by Zane
“Good morning, Ms. Winslow. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Good to see you.”
“You too, Bishop. Did you miss me? ’Cause I sure as hell missed you.”
“Damn, baby, your flame is combustible first thing in the morning, isn’t it?”
I hope I can go through with my plan. Looking at him right now and smelling his fresh-out-of-the shower body is turning me on some kind of bad, making me want more than just one last time. Can I do away with his fine ass? I hope so. Lord, give me strength. He puts the car in drive, then rests his right hand atop my left thigh and rubs my slender, cocoa leg gently.
“So, Connie Winslow, tell me about yourself. Who are you? Where are you from? What’s your favorite food? I want to know all there is to know about you.” He inquires like he’s genuinely interested. I place my hand atop his and lock my fingers with his. I can’t help but to toy with him. Before divulging any of my personal business, I decide whether I want him to know anything else about me.
“Well, why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious. Just thought we could get to know each other better, that’s all.”
“Oh, I see. Well, does it matter? I mean, would it change anything?” I ask.
“You never know.” He looks at me in that manly, matter-of-fact way. I know he’s serious but I ignore him. His ass is married and I’m with Keith. None of this matters. I gaze out of the window as we exit onto the main road. He raises our hands to his mouth and kisses the back of my hand, catching my attention.
“It matters,” he states, making direct eye contact with me. His sexy, hazel mirrors look at me sincerely. Shit, why does he make me melt like this?
“Well, Bishop, since it matters, originally I’m from Raleigh, North Carolina. I got a full academic scholarship to the University of Atlanta. I liked Hotlanta so much that I decided to stay after I graduated. I got a job as a pharmaceutical sales rep and hated it. Then, I decided to go to law school. So, I applied and got accepted to the University of Virginia. Earned my Juris Doctor. Moved back to Atlanta. Worked with the Circuit Court for about a year but didn’t like that too much, either. The criminal justice system is a trip. Then my friend Shelly suggested that I apply for the job I have now at Clark and Howard. Someone told her about the opening. I followed her advice and here I am. I’ve been with the company for six months. What about you?” I’m curious as hell to find out more about him, too. With another kiss on my hand, he begins to share his life.
“Atlanta is my home. I grew up in Marietta. I left home and received my undergraduate degree from West Point. Then got my master’s degree from Harvard’s School of Business. At age twenty-five, I joined the Marines as an officer. Did two four-year tours overseas. Decided I didn’t want to make a career out of the military. So, I moved back here. Got a job at King and Spalding for a few years, then joined Clark and Howard three years ago.”
“Wow, you’ve been busy. So tell me, Bishop, where in all of that did you get married?”
“My marital status really bothers you, huh?”
What the hell does he think? Obviously, it doesn’t bother him. Plus, I’m just curious as to why he’s steppin’ out on his wife.
“Well?” I look at him with raised eyebrows, waiting for his response.
“Connie, my marriage ain’t all that. If it was, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
“I didn’t ask you that. I asked when did you get married.” Men always want to dance around a question when they don’t want to answer.
“Well, let’s see…” He starts counting the years backward like it’s so damn hard. So, I help him out.
“Was it before or after you left the military?”
“It was before,” he answers and doesn’t say another word.
“That’s it?” I ask, unsatisfied with his answer.
“Well, what else do you want me to say?”
“Where did you meet? Do you have children?”
I watch him squirm from this obviously uncomfortable subject. He fidgets with the control panel to adjust the air conditioner as he starts to sweat.
“Well, where did you meet?” I ask again.
“We met at Harvard. She was a professor at the law school.”
Oh shit, no wonder he’s choking. He’s in an older-woman-younger-man situation.
“So what were you, her little boy toy?”
“Very funny, you got jokes. Go ahead, joke. I’ve heard all of them over the years.”
“So, I gotta ask. How old are you, Bishop?”
“Thirty-eight,” he announces modestly.
“I figured about right. So how old is she?”
He pauses, and then looks out of his side window like he doesn’t want to answer. Naturally, I ask again.
“Well? How old?
“She’s forty-eight,” he replies reluctantly.
“Damn. No shit. For real?”
“Yeah.”
“So what does she look like? Is she like Lena Horne still holding it all together or is she haggard looking?”
“She changed a lot after she found out we couldn’t have children. She took it pretty hard. Next thing I knew, food was her best friend and our relationship went south. It’s been a long thirteen years. The best years were the two we dated prior to when I left for overseas. I was away in the military, so there wasn’t too much I could do to help her. When I came home during leave, she was always angry with me for being away. My visits never amounted to much.”
“How has it been since you returned home? Things must have improved ’cause you’re still married.”
“To be honest, things got better—not great, but just better. She joined a weight loss program and I developed an exercise program to complement her diet. She did good and lost seventy-five pounds. Our friendship improved, but our relationship never really got back on track.”
“So, if things improved and she got control of her depression, and your friendship improved, why not build upon that instead of cheating on her?”
“Connie, you don’t understand. It’s more complicated than that.”
“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, what’s so complicated?”
He pulls into the Park and Ride at the Lenox Mall Marta station. A scrawny man approaches the car and Bishop unlocks the doors. I use every second to my advantage.
“Well, what’s her name?” I know I’m pressing my luck. I got a fifty-fifty chance he’ll tell me his wife’s name. But surprisingly, he does.
“I call her Bernie. Now, can we drop this?”
He looks at me like he’s hoping I’ll end my inquisition before the man approaching the car opens the door.
“Fine,” I reply.
“I’ll tell you more soon.” He quickly kisses the back of my hand and releases it, never to hold it again during our commute to work. The man standing externally to the car grabs the door handle and slides in.
“Mornin’, B. Hey, who’s this fine young lady?”
Bishop introduces me to the carpooler. He’s a short, hyper, skinny man named George Lucas. He extends his hand and I shake the bony structure. I cringe at his corky attempt to hold my hand longer than I intend and curse him when he strokes my palm with his middle finger.
“What the hell is your problem?” I blurt. He immediately releases my hand. Bishop turns toward George and merely says almost in a joking fashion, “Man, George, behave yourself.” Then he looks at me with an apologetic grin. “Connie, he didn’t mean anything by it. He does it to every female that rides with us.”
“Well, he shouldn’t. Dirty bastard. Why doesn’t he just catch the Marta since he’s right here?”
“He doesn’t like crowds,” Bishop informs.
I turn around to face George to give him a piece of my mind. He greets my assertion with a snag-a-tooth smile that catches me off guard, and I lose my ability to cuss his ass out. All I manage to say is, “You need to get your grill fixed, you pervert.” Folks say you can tell a lot by a per
son’s handshake. George probably can’t get any pussy and a nasty handshake is probably the highlight of his day and the best he can do. He talks a mile a minute as we travel south on I-695 toward downtown Atlanta. His motor mouth gabs mostly about the news and current events. He’s like a damn walking broadcast station. And loud, oh my gosh, this man is loud. I can’t wait to get to work to get away from him. His political conversation about President Bush and the Senate is boring me to tears. I try to change the conversation to the war on terrorism, like where the hell is Osama bin Laden and why the U.S. can’t find his ass. But George is stuck on the latest Senate bill proposals. I stare out of the window while Bishop entertains the conversation all the way to work.
We finally arrive after more than an hour’s commute. Bishop drives into the lower-deck parking garage and parks in a far rear corner. George, with his loud-ass mouth, has something to say about it.
“B, man, why are you parking down here? We usually park on the first level.”
“Man, George, I’m tired of these fools putting dings in my car because they park too close. Every day, seems like there’s a new one.”
George exits the car, stands back, and looks along the side of the car. “B, I don’t see any dings.”
“That’s because I have them fixed all the damn time. Do you know how expensive that shit is?”
“Yeah, I hear you, man. Well, look, I gotta run. Later. I’ll see you at five o’clock.”
“Later,” Bishop agreed.
I watch George scurry off to catch the elevator to the lobby, laptop case in one hand and lunch cooler in the other. He looks rather comical trying to keep the laptop strap on his narrow shoulder while his little Oompa Loompa feet shuffle across the parking lot.
Bishop and I linger at the car. The lower level is sparsely occupied. He exits the car, comes to my door, and opens it. I gotta admit he does have nice, gentlemanly manners. I exit the Mercedes and stand close to him, allowing the sensational fragrance of his Sean John cologne and manly physique to fill my senses. Bishop presses me against the car door and softly says, “I can’t restrain myself another minute.” With those words, he parts my lips and slides his tongue into my mouth for a passionate French kiss. I can’t help but to kiss him back. His warm breath wisps over my ear, “I want you, Connie. Can I have you?” We both know that shit means right here, right now.
“Yes,” I answer as my pussy prepares for him.
He unlocks the doors, takes my purse and laptop out of my hands and places them in the front seat. He then opens the back car door and we slide in, me on my back and him on top of me. Thank the Lord for his dark-tinted windows. He reaches under my skirt to remove my panties, but I surprise him when he discovers there’s nothing to remove.
“Oh shit! Damn, you’re so sexy. You know just how to turn me on, Connie.”
I grin but say nothing, and continue to kiss him wildly. I like being naughty. I unbuckle Bishop’s belt while he unzips his pants. He presses down between my thighs and almost instantly his long, thick, brown dick finds my heated center. He puts his penis in me, one inch at a time. I gasp with each down stroke. I feel my walls fill up with him as he reaches the bottom of me. I’m so wet and he loves it. My vaginal juices drain out, soaking our pubic hair. My diva starts to sing with her sweet wet sounds. In and out, Bishop pumps my snatch and sends me into a daze. Shit! This man knows how to satisfy me. I grab his ass and navigate him a little to the right so he can hurt me so good. I want to scream but I can’t. Damn, he’s so big!
“You like that, Bishop?”
He breathes heavily in my ear. “Hell, yeah! You got the best pussy I’ve ever had.”
“Fuck me, Bishop. Fuck my pussy the way you like it.”
He braces himself firmly and thrusts me harder than before. I scream out, “Ouch, Bishop, you hurt me so good!”
“Yeah? Here’s some more for you,” he grunts.
He wraps his arms under my ass, pulls me more toward his swollen dick and takes everything I have. I feel myself blacking out as my vaginal walls pulsate, sending my cum all over Bishop’s pole. I barely hear him say, “Oh shit! Connie, I’m cumming so hard.” All I see are stars. His dick swells in my cavity so much that I can’t move. He fucks me with quick, deep pulses as he ejaculates in me. He makes his grunt face like the one I see him do at the gym. I know that I please him, and for some strange reason, I feel proud.
Bishop opens his eyes and we smile at each other. My first thought is there’s so much cum between the two of us, how the hell am I going to wipe the gooey mess off of me? I still have to go to work. It’s not like I have on cotton panties to help absorb our cum.
“We’ve made quite the mess, haven’t we?” I ask, looking down at our half-exposed bodies.
“Yes, we have. Hold on a sec.” Bishop pulls up his pants, and then presses a button on his key ring. The trunk pops open. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” he informs. I look out of the window to see what he’s doing, but the windows are foggy. I can’t see shit. I hear the trunk close and Bishop returns inside the car. He hands me a clean, white hand towel. “I keep a few extra towels in the car for when I work out at the gym.”
“Thanks.” I wipe my wet zone dry and watch him wipe down the long dong that turns me out each time we’re together. I want to say something to him, but no words come to my mouth. As usual, he breaks the ice.
“What are you doing for lunch today?”
“Nothing. It’s Thursday so I’m not going to the gym. I’ll probably grab something from the cafeteria and eat at my desk.” I hold up the towel by the corner. “Where should I put this?”
“Ahhh, let’s see.” He looks around as if searching for a bag, but his car is totally spotless. “Leave it on the floor. I’ll get it. You should join me for lunch across the street at the Westin Peachtree Hotel. The restaurant has great food and we can finish our conversation.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ve always wanted to eat at the revolving restaurant, but just haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Cool. I’ll meet you there at noon,” Bishop confirms as he completes tucking his shirt into his trousers. He points to my towel. “Hand me that.” I raise it by the corner and hand it to him.
“Connie, you touch it like it’s poison. It’s just me and you,” he jokes, exiting the car. I hear the trunk open and shut. He returns to my car door, reaches inside, and guides me out by the hand.
“Come on, we should get upstairs, but let me wipe this down first.”
I look at my watch, eight-twenty-five a.m. Shit! I’m late. Even though my witch of a manager is out of town on business, she always leaves her secretary in charge of employees’ time in and out of the office.
“Bishop, I gotta go. I’ll see you at noon.”
“Bet. Just give the hostess my name when you get to the restaurant.”
I leave him wiping down his backseat and make a mad dash for the elevator to the lobby. I stand in front of the main elevators to go to my office, and goofy-ass George appears and has the nerve to approach me.
“Connie, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just getting inside? Where’s Bishop?”
“I don’t know. Excuse me, please.” I gladly step onto the elevator to get away from him. I see him turn and yell, “Bishop, man, where have you been? I left you in the garage thirty-five minutes ago.”
The elevator doors close, ending my tolerance of his annoying voice. I enter onto my floor and luckily, my boss’ secretary is away from her desk. I rush to my office and partially close the door. Just as I log onto my computer, the secretary knocks on my door, asking a made-up question about the Harrison contract. I know she’s taking a head count.
I watch the time elapse, counting down to twelve when I am to meet Bishop for lunch at the Westin Peachtree. There is so much work to do, but I need a break. My manager, Ms. Collins, should know better than to overwork her staff, whether she’s here or not. She’s not the nicest boss I’ve ever had, eit
her, always demanding and controlling. She gives micromanagement a whole new meaning with her stringent ass. I wish the heifer would leave and never come back. But that’ll never happen. She’s a partner and gets much respect at Clark and Howard. They say she’s hell in a courtroom and I believe it too, ’cause she gives me hell every day.
I hope my eleven o’clock meeting for the Barron account doesn’t run over. An hour should be enough time to negotiate the final terms of the contract.
I look at the conference room clock again and I’m irritated that Mr. Barron wants to haggle over one small detail about the verbiage around license renewal. I do all I can to meet the needs of the Barron Group as well as Clark and Howard’s terms and conditions. Finally, at twelve-fifteen, Mr. Barron agrees to sign the contract. I give the final drafts to the paralegal to type up and return to me by close of business today. I return to my desk, grab my purse, and head to the elevator.
I anxiously wait for the elevator to descend to the lobby level. I rush out the front doors of 191 Peachtree and race across the street. I hope Bishop is still at the Westin. It’s twelve-twenty-seven. I know he’s probably gone, thinking that I’m a no-show. But I’ll go check just to be sure.
The hostess greets me with a friendly smile and I ask for Bishop Thomas.
“Right this way.”
The hostess leads me to a table alongside the large, wide window. Bishop stands to greet me.
“I thought you weren’t gonna come. What happened?”
“Closing the Barron account took longer than I anticipated. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“No harm, no foul. Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I answer as I feel my stomach rumble.
The waiter approaches us, gives the lunch specials, and takes our order. While we wait for our food, I initiate our earlier conversation again. I’m curious as hell to find out more about Bishop and his wife.
“So, Bishop Thomas, tell me, why are you cheating on your wife?” I go straight for the jugular to see what he has to say for himself. I know my reasons for cheating on Keith. I don’t know one female who says she likes an undersized penis. Whoever says, it’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean is a damn liar.
