The Black Pastor and the Soccer Mom

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.

"Max's Lounge," he clarified for her, as if reading her mind. "For when big ol' Max needs some stress relief."

He chuckled, and she could see his big belly heave under his black robe.

"And the . . .the," she paused. Not able to say the words.

"The crop and cuffs?" he said. "Gifts from a friend."

Brenda looked closer. Next to the crop and cuffs there was some sort of white mask. She looked at the pastor.

"African tribal lord," he said. "I'm very into African culture."

Brenda noticed that the room didn't provide the air conditioning the pastor had promised.

"It's hot in here," she said. "I really should be going."

"No," the pastor said with a hard edge. Then, he smiled.

"I mean, have a drink first. I just received some Italian red wine as a gift from one of my parishioners.

Brenda was thirsty. And she did love red wine. And one drink couldn't hurt.

"OK," she said meekly.

The pastor handed her a glass that was nearly filled to the top.

"Drink up," he said with a devilish smile.

"You're not drinking?"

"Not now," he said. "I've gotta get this robe off. I'm burning up."

Brenda was curious what was under the robe. A shirt and tie, perhaps? A t-shirt?

She was stunned to see how wrong she was. When Pastor Max pulled off his robe, he wore nothing but a white wife beater that looked a size too small and a pair of black boxers that seemed very full in front.

"Holy fuck," Brenda thought to herself. She did her best to avert her gaze, but her green eyes were locked on his boxers as her mouth fell open. It looked like he was hiding a beer can in there.

Max caught her look and thought to himself, "Another horny white wife from the suburbs needs an initiation in big ol' Max's Lounge."

"Hope you don't mind," Max said. "I'm very free with my body. And it's hot as fuck in here."

Brenda was sipping her wine, and she nearly choked when she heard him say the obscene word. Her eyes grew wide, but instead of admonishing him, she found herself agreeing with him. He was mesmerizing.

"It is," she said.

"Is what?" he said forcefully.

"Hot," she said, staring at his black eyes.

He raised his eyebrow like a school teacher being disobeyed.

"Hot as what?" he asked.

She hesitated.

"Fuck," she said. Then gulped.

"What?" he pretended not to hear her. He seemed to be enjoying this, and a tent began to grow in his boxers.

"It's hot as fuck," she said louder.

He smiled in triumph.

"Does it bother you how I'm dressed?" the pastor asked.

"I don't know what to say," Brenda said, sipping her wine and feeling a little lightheaded.

"It's hot as fuck," he said. "This make me comfortable. I believe in dressing and acting the way I feel."

He paused.

"Sit down. On the bed."

She hesitated.

"Please," he said. It sounded more like an order than a request.

Brenda sat down and crossed her legs. For the first time, she realized how little she was wearing. A white tank top. No bra. A short denim skirt. Pink panties. And open toe sandals that showed off her newly painted pink nails.

She nervously crossed her legs, which revealed more of her milky white thighs than she intended. Her light skin was quite a contrast to this dark commanding presence who stood over her, with his big belly, silver cross and what looked to be an unbelievably big black cock stretching his boxers.

"You have quite a body," the pastor said, looking her over. "Do you work out?"

"I run," she said.

The pastor looked down, over his expanded belly to his boxers. His package was stretching them to the limit.

"As you can see, it's having an effect on me," he said with a smile.

"I...I should go. I need to go," Brenda said, unable to tear her gaze from his crotch. There's no way his dick could be that big.

The pastor smiled. He looked down again at his crotch, and this time he reached in and gave himself some much needed relief, pulling his coal black cock over the waistband of his shorts. Brenda stared, transfixed. Her mouth fell open again. His cock was amazing. Half hard it was already twice as big as her husband's. The head looked like a mushroom, and a vein ran along the left size, a symbol of the power it held. His black balls were huge.

"I...I..." she couldn't speak. She also couldn't stop staring at his huge dick.

He pulled his boxers off, then his wife beater. The pastor was buck naked in front of this horny, nervous, curious white wife from the suburbs. Her white colonial with the patio, large bbq grill and in ground pool seemed very far away.

"Give it a kiss," he instructed. He seemed very much focused and in control now. The small talk was over. Max had given her a test, a chance to escape his Fuck Lounge. And she had failed. She was his foe the taking now. The ideas spinned in his head on this sultry Sunday afternoon.

The pastor wagged his cock in her face. The biggest cock she'd ever seen. When she hesitated, he tapped it against her nose and it bounced off her open mouth.

"Uhhhhhhh!" she said, half in amazement and half in passion.

She stared at the head. It was oozing precum. She could no longer resist and swiped at it with her pink tongue. The cum was salty sweet on her tongue. And she swallowed obediently, staring at the pastor with her green eyes.

Her look pushed Max over the edge. Without warning he grabbed the top of her blonde hair with his left hand and clamped her mouth to his black cock, forcing it deep into her throat. She gagged and tried to pull away, but he held her head in a vise.

"Breathe through your nose," he instructed.

He began face fucking the pretty blonde wife, alternatively stretching her cheeks and forcing his swollen cock down her throat.

This went on for several minutes. Brenda was frightened at first, then came to a startling realization: she enjoyed the way this black pastor was using and abusing her with his veiny cock. Her married pussy was soaked, and she worried he would admonish her for wetting his bed.

Finally, he pulled his dick out of her mouth and, using his black paw again, pulled her to a standing position.

"Take your top off," he ordered.

She hurriedly complied, exposing her milky white breasts. The pastor reached out and pinched her pink nipples until she groaned.

"Now the skirt," he demanded.

She hesitated, ashamed to show her wet cunt to this strange man.

Max's left hand came down on her head again, and he held her by her hair.

"Get that fucking skirt off!" he yelled. And this time, she rushed to comply, using both hands to unbutton her skirt in the front. It fell to the floor, and the young, blonde wife stood stark naked in front of her new black master, wearing only her cute, pink panties.

"Fuck," he said, looking over her entire tight body. "Get on the bed. Ass up."

This time, Brenda didn't hesitate. She knew who was in charge, and she was going to obey his every command. She scrambled to the bed and stuck her white ass in the air. Suddenly she heard a loud noise and felt a sharp pain pass through her pale asscheeks.

"Owwwwwwww " she yelped in pain.

Max had grabbed a riding crop and thrashed it across her ass. "Higher!" he said. "Get the fucking ass higher."

Brenda buried her face in her hands on the bed and lifted her ass as high as it could possibly go. She was sure she looked obscene and wondered how she had gotten into this situation. Quickly, Max's big black hands grabbed her panties by the waistband and yanked them down to her ankles, where Brenda instinctively kicked them off. Now, both of them were buck naked—the demanding, hung like a horse black pastor and his newest parishioner, the cute, curious and horny white wife from the burbs.

It was time for her initiation.