and his dried semen. As he stripped and stepped under the shower spray, he thought of Assefa and her . . . observations.

Was she just an angry woman burnt by her husband and looking for anyone to dominate to boost her self-esteem, or was he truly the “wham bam, thank you ma'am” king like she claimed?

Most importantly, did it really matter?

A memory of her taking over as he rode her from behind played over in his head, and he had to admit that it turned him the hell on to have someone put in a little work for him. All of his clients let him do all the work and just lay there either scratching his back or damn near passing out as he pumped away to make them cum. That move of her pulling downward on his dick and then twerking her ass as she squeezed the tip with her walls had been bad as hell.

“Shit,” he swore at the hot memory.

When he lowered his hands to soap his dick, it was hard, long, and curving to the right. He took a step back inside the marble shower and let the water hit against his hardness until it eased. The memory of her riding him didn't ease away quite as fast.

Pleasure finished his shower, pushing thoughts of his first complainer away as he dried off and wrapped himself in his thick navy terrycloth robe.

He paused just long enough to straighten his bathroom before turning out the light and heading straight back to the kitchen to fix himself a salad topped with strips of chicken and a tall glass of a mix of spinach, apple, and carrot juices.

Pleasure bypassed the granite-topped breakfast bar and headed into the living room, wanting to enjoy one of his rare Saturday nights off from the club. He sat his plate on the large wooden tray atop the chocolate leather ottoman and dropped down on the red suede sofa with a fatigued grunt. After the excitement of the wedding and the reception, plus his travel time and session with Assefa—whom he now called Ms. Insatiable—he was spent.

He flipped through the channels on his plasma TV and settled on a nature documentary as he demolished his salad.

Pleasure paused with his head slightly tilted back and his glass raised as he eyed the male lion take the female lion from behind as she lay on her belly in the wilderness.

He thought of Assefa again, especially when the male bit the neck of the female before throwing his head back and roaring as he rutted.

It reminded him of his natural instinct to do the same when she worked his dick.

Finishing his juice in one deep gulp, he closed his eyes, but he saw nothing but Assefa standing there in her white robe with the material barely closed enough to cover her nipples.
Just hot as hell
.

He scowled.

“Potential?” he muttered, standing up to cross the polished hardwood floors to pick up his trick phone from the table by the door. He looked up into his reflection in the square window over the table. “Potential?!”

He moved across the room to lie on his back on the sofa, his head cushioned by his dreads. Lifting one foot up on the back of the sofa, he felt a slight draft against his privates as his robe fell open and exposed him. Not caring, he used his thumb to go to his list of recent calls and hit Send on his last outgoing call of the night.

It was midnight and he didn't care.

It rang twice, and he was surprised at how nervous he felt. He was even more surprised at how disappointed he felt when the call eventually went to her voice mail. He didn't bother to leave a message.

Tapping his cell against his square jaw, he looked up at the tall ceilings. As much as he tried to focus on anything but Assefa and her judgment, his ego was in control. Sitting up, he dropped the cell phone onto the couch and picked up his glass and plate to carry back into the kitchen. “I'm a
fuck
the shit out of her,” Pleasure said with confidence before he turned off the lights and headed to the master bedroom for some sleep.

 

 

Club Trick was crowded, and the smell of alcohol, perfume, and moist panties was cloying as Pleasure moved about, going to woman after woman to tantalize them for tips. He had to admit that this particular Thursday night he was mildly distracted, as his eyes kept going to the door and searching the many faces in the crowd for
her
, Miss Prim and Proper Pearls.

Once a month like clockwork for the last couple of years, she'd never missed the third Thursday ladies' night. Never. Not even after he noticed the sizeable wedding band she started wearing on her left hand.

“Pleasure!”

He turned even though he knew it wasn't her. She had never once hollered out to him or even carried on when she gave him a tip. She was always reserved and poised, but her eyes always revealed the heat boiling inside her. Her eyes
always
gave it away.

Moving through the crowd, he felt hands reach out to stroke his body. He was used to it. He could expect no less dressed in nothing but a pair of leather boy shorts with brass buttons outlining the area over his dick where he could snatch it away and let it
all
hang out.

“It's her birthdaaaaayyyy,” a woman of no more than twenty said as she pointed a long acrylic nail at her friend, who was already rotating her hips in the chair as she snapped her fingers to the sounds of “Love in This Club” by Usher.

Pleasure dragged her chair from behind the table before he squatted down before her and worked his hips as he grasped her knees in her jeans and spread her legs wide before dipping his head in just enough to imitate eating her pussy.

Thankfully, her intimacy smelled of some sweet perfume and he said a quick “Thank you, Lord” for that. The horror stories he and the other dancers shared about women and the less-than-credible smells down below...

Holding the sides of her chair, he leaned back and rolled his abs, ending each one with a hard hip thrust that made her stomp her feet and cover her face with her hands as she screamed.

He smiled as he rose to his feet. These days he made more money with his clients than he did at the club, but there was nothing like the rush he received when the women all screamed his name or acted like they were near fainting from one of his moves.
I love this shit.

Pleasure accepted the bills the ladies pushed into the top of his shorts and just winked at them when one boldly stroked his dick print that ran clear to the edge of the boy shorts like he was about to reveal it.

“Damn, he got a big dick,” he heard one of them scream to the other over the loud music. He turned and grabbed his thickness, shaking it at them. They all threw up their hands.

The lights flickered twice, letting him and the other dancers on the floor know it was time for another solo dance onstage. Pleasure had long since had his, and even though he knew he was one of the most popular dancers at the club, Vera still had the vets showcased last.

With one last look around the club and at the door, Plea-sure danced his way off the floor, disappointed that
she
wasn't coming.

 

 

Pleasure paused on his way out the door of the strip club and reached inside the side pocket of his duffel bag for his trick phone. Assefa's number filled the screen. It had been five days since he called her. He started not to answer her, but again his ego dominated his decision. He was well aware and fine with that.

“Pleasure,” he said, using his remote to unlock the door of his silver Ford F-250. He opened the rear door of the double cab and placed his duffel on the seat.

“Good evening, Pleasure. I was returning your call,” she said coolly.

“From last week,” he slid in smoothly.

“I couldn't imagine what you possibly had to call about,” she explained. “I checked the house and you didn't leave anything behind. I paid you. We did the deed. To me, our association was over. Curiosity just got the best of me tonight.”

Pleasure closed the passenger door and opened the driver's to climb in. “I want another go at you—”

“That sounds appealing,” she said dryly.

He started to hang up on her. In the Rock, Paper, Scissors game of life, ego sometimes won over pride and common sense. “I want another chance to show you just why I live up to the name Pleasure . . . and it's on me,” he added, cranking his truck and eventually reversing back from the pale peach building that was peeling in spots to reveal the putrid green paint beneath it.

The line remained quiet for long moments.

“Hello,” he said, making sure she was still there.

“Listen, what purpose does this serve?” she asked. “From my understanding, you have plenty of women wanting your brand of sex. Why do you care what I think?”

Pleasure pulled to a stop at the red light. “This is my business, and I am just offering you an exchange of sorts.”

“There's more to you than just muscles and a big dick,” Assefa mused.

“Trust me, there is,” he assured her as he sat back in his seat and tapped the wheel with his long fingers.

“Okay, fine, if you insist,” she said with a sigh. “When? Tonight?”

“It can be.”

“Be here in an hour.”

Beep
.

She ended the call.

Assefa liked control. That was clear.

Glancing at the clock on the wood grain dashboard, he knew it would take most of the hour to make it to Bridgewater. He passed on going by his house first.

As he made the drive, his mind wandered back to Miss Prim and Proper Pearls. He couldn't believe that in a crowd of close to two hundred women, he had so clearly noticed her absence. Not that they had ever shared a word or seen each other outside the club, but still it was hard to deny that seeing her every month had become a ritual of sorts.

Pushing away thoughts of her, he turned the music up and listened to the sounds of Hot 97 as he ate up the miles to Bridgewater.

Feeling his personal phone vibrate against his thigh, he leaned over a bit to pull it from his front pocket. “Yo,” he answered.

“Yo, Pleasure, you left already?”

It was Hunter, one of the newer dancers at the club. Unlike the vets before him, Pleasure tried to offer help to the newbies. There was plenty of money to go around. No need to be selfish. He tucked his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder as he navigated the highway traffic. “Yeah, I had something to handle. Why? What's up?” he asked.