Married on Mondays

by HoneyB

Genres: African American Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

By day, Valerie Cooper, Dierdra Dawson, and Foxy Brown assist their husbands, all partners at the law firm Brown, Cooper, and Dawson. But at night, they become Vanilla Cream, Cherry Cream, and Sugar Cream, and run an upscale swingers club called Creamé. Their clientele include everyone from judges, lawyers, politicians, and police officers, to soccer moms and housewives. Business is booming at the hottest club in town. Until the police chief extends an indecent proposal to Foxy: sleep with him, or go to jail. With the whole town standing behind Creamé (and not just because they all happen to be clients), the women must decide whether to stand together and fight, or risk losing their business.

Release date: March 2, 2010

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 307

Sample

Sexually liberated women are in high demand but there is a low supply.

I’ve moved the section I originally placed here—“Would You Marry for Love?”—to the end of the book, because since I’ve started
hosting HONEYB Adult Slumber Parties, I’m not surprised, I’m shocked at the number of women who are unconsciously sabotaging
their G-spot with sheer neglect. It’s like walking by a plant every day and not noticing the plant until it starts to wither.
“Oh, you poor thing.” And instead of watering the plant, what do you do? “Let me take you out of your misery.” Some of you
actually throw the plant in the trash. Just like you’ve done with your G-spot, you’re letting your pussy slowly deteriorate.


The G-spot is named after the German gynecologist Ernst Gräfenberg. Ladies, Ernst is our hero and we will not let his research
be in vain. Some women don’t know their G-spot exists. They haven’t lost it, but don’t know where to find it, or they’re having
sex with men who are clueless about the G-spot and other female erogenous zones.


The HoneyB wants you to stop. Stop right now, raise your right hand, and tell the truth. Is your pussy on the G-spot genocide
hit list? If it is, I want you to take yours off today, especially if you’ve never experienced an orgasm. With pussy, all
things are possible. Let me rephrase that. With good pussy, all things are possible. A good pussy is an untamed, well-trained
pussy.


Here is my twelve-step program to G-spot vitalization:

I’m no G-spot genius but I do consider myself a sexpert. I can’t speak in more technical terms as a gynecologist would, but
I have helped women become sexually liberated. I’m like the orgasmic midwife who helps to deliver orgasms instead of babies,
except I don’t make house calls or booty calls. I do consultations. If there is anything I don’t know about sex, I want to
learn, therefore I’m more educated on the female anatomy, sex, and sexuality, and have more hands-on experience than the average
person.


The right person or persons, a clean environment (I am a Virgo, okay), and a healthy frame of mind free from judgment of self
and others can lead you to the most incredible orgasmic moments you’ll ever experience. Most people worry too much about what
others think and not enough about how they feel. When your life transitions, the only person you have to answer for is you.
Do not deny yourself sexual healing or pleasure. But first you must learn what pleases you.


Want to see actual pictures of a woman’s G-spot? Want to learn more about your G-spot, orgasms, and vaginal exercises? Here
are a few of my favorite websites:


1.
www.MaryMorrison.com


2.
www.doctorg.com


3.
www.speculum.com


You cannot overeducate yourself on sex or sexuality. Now that you’re equipped with the tools to stimulate your G-spot, if
you desire you can learn how to fill your urethra with ejaculate and learn how to… squirt, baby, squirt! Men love it when
women squirt, so the HoneyB has incorporated female ejaculation into the story line of Married on Mondays.

If you want me to host a HONEYB Adult Slumber Party for your book club or your event, email me at
[email protected].


 

CRÈME CITY

THE PULSE OF THE USA


POPULATION: 6.9 MILLION



Four years of marriage.

Three years of adultery.

Two men.

One woman.

Mondays were her hardest days to stay focused. Being one man’s woman and another man’s wife was physically manageable but
emotionally draining, especially on Mondays when she had to spend “quality time” with her husband.

Four years ago she stood at the altar. Vowing to forsake all others, she longed to fold back her veil and kiss her ex-fiancé,
who sat center aisle, fifth row. She glanced over her shoulder, blinked him a kiss with her eyes, then faced her husband.
The tall, dark, and handsome man who stood in front the pastor wasn’t the only man she was in love with. Her ex-fiancé could
have easily been the better man. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop loving him.


“If anyone has cause why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now,” the pastor said.

Whew! There were valid reasons why she couldn’t honor or obey her ex-fiancé, but she cherished him the same as her husband before
and after she’d said, “I do.”


Foxy leaned across her desk, handed her sister DéJà the deposit envelope for the money earned from servicing their customers
and clients. She stood, hugged her sister Victoria. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.”


“Everything will be all right,” Victoria said, hugging Foxy. “Open up to your husband tonight. Tell him the truth. If you
don’t want to tell him, pray. God will show you the way.”


Foxy pushed Victoria away. Her half smile represented her love for her sisters. The other half that should’ve shown her happiness
to see her husband remained suppressed. A wise wife never confessed her affairs.


“Be on time tomorrow,” DéJà scolded. “We’re not going to keep baking your pastries for you.”

“Why can’t you empathize with Foxy? You know she’s emotionally distraught,” Victoria said. “Take your time tomorrow. I don’t
mind covering for you.”


“Well, I do,” DéJà retorted.

Hugging DéJà, Foxy said, “I love you too, sis. Bye Victoria and thanks. Y’all have fun for me this evening.” Carrying assorted
pastries to her car, Foxy exhaled, placing the white box on the passenger seat.


Opening her legs led to opening her heart. Or was it the other way around? Loving two men had emotionally torn her apart.
Three years into her affair, she didn’t know how to end her marriage or her relationship with her ex.


As she exited the driveway of Crème her cell phone buzzed. Seeing his name on her caller ID, she smiled from the inside out,
then answered, “Hey, you.”


“What’s wrong?” he asked without saying hello.

“Same ole, you know. Got that Monday morning blues straight through Monday afternoon.”

He moaned in her ear, “How’s my pussy?”

Her pussy contracted with excitement. Her body tingled.

“Touch her for me,” he whispered.

This time when he spoke, she came. Her vaginal muscles pulsated repeatedly. She hadn’t touched herself. The sound of his alluring
voice made her cum. “Stop it. I’m driving.”


“Then pull over and take off your thong for me. Stick your finger in your pussy for me. I bet she’s hot just the way I like
her.”


“Good-bye,” Foxy said.

His voice softened with sincerity. “I love you, Foxy. I will always love you.”

Why did he have to constantly remind her how much he loved her? Flowers, gifts, massages, dancing, movies, art galleries,
museums, comedy shows, Broadway plays—all the things her husband used to do her ex had never stopped doing.


She reflected on the day he’d taken her to see The Color Purple the night before the Tony Awards. Fifth row. Aisle seats. Oprah and Gayle sat five rows behind them in the middle of that
row. When Celie and Nettie cried, she cried too. Her tears played patty-cake with her ex-man’s soul. He was her best friend.
Everybody needed somebody to hug, to love. Her ex was always there for her. That was more than she could attest to for her
workaholic husband.


“I love you too,” she said ending the call.

Foxy made a U-turn to take the long route home. She drove slower than usual. Headed north instead of south on Shoreline Drive
to avoid passing her ex-fiancé’s house. Three-thirty traffic was light. Her pussy was moist. When would her husband realize
she was no longer a happily married woman? Did he care?


She pressed the engine button, turned off her car, then watched shoppers load grocery bags in their trunks. Women with kids,
unaccompanied by men, got in and out of vehicles. She wondered if the women had husbands that used to grocery shop with them
the way her husband used to shop with her.


Walking into the store, Foxy called her dad.

He answered, “Hey, how’s my number one princess?”

Hearing his voice made her smile. No man had treated her better than her father. When she was a little girl that was a good
thing. Now that she was a woman, when her father gave her away, she thought her husband would treat her better. She was wrong.
“I’m good, Daddy, how are you?” she asked, inspecting the filet mignon.


“Doing great. You sound perturbed. What’s… ah, the Monday blues,” he said. “I told you to think like me. If you decide to
do something, don’t worry about it. If you’re going to worry about it, don’t do it, princess.”


“I’m not you, Daddy.”

“I know, princess. And I know you’re not happy, but whatever you do, don’t have an affair. We men aren’t as forgiving as you
women. Hey, I’m trying to downsize without layoffs. I have to go into a meeting. I’ll call you later. Love you,” he said.


“Love you too, Daddy,” Foxy said, dropping her phone in her purse. She tossed red potatoes, fresh spinach, and a bottle of
her husband’s favorite merlot into the shopping cart. Thinking about her husband somberly, she scanned her debit card, waited
for the bagger to place her items in the cart.


Foxy missed her man. She visualized his dick inside her, his hands caressing her breasts. She smiled placing the bags in the
trunk. Her body jerked. Another orgasm surprised her. Hadn’t seen him since Saturday night. Yesterday she was at church with
her sisters. She refused to go to the altar when Victoria had asked. Her sister was not her savior and going to the altar
would’ve only satisfied Victoria. Foxy knew she was no saint but neither were her married sisters.


On her drive home from the store, Foxy called her man. “Hey, baby. I just called back to say I miss you.”

“Stop by for a minute so I can hug my sweet baby,” he said.

“You know I have to have dinner with him. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.”

“Love you too,” he said.

Foxy carried the food to the kitchen where she seasoned the meat and chopped the potatoes. She showered, brushed her teeth.
Gathered her hair in a ponytail, put on a canary yellow gown and red three-inch slip-on heels.


She’d finished cooking by six. Heard her husband’s car in the garage.

“Hey, gorgeous. Smells good in here,” he said, bypassing her. No more kisses when he walked in. No hugs. No slaps on her juicy
booty.


She set the table, prepared their plates, put extra servings of potatoes and dessert closest to his seat at the table. Her
husband entered the dining room. He’d traded his suit and tie for the clothes he’d sleep in, a pair of gray baggy sweats and
a wife beater.


His behind was barely in the seat before he beamed. “Got a new client today, gorgeous. You’ll never guess who?” His grin was
wide.


All he ever talked about was work, work, work. But this smile was different.

“Yeah, who?”

“Nova,” he said like he was on a first-name basis with whoever she was.

“Nova, who?”

He nodded. “Scotia, baby. Nova Scotia.” His lips curved upward like a kid who’d just gotten his first cell phone.

“That’s nice.” His enthusiasm for another woman had ruined more than her appetite.

Was there anything about her that excited him that way? The remainder of dinner was quiet. Squirming in his seat, her husband
hardly kept still. She excused herself from the table, brushed her teeth. She went to bed early. He crawled in beside her
at midnight. No touches, no kisses, no hugs.


Her husband turned his back, hugged his pillow, and squirmed himself to sleep.



Sandwiched in a love triangle—her husband on one side, her ex-fiancé on the other—Foxy was able to sustain her marriage. Her
husband should thank her ex-fiancé for sexing her senseless. Her ex-fiancé would soon be indebted to her husband. Neither
man satisfied all her needs, but together, her two men were the perfect blend.


She didn’t marry for money. Had a separate bank account. She didn’t marry for love. Nowadays, love didn’t last long enough.
Had her heart broken twice by the same man. Wasn’t going to be his fool again. She didn’t marry for mind-blowing sex. She
knew how to pleasure herself before she surrendered her virginity at the tender age of sixteen. She didn’t marry to gain social
recognition. Her self-esteem was so high no man could scorn her. She didn’t marry to validate her womanhood. She was a woman
solely in charge of her life.


Tuesday morning she opened her eyes, glanced at her husband’s side of the bed. As usual, he wasn’t there. His getting out
of bed before her shouldn’t bother her but it did. No more making love, morning quickies, or light kisses on her lips before
he got out the bed. The burgundy sheet on his side was neatly tucked underneath the mattress.


She placed her feet on the ginger-colored carpet, sat on the side of the bed, unlocked her G1, then texted her lover, “Hi
baby. Be there after 6.” She locked, then placed her G1 on the nightstand, and sat on the floor. Her morning ritual—crunches,
hip thrusts, squats, and pushups—proceeded, stretching her legs, arms, and torso. Bypassing the sixty-five-inch flat screen
television she used to watch pornography on with her husband, she entered her bathroom.


After she married him, moved into his house, she learned her husband’s habits. He didn’t like sharing his things or his space.
His bathroom was on the opposite side of their master bedroom. His study was his. The kitchen, family and living room were
hers. The dining room was shared one day a week. Neither of them would return to the table until Monday. To her, marriage
meant the property under their roof—including her husband—was
legally hers and she had the right to dispose of whatever she chose.


Her “I can have it all” attitude was ingrained by her father the four years she lived with him. Moving from her mother’s two-bedroom
condo in Boise into the largest mansion in Crème City to live with her dad and attend high school with her two sisters changed
her life forever.


Thanks to her dad, she had the opportunity to live with her sister from Baton Rouge and her sister from Boston. Three girls,
the same age, with three different moms, from three different environments, experiencing puberty under one roof while being
raised by their dad were the hardest yet most rewarding years of her life. Their father taught them to stick together and
to never marry anyone who had little to give or nothing to lose.


Disgusted with her husband’s selfish, egotistical behavior, she stared in the mirror. She lathered cold cream on her forehead.
Her piercing hazel eyes narrowed. Divorcing her husband wasn’t an option she wanted to exercise, but one she’d considered
numerous times.


Give my fine-ass rich husband to some other woman? I don’t think so.

She bit her bottom lip, cursed, “Damn you! Why do you act like I’m your servant? Selfish-ass bastard! I hate you!” Love made
her hate him. Hate made her love him. A live-in maid could easily fulfill her wifely duties. A better question was “Why had
he asked to marry her?”


Her random outbursts were occurring more frequently. She prayed she wasn’t on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She wasn’t
crazy. Just terribly frustrated. Headed for self-destruction if she didn’t make a change in her life.


She kept staring at her reflection. The high arches of her thin brows were waxed to perfection, not a single hair was out
of place. Thick layers of chestnut hair caressed her honey golden shoulders with more affection than her husband’s hands.
Her nose—not wide enough open as her mother would say—complimented her round, firm cheeks.


She smeared cream above and below her soft lips, wondering what her life would be like if she hadn’t married him, if she’d
remained single. Would she be happy? Content? Lonely? Would she have risked having her heart broken a third time by her ex-fiancé?


She brushed her teeth, rinsed her face with cold water, then went to the study where she knew she’d find her husband sitting
in his favorite, worn bourbon-tinted leather chair surrounded by his wall-to-wall law library.


“Morning, baby,” she said, softly kissing his lips. Calling him baby was a habit not worth breaking. There were no sentiments
in her greeting.


Looking up at her, he smiled, then whispered, “Hey, gorgeous. What was all that noise? Were you yelling at someone on the
phone?”


Did it matter? He hadn’t bothered to check on her. “Oh, nothing, just dropped something on my foot,” she lied. She removed his black-framed
glasses, folded, then placed them on the end table beside his chair. Exhaling, she looked down at her husband, then asked,
“Baby, do you still love me?”


He frowned. His eyes narrowed. He patted his thigh. “Sit. Talk to me. Why would you ask me something like that out of the
blue?”


Exhaling, this time through her mouth, she wanted to remove his hand from her ass. His touch irritated her. He no longer excited
her. “Guess I’m tired of . . .” Her eyes scrolled toward the crystal chandelier that hung high above their heads. She thought
about the fatal ending in The War of the Roses and understood how couples could kill one another physically or emotionally. Agitated by his nonchalant attitude, she paused
thinking, Tired of spending more time with my ex-man than with my husband.

He touched her chin, tilted her face, then stared into her eyes. “Tired of what, baby?”

She cringed, gripped his wrist, moved his hand to her lap atop the hem of her yellow gown. “Haaa… barely seeing you, that’s
what. You work hard on everyth. . .