BY; Kisha

PART 1

Chapter 1 (2^nd Term)

My Husband, Robert Price, has been the Governor of California for almost five years. My name is Lisa Price, and we’ve been married for nearly seven years. We have two children: a son, Robert Price Jr., who’s five years old, and a daughter, Sheila Price, who is four years old. Being in our mid-thirties serves us well with our duties. Me being a former Miss USA, and my husband follows in his family’s footsteps as a political leader. Our votes were almost guaranteed. We even sleep in the same bed and make love twice a week. We have a steamy love life. We role-play, I strip for him and sometimes sneak into his office during his workday and give him a nice, hot blowjob, and he gives me a seductive lick. I love having control over him. I snuck into his office naked underneath a summer dress for a quickie, and one of his colleagues came in while I was riding him to orgasm. I had to hide under his desk quickly. It was so much fun.

While I was under his desk, I unzipped his pants and began to suck him slowly. Watching him trying to maintain a composer was much fun. His colleague thought he was sick because he kept pausing and panting, and at the time of his orgasm, he yelled out, “fuck,” and his colleague jumped and dropped his coffee. He let me have it later that night. My folds were sore for days. I loved it! Nothing will ever stop me from loving my husband. He’s lovely, and he loves people. He has a big heart. Not to mention a big cock and a fast and thick tongue. Thinking of it now makes my folds pulsate and very wet.

But there’s a dark side of me, a thrill I can’t let go of, a secret my husband doesn’t know about. I love to dance, exotic, not nude. I’m not a stripper, but I like to dance. My stage name is Lizzie Sass. I’m a headliner at the Gallow Showroom in Las Vegas. I’m famous. I’d been dancing for ten years and started dancing before meeting my husband. I fly to Las Vegas almost every Saturday night and dance under Lizzie, who wears a blonde lace wig, sexy makeup, exotic nails, blue eye contacts, and lingerie. No one can recognize me from my daily look of brown hair, civilized two-piece female suits, dresses, and evening gowns. I go from Stepford’s wife to stage Beyonce almost every Saturday night. No one caught on to my double life. My husband thinks I meet at the women’s club all day on Saturdays. Little does he know, I meet my club wives earlier in the day and don’t go to a spa afterward. I fly to Las Vegas for a few hours and put on a jam-packed, sold-out show almost every Saturday.

Our pilot, Jimmy Fulker, knows about my double life. I pay him very well to keep my secret. Not to mention Jimmy dating my understudy Natalie, my best friend at the club. They’ve been dating for three years, and he’s considering marrying Natalie. Natalie and I became friends during her audition. I was auditioning new dancers for my new show. She immediately caught onto the dance routine and is now my lead dancer. Then it’s our driver, David Brown of many years, who is also paid very well, loves the sporting bars, and occasionally has sex in our limo. I told him I didn’t know what he would do if the limo were clean.

It’s now Saturday, and I must meet the club wives. Some look like they haven’t had an orgasm on a real cock in years. They swallow down wine like it is bottled water. Their skin is not naturally forced. They only glow from cosmetics and face creams. Trust me, I know. Take Sally Thompson, for example…

She’s been married for twenty-five years and married her husband Fred Thompson in college because she was pregnant from a one-night stand as a virgin, and her parents are highly religious and wealthy. Her husband is six-two, slim and athletic, with black hair, grey eyes, a killer white smile, and rumored to be blessed below. Sally is five-seven,125lbs, with long natural blonde hair, blue eyes, very perky boobs, and a curvy figure. She hides under frumpy dresses, pantsuits, and jeans; they only had sex to have kids. They have three, two girls and a boy. Nannies primarily raised them. All adults and out of the house, the girls are married, and the son follows in his father’s footsteps. Her husband is a congressman and is known as a serial cheater. He’s had many lovers, sometimes multiple at the same time. Sally is ten years older than me. The ladies and I suggest she take in some lovers, like her husband, and most of them do. But she is dedicated and honorable to be a faithful Christian wife, like the bible says, despite her husband not caring. She doesn’t even masturbate. She’s devoted to church and charity work. She is like a bomb, ready to explode.

Then there’s Theresa Johnson, my best friend. She and her husband, Gary Johnson, are so in love. They’ve been married for ten years. They’re both negros. Theresa is five-seven, 148lbs of pure voluptuous curvaceous body. Perky boobs, lips, and buttocks. Every time she enters a room, it’s like looking through time glass. She looked so much like Dorothy Dandridge. She’s a therapist. She walks and speaks like her. Her husband is six-four and is 230lbs of pure muscle. He’s one of Los Angeles’s top lawyers, and she is one of L.A.’s top therapists. They have one child, an 8-year-old son, and no plans to have any more. They’re too involved in their careers. These two screws like rabbits. You would think they’re trying to get pregnant again. They make my husband and I look like amateurs. I believe I caught them a couple of times, once in a supply closet and another time when her husband was fingering her during a charity concert while sitting next to my husband and me. I had never seen anyone move that much in their seats. Witnessing that much chemistry made me very horny, and I tackled my husband as soon as we got into our limo.

Then there’s Bernadine Garcia, a fashion designer, the bitch of the group who’s married to one of the top plastic surgeons and looks beautifully fake. They’re both in their late thirties. She looks like Kim Kardashian, the woman she idolizes. Her husband is Javier Garcia, six feet two inches tall, 240 lbs, Cuban, athletic, and muscular. The two came from very wealthy families and were put together by their families. They’re not in love but very good at faking it. Their two kids, a teenage boy and a girl, were planned and were born via surrogacy, Because Bernadine, whom we call Berny, wasn’t trying to get fat or have her vagina stretched. She’s had many lovers, and so did her husband. They have their affairs, but their image is essential for the family’s empire and legacy. So, when it comes to them faking the perfect family, the kids and them are pros. Their kids are both very spoiled and are mirror images of their parents. The boy looks like his father, and the girl looks like Berny before the surgeries.

And finally, the angel of our group, Tasha Banks, and her husband, Richard Banks, a mega-church Bishop, our families go to their church every Sunday. Tasha and Richard have four children, all community and church members. They’ve been married for going on twenty years. Whenever we have problems and need counseling, we call Tasha. She may be a pastor’s wife, but she doesn’t judge and knows times have changed. So, her advice is always fresh, depending on who she gives it to. She doesn’t try to change anyone. They are the lights of our group, and without their support, my husband would not have become Governor. Our group’s affairs, lies, etc., wouldn’t stay secret. Most people figure that if the Banks support us, we’re clean people, not to mention the vast donations we give them.

All of us are sitting for our Saturday brunch. Berny, as usual, complains about her husband, kids, parents, and their money while sipping on a full wine glass of Merlot. Theresa tries to rationalize Berny’s thoughts while sipping her usual Moscato wine. I constantly tell her she needs to relax and let things go as they may while sipping a Sprite soda, pretending its vodka on the rocks. Tasha tells her she needs to discipline and give her kids structure, or they will drive her husband and her crazy and drain their bank accounts while sipping Pinot Noir. Meanwhile, Sally ideally sits by quietly and occasionally gives two to four-word sentences, comments, or verbal reactions while sipping a bloody mary.

“I don’t understand how hard it is to pose for an updated family picture,” complains Berny.

“Well, who all are you trying to get to pose for the picture?” I said while sipping my soda.

“Everyone! The entire family! We haven’t taken one since my mother died,” said Berny. At the same time, she was pouring herself another glass of wine.

“Sorry to hear that, Berny,” said Sally, taking another sip of her bloody mary.

“Berny, you will have to bribe everyone to get them to pose for a family picture because most of you don’t see each other or get along,” said Theresa.

Berny deflated and laid her head between her arms on the table while softly knocking on the table and pouting.

“I know, and I don’t want to,” Bernie said, pouting.

“Well, you can always use the power of guilt,” said Tasha while rubbing Berny’s back.

“Girl, Berny family, don’t feel guilty,” I said while sipping my soda.

“Gee, thanks, Lisa,” said Berny while raising her head from the table.

“But you’re correct. They don’t, shit,” said Berny while sipping her wine.

 At that time, the pickleball competition was announced.

“Okay, it’s time to go! Because I don’t have the patience to argue with the pickleball whores,” I said while swallowing the last of my fake vodka on the rocks, grabbing my bag, and standing.

“Yes, me too. Those girls always make me forget I’m a Christian,” said Tasha.

“Me too,” said Sally.

“I’m right behind you, Ma,” softly shouted Theresa.

“Fuck them bitches! But I do NOW have to bribe my damn family,” Bernie barked.

“Well, let me know if you need me, okay,” said Tasha.

“I will, thanks, Tasha,” Berny said with watery eyes.

We hugged and walked to our chauffeured limos, town cars, etc., waiting outside. Our drivers know we all leave before the pickleball whores come in.

The pickleball whores are prime gold diggers. They consist of five women. They all came from no money and screwed their way to wealthy men. They started playing pickleball to land their rich men. They then turned into some sorority or club.

The head pickleball whore is Francine Stine, who was born and raised in Queens, New York, and was raised in foster homes and stripped her way to a millionaire. Her husband is named Larry Stine, a finance investor who acts like a frat boy. To whom all our spouses do business. They have two children who, unfortunately, are friends with my kids.

TO BE CONTINUED…