It had been a couple weeks since Suzanne had seen old Tom, the black janitor who raped her in the church kitchen. She was afraid to be by herself in church, so she always left with a group so he couldn't trap her again. She had not mentioned the rape to a soul because of the shameful way she allowed him to take her and because of the way her body reacted to it. She checked her mailbox next to the church office to see if there were any pressing duties for the deacons this week. All she saw was a white envelope and no name on it at all. She took it and opened it.
It was a message from him. It just read, "Today at 3, in the mechanical room in the back."
It was not signed and was not addressed to her. But Suzanne knew it was Tom. She also knew that his office was off the mechanical room. She wanted to just throw the note away and walk out and drive home. That's what she wanted to do. But it was almost 3pm and she stayed in the church and kept looking at the time. This made no sense at all, she thought. Why did she stay? Why was she looking at the time? Did he honestly expect her to willingly go to him?
When 3 o'clock came, she picked up her purse and walked to the back of the church. The note was still in her hand. She walked through the poorly lighted corridor towards the mechanical room. The sound of her heels clicking on the hard tile floor resounded off the walls. Her breath was labored and her pulse was racing as she approached that end of the hall. She saw the light coming from Tom's office. She approached the open door and looked in. He was seated in an old wooden office chair. He was leaning back and reading the newspaper.
"Did you want to see me," she managed to get out of her dry throat. The note was dangling from her fingers.
"No, you white whore, you want to see me," he said as he stood up in front of her.
Suzanne felt like he had punched her in the stomach, forcing all air out of her. She was frozen in her place. His words took any fight right out of her. His voice deflated her, yet aroused her. She knew why she came back to him. She knew why she took this solitary walk to an area that no one used except this big ugly fat black man. She remembered that Sunday morning in the church kitchen two weeks ago when he raped her. He took her with his brutal hardness. It was the kind of sex she had dreamed of for so long. The truth was that she had thought of little else since that day. The memory of it was a constant theme in her mind; it was deeply arousing.
"Please, Tom," Suzanne whined as she stood in front of him.
He just laughed as he reached down under his fat belly and unbuckled his belt and lowered the zipper of his work pants. The blue soiled pants hit the concrete floor. He dropped his shorts next; kicking the soiled batch away with his foot.
"Stroke it Miss Suzanne. Take my cock and stroke it, whore," he chuckled. His hand took her wrist and placed her hand on his big cock. As if on their own, her fingers encircled it and she was shocked at how fat and long it was. When he took her in the church kitchen she was just forced down on the table. She felt his size inside her but now she had her hand on his massive cock.
"Oh God," she moaned as her hand moved on his inflating meat with a mind of its own.
"Is this why you are here, white slut?"
"Please don't," she groaned.
"Show me the note," he demanded and with her other hand, Suzanne held it up.
"Tell me why you came here, bitch. You saw the note and knew it was me. Why did you walk all the way back here to see me?"
"I don't know. I was afraid," she whined.
"Stroke my black dick. Stroke it so it gets bigger and harder," he demanded with a nasty smile.
"Yes, Sir," she whispered as her hand stroked him harder. As his size increased, she could feel the blood fill his big black cock.
"But first let's get the money out of the way," he said.
"What money," Suzanne said with a startled voice.
"Pull your wallet out and tell me how much cash you have in it," he ordered her. Suzanne grabbed her purse and pulled out her wallet. She opened it and saw four $50 bills and a twenty.