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BOOK: Married on Mondays
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The benefit of living in a large city was if any of his clients saw his photos in Isis’s house, Winton could tell the truth
and lie, saying Isis was a former client and he had no idea she had a crush on him. During their year of dating, he made sure
not to leave a sock, a used toothbrush, strands of hair from his comb, or his underwear. His first mistress taught him not
to trust women. She’d slipped her red thong in his suit pocket. After he finished cursing her out, that never happened again—with
her or with his subsequent mistresses. What if his wife had found the cum-stained thong? How would he have explained?

Isis hugged and kissed him, removed his jacket, hung it in the foyer closet, then said, “Hey, baby. Perfect timing. Dinner
is ready. Wash up while I fix our plates.”

Watching her hips sway side to side, he licked his lips. She had a nice frame. Not banging like his wife’s, but nice. Isis
was almost five feet five and lived in three-inch heels. A woman’s shoes—slip-ons, sling backs, open toe, closed toe, high
heels, no heels, gladiator, alligator, leopard, zebra, snakeskin—spoke volumes about her sexuality and her inhibitions. At
times all he wanted to see Isis in were high heels. He knew her well enough to know she wasn’t wearing anything under that
dress. Her pussy was always prepared for his dessert.

She’d taken time to style her hair, slip into a halter maxidress, and put on a thin layer of strawberry gloss. He sniffed
the air as she walked away. “Um, so decadent,” he said, appreciating she’d worn his favorite grapefruit-scented perfume. There
was something about the scent of grapefruit or vanilla that instantly made him horny. That and the thought of Nova’s lips
on his dick.

The table for six was set for two. His seat was at the head. Her seat was to his left. The centerpiece, seven long-stemmed
white unscented candles, illuminated the room. Isis’s face glowed each time he saw her. She was worthy of a man that would
marry and give her the two children she desired. He was selfish. Although he was married, he refused to share Isis with another
man. Based on her decision to be with him, she’d delayed what was important to her, having kids.

Isis was incredibly beautiful inside and out. She’d do anything for him. He couldn’t say the same about himself. Her soft
skin, gentle smile, and mild demeanor attracted him to her instantly. Her spirit of pleasing him first made him feel at home
in her home. She could never come to his. He seldom saw her cry but imagined there were times she had when no one was listening.

Settling for his offerings of companionship, sex; his leaving every night in the middle of the night; her waking up alone
couldn’t have made her happy. But he was as good to her as he could be. He stayed with her on weekends. Vacationed with her
once a month. Isis was his hobby; golfing was his alibi.

She desperately wanted to have his baby. Why a single woman would want to have a married man’s child was incomprehensible.
Her irrational request was more of a reason why he’d faithfully worn a condom each time they made love. He did love her. He
had the kind of love that cared for her but not deeply. It was time to let her go, release her to the flock of men waiting
for their chance to lay between her legs. He contemplated if this was a good moment to address the inevitable.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Isis said. “Everything okay? You haven’t touched your food.”

Winton admired the feast before him. Grilled tilapia with fresh herbs and spices, whipped buttered potatoes, glazed carrots,
and his favorite, mushrooms marinated in bourbon. The sourdough bread sat on a white cloth napkin inside a tan wicker basket.
The porcelain dish was filled with small balls of butter. Crystal goblets half full of merlot were next to chilled glasses
and a thirty-two-ounce bottle of distilled water.

You’d be an idiot to tell her now. Save the bad news for another day.

For the first time in three years, he wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to go home to his wife. In between his XXX-rated
fantasies of Nova, Winton recalled how his wife’s tears were uncontrollable. If going home would make Foxy happy again, he
could do that. Maybe he should revisit asking his wife to have his baby. He drummed on the table with his thumbs.

“It’s your new client, isn’t it? Do not tell me you slept with that psycho, Nova.”

He shook his head, kept drumming.

“Cut that out! You’re driving me crazy. What is it?”

“This isn’t a good time. It can wait,” he said, easing a flake of fish onto his fork. He opened wide, took his time chewing,
nodded. “Um, baby, this is really good.”

Isis stood, tossed her napkin in his face, stormed out of the room without responding.

He placed his and her napkins on the table beside his plate, in case he wanted to finish eating before he left, then followed
her into the living room.

“Okay, fine. I was trying not to spoil a good meal, but you talk too much. Telling your family and friends that we’re getting
married is circulating rumors. I warned you not to do that,” he said shifting the reason for him wanting a breakup to blaming

Isis sat sideways on her lemon suede chaise. “There can’t possibly be any rumors. I only told my mom, my sister, and my best
friend. Three people. That’s it.” She placed the leopard pillow on her lap.

“Not three people. You told three women. That’s like saying it on
. You’re hardheaded. You don’t listen. It’s all your fault,” he said, sitting on the sofa facing her.

Her eyes started tearing. “So what are you saying?”

“I care for you Isis but…” He paused, shook his head. “You’ve forced me to end a perfect relationship. I hate doing this,
but I can’t afford to have bad press following me. I have partners to protect. I have too much at stake. I’m sorry, baby.
It’s over.”

“Don’t say that. I promise I won’t tell anyone else. And if anyone questions me, I’ll tell them the rumor is a lie.”

Winton shook his head, removed his key chain from his pocket.

Isis grabbed his ring. “No, don’t.”

He snatched his keys. “Your fault.”

“So just like that you’re going to abandon this,” she said, untying her halter.

He stared at her succulent perfect titties. Her nipples were hard. She eased her dress down to her waist, over her ass, then
let it fall to the floor. She stepped out of the dress. Her stilettos were all that remained.

“Come here,” he said. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” He held her hips. Positioned her pussy in front his face, kissed her
pubic hairs.

She held his head.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, then stood. He pointed at the sofa, then commanded, “On your knees right now.”

She knelt on the sofa. Looked over her shoulder.

“Don’t look at me.”

She turned away.

“Spread your ass,” he said, taking off his belt.

Her hands curved over the sexiest ass of all his mistresses.

He folded his belt, gripped each side, placed his hands together, and…
Isis flinched. He snapped the belt again. She flinched again.

“Damn, that’s a pretty asshole.” He unfastened, then unzipped his pants. “Move your hands.”

She held on to the back of the sofa. He tossed the belt to the floor.

He stroked his dick while admiring her ass. “I’m about to tear this ass up.” He rubbed his dick on her shaft, teased her clit
with his head.

“Baby, I’m—”

“Shut… up!” He stuck his hard head inside her pussy, then pulled out. She moaned. He licked his thumb, massaged her asshole,
then eased the tip in, held it there. He reinserted his dick in her tight pussy. He teased her. Only putting the head in,
he held it there.

She backed up.

He slapped her ass with his palm. “Keep your ass still. I’m in charge of this pussy, you hear me?”

She nodded.

“You gon’ listen to me next time.”

She nodded again.

He spat on her asshole, reinserted his thumb in her ass. This time he thrust his dick all the way inside her, then quickly
pulled out. He stooped, pulled up his pants, retrieved a condom from his pocket. “Fuck this.” He stepped out of his pants,
threw them against the wall. They fell on the chaise. “I’m about to get knee-deep in this pussy, and I don’t care how good
it feels, or how much it hurts, you’d better not whimper or say a word.”

He spat inside his condom, rolled it up his shaft, stood behind her. He reinserted his finger in her ass, thrust his dick
deep in her pussy, then massaged her clit with his other hand. He slid his hand over the hole from which she urinated and
circled his finger around her urethra in slow motion. He alternated from her clit to her shaft to her urethra.

He repositioned his dick two inches from the opening of her vagina and massaged his head into her G-spot. Inserted his thumb
a little deeper in her ass. He pumped ten quick times deep inside her pussy, then moved his head back to her G-spot. He pushed
his thumb all the way in her ass and massaged her insides while massaging her clit, shaft, and urethra.

“I’m going to—”

“Let my pussy flow,” he said.

“No. Not on my sofa,” she cried.

He thrust deeper with every word, “What—did—I—say? Let—my—pussy—squirt.”

Ten quick jackhammer thrusts, he pulled his dick out, unplugged his thumb from her ass, lifted his finger from her urethra.
He grabbed her hips and fucked her so hard his nuts banged against her clit. He pulled out again.

She cried as her fluids squirted like a fountain all over the sofa.

He had to make her squirt one last time. He’d made all his mistresses squirt for their first and probably last time. Not many
men were selfless enough to learn how to make a woman squirt. Since his marriage the only woman he hadn’t made squirt was
his wife. He was more interested in making a baby with his wife than pleasing Foxy in bed.

Winton walked into the bathroom, left Isis bent over on the sofa. He showered. When he exited the bathroom, Isis was in her
bed asleep. He left her key on her nightstand, retrieved his jacket from her foyer closet. She’d get the message. By the time
she did, he’d be prepared to explain his decision to leave her was final.



ilies float

Ships sink

Ships float

Lilies sink

People drown

In misery




Who’s responsible

When the train wrecks

No one had the right to dictate the person she shared her body with. From the men she’d left behind to the woman she married,
who was asleep beside her, Victoria was true to herself. There was compassion and passion for everyone and everything in her
life. All the things she’d done, all that she’d accomplished, made her and her parents proud.

Her father would say, “Girls, if your heart is in the right space, you are in the right place.”

Victoria didn’t have an extramarital affair like her sister Foxy or domination obsessions like her sister DéJà, but she respected
their differences. She couldn’t say why Foxy had married Winton but had fucked Dallas for three consecutive years. She didn’t
understand why DéJà had temper tantrums as a teen and why she exploded as an adult whenever she didn’t get her way. “Live
and let live” was Victoria’s motto. Allowing others to be their authentic selves free of judgment created peace in her space.

Lying on a pillow facing her wife, Victoria smiled. She was proud to identify as a lesbian, knowing she had the right to revert
to being heterosexual if she wanted. The one thing Victoria would never become was labeled. Labels only had credence if she
allowed someone else to dictate or influence her choices. Her father taught her the only person that validated Victoria Montgomery
was Victoria Montgomery. She was proud to have an intelligent, attractive, soft butch wife who was a partner in Brown, Cooper,
and Dawson, and she was most proud to be a thirty-year-old virgin.

The relationships she had with her sisters meant more to her than the millions of dollars they’d earned operating Crème. The
woman she cuddled with at night and awakened to each morning meant more to Victoria than all the men and women combined that
she’d coached to orgasm.

Her cell phone buzzed at 4:00 a.m. Thursday. She rolled over, checked the display, then whispered to Naomi, “It’s DéJà.” Victoria
eased out the bed, went to the guest bedroom, closed the door, then hissed, “Do you know what time of the morning it is? You’ve
got to cut this out. I can’t see you anymore. I’m happily married. Please stop calling me.” She sat on the bed. Waited for
his response. When was he going to give up on fucking her the way he wanted?

Being a virgin had its privileges until now. Victoria’s virginity made men view her two ways. Some called her a liar. Their
problem, not hers. She had nothing to prove to them. Other men saw her as a conquest worth endlessly pursuing, like Rain,
who was on the other end but hadn’t spoken a word.

BOOK: Married on Mondays
9.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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