Angel, Demons Pt. 05

When she'd ordered her to undress in public for the first time, there had been flares of shame and yet, her pussy had started to flow. Forcing her to accept cocks again, first in her mouth, later in all her holes, had made her panic -- but it wasn't caused by fear; it was triggered by the shameful awareness that she loved it.

When the first slap of a punishing hand set her skin on fire, she'd cried out in pain, but she'd also stuck out her treacherous ass for more.

Any other lover might have misunderstood the girl -- and many no doubt had. She'd hung on to their 'normalcy' for a while, if only for social safety, but she cheated on them at the first opportunity. She might tell them that living with them was heaven, but to her it was a secret hell; just like being with the hellish woman felt like heaven to her, deep down.

So, why was it so hard for her to admit who she really was, shed all the frustrating remnants of guilt and fear -- and live?

Instead, she went to a priest.

She must have been desperate to go to the fat bastard for advice. The pious scumbag must have known her family-background -- the sleazy brother, the sanctimonious mother and a father who treated her like trash.

He must have known about her fragility.

God, how great it would be to show the girl what a jerk the man really was -- and rob her of another illusion. She needs to realize that there is no hope for compromise; there is only one choice left for her.

The cab finally reached her destination, and she knew what to do.

***

A girl, fetched.

The car hummed as it crept along the country road.

A lovely lake stretched out on the left, the wooden houses on the right stood hidden by the spring-green haze of budding trees and bushes.

"Stop here," the woman in the back said, touching the chauffeur's shoulder. "I think this is it."

The house had white sidings. It also was big, needing some renovating. But it looked as if it belonged in the lovely scenery -- as it had for many years.

She opened her door and slid out of the car.

The air felt sweet, even though the sun was setting. She walked up the short driveway, her silhouette blending with the darkening dusk. Her pale face, throat and chest floated on top of the blackness of her outfit; the tall leather boots crunched the pebbles under her feet.

An automatic light went on when she approached the porch. Her hand reached for the bell making chimes sound from the depth of the house.

Nothing seemed to happen.

So, she decided to repeat the ringing. Then she heard the muffled sound of flip-flop slippers on a stone floor. The feet stopped and there was a sharp intake of breath.

The girl must have seen her through the spy-hole.

"Open up, honey," the woman said, giving her voice an edge of impatience. "Things have gone too far."

There was silence. Then a soft voice said:

"Oh please, no. Go away, I am so sorry, but please leave."

The woman on the porch just stood and stared, saying nothing for minutes. At last the rattle of a chain broke the silence. The door opened, creaking softly.

The girl was a mess.

She wore a long white T-shirt and slippers. Her hair was tangled, her face pale and drawn. The woman looked at her until the girl's eyes wavered.

"Get dressed, stupid slut, and get in the car," she said.

Then she turned sharply on her heels, walking to the limousine. She strutted with confidence, never looking back, but the short hairs in her neck itched with anxiety. The chauffeur held the door open at her side of the car. She slipped inside and waited, looking straight forward.

Minutes later the girl appeared again.

She wore a light blue shirt under a light jersey vest now, and a white cotton skirt; her hair seemed freshly brushed. The driver led her to the other side of the car, helping her in. Then he set himself behind the steering wheel, waiting for directions.

"You're a fool," the woman said, without introduction.

The girl looked up sadly; then she nodded.

"So, you go to a goddamn priest, of all fucking hypocritical bastards, and complain about me?"

The girl lifted a small hand in feeble protest.

"No, Mistress, I never complained. No, really, I..."

The woman turned to her in a flash, lashing the girl's face with her open hand.

"You have no right to call me that!" she spat. "Discussing me with a priest stripped you of the right to call me your mistress!"

The girl sobbed, touching her burning cheek. Hiccups and 'sorry's' swam like flotsam in the torrent of her tears.

"Where does he live, the sanctimonious hypocrite?" the woman asked, ignoring the crying. She felt the palm of her hand tingle from the slap.

The girl's eyes flew wide open.

"No," she said. "No, you won't...?"

The woman slapped the girl's face again, now from left to right. It caused her to break down, crying with renewed abandon.

"Stop telling me what to do, slut. Take me to him."

The woman gestured to the chauffeur to drive.

"Well?" she urged while the car started following the lakeshore again.

"Next right," the girl mumbled, her voice thick with tears.

***

A woman, from hell.

The house wasn't unlike most, standing close to a small, rather modern church building. When the girl didn't move to leave the car, the woman in black reached across her, first opening the door and then pushing her out. She followed. Taking the girl's shoulders, she said:

"Priests are pigs; I'll show you. You should never have listened to him. Now give me your vest and bra and panties."

She held up her hand, wiggling her fingers in a demanding gesture.

The girl looked left and right in the dying daylight. Then she slowly opened the buttons of her blouse, took off her white cotton bra, gave it to the woman and covered herself again. Next, she stood on one leg and reached under her skirt, pulling her white panties over her heel, letting it drop on her standing foot. She stepped out of it, picked it up and gave it to her as well. Her blushing was intense enough to be seen in the growing darkness. The woman took her by her elbow, guiding her to the front door.

The vest and underwear lay strewn on the path.

When they arrived at the door, the woman tore the girl's blouse open, making its buttons pop. She tugged hard at a sleeve until it gave at the shoulder. Then she grabbed the skirt and ripped it open from hem to waist.

"Now ring the bell," she said, slightly panting.

The door opened to the well-rounded body of a middle-aged man. He sported a black, gray-flecked beard, a receding hairline and heavy spectacles. A smile came to his face when he saw the girl.

"Hi," he said. Then he saw the torn clothes.

He turned his puzzled face to the woman behind the girl, taking in the pale expanse of cleavage and the Goth face on top. He had to slightly look up to see it.

"Father," the girl said, with a shy stammer. "This is..." But the Goth woman interrupted.

"No need, honey cunt; the pig knows who I am from your confession. And he will know soon enough who I truly am!"

She pushed the man inside, following suit. He protested, but she cut off his words.

"So, you're the swine that raped this girl?" she asked, her face close to the man's. "Maybe I should warn the police and tell them how you abused her?

"Spill your beans, pig, you did rape her!"

His eyes swam like crazy fishes in the glass bowls of his spectacles.

"What?" he said, repeating the word twice for finding no others. "I never..."

The woman cut him off again. She grabbed the girl's shoulder, making her tits show through the tatters -- and pushed her into the man.

"What will they say, eh, the cops?" she cried out. "Seeing you with her like this? See the bruises on her face? The thick eyes from crying? You, sanctimonious pervert! You raped her!

"My chauffeur saw it too and he is right now calling the police!"

Things went too quickly for the poor man.

He had just eaten his favorite dinner of lentil soup and broiled fish, prepared almost as deliciously as his emigrant mother used to make it, God rest her soul.

He'd felt content and just a tiny bit hazy from the two glasses of wine when the doorbell rang and sheer hell broke loose.

There was the girl with whom he'd had such a good conversation, a week ago. Poor troubled girl, he remembered, now dressed in torn-up clothes. And then there was this black leathered, black haired, bare chested harpy, screaming into his face about rape and police, pushing the girl into his arms, half naked.

Lastly there was the voice of a woman in the back of the house, inquiring if everything was all right. Very much aware of the torn-up clothes of the girl and the almost obscenely clad woman with her, he turned, covering his visitors with his ample body.

"Everything is fine," he wheezed. "Just visitors. I'll take them into my office."

"Should I bring coffee?" the disembodied female voice inquired, but the man had already ushered his guests into a darkly paneled room.

Profusely sweating he turned to the girl, hands up in a helpless gesture.

"Please, what is going on?" he asked with a whining voice. "You know very well that I would never..."

But again, the damn woman didn't let him explain. She pushed the fat man, making him fall into a heavy, creaking chair, holding him down with a hand on his chest.

"So, you thought, pervert, that you know what is best for my girl and me?" Her voice was sweet as honey. "You had to tell her that I'm endangering her soul, didn't you?

"That I'm sending her to hellll..."

She curled her tongue against her teeth as she protracted the last letter; her face was almost into his. Then, with a movement too fast to register, she pulled out a leather belt and tied his arm to the heavy chair, repeating it with the other.

"No!" the priest cried out. "You can't do this? I'll scream and call my housekeeper, she'll..."

The woman chuckled, holding his chin.

"You won't, little fat boy. You just -- won't."

She tore at his belt and zipper until his fat, curled up penis lay exposed in his lap. "What will she say when she sees this, you, naughty boy?" She leant down, blowing hot air on the cock. Then she spat on it and started jerking it with the tight tube of her palm and fingers.

She grinned as she felt it swell and stretch.

"Not bad at all, honey," she said, leaving the cock to stand on its own, its purplish head shining. "I knew you were a horny bastard."

She chuckled as she scratched the flesh with her blood red nails.

"Come see, sweetheart," she urged the girl. "Did you know he had such a fine cock?"

"Stop this, stop this," the man repeated, shaking his sweating head. He didn't yell, he just hissed.

His eyes were imploring the girl to help him. Tugging at the chair's arms, he might have succeeded in freeing himself if his mind had been just a little bit more focused.

The woman turned to the girl, who stood staring, wide eyed.

She not even seemed to see the priest's face or hear his pleas. Her eyes were fixed on the rising phallus. Her blouse hung open, as did her skirt. It made her look very... young, the woman thought -- achingly innocent, helpless and... abused.

"I think, sweet little whore," she said. "I think we should give the poor loser a chance to show what a sanctimonious creep he really is.

"Kneel between his knees and take that fat dark sausage in your mouth. Give him the blowjob that will send him straight to this place he already reserved for me.

"Go girl, do it. Give him hell!"

She grabbed her and pushed her down on her knees, forcing her face to touch the now erect cock that was bathing in fresh shining slime. The girl gasped and then slid her open lips over the dripping head. She gradually moved down to the cock's base; then started to bob up and down while her hands caressed his balls.

Her swirling tongue made him start to moan, sweat gushing from his face.

He soon came, obviously profusely, for his goo spurted from the girl's mouth around the meat that filled her. It dribbled all over his lap, smearing his pants.

He hardly noticed, still living in the fairytale land of his orgasm.

"Enough, honey," the woman said, pulling the gurgling girl off the shrinking penis. It caused another river of come and mucus to splash into his lap.

"Let's leave him to his blissful dreams," she went on as she tied the wrists tighter to the arm rests, then pushed the chair over to make the priest rest on his back, feet kicking helplessly.

"Bye, darling," she said, "I'm sure your cook-lady will take good care of you. Eventually.

"She might have quite a new opinion of you, though."

She chuckled and walked to the door, pulling the girl with her. They were outside and in the car in seconds, driving away from the peaceful little church and its adjoining vicarage.

The girl cried. The woman took her in her arms where she curled up.

***

She didn't take the girl with her to the apartment; she dropped her at the steps of her own door, only clad in the tattered clothing she wore -- cold and exhausted.

The woman turned around, closing her jacket against the now chilly night. Sliding into the car, she told the driver to bring her home.

Looking back, she saw the girl rise to her elbow, one arm stretched, begging for attention.

Sometimes, love is cruel.

***

A friend, concerned.

The supermarket was an icy labyrinth.

Even through her dark sunglasses, the glaring lights were as cold as the conditioned air that blew on the girl's skin, raising goose bumps. She stood and stared at the colorful multitude of articles without finding what she was looking for -- only to realize she was staring right at it all the time.

Absent-mindedly she picked up a box of dried pasta, her thoughts in a distant place while her body dragged her through boring reality. Then she heard her name, and her first instinct was to hide, pulling down the bill of the cap she wore.

It was a familiar voice sounding from the back -- a voice bearing sweet, lost memories of normalcy. She turned, shaking her mind free from webs of thought.

She plied her lips into a smile and named a name.

"Been too long!" the woman exclaimed. She ran over and they hugged.

"How are you sweetie?" the woman went on, studying the girl's face with fond, hazel eyes. "I missed you terribly. Where have you been?

"And why the disguise?"

The woman was slightly taller.

She had brown, half long hair and a healthy complexion. Her face reflected a calm, no-nonsense openness; so very different from the exotic complexity of her petite friend.

They'd been close, ever since high school -- as close as the girl's demons allowed.

Maybe it was their many differences that glued them together. Although her friend would never understand her chaotic, self-destructive path through life, it held a dark attraction for her. There was a mystery surrounding the Arab girl that totally contrasted with her down-to-earth New England views of life -- and it enthralled her.

Her petite friend also had a vulnerability that appealed to her protective instincts.

The girl, on the other hand, had always been drawn to her friend's rock-like solidity. Whenever she'd stumbled around in the swirling clouds of her confusion, she'd found comfort in the woman's healthy, clear view of life.

In her married years, she had selfishly neglected her, but in the turbulent times of betrayal and consequent divorce the woman had been there to listen and comfort her, to give advice or just dry her tears.

They had coffee in the mall's plastic coffee corner.

After stemming the girl's incessant flood of sorry's and self-deprecating remarks on what a neglectful person she'd been, they at last succeeded in starting a conversation.

The tone was light and excited, but the girl knew her friend too well not to detect that something was off -- stealthy glances, nervous smiles.

She seemed to know something; could it be...?

Her lesbian adventures couldn't be it -- she'd been quite open about it, even inviting her friend to dinner and parties when she was still with her Italian girlfriend.

Besides, her friend knew about it first-hand. After getting tipsy at one of the many heart-to-hearts during her murky divorce, she'd suddenly kissed her.

There'd been a lot of tongue and moaned 'I love you's.'

All in all, it had been an embarrassing moment never spoken of again -- luckily it didn't break up their friendship. They'd mercifully had the alibi of being drunk and it had served them well.

What she didn't need to know, of course, were the one night stands and other wild adventures at the club -- or the steady slide into a darkness she would never be able to fathom, let alone understand.

But there was something -- could it be the priest? The..?

"What is it, sweetie?" she asked when the coffee was gone. "Something is bothering you."

"I... well," the woman said, her eyes wandering. "Uhm, I hear you, well, made up with your ex's wife?"

Images flashed through the girl's mind, flushing her throat with purple blotches. Her tongue tasted moist nylon again, sliding over polished toenails.

'Making up,' she'd said, what did she know?

Her friend's familiar eyes told her what she needed to know -- or didn't want to know at all.

"It... it was, well... you know...," she stuttered, trying to avoid the abyss of pity.

"And," her friend went on, "I hear these incredible rumors about the priest..."

So, she knew that too.

Rumors were that the housekeeper had found the priest half naked and tied up in a chair. He never told her what happened. From her kitchen, she'd seen two women leaving and she'd recognized the girl from church.

When her friend heard the rumor first, she'd been stunned. She still had a hard time believing it, and was reluctant to ask.

When she finally did, the response was dramatic.

Looking up she saw the girl gasp like a drowning fish. Behind her shades, her wide eyes brimmed with tears, rapidly gushing down her cheeks. By then she collapsed, her face dropping forward on the plastic tabletop.

She cried with abandon, like a child.

At first, her friend was too shaken with the effect her question had, but then she reached out and held the crying girl, uttering small sounds of comfort.

It took the girl minutes to regain her voice.

She haltingly told her friend about her visit to the priest. She'd decided to make it seem that she'd been very drunk. She also was vague about her companion and only hinted on their relationship as superficial, a drinking buddy.

Her friend shouldn't know the truth -- oh, my god, she wouldn't understand at all, would she?

"Oh my, sweetie, you really should stop drinking," the friend said, shaking her head.

"I should stop a lot of things," the girl whispered. Then she hugged her friend and said, "Will you help me? Please tell me what to do.

"Where do I start to get out of this mess?"

***

A girl, raped.

The concrete path from her car to the front door brought back memories.

She even remembered the exact spot where the woman had made her drop her bra and panties. A blush warmed her cheeks. She shook her head to shed the thought. She was here to get clean -- to loosen the woman's grip on her, step by step.

It should be done. It could be done.

If she ever wanted to pick up her life again in this community, she'd not only have to stay away from the club and that woman, she should also repair the damage.

It was what her friend told her too.

The horrible incident with the priest surely was paramount, she thought. Her friend had offered to come along. She'd thanked her for the offer, but declined. No need for her to hear what the priest might disclose -- no need to hear the whole truth, was there?