My lover’s hand caressed my inner thigh, sending shivers up my spine. Parting my legs, I raised my hips, giving him a full view of my throbbing sex. His eyes burned, and he slid two fingers inside, moaning against my moist, tight heat.
A rush of pleasure flooded my core and my hips rolled in response. His fingers worked through the sensitive folds of my hot flesh, gliding in and out. I moaned softly, arrested by passion. The pad of his thumb massaged my clit, increasing the intensity, driving me to the edge.
Removing his fingers, he parted my flesh, dipping his head. My hips jerked at the first lash of his thick, long tongue. It lapped my cunt, licking ferociously, summoning my climax. He sucked on my clit, his thick lips like a vacuum. As my orgasm landed, I fucked his face shamelessly, moaning with wild abandon.
As the orgasmic feeling subsided, my lover raised his head. “Hallelujah!” He exclaimed.
“God be praised!” He shook my shoulder violently.
I jerked awake, my eyes coming into focus. I’d fallen asleep in church, and my colleague shook my shoulder to wake me. Rubbing my eyes, I turned my attention to the preacher on the pulpit.
My husband, Bruce Sterling paced back and forth, his Bible in his hand and his normally soft voice boomed from his six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame which overwhelmed the pulpit. His face and shirt dripped with sweat, and I realized since lately, my husband only perspired when he preached God’s word.
As the associate pastor of our non-denominational church, Bruce commits to ‘feeding the flock’—his words—five days a week and twice on Sundays. I wished he was as committed to giving me pleasure.
We make love on average twice per month, three times if I’m lucky, and his performance has become mediocre, at best. I’ve become the sole initiator of sex in our relationship. Bruce rejected my advances more times than I can count. My sexual frustration led to masturbation; I even have an eight-inch battery operated boyfriend in the bottom of my underwear drawer that has become a constant source of release.
Lately, my fantasies expanded to include a steamy hunk who fucked me with a primal hunger, leaving me blissfully sated.
I glanced at the clock now and then, willing the hands to move faster. Exhaustion filled me. After pulling an eight-hour shift at work, I’d cleaned the house and braved the Saturday evening crowd in the rough and dirty market downtown to get my grocery shopping done. Afterwards I’d gotten home, feeling dead on my feet, looking forward to a night of rest.
But as soon as I rest my weary butt on the couch, my husband reminded me that tonight was the final night for our evangelistic crusade, and it was my duty to be present.
I could have cried.
Being a minister’s wife isn’t easy. It meant putting on the persona of a vibrant, radical partner while feeling the opposite. Instead of a glass of sherry while curled on the couch watching reruns of The Golden Girls, I had to settle for a night by his side.
A sudden uproar brought my mind back to the present. The church was on fire, the entire congregation on its feet shouting praises and getting into the Spirit. I stood and closed my eyes, to appear as if I was in the Spirit. The exaltation went on until well past midnight, but no-one seemed to mind.
The service ended on a high note, with the brethren lagging afterwards as if they did not want to leave. Almost everyone was like family, and church provided an opportunity for them to fellowship and, to a greater extent, gossip.
After the service I greeted some members, and then waited for Bruce while he chatted with deacon Cary Samuels, his closest friend. According to rumors, Cary was an alcoholic, and his addiction to liquor began when he was denied the post of associate pastor, which he’d hoped to inherit from his late father. The board appointed Bruce instead.
I suspected he still had his sights set on the post, so I warned Bruce against letting him get too close. There was something about Cary that made me uneasy. I didn’t trust him, and my instinct was never wrong. With no surprise, Bruce brushed my concern aside, and now they are best buddies.
My annoyance grew at Bruce’s unlimited patience with Cary’s rambling. If I didn’t put a lid on it, they would go on for hours. My body reached its limit. I was ready to go.
As I stepped towards them, a woman moved to block my path. My blood heated, and the annoyance at Bruce dissipated, replaced by fury.
The object of my anger stood before me, her hands placed on her slim hips, a look of mischief stamped on her broad face. I tensed, as I knew her presence was bad news. Patricia Mullings was my worst enemy; a woman I loathed with every fiber of my being. The feeling was mutual from her end.
It began in our teenage years. From the beginning, Patricia envied me, and she went to great lengths to compete. If I liked a guy, she would flirt with him, giggling and jutting her huge breasts (they were oversized, in my opinion). Of course, he would lose his mind, ogling at her vast monstrosities as if he’d never seen a pair of breasts before.
If I bought a new dress or skirt, sure enough Patricia would show up a few days later in the same style—which was a total flop, for her thin hips and flat butt could not fill the clothes the way my curvy body did. There was constant rivalry between us, which seemed normal and innocent.
Or so I thought…then an incident occurred, triggering my hate for her.
My parents migrated to the States, and I’d begun my first degree in tourism and hotel management at the local university. Instead of leaving with them, I moved in with my uncle John-Paul, my mother’s younger brother. Since I did not own a car, he became my ‘chauffeur’. John-Paul took me to church on Sundays and when I had meetings to attend.
Before long, church members grew curious, as John-Paul’s heavily tinted car prevented them from seeing his face when he would drop me off at the church gate. Naturally, everyone enquired about the mysterious driver. Patricia, seeing a chance to humiliate me, told everyone he was my boyfriend and that we were shacking up.
At first, I was unaware of the rumors.
One Sunday morning I was with the choir getting ready to sing for the second offering. As Elder Blake got up to pray, the congregation fell into the Spirit. Sister Ruthie, our evangelist, rose and spun, her shouts dominating everyone’s chanting. She wriggled, twisted and flailed her arms, her face contorted while her mouth uttered a different language. Then she stopped, looked at the podium where the youth choir stood, and headed straight towards us. I thought nothing of it until she chanted:
“The Lord can’t work in a dirty vessel! You are too bold, wanting to live a dirty lifestyle while desecrating the holy dwelling! Get down, presumptuous spirit!” As she intoned, she stomped her way to the podium, approached me and grabbed my hand, pulling me as she made her way back to the congregation.
At first, I thought of resisting, but realized it would make matters worse so I allowed her to pull me along. My face burned with shame as the church members stared at me in disgust. She pulled me right to the back row and pushed me forcefully onto a seat while chanting still. I wanted to cry, but I held my head high and withstood the judgmental stares from the congregation. Confusion reigned. I didn’t know why Sister Ruthie chose me as I did nothing wrong. Dirty vessel? This can’t be about the drink I had at C-Bar on Friday, I thought. C-Bar was a local sports bar that catered to a young and raunchy crowd. I went there against my better judgment, just to prove to my best friend I wasn’t a ‘church mouse’.
I tried to sneak out before the service ended, but Pastor Rankine waited on the back porch. With a stern expression, he beckoned and I followed him as he waddled to his study. On entering, he gestured to a seat, and I tentatively sat. He squeezed his oversized frame into a chair built for someone a hundred pounds lighter and stared at me for a long time. I shifted in my seat as an unease descended.
“There are rumors circulating that you live with a man, Anya,” he finally spoke, wiping perspiration from his face. Although the cold air gusted through the vents of the air conditioner, Pastor Rankine’s shirt soaked with sweat. “Is it true?”
I sat in shock, my skin tingling, and for a moment was at loss for words. He expectantly waited.
“From where would you hear such a thing, Pastor?”
“You did not answer the question.”
“With all due respect, I refuse to answer until I know who told you so.”
“It is not important for you to know how I got this information,” he replied.
“Well, I refuse to answer until I know the source, Pastor,” I said again, with a touch of defiance. I wanted to rip the liar—whoever they were—in pieces.
He sighed with heaviness. “In that case, I have no choice but to ban you from church activities until you get your life straightened out. You are a promising young woman, Anya, and the Lord needs you to do his work. So, you need to let go of the things that hinder you from serving God.”
I did not respond. My blood boiled. I waited until he said; “you may go,” then I stomped out.
For months I did not attend church. I ignored the calls and messages from church members who enquired about my absence. They only wanted to confirm if the rumor was true. Battling with bitterness and anger against the church, my anger grew when I discovered Patricia’s treachery.
I raved; I wanted to destroy her. My best friend, Kemona compelled me to quell my anger.
“She’s not worth it,” she said, and I let it go. She’ll get hers, I thought. Karma is a bitch.
It took two years to recommit to the church. In the beginning, I detested everyone and alienated myself from them. The truth about my relationship with the ‘driver’ came to light, and I received an apology from Pastor Rankine and Sister Ruthie. It took a minute to forgive them, but I eventually did.
Mostly, that is.
My anger and hate towards Patricia did not recede.
Now I looked at her and did not try to hide my contempt. I hated her even more now, for I discovered her feelings for my husband. I noticed her quiet attempts to seduce him, presenting her “take me and ravish me” stares, even when I was near.
“What do you want?” I asked, before she could open her mouth.
“Nothing,” she responded slyly, “I’m just saying hi. You look lonely, Anya.”
“And that matters to you because…?” I asked.
“It doesn’t, but isn’t it the Christian thing to do, to see if you’re okay?”
I did not respond.
She stood assessing me for a moment and turned to walk away, then stopped and pivoted.
“Although…mmm….” She raised a finger.
“What is it, Patricia?”
“I’m just a little worried. I notice Bruce is here every night. Is everything okay at home?”
For a moment speech evaded me. The nerve of this woman! How inquisitive! I made to tell her what I thought of her but I remembered where I was. I took a deep breath and responded with contempt. “Things are fine, Patricia.”
She gave a deep sigh, with a fake look of concern. “I hope so. And I hope you’re treating him right. Forgive me if this sounds out of place, but a lot of women would love to be in your position.” Including me, her attitude said.
“‘My position’ is irreplaceable, so I hope those women aren’t getting their hopes up.” I answered hotly. “Bruce and I are fine,” I repeated, almost biting my tongue with the lie.
She sauntered away with a sly smile as if she knew the truth.
I sighed. The last thing I needed was for my personal affairs to become public news. As much as I loved my church brethren, I had to admit that they were gossip whores, and most judgmental.
Despite the segregation we were one big family, and like any other family, hypocrisy and jealousy were inevitable. Little did I know that those feelings were being nurtured within someone. They would soon emerge into something far worse than I could ever imagine.
In the public eye, Bruce and I had the perfect marriage. Although the reality was the total opposite, I did not care to ruin the illusion. Thankfully, Bruce came along before anyone else could tell me how lucky I was, or how grateful I should be to have a dream for a husband. If they only knew!
I did everything right—I got baptized and saved my virginity until marriage, but for what?
In my late teens, I met Bruce during a church retreat. As a youth director, he managed the youths in my age group. I fell in love with him upon sight. I remember the first day he stepped into the assembly hall to address us, and his smile made my stomach flip-flop. It was so sudden; there was no way to explain why I felt the way I did. As he spoke, his lips parted to reveal a small gap between his front teeth, which added sexiness to his smile. He sauntered around the room as he talked, his voice as smooth as silk. I was in a trance.
In my mind, he was perfect for me; his lean, athletic body triggered impure thoughts, and his loose, highlighted curls made me want to run my hand through them while taking his mouth for a kiss. I could hardly focus when he was around and did everything in my power to get his attention. Unfortunately, he didn’t reciprocate my feelings; I guess he thought I was too young. I left the youth retreat heartbroken and determined to overcome whatever feelings I’d developed for him.
However, years later he returned to the church for a minister’s conference, and every buried feeling came rushing back. He’d changed; his lean body transformed into a strong, robust frame. His once clean-shaved face now sported a thick, sculptured beard, enhancing his handsomeness. His good-natured personality was replaced by a silent, contemplative countenance.
At that point I made my move.
By then, the board promoted me to assistant youth leader of the church. I ensured to have his name included in the list of speakers for our youth meetings, which meant he was there often. We became friends and would frequently hang out after church. Normally, he was too wound up to sleep and we would sit and talk for hours about nothing, and everything. I fell even more in love with him. I admired his love and selflessness for others and the time he spent to improve the lives of people who were less fortunate than he was.
Little did I know it would come back to haunt me.
His visits became so frequent that the board transferred him to our church as a junior minister. I was elated, although I had to spend months warding off the vultures that existed in the form of other single church sisters—including Patricia—who were desperate for a husband. It was worth the effort, for we grew closer, and one night after he drove me home from church, he kissed me.
The kiss took me by surprise and I pulled away, although I recovered as best as I could, for the only experience I had was a few smooches with a high school boyfriend. Without a doubt, it was everything I had imagined. His warm lips and firm mouth gently massaged my own. His skillful tongue licked into my mouth, tasting me, and I almost lost myself. I sucked on his tongue and he groaned, and the flesh between my legs tightened in response.
I allowed my hands to roam just as how I had daydreamed, touching his firm stomach. With a surge of boldness, my hand traveled even farther south to find the zipper of his pants, before he jumped as if I burned him.
“This isn’t right, Anya,” he said with a look that resembled a child who’d gotten caught stealing.
I was disappointed, but since I was a virgin, I knew that my first time could not be in the back of Bruce’s car. Besides, my principles would not allow me to have sex with anyone outside the confines of marriage; so, I remained untouched, waiting for the right man to come along and pick my over-ripe cherry. I’d hoped the right man was Bruce.
He sighed and turned the air conditioning on to cool us down, shifting the front of his jeans to find room for the huge bulge in his pants that made him uncomfortable.
“Have you ever had sex, Anya?” He asked.
My face grew hot, embarrassment flooding me. I was certain that my response would have him hightailing out of my life. Most men, Christian or otherwise, would prefer a woman that’s already ‘broken in’—at least that’s what I’d heard.
“No, I haven’t,” I answered.
He smiled, and relief filled me. It wasn’t a bad thing after all.
“That’s good.” A beat. “I have, though,” he admitted.
“For how long?” I asked, not surprised.
“Five years ago.” He responded. “I gave my virginity to a married woman.” His eyes were cautious as he watched me digest the news.
It shocked me! Bruce Sterling, a committed servant of God, with an adulterer? I tried to put the judgmental feelings aside, but I could not help seeing him in a different light. Based on his physical appeal I guessed that he’d lost his virginity a long time ago, but to know that he committed an unforgivable sin; sleeping with a married woman!
“I hope this won’t ruin anything between us,” he said, as if reading my mind. “That was a long time ago; I was young and stupid, and I’m not that person anymore.”
I guess I can look past it, I thought. He’s human, isn’t he? We all make mistakes and learn from them.
I touched him, feeling a need to reassure him. “It won’t, Bruce,” I smiled at him.
“I’m glad. And I don’t want us to rush things either. I want to do it the right way.”
A few months later, I found out what he meant by ‘doing it the right way’. In the middle of the Sunday church service, Bruce called me to the front of the church. He looked nervous as I approached, wiping his forehead and taking deep breaths, and I knew right away what he’d planned.
Bruce took my hand, got down on one knee and proposed. Before the words were completely out of his mouth, I said yes! I was too ecstatic to question the speed of our relationship; after all, we were only going steady for a few months. If I had, I would’ve realized that there was a lot I did not know about my future husband. I’d never seen him angry or stressed; I did not know how capable he was of handling any of those emotions. I’d never seen a negative side to him to know if I could handle it.
Our engagement was short; we wed five months later. Our wedding day was amazing, it was all I ever dreamed of and so much more. Escorted by my beaming father, I walked down the aisle, donned in a beautiful ivory strapless A-line gown with a diamond belt and a tulle hem. It was an incredible day, from an emotional service, with me crying through most of the ceremony, to a festive reception where we partied to exhaustion.
We honeymooned on the north coast at a boutique resort and day spa. In our hotel room, a romantic setting greeted us. Rose petals covered the bed and scented candles filled the room. An iced bucket of champagne with chocolate and fruits lay on the table, and romantic music helped to set the tone. I immediately headed to the bathroom, took a bath and slipped on a sheer, black lingerie. Soon I emerged, looking good and smelling even better, only to find my husband propped on a chair reading a book!
At first, I thought he was just passing the time as I got ready, but then I changed the music to a romantic slow jam, while showing some stimulating dance moves that my best friend Kemona taught me—”yes girl,” I could remember her saying, “you need to do a little slutty dance and turn him on.” I tried, but he didn’t even budge! I turned the music off and asked him what was wrong.
“I’m tired,” he said. “We have a lifetime to have sex.” Then he went to bed.
Imagine! On my wedding night, instead of consummating my marriage and getting rid of the virginity that weighed down on me like a wet cloak, I had to settle for a masturbating session in the bathroom. It was a good thing I packed my battery-operated boyfriend at the last minute.
I did not speak to him for an entire day, and it almost ruined our honeymoon. To his credit, he made up for it the next night. As I lay in bed fuming, I felt Bruce climb onto the bed behind me. Curling into a ball, I hoped he’d take the hint, but he cuddled me and planted soft, slow kisses on my neck and shoulders. Sighing, I uncurled, which allowed him to flip and straddle me. I glared at him for a moment before he brought his lips to meet mine for a long, intense kiss that left me breathless.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, when the kiss ended. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
If I’d known what was coming, I would’ve filed for an annulment the next day. The empty promise provided some false optimism for our future together. In that moment, it assured me that everything would be alright.
It couldn’t have been more wrong.
We made love that night with an intensity that left me feeling drained but satisfied. He made up for what we had missed on our wedding night and more.
As Bruce removed my dress, I blushed under his lustful stare. He gently stroked my body, an action that left me taut and aching for more than his touch. He ducked his head and kissed my breasts, tugging on my nipples. I groaned against the tiny waves of pleasure his tongue triggered.
Bruce slipped a finger into my soaking cunt and stroked me, with his thumb expertly massaging my clit. I bucked as desire heightened and a powerful climax descended. It lasted for a few seconds, and before I could catch my breath, Bruce had mounted and gently slid inside me, my moist sex aiding the process. I tensed when he broke my barrier, the pain sharp and lingering. Sensing my discomfort, Bruce licked each nipple, refueling my arousal.
Spreading my legs, I gave him greater access and he buried his dick to the hilt. He grabbed my hips with both hands, pumping with such intensity I begged him to stop, but he was fast approaching the edge and only increased his tempo. As he came, he kissed me so hard I thought my lips would fall off.
That night I slept like a baby.
A touch on my shoulder brought me back to the present. My eyes refocused and I realized we’d arrived home.
I glanced at Bruce, who stared at me, curious.
“Something wrong, hon?” he asked.
“No, I’m just tired,” I replied.
I don’t know what I expected that night. Maybe I wanted him to prove me wrong; I needed proof that our marriage was alive and worth salvaging. As I lay awake listening to my husband snore beside me I wondered, what am I doing wrong?
Although I had a thriving and demanding career as a restaurant owner, I never shirked my wifely duties. When he gets home from his day job as a marketing executive for an insurance firm, and his night job as associate pastor of our church, I have a bath and massage waiting. When he needs someone to talk to, I am always there.
It’s certainly not how I look. Although I’m the wife of a pastor, I still pride myself in being up-to-date with fashion and the latest trends. I always ensure I’m tastefully attired. My appearance is important to my roles as Bruce’s wife and an entrepreneur.
I sometimes wear my thick, unruly auburn curls straightened, as it is more manageable and gives my round baby face a sophisticated look. In the beginning, it was a problem for the women in the church. According to them, a pastor’s wife should be as natural as possible—no processed hair, weave, earrings or makeup.
My outfits are still fitted—not as much as when I was younger—but they are still being interpreted by my church sisters as being too tight. I’m convinced they are envious of my beautiful body that I maintain with healthy eating and lots of exercise. My smooth, flawless, golden skin I inherited from my grandmother is the envy of many women. I know a lot of them would kill for my trim figure, small waist and wide hips.
Bruce keeps telling me I’m perfect; so, what is his problem?
Kemona constantly encourages me to get his attention, but when I ask for ideas, she cunningly smiles and shakes her head. Lately though, I’ve been thinking a lot about making something happen.
I can’t live like this anymore.