“Ooh-whee,” he cheered, grabbing his manhood. “You heard that, Big Willy? Get ready.”
Victoria refused to tolerate off-beat strokes from Willy every time his enhancement kicked in. He’d never learned to properly sex her, but his pockets were always deep and her long fingers were glued to the bottom of both of them.
“Lay still,” Victoria demanded. “Turn onto your side, and—”
“I know. I know. Don’t touch Mz. Purrty or she’ll dry up. Get me off. I hafta go home and gets ready for church.”
After his last wife passed, Victoria immediately gained legal entitlement to Willy’s 401(k), military benefits, health insurance coverage, real estate portfolio, luxury cars, stocks, and bonds by catering to what Willy valued the most. His penis. What good would it do to bury Willy along with his benefits and leave his riches to a state that reinvested in the oppression of black people?
Victoria hated for any man to tell her what to do. “I’ve been handling Big Willy for forty-four years.”
“You know what time it is, woman?” The side of Willy’s belly flattened to the mattress as he rolled over. “I need extra time these days to get myself together. Shit. Shower. Shave. Sleep. Just wait until you turn my age. Come on, Victoria. I can’t let this good Viagra go to waste.”
If she was going to get excited, it was going to be for a virile man like Rodney. Or prayerfully for Cedric. Or Heavenly. Victoria was anxious to get back to the app.
“You sure you’re ready for Mz. Purrty?” Victoria asked.
Opening the plastic shell, she removed an egg-shaped masturbation sleeve, tore the package of lubrication, squirted it inside, arched her back, then tilted her vagina toward Willy’s erection. Firmly holding his shaft, she stretched, then eased the silicone over the head of his dick. Every man she used it on loved it, including her younger guys. The difference was they knew what it was. Willy did not.
“Aw, yeah,” Willy moaned. “How do you stay so tight and wet, woman? Guess it’s all those products you charge to my Black card.”
Grazing her hairless labia against his pubic hairs, Victoria tightened her grip. She thrust back and forth; stroked Willy up and down, using the egg.
“You ready to make Mz. Purrty wet, Big Willy?” Victoria stroked harder. Moved a bit faster.
“Pow. Pow. Pow. That’s all Big Willy got for you today?” he said, keeping his hands above his head. “After all these years, your vagina is the best I’ve had. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were trying to send me to glory on the express train, woman.” Willy chuckled.
Stuffing the soiled masturbation sleeve back into its container, Victoria retrieved a black plastic bag from underneath the mattress, dropped the egg inside. “Lord Jesus, You know I’m tired. Big Willy, you wear me out every time,” she lied, then told the truth. “I love you, Willy Copeland.”
“Love you more. Always have. Forever will,” he replied. “Nothing I won’t do for ya.”
Willy was generous with her in every way. Why not keep her old man happy?
Carefully getting out of bed, Victoria held Willy’s seeds. He’d already begun snoring. Staring at Willy, she kissed his cheek. “No, I love you more. I just can’t let you know it, big daddy.”
If Willy overslept for church, it wouldn’t be his first time.
CHAPTER 3
Chancelor
“Fake it until you make it,” Pastor Baloney preached. “It’s called practice. If you want to be a great basketball player like Brother Kingston Royale was, start working out daily. Athletes are strong. A lawyer like Sister Jordan Jackson—by the way, thanks for helping the church out with that legal matter—start by being a great debater and a better listener. Whatever you want, you can have if . . . you have faith in God and never give up. Degrees are nice, but mastering a skill set is better. Like it or not, some Instagram models are making millions. I don’t know about the other religious institutions in Atlanta, but here at Hope for All Church, we want every member to become wealthy and healthy. God does not want you to be poor. Men and women who believe they are better than you, based on the color of their skin, will never inherit the earth. Why? Because they don’t respect human life or God. We are going to move quietly. Register today for our upcoming HFAC Millionaires’ Club. Keep this between us. I want my members to eat first. Be generous with your tithes as the ushers receive your benevolent offering. For you can never outgive who?”
The audience shouted in unison, “God!”
“Amen,” Pastor Baloney said, then sat to the left of the podium.
Passing the collection basket to the deacon seated on the first pew, Chancelor licked his lips, then placed one arm behind his back. Standing six feet tall, dressed in gray slacks and vest, a white short-sleeved shirt, he spread his brown leather shoes apart, ran his hand over the short spiked locs (with blue tips) bunched on the top of his head. The sides and back were shaven and brushed into black zigzag pattern.
Victoria was on the opposite end facing him. That woman never had any of her natural strands—curly or straight—out of place. Today her hair was flat and smooth with a part on the right side. She was tall with legs that seemed to never end. Bragged about being a size four. Always wore dresses and heels. Her mocha skin was flawless and tight like a teenager’s. Victoria didn’t look as though she was close to sixty-one. She could easily pass for forty-five. She’d turned him down several times. Chancelor knew Brother Copeland couldn’t be the only man hitting that pussy.
Chancelor shifted his eyes twenty-five rows to his left. There sat the church whore, Tracy Benjamin. He hated her ass.
Atlanta was that city where no one was on the real, but everyone wanted r-e-s-p-e-c-t and a microwave drive-thru relationship. He tried to fall in love with Tracy, but no. All she wanted was his money. Her ass needed to be first in line to register for the pastor’s HFAC Millionaires’ Club.
A chip in Tracy’s ass was what she needed so Chancelor could scan how many dicks she’d encountered—forget in her lifetime—how about the last thirty days. Chancelor was done with treating whores like ladies. Where he’d grown up, those two things didn’t go together, but he couldn’t convince Tracy of that.
“Here, Brother Chancelor,” the man on the sixth row said with bass in his voice as he nudged the wicker against Chancelor’s abdomen.
“Oh, thanks, man,” Chancelor said, sidestepping to row seven.
The member sitting on the end placed her donation envelope atop the others, took the basket, then passed it to her neighbor.
Scanning the congregation, his eyes shifted seventeen rows to his left. He’d discovered $3,000 too late that Tracy was a professional gold-digger. Chancelor stared at Tracy through his peripheral. She smiled while chatting with the man next to her.
Bitch! Chancelor’s body count of six at Hope for All Church was higher than Jordan’s and probably much lower than Victoria the-undercover-consummate-Christian whore’s, who claimed she refused to lay where she prayed (for the exception of Willy). He’d bet they were all award-winning one-night-stand champions. He saw Victoria give Brother Copeland a friendly wink earlier. The only person in their usher/friendship quartet that hadn’t reportedly scored at church was Kingston. Fair enough. He was the newest addition to their group. And the humblest celebrity/member Chancelor had met.