Page 60 of Passion Island

Goddamn. Fuck yeah.

Kendall thought he’d bust on the spot. His balls were painfully swollen with arousal. He needed to bust a nut. Soon.

The three women lifted up, releasing each man’s dick from their wet clutches.

Dr. Dangerfield’s gaze danced over at the male dancers, latching on to the hard wet dicks, pointing upward, as they seductively moved in sync with the female dancers.

Erotic passion . . .

Sexual expression.

Sensual bliss.

Dr. Dangerfield caught herself thrusting her own hips and quickly stopped herself, before she forgot she wasn’t on holiday, before she forgot her role on the island, what her purpose was here, and stripped out of her dress.

She shook the erotic images of stepping out of her thong and twirling the silky undergarment around her finger, before tossing it out into the crowd from her thoughts.

She swallowed back her dirty thoughts and glanced over at Kendall, Roselle, and Isaiah. Dr. Dangerfield believed couples who were able to talk openly about their sexual desires with another created room to grow together in emotional and intimate bonds. If couples wanted more passion in their relationships, they would need to learn ways to be more sexually expressive; they’d need to learn how to balance gestures and words with those rich nuances of sexuality and exploration.

She was looking forward to digging through their sexual repertoires and uncovering their deepest, darkest desires.

* * *

An hour later, Dr. Dangerfield sat in her plush leather chair; her shapely legs crossed at the ankles, her cunt still throbbing from where Sin had been the night before.

She took in the three men sitting before her.

“The beautiful thing about sexual fantasies,” she said, “is that we get to imagine things we would never say or do in reality. Fantasies give us license to be as dirty, as sexually carefree, as we want to be.”

Roselle nodded his head in agreement. “Word. Because I know some of my fantasies be way out there sometimes.” He laughed. “I be on some real-live freak shit.”

Dr. Dangerfield raised a questioning brow. “Oh? Would you like to elaborate?”

Roselle cut his eyes over at Isaiah and then Kendall, unsure if he wanted to divulge too much about the way his mind was set up sexually.

Although most of his fantasies included Brenda, there were those that didn’t. Like being in a room full of midget bit—uh, um, little women. They had all that fat puffy ass and he fantasized about fucking them, spinning them around on his hard dick. He secretly wondered just how deep the pussy really was, if their bodies were built for a good dicking.

Another fantasy was fucking someone’s granny—sixty-plus years old or better, preferably with removable dentures. And if she wore those adult pampers, he’d remove her pamper and wash her pussy and ass, then dick her down real good, before strapping her up in another one. In his fantasies, he’d fuck her gums and cunt raw.

And then there was his fantasy of being blindfolded and strapped down, being sucked and fucked by a group of big, beautiful women with thick hips, thick pussy lips, and fat asses. And then there was his darkest desire, one he knew he’d never share out loud—not even to Brenda. He fantasized about fucking a Transsexual. Not one of those big, burly ones either with the fucked-up weaves and razor bumps. Nah. A soft, feminine, passable one, like those he’d seen in Brazil three years ago, was what crept in his fantasies at times.

Some of them with all that big bouncy ass and full breasts were bad as fuck.

Facts. The few he’d met in Brazil he’d thought they were straight-up females—born that way. Someone like that—that’s what he’d slide his dick up into, just once—for the experience. He wanted to know how that manmade pussy felt. If it got wet, if it gripped a dick, the way a real pussy did.

But, nah, Roselle wasn’t about to share that shit. He’d have to take that one to the grave with him. He didn’t care about being judged, per se. He was strong in his spot as a man. But he didn’t want to have to knock a muhfucka in his mouth if he thought to say some slick shit.

So he settled on sharing his little women fantasy instead.

Isaiah laughed. “Damn, bruh, you wild as shit.”

“Man, some of them look like they have some real juicy puss-puss.”

Kendall shook his head. But he didn’t judge. Hell, he fantasized about having a woman strap on a dildo and slowly fucking him in the ass. Pegging him, that was the term for it. He’d already graduated from a finger to having a slender vibrator stroking his prostate. Persia, his—shit, he didn’t really know what she was to him—sidepiece for a lack of a better term, wanted to give him the experience, but he hadn’t really gotten up the nerve to go all the way. Tongue and fingers and a vibrator were one thing. But having a whole silicone dick inside of him, he really didn’t know if he’d go that far. Not that he thought it would take away his manhood. He simply didn’t like the idea of having his asshole stretched open. What if Krista decided to—he nearly laughed at the ridiculous notion of her ever wanting to go anywhere near his ass. Still, although he fantasized about it—a dildo stroking his P-spot, he’d decided some fantasies weren’t meant to live out.

But fuck if sex with Persia didn’t make him want to do shit he never imagined he’d do. She made it easy to be free. Made it easy to have those types of desires and still be a man—and feel like one, most importantly. Because that was what he was—a man. All man. He didn’t second-guess his masculinity or his manhood. He embraced who he was as a man. He didn’t think it was wrong to enjoy having a tongue licking his ass or a finger stroking over his prostate.

Persia indulged his desires without judgment. And he trusted her with his secret—something he was certain he could never do with Krista. He sighed inwardly. It was what it was.

---