Chapter 1: Sunday mass
Brenda Simmons was bored. It was a steamy Sunday afternoon in August, and she had the house to herself. Her husband, Brad, had been sent out of town on business for two weeks and their two kids, ages 6 and 4, were spending the week with their grandparents 90 miles away.
Brenda made herself a light breakfast and thought about her day. It was already 84 degrees outside, and it was only 8:20 in the morning.
"I haven't been to church in awhile," she thought to herself. "I don't want to go to our regular church—I can't stand the busy body gossips there—but maybe this is a good time to check out the parish we passed last Sunday."
That parish was nowhere a woman like Brenda was likely to be see. It was called the Edgewood Baptist Church. Brenda and her family had driven by a week ago just as church was letting out and they were stuck at a traffic stop. The pastor was out front shaking hands. Brenda tried not to stare, but there was something about him that transfixed her. He was a big black man, powerful and heavyset, with a salt and pepper goatie and a large silver cross that hung from his neck. He looked like a man in total command.
Brenda and Brad were college sweethearts who had been married nine years. Both were 31. They'd had a healthy sex life until Brad's new boss started increasing his workload and sending him on the road more often. Brad was tired a lot, and they hadn't been intimate in weeks.
Brenda thought of the black pastor as she dressed for church, putting on a white tank top and short denim skirt. The steamy weather made her feel sexy, and she wished Brad was there to take care of her needs.
Brenda hoped to be inconspicuous at the church—a tall order considering she was the only white person out of the 200 there. But every seat was taken in the small, non-air conditioned room except a spot in the front row. She wedged herself between two husky, dark black men, crossed her legsand waited for the sermon to begin.
The Reverand Maxwell King entered—the same man who had caught Brenda's attention a week earlier. He was wearing a long black robe and his silver cross. He was black and bald, late 50s, with a salt and pepper goatee, and looked like no man you'd want to mess with.
"Good morning!" the pastor yelled out. And the congregation yelled in unison, "Good morning!" The pastor launched into an enthusiastic and loud sermon. Today's topic was the role of positive black role models on society. Brenda was surprised that there was a cynical tone to the pastor's message.
"The white man tried for years to keep us down," he yelled. "The white man cannot keep us down. We are congressmen. Senators. Lawyers and judges. And yes, a black man was president. We HAVE overcome!"
At that, the crowd erupted in cheers. Brenda felt like she was at a football game more than a church service. Her church services were always so reserved and reverential.
There was something else: she liked it. A lot. There was something about this pastor that intrigued her. And, though she couldn't quite admit it to herself, stimulated her. She felt her pussy moisten. At first, she thought it was the steam filling the old church from outside. But no. Brenda Simmons was turned on by this powerful, take no shit black man. She crossed her legs again, showing off more thigh than she wanted, and it caught Rev. King's eye in mid-sentence. He stared at her but never stopped talking.
"Damn," Brenda thought. "I'll bet he can see my pink panties."
She was sweating, and she focused her green eyes on this commanding presence just 10 feet in front of her. She wondered what he looked like without the robe, and her mind started to wander.
"Stop it, Brenda!" she said to herself. "You are a married woman. And you are in church! Stop daydreaming."
The sermon ended, and the congregation lined up to shake Rev. King's hand and congratulate him on a powerful speech. Brenda stood up, patted down her blue denim skirt, and waited for her turn.
And then, they met.
The pastor grabbed her right hand with both of his hands and stared at her. "And to whom do I have the pleasure?" he said smiling wryly.
Brenda felt weak in the knees. This intense dark man was triggering feelings in her that she never expected.
"I'm Brenda Simmons," she said. "My family is out of town and I thought I'd stop in to here your service."
The pastor smiled.
"Do you live around here?"
"No," she said; aware that he was still holding her hand. "I live in Woodland Hills."
The pastor smiled.
"Ah, the lily white suburbs, eh?" Then he laughed, and Brenda forced a laugh.
"Yes, I guess so," she said. "My husband and I live there with our two kids."
She could feel the pastor studying her petite, firm body, which was glistening in the summer heat. She felt her pussy moisten and her pert, pink nipples harden.
"I'd like to show you my study," the pastor said. "Very people come back here, but you seem very special. And it's air conditioned."
"I really can't," Brenda said, finally removing her hand from his grasp. "I really should be going."
The pastor stared at her with his black eyes. "Really," he said. "I must insist. It will only take a few minutes."
Without waiting for her answer, her grabbed her by the elbow and guided her down a hallway and into a small room on the right.
This didn't seem like a pastor's office. There was an old twin bed. On one wall, there was what looked like a whipping crop. Next to it were handcuffs. And next to that a sign that said simply LOUNGE.
The pastor followed Brenda's eyes as she gazed upon each item.
