Angel, Demons Pt. 03

She watched the woman walk away from her, knowing this was the end if she would do nothing. Was this what the woman predicted? Did she want it to end? Her gaze shifted to the man, who stood silent, his eyes on the distant night, and back to the swaying backside of the woman she... loved? Feared? Craved?

Every second with her had been magical - well, maybe a sick kind of magic, dark, scary, arousing, dirty, but had she ever felt as alive before? Besides... the man looked wonderful, and so did his cock.

A hypocrite, the woman called her. Was she?

Looking down past the jewel on her nipple, she saw her hand between her thighs. She knew her pussy was leaking, feeling its glow against her fingers.

"Mistress," her voice croaked. "Please?"

The woman didn't stop, cruelly pretending not to hear the girl. Then she turned around, seeing her down on her knees and elbows, hair covering her face, the moon painting highlights on her naked ass.

"Adam," the woman said to the man, "fuck the girl."

Feeling his way forward, he knelt behind the girl. Pushing his face between the parting thighs, he extracted a deep sigh from her. The lapping sounds became a counter point to the eternal rumble of the surf - as did the muffled moans she gasped into her folded arms.

The woman knelt by the two.

She whispered words of encouragement to the man. Then she led him to the girl's front.

"Suck him hard, please, little bitch, suck his glorious cock, so he can do you justice."

The girl's dark eyes appeared from behind the curtain of hair. Her face was smeared with tears. She rose to her knees; then bent forward to the man's crotch. Her tiny hands guided the swelling cock to her wide-open mouth where it started sliding in and out, producing slimy threads.

They dangled from her chin and ran down his shaven balls.

The sucking sounds turned urgent as more of the rigid flesh disappeared. The woman's hand encouraged the bobbing of the girl's head; then she softly separated her from the cock.

"Enough for now, honey," she said. "Turn and rest on your elbows. Give your lover free access to your sweet, open cunt, so you can be his bitch."

There were gasps and sobs, but the girl turned and lifted her ass into the cool, pale moonlight.

The woman cupped the moist plum that hung between her open thighs, feeling its heat and wetness.

"Come, Adam," she said. "Mount your Eve, she needs you."

The man sniffled once more at the girl's vagina before mounting her and pushing his hard cock against her entrance.

The woman reached in to guide it, humming contently as she saw the rock-hard flesh enter in a slow and caring way.

Mmmm, she thought, lucky girl; he's been trained so well.

His long, slim fingers held her back as the man arched his lean body. After his cock had sunk in to the balls, he started a merciless pounding. He groaned and grunted. She just moaned and cried out garbled words.

The woman smiled, as the girl's slick ass cheeks pushed back against his belly, her fingers rubbing her clit. She walked around and knelt by her face.

"Mmmmm," she whispered. "I envy you, you know - such a wonderful lover, such a great, big cock just for you. Come for your lover, bitch. Show us all what a slut you are.

"Come and squeeze his cock for its delicious cream."

The girl gasped, coming up like a drowning swimmer. "Ooooooh!" she cried out. "F-fuck meeeeeeee..." And her whole body shook with her first intense orgasm.

The woman caressed her sweat-soaked face.

Then she went to the back to watch the blur of the man's cock ravaging the girl's cunt. White foam of whipped up juices coated his cock and the cunt lips he sawed in and out of.

The girl tried to follow his lead, but the spasms of her repeating orgasms turned her into a shaking rag doll. Her cries drowned the man's grunting, culminating in a long, drawn-out wail when he at last smashed his entire cock into her, mercilessly stretching her cunt lips with its massive roots.

The woman knew he was gushing his sperm into her steaming insides. He filled her up, never allowing a drop to escape.

The girl had fallen onto her face.

It scraped on the plank floor, lubricated by the drool from her gasping mouth. She didn't scream or moan anymore. She just grunted while her body shook with spasms, slowly turning into a heap of jelly.

"Love me," the woman whispered into her ear. "Please, why can't you love me..."

***

A girl, torn.

She lay in bed, staring into darkness.

Or into grayness, rather, as the ghostly light of pre-dawn leaked past the curtains. Next to her was a body as naked as hers. Its chest rose and fell with slow, deep breathing. They were the peaceful sounds of an untroubled conscience.

She sighed.

Five weeks had gone by since her stay at the tropical island. But just closing her eyes was enough to bring the images back. It was so easy to call those memories disgusting - so easy, after returning to sweet normal reality and making sweet normal love to a healthy girlfriend.

But she knew it wasn't true.

She liked to see herself as an honest person. A person who had to admit that those disgusting memories caused her to cry out louder in climax than she ever had - even while making love to that same sweet normal girlfriend.

"A present to remember me by when you're gone." The woman had been right - she'd left.

But the memories never left her.

It made her feel like a traitor, but who was it she betrayed? Did she betray the woman? Her girlfriend? Or was it herself? Pushing her perverse thoughts back into the graveyard of her mind didn't make them less troublesome.

Reciting sermons of righteousness to herself didn't make her feel any better either. Nor did drowning herself into work.

She'd love to hate what she did during that week in the tropics - and before - but it never stopped dampening her panties. She'd love to think the woman had made her do it, but she was too honest to blame her. She could sum up enough good reasons why she would be better off forgetting the whole dirty thing - reasons like preserving her mental health, or reasons like decency and plain old common sense.

But if so, why was she still lying awake, feeling her pussy gently weep?

And moreover, why did she still ache to return to that woman when she lay awake like this after yet another of their half-satisfying, vanilla love sessions?

Five weeks ago, returning from the island, she'd glowed with more than just a suntan, wearing the fur coat the woman had given her. She remembered raising its warm collar - a welcome shield against the brutal winter winds awaiting them outside the airport.

The woman had kissed her good bye in a cloud of dancing snowflakes. She had to fly on for business. The kiss was like all their kisses had been this journey - hot, long and very passionate. It weakened her knees and emptied her brain.

It also kept her warm for the entire ride home.

There was a mountain of mail spilling from her box. Amongst the debris of commercial onslaught and unwelcome bills she found Christmas cards and New Year's wishes.

One of them was from Italy.

"Ti amo," was written across the obligatory season's greetings. There were x's added. She sniffed at the card, wondering why it all felt so distant.

She also recalled a sting of lingering bitterness.

There were twenty messages on her voice-mail, mostly business. Two were from her best old school friend, asking her to call back so they might have lunch together. The sweet normalcy of it all touched her enough to make her cry.

It just felt - real.

She wondered how to handle the questions about her posh winter vacation, the envy for her tan? Would the dirtiness of it all shine through? Should she explain about the woman, call her a business friend?

Could she even wear the fur?

As the light in the darkened bedroom got brighter, she remembered her first week after returning - her too shrill and excited voice over lunch; friends asking if she was all right; her final decision to hide and plunge head-on into work.

She never went to the club.

She knew the woman didn't deserve the way she ignored her messages and she hated avoiding her, but she dreaded seeing her even more. Besides, hadn't the woman herself said that their affair was impossible?

In the end, she decided to blame her, and become the abused innocent - it was cowardly, untrue and unjust, but so much easier to live with.

Her girlfriend phoned her on Monday of the next week, telling her she was back. She sounded loving and warm, inviting her to the house; another sweet sign of reality.

The girl loved the stylish Italian purse she got as a belated Christmas present - suppressing the memories invoked by the potent scent of the leather. After dinner and hours of animated talk they made slow, intense and perfectly normal love, extracting slow, normal orgasms and ending in sweet, healthy, perfectly normal cuddling.

She lied that the dangling jewel was a Christmas gift to her girlfriend, green being her birth stone.

***

A girl, unhinged.

Darkness stood around her.

The howling loneliness fit her like a glove - nothing hurts like the pain of everyday misery. She couldn't sleep, sitting shivering in her robe, staring at the ghostlike window of her monitor.

She tried to work, but mostly she tried not to think.

She tried not to think of where she'd ended up - in this seemingly endless funnel of craziness; being the ping-pong ball at a game no one could take seriously in their sane mind.

Look at her: always on the run.

Running from the ruins of a betrayed marriage into the emptiness of heart breaking loneliness. Running from that into the arms of a sweet, intelligent girl. Running from her soft and bland loving to a rollercoaster of mindless, zipless fucking. Running from that into the horrifying attraction of shame and humiliation by a woman who makes her wake up with a scream - sweating, but leaking from arousal.

And, most horrible, not knowing where to run to anymore.

She tried to work and not to think.

She failed miserably at both. Demons whispered, memories mocked her. And all the while her fingers worked in and out of her pussy, as mind-numbing videos poured their repetitive porn into her staring gaze.

Her cunt...

"Sweetie?" a small and far-away voice called out. "Please come to bed. It is so late already."

"Coming," she muttered. And she did.

***

A girl, alone.

Lying in darkness, alone, she wondered.

Was it such a bad thing to be alone? To not be the toy of people who didn't give a damn? Did her girlfriend really love her, even care for her? Where was she now? Why wasn't she here?

And the woman, did she really love her? Did anyone?

She damned her cravings, her need to be normal, to belong, while always craving more - craving danger, dirt, humiliation.

Why couldn't she just choose to... be normal, to love her ordinary life and be happy, healthy?

She maybe just didn't have the patience for it, for a sweet, healthy relation. Maybe people knew that, instinctively. Her need of sex surely was different - too intense, maybe; overwhelming.

Was she too greedy? Was that why she always had to find new...

Were her constant cravings unnatural?

Did she want too much, too often?

Was she sick?

She slapped her pillows with powerless fists to fluff them for her tired head. But she couldn't sleep. So, she rose and took a shower, hugging her naked body as the hot water cascaded off her skin. She rubbed herself dry with a soft towel and blow-dried her hair. Then she found the short blue skirt and the knitted top they'd bought in New York, she and her girlfriend. After slipping into her pumps she grabbed her coat and left the house.

The night was chilly. She shivered and walked to her car.

***

A woman, in doubt.

"I'm so sorry."

The voice behind her was small and soft, but the woman knew who she was. Without turning, she said:

"Please don't be, slut. Where could I store another one of your many sorrys? My cupboard runneth over."

There was silence.

The woman turned around. The girl's eyes looked down and her hands were strangling the hem of her white knitted top, stretching it over her chest.

"Nice top," the woman said. "New?" The girl looked up.

"I'm truly ashamed," she said, her voice thick. "You were right, I left you. I didn't want to, but I'm a coward.

"It was never your fault, it was all mine."

The woman chuckled. "Now what's new, honey? Isn't it always about you?" The girl blushed.

"I guess so," she mumbled.

"As I said," the woman proceeded, "nice top, but something is missing."

The girl looked down at her sweater, then up again, confused.

The girl's eyelashes fluttered. Then she shrugged.

"I told you I lost him," she whispered, looking away.

"Ah, yes, you told me," the woman commented. "Lost. Did you lose our piercing too?"

The girl's hand flew to her left breast, stopping in midway.

"No," she breathed, blushing. "No."

The woman studied her face. Then she chuckled and waved her hand.

"You want a drink, honey?" she said, offering the girl the stool next to her. Her outward calm was a thin veneer covering her boiling insides. The moment she'd heard the voice saying sorry, her treacherous heart had surged. God, how she hated that - but most of all she hated not being able to ever stop it.

She raised her glass to toast with the girl.

"Welcome back to the club anyway," she said. "What made you return after all this time? I supposed you decided to avoid this little Sodom? Or is it Gomorrah nowadays?" She grinned as the girl shrugged.

"Let me guess: you don't know," she said and chuckled. The girl smiled weakly.

"I guess I know, though," the woman went on. "You see, I know how you found all that time to join me on the island - my little present, remember? You were free because your wonderfully straight-up girlfriend dumped you, didn't she?

"She went to her very rich and very Catholic family in Europe, and you weren't invited, were you?"

The girl bit her lip, looking away.

"Her good Catholic family doesn't know, do they?" the woman went on. "And your sweet girlfriend doesn't want them to know, does she?

"She's ashamed of your love."

The woman's eyes bored into the girl's until she looked away. She didn't like her sarcasm, but she was unable to check herself.

"And now," she went on, "now you ran back to her. But wait... you're here... lemme guess..."

"I.. I guess I must go," the girl finally said. "This was a mistake."

She turned, but the woman's hand grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"Don't," she said, wondering why she didn't let the girl go - then wondering who she was kidding.

Conflicting urges confused her - the simmering anger; the hidden need to slap the girl and scream that she was a stupid, stupid bitch. And then the overwhelming need to pull her on the bar's top and fuck her senseless with a fat, long strap-on dildo.

She trembled, a drop of sweat sliding down her spine.

"Okay," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. "So, she once again didn't want you around, and you thought: lemme get some excitement at the old, phony club.

"See if the freak has some dirty tricks left."

The girl started crying.

Her face didn't change, but tears ran down her cheeks. They got to the woman, although she knew they weren't for her. Inwardly cursing her weakness, she reached for the girl's hand, squeezing it. Then she brought it up to her mouth and kissed the warm skin.

"Now you make me feel sorry, sweetheart," she whispered. "Goddammit! I care too much for you to see you cry like this.

"Silly sentimental me."

The girl crumbled into her embrace, sobbing her heart out.

"Come," the woman said, fighting the turmoil in her head. "Let's go upstairs and have some privacy."

***

A girl, taught.

The dying embers in the fireplace sparked when the woman threw new wood on them. Flames shot up, spreading an intense heat.

She turned around, seeing the girl linger at the entrance. She smiled and waved her in, but she hesitated.

"You said I could only be in here naked," she said, blushing as her arms rose to hug her chest.

The woman paused a second before smiling.

"Yes, I remember," she said. "But that rule only applies to my girls."

"I see," the girl answered. Her arms fell down her sides, making her shoulders sag.

The woman enjoyed her obvious disappointment. Good for her - wasn't it about time that the selfish bitch found out she couldn't have every fucking cake lying around and eat it too?

There were prizes to be paid.

"Undress anyway, girl," she said with a soft, even voice.

She turned away again, picking up long leather gloves and sliding her fingers into them. The rustling of the girl's clothes behind her caused hot images to pop up in her mind - sometimes mere sound is sexier than images, she thought.

She adjusted the short and tight bolero-style jacket over her exposed tits. It was of the same thin leather as the gloves and the under bust corset that cinched her waist.

There was no need to dress up like this, she knew; she wasn't going anywhere. The only point in it was a counterpoint: to the girl's undressing.

As she checked her make-up, adding a new layer of shining purple to her lips, her head spun with questions of what was happening. Why is the girl really here?

Why am I risking my crushed heart again?

The Italian bitch hurt her. But she'd returned to her, hadn't she? She went straight back to her. It must have been fear. Fear and shame for craving me, wanting to escape my disgusting love and the need of humiliation I force on her.

But now she's back here. Why?

Maybe it isn't a return, really, just a vacation - a taste of bad, as long as it doesn't touch her 'real' life.

Ah, damn, wake up, woman. The spoilt slut is just bored, that's all there is to it. So, why invite misery? Can't you just have your fun with any of the girls that throw themselves at your feet lately? Why this one?

Well, again... who was she kidding? She turned around.

The girl was on her knees - she'd spread them slightly to show her shaven cunt. Her hands rested on her ankles, pushing her bare tits out, making the piercing sparkle. Her eyes were cast down.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I have no oil with me."

The woman walked over. Her boot heels sounded metallic the moment they left the rug and stepped onto the marble floor. One of her gloved hands was hidden behind her back; the other reached out to the girl's face.

It felt feverish to the touch; the heat penetrating the leather.

"Look up, girl," she requested, steel slipping into her voice.

The girl's lashes fluttered nervously when she looked up. The woman caught her eyes.

"You're a slut, girl, a floozie, a cheap, easy nympho," she said without a trace of venom; just stating a fact. The girl swallowed but didn't protest.

"It is always good to know that, especially of yourself," the woman went on after a pause. "You need pandering your easy cunt to anyone who wants it, just to ease your itch, and you know it."

She went down to her haunches, making the leather of her boots creak.

"But that's fine. I don't say this to offend you," she whispered, her mouth close to the girl's ear. "Why would I? It is what you are, even if you deny it and try to run from it.

"I know that you reason it away by assuming you're only a slut in here, so it doesn't really count. But you know better. I guess your posh girlfriend finally understands it too. You're a true slut, not to be taken seriously. And, certainly, not to be presented to her family or precious friends and business relations.