From Girlfriend To Mistress – Part 1

From Girlfriend To Mistress – Part 1

A man and a woman sit in a restaurant having drinks.

The man is happier than he’s been in days. Why would he not be? He is getting married tomorrow. It will be a grand ceremony. Many dignitaries have been invited. He is loved, well known and he has many friends. Friends who are willing to take a break from their daily activities – activities that earn them millions in revenue – to come and witness him putting a ring on his sweetheart’s finger, to shower the newlyweds with gifts before sending them to their honeymoon with nothing but best wishes for their union. Isn’t that grand?

As a matter of fact, he thinks it is. He sips his beer after toasting to this thought.

The woman continues drinking in silence as they listen to music. She is bopping her head as she enjoys the songs selected by the DJ. They will be served soon; the waiter has promised.

The woman looks at the man from across the table. She is her usual beautiful self. Her hair freshly done, neatly cut close to the scalp on the sides and a good amount of it left to hang to one side from the middle. She is wearing a small African print dress with a black coat that is longer than the dress. She looks good, by all standards.

He can remember when he first met her, on a mutual friend’s, Jude NotJudas’ Facebook wall. Both had commented on Jude’s status update that questioned why women were offended when their asses or racks were complimented. She had stood up to defend women, saying how it was sexist to do that “Don’t you see anything else good in me, other than my body parts?” she had posed.

Taking the chance, he decided to compliment her beauty “not to be offensive”, he’d added. When she responded with a blushing emoji, he knew he was inching closer to her inbox. He then decided to have a look at her profile. He loved the pictures he saw. She was sexy. A nice ass too. But of course, he did not dare say that. He commented that she had a beautiful smile instead. Facebook helped him by pointing out that they had three other mutual friends. He went looking. Jason James, his former schoolmate, was friends with her. Tenda Wema, the beautiful lady who lived in 23D in the same flats he lived, was also her friend. Peter Pete was the third mutual friend. He could not, however, remember where he knew Pete from. But thing is, Pete knew her.

He had sent that friend request. She had accepted that friend request.

He had hit her inbox to say thank you for adding me to your list of friends. She had said you’re welcome. They had kept chatting. Him, reminding her how beautiful she was, her asking him to stop embarrassing her and thanking him either way for the compliments.

The messages had gone back and forth until one time he suggested that they meet. She said why not. They met in town, had coffee, talked, continued to know more about each other, and then they had parted, promising to go out for a movie the next weekend.

The next weekend came and went. And with it, a movie watched, drinks shared, saliva exchanged, and clothes discarded. Pleasure was sought and found. Several times. This was the first of several weekends that he would spend at her house. It became a habit for him to spend his Saturdays at her house and go home mid-Sunday morning or afternoon.

His time had come to settle down. He was happy to be marrying a girl he had known since college. She was beautiful. He knew her parents and they knew him. He was ready to have children. And he wanted those children only with his soon-to-be wife.

The woman looks at him. Wondering why his mind is not there.

She asks him what he is thinking about.

For now, he is happy. He says nothing is wrong. That he is just happy to be here with her.

“I am afraid I will not be able to spend the night today. I might not be able to see you next weekend either,” the man says.

“Why. Going somewhere?” the woman asks.

“Yes. I have to travel for two weeks. Will get in touch when I get back.”

“Sure. We should make use of the few hours we have together then?” she suggests while getting up. He follows her to his car where they drive back to her place.

“I will miss you,” he says.

“It’s only two weeks. It’s not as if you are going away for good.”

He likes how trusting she is. And she is also right. It’s not like he’s going away for good. He’ll only be gone for a two-week honeymoon with his college sweetheart and new bride, and then he will come back to her. And then things will fall back to how they’ve been.

Only that this time tomorrow, her college sweetheart will have climbed the hierarchy from girlfriend to wife, while the woman leading him to her bedroom for a romp in the sack, will have progressed from girlfriend to mistress. No one was getting left behind.

He gave himself an imaginary pat on the back as he unhooked his soon-to-be mistress’ bra with one hand and buried his head in her bosom.

He’d played his cards well so far.

What could possibly go wrong?


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