Mrs. Bishop

It Started So Innocently…

“Rain, sugar, you bring pride to the Lady Pirates. You surely do.”

My eyes flew open. It had been a brutal practice after which Coach Suggs had me running laps. I promised to meet at Le Café after showering. Mrs. Bishop, the soccer team’s number one financial supporter, stood at the end edge of the showers dressed in yellow from her open toe pumps to her feathered hat. Wednesday night was a very important night for the church ladies of Eastern North Carolina. “Thank you, Mrs. Bishop.” I smiled, pushing my head back under the stream to wash out the last of the conditioner. I cranked off the water and wrung out my hair out gently before wrapping it in a towel. My hair was a dense mane of white-blonde and my pride. True. I was slim, stacked and leggy, I tanned easily and my eyes were nearly black they were so blue. My hair, though, was my pride.

As was my habit, I only brought one towel into the locker room. My usual routine is to shower, twenty minutes in the sauna, cold shower, facial, and then my entire body moisturized and powdered. My teammates torture me relentlessly – but, I’ve seen the effects of sun and inattention. I take care of myself. Now I was in a quandary about what to do. I’m not Seinfeld anal retentive but I actually liked my beauty regiment. Mrs. Bishop stood in the middle of the shower entrance. I mentally shrugged, figuring we were both women – there wasn’t anything here either one of us hadn’t seen before. Cocking my hip against the entrance frame, I crossed my arms over my chest and smiled. “Pardon my appearance, Mrs. Bishop,” I laughed, a genuine smile breaking over my face, “Coach Suggs kept me after to run laps so I’m running behind schedule.”

“Yes, dear, I know.” Mrs. Suggs stated simply, her rotund face lighting up with a smile of her own.

“That’s nice,” I said, my mind formulating what I wanted to say. “I just wanted to thank you again for giving me an evening clerical position. It’s rather odd to be the only one…you know?” I asked, finally processing what Mrs. Bishop had said.

Mrs. Bishop threw back her head and laughed. “Yes, dear,” she said, her incredible girth jiggling toward me. She laid one of her long, fat hands on my stomach and gently began to rub it. “I drove down to Camp LeJeune to see the beautiful, smart, athletic, Rainbow Snowflake Monk.” A moan escaped my lips as Mrs. Bishop plunged two long, fat fingers into my pussy. “Imagine my surprise that one of the Onslow County Monks wasn’t a whore a ne’er-do-well.” Mrs. Bishop continued, plunging the other two fingers into my pussy while her thumb beat some sort of mystical pattern on my clit.

I literally beat my head against the wall once while this fat tweety bird of a woman got me in minutes with her hand. “Praise Jesus, girl. An orgasm is truly the work of Our Lord and Savior.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” I said compliantly. I brought Mrs. Bishop’s hand to my lips, studying her face the whole. I stopped when she shook her head.

“No, darling, I can’t let you do that. You see,” she said, hefting her bulk to the floor and crawling between my legs. “Mr. Bishop was my Daddy’s lawyer. And Daddy, well, he was old fashioned. He was going to leave all his money to the church if I didn’t marry. Of course, I wasn’t going to marry. I’m a lesbian and used to shock the whole of Eastern North Carolina with my exploits. Mr. Bishop and I worked out an arrangement of marriage with the understanding that I never allowed another woman to touch me sexually while he was still alive.” Mrs. Bishop gave me a broad wink. “But he never said nothing about my not eating pussy.”

And we were off. That fat woman suckled me like a runt finally getting a chance at a teat. I came over and over and over again. I begged her to let me fuck her. I wanted to return the favor. She just laughed and laughed and refused.

Lying in the middle of locker room, I watched Mrs. Bishop waddle over to the whirlpool and fill it up. She took forbidden oils out of her purse and dumped them under the running water. Boy, would Coach Suggs be mad if she saw this. Mrs. Bishop washed me, massaged me, and then left me lying limp in the tub.

“I can now believe you’re related to the Monks, sugar,” Mrs. Bishop said. “I don’t know why you’re bottling up all that passion. If I were you,” Mrs. Bishop said, dropping a card on the bench by my locker, “I would give Dave a call and make some real money in his stable. Screw the clerical work.”

Mrs. Bishop was gone. She hadn’t once removed her hat. I knew who Mrs. Bishop meant. Dave Ryan Ryan was notorious from birth. His parents were brother and sister. They had gone to court during their engagement to have themselves declared step-brother and step-sister – no relation at all except by marriage. Since they had both slid out of the womb of the same mother, everybody wondered what secret Judge Duke wanted kept quiet that he would rule them related by marriage only. The two had gone on to name their first son Dave Ryan Ryan which only incensed the fires of curiosity.

Dave and she were both born into families of notoriety. Dave was from a long line of bank robbers and con artists while she was from a long line of whores and the bastards they bore from the wealthy enclaves of the Carolinas. The girl bastards were reared to be the best possible whores money could buy while the boys were reared to be the best legal representation money could buy. In the Carolinas, things are slow to catch up with the times.

Rain shook her head. She wouldn’t do business with Dave. He was fair boss and he treated his stable like royalty. But he branded his people. She would forever bear the mark of Ð on her flesh covering her left pelvic bone. No man would brand her. Rain was her own woman.