Angela's Revenge

Angela's voice shook with barely restrained anguish. "Why do you do things like this to me, Roger?" It wasn't the first time he'd come home with subtle traces of another woman on him.

"Because," he said flatly, "you won't give me what I want." If he hadn't been drunk, the truth would never have escaped him.

And nothing could have hurt her more. She fled to their bedroom and locked the door. She didn't sleep. All night, she lay awake, wishing he'd come to her. Tap on the door. Whisper how sorry he was for being such a total asshole. Vow it'd never happened again.

But they'd already played that scene twice in six months, with the same results. She'd relented. He'd gone whoring.

His word, not hers. That's what he liked. Down and dirty, sloppy, nasty sex, with painted sluts. So demeaning. So degrading. How could he? And, if that's what he really wanted, why did he insist, over and over, that she was the one he truly loved?

As the eternal night drug on, her weeping subsided and her pain was slowly replaced by rage. Her questions became curses. The last of her compassion for her first live-in lover turned to seared ash.

Angela had always been slow to anger. To be honest, her wrath was so overwhelming that it frightened her. She tried her best to control it, deny it, forbid its emergence. Generally, she succeeded. But, once her volcanic rage took hold, there was no putting it out. Once she became absolutely convinced that she'd been grievously wronged, that no plausible excuse for such behavior could pardon her transgressor, her thoughts always turned to just one thing - vengeful justice.

Roger had never seen the effects of her fury, and it wasn't anything she voluntarily discussed. He knew none of her friends, hadn't met her family, so had no way of knowing the secret side of the young woman he'd lived with for nearly a year. Angela smiled cruelly. All the better. His shock would be complete.

By the time she heard him shuffling around, showering in the hall bath, making the slovenly morning noises he always made, her plan had taken shape. Bracing herself for what she had to do, she checked the mirror to make sure she looked more normal than she felt.

Her long, straight dark hair was brushed, her wooly flannel robe tied securely about her small waist. Its collar was high, chastely obscuring her heavy breasts. Its hem hung well below her knees. She rubbed at her eyes to redden them, although her sleeplessness might have been enough. Satisfied, she shyly stuck her head into the living room.

He was at the dining room table, eating his cereal, reading the paper, already suited up for work. She fought away the urge to pummel him with her tiny fists. He wasn't a big man, but he'd easily be able to protect himself from her if her attack was so obvious. Instead, she poured herself coffee.

She saw the lie forming on his lips by way of his reflection in the window. She cut it short.

"I've been thinking all night," she said with forced nervousness, still not facing him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I am too prudish."

He was taken aback, cleared his throat while he tried to assimilate her words. "It's not really that, honey. It's just that I've always had these special needs."

She nodded, hiding behind her hair. "I know. You've explained them. How strong they are. How powerless you are against them. I guess, since you can't change, I'll have to."

He lowered the paper. She could see the disbelief - and the hope - written on his face. His voice was careful. "What are you saying, Angela?"

She faced him then, but cautiously kept her eyes lowered so he couldn't see the fiery flicker in them. "That if I can't stop you from going out with those horrible women, I'll have to act like one for you."

He still couldn't believe it, of course. She steeled herself, knew that she had to give him some proof. "I want to suck your dick like they do, and swallow your come, Roger. I want you to fuck me anyway you want to." The alien words dripped from her lips like honey, tasted to her like venom.

"Oh, baby! Are you sure?"

"I won't lose you, Roger. I can't live without you. I'll do anything it takes to keep you."

He swallowed. She saw the lump rising in his slacks and knew she was winning. "So," he said thickly, "you'll wear that outfit I got you sometime? And -"

"Everything. Just like you want."

He swallowed again. "Tonight?"

"Couldn't we wait until this weekend?"

He shook his head. This time he said it as a statement, not a question. "Tonight. But, right now, I want you to do something to convince me this isn't a dream."

He was so predictable. "What, my love?"

He scooted his chair further from the table. "Come here."

It was just as she'd thought. While she worked his cock through her mouth, licking and sucking, doing it exactly the way he told her to, she wished she could bite it off. She smiled tightly around his swollen flesh. Getting him to do it himself would be so much better.

After he left for work, she headed for the bathroom to rinse her mouth. Funny. It hadn't been as bad as she'd thought. In fact, his sperm really tasted kind of pleasant. And the sense of power that had filled her as his silken yet hard penis had slipped deep into her mouth had also been totally unexpected. He'd been so helpless. Despite the fact that she was on her knees on the dining room floor, she'd really been the one in control of the situation. That awareness had brought her near the brink of orgasm herself.

She called in and took the day off from work. She was going to need hours to prepare. But, rather than looking at all the things she had to do with a selfless sense of ferocious duty, she grudgingly admitted that maybe parts of it might be fun. In fact, all day she nursed the wild energy created by the blend of her wrath and her arousal. Her long nap was filled with strange new dreams.

Everything was in place. She whispered a brief prayer that she hadn't overlooked anything, then glanced at the bedside clock. 5:08. She had maybe fifteen minutes before he slammed through the door with his prick already half-hard in anticipation. Her next glance was into the mirror in front of her.

She'd been giving herself that same disbelieving look for almost an hour as she'd worked with the unfamiliar makeup she'd found in the plastic bag that'd been part of his birthday gift to her - to himself, really. He'd tucked it on the closet shelf, with the boxed clothes he'd bought her nine months before. Wearing it, he'd said, would be the best gift she could give him. She'd hysterically refused, and he'd eventually hidden it away before stalking out of the apartment and fucking somebody who looked like he wanted.

She'd never worn makeup in her life, and had silently ridiculed women who did. Nor had she ever dreamed she'd be sporting the kind of attire stretched over her lush body. She tried to see herself as he would.

Her black hair shone in the room's afternoon light, curled over her bare shoulders and seemed to lick at the top of her breasts, which overflowed from the form-fitting satiny black minidress. Even standing, it barely reached mid-thigh, barely covered the tops of the black mesh stockings, barely covered the black elastic straps of her garter belt. Her legs seemed impossibly long. Strapped into the five-inch stiletto heels, she'd be taller than he was.

The face he'd be peering up into was just as stark a contrast to what he normally saw as was her clothing. Her lashes curved, long and thick and black, framed eyelids which seemed to droop beneath the weight of silver and grey shadow. She'd painfully plucked arched brows. She'd managed to circle her grey eyes with eyeliner without blinding herself.

"Not bad," she whispered, watching her wide, full red lips shape the words. "You make a pretty convincing slut, Angela. And you're going to act like one, too. You have to, to show him what he really wants."

She eyed herself critically. "A little more lip gloss, and you'll look like a complete whore." Her hands trembled slightly as she applied it. "Just nerves. Relax."

She used her new scarlet claws to peel the cellophane from the lightest menthol cigarettes she could find. She prayed she'd wouldn't choke. Part of what Roger had told her was that all sluts smoke because they have an oral fixation - can't get enough cock. He'd told her a lot in his efforts to persuade her, to manipulate her. And she'd learned from his words everything she needed to know. Not about what whores were actually like - but about why he really needed them.

The cigarette dizzied her, sent her blood racing through her, made the whole thing seem unreal. That couldn't be her hand down there, clutching the little white lipstick stained tube between curved red nails. Those couldn't possibly be her shapely legs, crossed so that the hem barely covered her moist little thing.

She giggled drunkenly, hit on the cigarette again, exhaled a tight plume of grey smoke from between painted lips shaped for a kiss. She kept her shoulders square, showing off the size of her breasts, their nipples soft dents in the thin fabric, just above the swooping neckline.

"Yeah. The fucker's going to really get off on this." Her thighs unconsciously rubbed together in anticipation.

He was late. Her rage rekindled. She was working on her third cigarette when his key rasped in the lock. She didn't meet him at the door, like she'd planned. During the hour she'd waited, her plan had changed.

He froze just inside the door, staring at her feverishly.

She glared daggers. "You're late, asshole. What'd you do, stop off to fuck one of your bimbos?"

He extended the bottle of wine. "I, uh . . . I thought maybe you might like . . . Jesus, Angel! You look -"

"Do I look like an angel, jerk?"

"No."

"Then don't call me one."

He looked confused by her vehemence, her obviously sincere anger. "Then what should I call you?"

"We'll talk about that later. Open the wine."

He kept staring at her while he did, like she was a cobra and he was a rabbit. He followed the path of her cigarette to her succulent lips. As she breathed smoke in, he thought the black dress might rip at the seams as her massive tits expanded. When she re-crossed her legs, he felt momentarily faint. She wasn't even wearing panties! Her thickly furred bush had been momentarily visible.

She wordlessly accepted the glass from him. He hesitated before sitting beside her, feeling almost afraid. From the corner of his eye, he marveled at how her lips marked the glass as she sipped. As far as he knew, that was only the second time she'd ever tasted anything alcoholic.

She speared him with a sharp gaze from heavily painted eyes. "You smell. Go take a shower and change clothes. I've laid what I want you to wear on the bed."

He stood, automatically responding to her harsh tone, then catching his reaction. "Suck me off again first."

"No," she growled. "You suck me off." Without hesitation, she wriggled her dress higher, bared her damp center. "And do it right or that's all you'll get from me."

Roger licked his lips. "If I do, you'll give me a blow job?"

"If I feel like it. Get on your knees, you bastard - or get out."

Her thought was to be nonchalant at first, like he was boring her. Then, she was going to make it seem like her passion was growing. As it turned out, she didn't have to fake the wild lust he saw. Having him on his knees, sucking her pussy like a child nursing on a teat, filled her with the feeling she'd first experienced that morning - but multiplied by a factor of ten. She locked her hands in his wavy hair, ground his face into her pubic forest, savagely cursed him, drove him on - and doubled over, clamping him between her legs, as she was knotted by the most intense series of stabbing orgasms she'd ever known.

At the soonest possible moment, the instant the first thought wormed through the thick red haze of her desire, she thrust him harshly away from her and picked up her wine. "You smell."

He picked himself up from the floor, seemed on the verge of protesting. She ignored him, lit another cigarette, and examined her manicure. He turned and left the room.

Her composure fled the instant he was out of sight. Her hands shook wildly. Her breath became uneven. Her lips fell slack. It'd been all she could do not to push him onto the floor and rape him, guide his cock into her still rippling cunt and fuck him until she screamed.

This was what sex was all about. This was what the girls all whispered about in high school. This is what she'd been missing.

She groaned quietly. Her breasts ached with their need to be touched. She did so, petting the twin exposed upthrusts ticklingly, scraping them with just the tips of her nails. She heard the bathroom door close, the shower start. Her nails raked her nipples, made them leap upwards, strain for more contact. But the seeping hollow between her legs needed her fingers worse. She dropped her head onto the back of the sofa and let them glide lower, explore everything revealed by her widely spread legs. They rolled her engorged clit, dipped within the sopping, loosened hole below, and evoked another series of shuddering spasms.

She had to compel them to stop. She whined her frustration. There were more important things to do right now. She could finger herself later, afterwards. Hell, any time she wanted.

She struggled to her feet. Her knees trembled as she walked unevenly into the bedroom. The wine added to the heat suffusing her. The shower was still running. She had time to powder her damp forehead and rearrange her scanty dress. She caught herself lingering over repairing her chewed, faded lips, told herself that it was only because he'd kept staring at them. It was a lie, and she knew it. And, for the first time in her life, she didn't care.

He wanted her to be a slut, did he? He was certainly going to get what he asked for. And more. So much more.

When he returned, wearing the blousy red silk shirt and tight black slacks she'd chosen for him, she was back in the living room, her wine glass refilled with water. The shirt was a gift from her he never wore, and he looked uncomfortable. She smiled.

"Very sexy," she approved. "Drop your trousers."

"What?"

"Are you deaf? I said drop your fucking trousers. I want to see if your wearing the panties."

He blushed under her scornful words and harsh scrutiny, made no move toward his zipper. "I, uh, couldn't. They're too -"

"Have it your way." She stood, stalked past him toward the bedroom.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm washing this shit off my face and changing into some decent clothes."

"No! Honey, you said -"

"Are you going to put on the panties or not?"

"Okay! Okay! Jesus, I -"

"You better get moving," she warned ominously. "I'm really getting sick of your bullshit."

He got moving. She bit back a laugh. This was so easy! The bastard wanted her to manipulate him, dominate him. She was willing to bet that this was the way the sluts he loved so much always treated him.

He was back almost before he'd left, his face brightly flushed. This time, he nervously opened his waistband and let her see the frilly black panties he'd bought to go with the outfit she was wearing.

"There," she mocked, "that's not so bad, is it?" She patted the sofa. "Come and sit beside me. Have some more wine." He eagerly took a place close to her side. She held up her glass, saw him stare at her long, graceful nails through the clear fluid. "To our new ways," she whispered sultrily.

They drained their glasses. For the next fifteen minutes, she secretly thrilled to his devoted, hesitant caresses. He petted and squeezed her breasts, ran trembling hands over her silken thighs. She feigned indifference, of course, appeared to callously endure his attentions. She smoked. She tapped seductively to the kitchen to refill their glasses, felt his eyes glued to her widely swaying ass.

She considered dropping more barbiturate from her sleeping pills into his wine, glanced at his already woozy slouch, decided against it. He had to stay conscious. He had to know what was happening. She allowed herself a delicious shiver. Now. It was time.

Her nipples hardened even further as she pranced toward, then past him. Her tits felt almost too sensitive. Her pussy was dripping fluids down her thighs. "Come on," she purred. "Let's fuck." She entered the bedroom without looking back.

He was on her heels, trying to grope her. She put the wineglasses on the bedside table, slapped his hands away, guided him onto his back on the bed.

It was so easy. She sat astride him, rubbed her aching cunt against his raging hard-on, as she peeled his red shirt off. It was hard, though, to even temporarily give up the contact on her crotch while she got rid of the slacks. The nasty panties she left in place, couldn't resist kissing the head of the swollen cock extending above the elastic waistband. He hissed and bucked, like he was ready to cum, so she backed off.

She teased him as long as she could. Her own lust was spiraling, nearly out of control. Finally, frantically, she grabbed his shaft, pushed the panties aside and guided him into her sopping, throbbing pussy. He moaned as she sank upon him. She howled when her pelvis met his, the head of his meat bumping her cervix.

It wasn't enough. She jerked the top of her dress down, let her tits leap free, lowered them toward his begging lips. She leaned forward, grabbed his wrists, pinned them over his head, and arched into his frenzied sucking. She rose and fell, slowly at first, but with quickly escalating force, slamming his cock to its root into her tight, slick hole. It was almost impossible for her to pay attention, to regulate her pace, to pull away when he gave his little pre-orgasm wail. Her body was demanding satisfaction with a voice that threatened to drown out everything else. Nothing had ever been this intense, this overwhelming. She managed. Barely. But only because there was something she wanted to do even more, something that would be even better. He was sluggish, weakened by passion and alcohol and the drug she'd fed him. Slipping the looped ropes over his wrists was a little awkward, but no more than that. Through his lust, he didn't notice until it was far too late. When he did, and gargled a half-protest, she again impaled herself upon him and gave him something else to think about - his orgasm. It wasn't long coming, and his distraction was complete. He used the ropes to mash himself violently against her.

Instantly, despite her resolve, she joined him. As he exploded in her cunt, the muscles lining her vaginal walls contracted around him, and all her self-control vanished. Angela bounced and shrieked and squealed and came and came and came. Then she froze, and came some more, milking his erupting dick of every drop of cum he had stored. If anything, the sensation was even more intense than when he'd fucked her with his face less than an hour before.

It threatened to never end, but her clit was too sensitive to bear the friction generated by his rolling hips. She jerked free, gasping for breath, pulled her tit from his mouth, and rolled off him. His cock twitched, still oozed sperm. Her jaws ached with the need to drink it - but there was something more important to do.

She dragged herself to the foot of the bed and looped his ankles as she had his wrists. He struggled feebly at the bonds, his immobility finally beginning to register.

"Wha?" he slurred.

She hugged herself tightly, squatted on her knees beside him, fought to quell the last tendrils of her orgasm. The thrill of seeing him rendered helpless ignited her all over again - but in an entirely different way. A surge of raw energy ran up her spine. She could do anything to him. Anything at all.