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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.
