One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 02

His impatience grew to desperation, then to anger. "What kind of a whore has no dope?"

This was frightening me. I walked hurriedly to my bedroom and closed the door. I saw my cellphone on the dresser and reached for it. I started to dial 911 as he broke into the room, starting to fume, and going through my nightstand looking for money or drugs.

I ran past him, waiting for the operator to answer. Once I heard the voice on the other end, I began to ramble rather quickly.

"Hello, I'm being robbed and afraid I'll be beaten!" I said in whispers. My gentleman caller stomped out of the bedroom and saw me on the phone.

He approached me like a monster. "Get someone over here now!" My whispers turned into a yell into the phone.

The burglar shut my front door with a slam and came closer to me. He pulled the phone from my hand and threw it across the room, where I heard it break.

Before I knew it, he was on me. He pushed me to the couch, now without cushions, and knelt on me, his hands on my chest pushing me down, his knees on my thighs. I tried to scream and wiggle away. I am not one to just give into a rape, despite what they tell girls, to diffuse the situation by letting the rapist have you and not fight it. I choose life, and if life is not an option, I choose death by my own choosing, which will always be kicking and screaming.

I expected his hands to wander to my breasts--my jacket was open, my chest exposed, and my nipples erect from fright. I expected him to take two handfuls of tit and squeeze and make me moan in the pain. I expected him to squeeze them so hard he would bruise them. But that is not what he did. His hands went from my chest to my neck. What kind of a rapist was this?

I tried to push him away, but he was too strong. I clawed at his chest, and he winced as he pulled off of me. I tried to crawl away, but he resume his hold of my throat too quickly.

"I'm not going to ask you again, girl. A pretty chick like you has got to have some money or blow or something. I've seen you around. Always wearing something fancy, something to make us all hard, just asking to get fucked. I know you got something for me." I sensed contempt for me in his accusations, as if he had been stalking me or something. Hard to analyze his verbiage with his hands around my throat.

I continued to wiggle under him. I managed to slip one of my thighs between his legs, and as my eyes widened and stared in fright at my assailant...

"UUUHHHHHHHH" came from him as I kneed him in the balls. His hands came off my neck and to his groin at that, and I tried to get away again.

I managed to get to the floor and crawl a few feet when he pounced on me again. I heard a knock on the door. I wanted to scream--was that the real Walter? My assailant put his hand tight around my mouth as I tried to wiggle free and make noise.

"One more sound and I will beat the life out of your hot little body." he said matter-of-factly in a whisper in my ear.

The man on the other side of the door knocked again, and I froze as he pressed his knee into my back. I felt he was breaking my spine this way. His hand was still firmly over my mouth. I was perspiring. I was on my stomach on the hard wood floor. My breasts ached as he put his weight on me, crushing them between my ribs and the wood.

After a third series of knocks, I heard loud footsteps that grew softer, suggesting to me that whoever it was, Walter or otherwise, was now gone.

"Good girl," the creep said. "Now, on your back."

I rolled onto my back, anything to get his knee off of me. His hand stayed on my mouth as I looked at him.

"Now, seeing as how a pretty girl like you has no cash and no dope, there's only one thing I can take from here to make this trip a success." As he said this, he placed his hand over my crotch and rubbed the leather over my pussy. I squirmed a little as he held me like this, one hand on my mouth, the other on my pussy.

As he fingered me like this, I sobbed a little.

"That's it, girl, you know you like that, don't you?

After a calm moment of fingering me, he roughly surprised me by twirling around and straddling my stomach. I screamed the second his hand lifted from my mouth. He faced away from me as he sat on me and fumbled with the buckles and zippers on my pants. I hit his back and claws at it, but he ignored this, and I don't know if he felt much through his denim jacket.

I was so scared as he opened my pants and pulled them down my legs. His hand slipped into my panties, and I shook as I felt his fingers roughly poke at my labia. I whimpered a little as he forced his fingers into my vagina. My legs flailed, and I fought at him with all I had as he penetrated me with his fingers. I wasn't wet--too scared to be aroused--so feeling his fingers inside me hurt a little without wetness to lube them.

He started panting as he ground his groin against my stomach. He fingerfucked me as he fucked my tummy like this, with his pants on, sitting on me, pinning me to the floor. I was so disgusted, and I was crying loud.

"Please," I said through the pain and fright and tears, "please, I'll fuck you, just stop hurting me."

My pleas apparently interrupted his pleasure, for pushed his fingers into me and stopped fucking my stomach. For a second he froze. I gasped to breathe--it was hard to breath, with fingers in me and him sitting on me.

Like a whirlwind he turned around on top of me and resumed straddling my stomach, only now facing me. His face was sheer anger and terror. His eyes bulged and stared at my tits.

"Why do the pretty girls always beg for me to stop?" He said as tears filled his eyes. "Why?" I didn't understand the question. I had my own issues at the moment to have sympathy for him.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and, lifting my head a little, he RAMMED it to the floor.

"Why?" he said as he did it again, forcing the back of my head to slam against the wood floor.

"Why?" he said again as he plunged my head against the floor. I clawed at his chest desperately to get him off of me, but with every "Why?", my head slammed against the floor, each time hurting a little less, but each time bringing me closer to passing out. My eyes fluttered in my head as he rammed my head repeatedly, each time punctuated by his "Why?"

I kicked and clawed for all I was worth, but I felt my arms and legs get heavy and eventually lose their strength. The man on me became blurred and darker, and his "Why?"'s became distant in my ears.

The last thing I remember was a golden glow coming from behind my assailant. It was brief.

Then I lost consciousness.

***

At some indeterminable time later, maybe second, maybe days, I couldn't know right away, I awoke in confusion, alone on the floor, my leather pants and panties down around my ankles, my jacket open, and my head feeling like it weighed a ton. I couldn't sit up. I was afraid, afraid of what I remember, of what could have happened while I was out, but even more afraid of what could still occur. I tried to lift my head, but gave up as soon as I tried it. At least for the moment I was safe on the floor.

I took a woozy mental inventory of the situation. My arms and body felt ok. I expected to have been raped while unconscious, but as I shifted about a little on the floor, I didn't feel any pain coming from my pelvis. My pussy ached and felt violated, but then again, the asshole on me was fingering me while dry. As I became more and more aware, I realized I probably was not raped, but I didn't know why. The only thing I was certain of was most likely having a concussion, and I feared passing out again and not waking up.

In my determination to not let that happen, I forced myself into a sitting position. I licked my pants and panties off as I looked around my decimated apartment. Everything was broken. I sobbed a little. Even if I wasn't personally violated, my home was. It broke my heart seeing everything formerly in the cupboards broken on the floor, seeing personal trinkets like that lamp in fragments.

It took all my strength, but I stood up and, putting my hand on the wall to balance me, I staggered toward the bathroom. I saw a light coming out from under the door, and I was scared my rapist was in there, doing God knows what. I was naked except for my jacket, and my head felt like it was twice as big as before and it throbbed, but I put my ear to the door to hear what was going on on the other side.

I heard a man crying--it could have been my Walter impersonator. I stood there as he wailed, as if he were a boy sincerely hurt. He was loud and blubbering. Perhaps I should call 911 again--love to, had the phone not been broken AGAIN. I listened as he sniffed and carried on, bawling his head off.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door a crack and peeked in. I gasped at what I saw.

There he was, a seven-foot man, brightly golden in color, with super blonde hair going down his back, naked, sitting on the commode, bent over, crying his eyes out, rocking a little. It was my Michael, and with the door open, I could hear him muttering softly to himself, "I'm so sorry, Olivia, I'm so sorry..."

I let the door fall open as I leaned wearily against the doorjamb. I had no idea what was going on. I ached. There was no more Walter or whatever his name is...

"Jordan Collier," he sobbed as he rocked. He said it a couple times, "Jordan Collier," as he cried and begged in sorrow, "I'm so sorry, Olivia, his name was Jordan Collier," the whole time never looking up at me, as if he didn't know I was even there, yet still reading my thoughts and finishing my sentence.

Considering all that happened, my lone thought was, DAMN, I hate it when he reads my mind like that!

I staggered into the bathroom and leaned against the counter and looked in the mirror. Well, I've looked worse. My eyes were puffy and dark, my hair disheveled, my face generally in tact. I looked down my naked torso, I wasn't bruised or scratched. I wasn't all the worse for wear if I had been raped. I smiled and giggled a tired giggle as I looked at myself, looking like something the cat dragged in, with my Guardian Angel sitting next to me crying like a baby.

"I let you down, Olivia, I am so sorry..." Michael said through his bawling.

I looked at him, not understanding. I didn't know why he was here and why that Jordan faggot wasn't. I wasn't sure if I had been raped or not--pretty sure I wasn't, but in considering all this, I didn't know what to think.

I hadn't seen Michael since that night he seduced me. I hadn't seen him in months. I was hoping he would come to me again, like he had before, like a thief in the night, leaving his wings at the window and enter the room and enter me. Every time I let a man inside me, I dreamed of Michael, comparing the mortal to the angel. No one ever fucked the daylights out of me like Michael had, but more, no one ever understood my carnal desires like Michael. I loved Michael.

But seeing him like this, reduced to sobbing and rocking like a toddler, didn't make any sense.

But since I had no answers, perhaps Michael did.

"Whh--what happened tonight, Michael? I stuttered.

He continued to rock, and he cried harder as my voice commanded to him to recall the information I needed.

"So sorry, Olivia, I really am..." he continued to blubber through his wailing.

I knelt in front of him and looked up at him. His face was covered by his hair, so I couldn't see his beautiful face. He continued to rock and cry.

Delicately I asked the archangel, "What did you do, Michael?"

He roared in tears as I asked him, and he yelled as he spoke.

"He was on top of you, and I couldn't stop him from touching you..."

I closed my eyes and started to cry with him; a tear rolled down my cheek, remembering Jordan on me, cruelly fingerfucking me and humping my abdomen.

"...and, and, and I got here, and he was beating you..."

He stopped often as he told me his tale, stopped to sniff, to sob, to wipe tears from his face with his hand.

"...so I...I grabbed him and broke him." He exploded again into tears.

I still wasn't sure what he was talking about, except that it seemed he made Jordan go away in the nick of time. The angel was crying, yet I was the one who was almost killed tonight. In a man, I would find that as a weakness. In Michael, all things were possible. I kept my mind open.

"Michael," I said in a low purr of a voice, "where is Jordan?"

He sniffed a couple of times, then, "he is probably in the Seventh Circle of Hell."

I knelt there for a few seconds, soaking in this. He killed Jordan to save me. I was dumbfounded.

I soon stood and walked to my bedroom, leaving the archangel behind to cry himself out. This was too much. I wanted desperately to sleep. I wanted to forget my possible concussion and sleep, forever if it merited so. I was fatigued and aching and so confused. My hero, the man of my dreams, the Archangel Michael, was blubbering like a schoolboy in my bathroom after saving me from rape and worse. I sat on the bed and removed my jacket. I curled into a fetal position, naked on the comforter, and awaited sleep to take me.

The overwhelming want to sleep apparently was greater than my fear of a concussion-induced coma; my eyelids grew heavy quickly, as well as my limbs. I felt my eyes roll back a little bit and darkness start to overtake me. The sole light in the apartment, as well as the sole source of sound, came from the bathroom, and both seemed to grow distant. I felt as if I was falling, and though there was a slight pang of fright in this, I didn't fight it at all. I welcomed this, what dreams may come.

I was shocked out of this pleasure of deep sleep with the feeling of a warm moist hand on my hip. I audibly gasped as it awoke me and roamed in a petting fashion up and down my outer thigh and side. In this awakening and startle I was unsure who was touching me--after a few seconds I remembered Michael was around here somewhere, so I was in no real hurry to turn over to see who it was. I was pretty sure, thus secure, in this realization, so, once the shock wore off, I smiled and purred like a lapcat as he petted me.

"Michael?" my voice cracked as I softly muttered.

"You don't have to talk, Olivia," the archangel spoke in a soft manner far more confident than when last we spoke, "Just relax, everything is alright."

"Michael, I need to know a few things." I stayed in fetal position, facing away as his hand roamed over my ass and thigh.

"Anything." I don't know if he was ready for anything.

"Who is William Sunderman?"

"Sunderman was the boy who you kicked in the groin as a girl."

"Did I hurt him?"

"Definitely, but didn't he deserve it for trying to feel you up?

"At the time, maybe, but if he is still feeling it so many years down the road, maybe it became more than it really was." I began to sit up--I wanted to look at him.

"Don't move, my love--try to relax and just lie there." His hand slipped off my skin.

I sat up and leaned back against the headboard. My vision was a little blurred from the headache and grogginess I was experiencing, but I looked up at the archangel as he sat next to me on the bed. That familiar smile was as warm as ever, his eyes red from crying, his body golden and immaculate. I see that smile every time I close my eyes, sort of like when you've stared at the sun and then close your eyes, how the imprint remains on your retina. I also remember seeing it, however, in a bad photograph shown to me by an asshole cop. And I vague remember a younger version of it from years and years ago, perhaps frozen in a forgotten yearbook in one form, definitely with less hair on his scalp and more malice in his eyes.

"I am so sorry, William." I put my hand out to touch his face.

"For what?" His question was soft, not at all defensive.

"For emasculating you when I kicked you."

Michael giggled a little at that. He caressed my hand with his as I petted his cheek. "You did more than emasculate William, you outright killed him. There hasn't been a William Sunderman since."

I didn't expect that. I expected two responses; either he was going to become irate in my discovery of his former identity that he would become defensive and argumentative, or he was going to break down, his little secret violated, his playhouse torn down. His response wasn't expected. It was stated calmly, even rationally, as if through all this time he truly believed William was dead and Michael inherited his form. I am no psychiatrist, but it seemed he truly believed himself to be an archangel.

The boy I hated in school had seduced me beyond my wildest dreams. The creep who molested me was now my guardian angel.

"I am so sorry, William."

"Olivia," he spoke, a little more seriously, as if he felt I misunderstood him, "William is dead. He died a long time ago."

I took this to mean, in his mind, the boy was dead to him. This seemed alright--the good girl in me died a long long time ago. My identity has been completely transformed since school. I could understand this line of thinking, even agree with it. Of course, I never transformed myself into godly status--then again, was I not a literary archetype as well, the prostitute with the heart of gold?

I so wanted to know this man, this angel, this masculine entity, this lover, this mindreader, this friend, this Michael, and to learn and accept how he transformed from schoolboy to deity.

I wanted to believe him so much.

"What if I called you Temunjin?" I tried to corner him with something the cop said. I remember vaguely something about Genghis Khan.

Still warmly, he took my hand away from my face gently. He turned on the bed so that he was sitting next to me, his back against the headboard. I rested my head on his chest as we continued, his hand cradling my shivering naked form, my hand on his muscular torso, my eyes fixed on his cock--I am still in awe of the fact that that gargantuan thing was inside me. I gazed on it as an idol of love, not of lust. I ached, but I also knew I wanted to feel it in me again.

"Temunjin, Hermes, William the Conqueror, I remember being called those things. I also remember being called Baal and Zarathustra and Torquemada and Marquis de Sade..."

His tone was light and a little amusing, but he also seemed sincere in this. I didn't judge him on this, though I probably ought to be more inquisitive concerning the man I was lying with. I was mentally busy on two fronts--fighting the effects of my concussion and the headache and grogginess associated with that, and fitting this wondrous tale of his into my sense of personal logic, trying to make sense of it. I really wanted to believe him. I guess, at this time, I did in my own way, and if he believed it, and if he personally hasn't really shown anything to contradict it, perhaps I could handle it as well.

"What I am trying to tell you is," the archangel continued, "over the centuries I have been a lot of things to a lot of people. I have always been this."

"I hope so," I whispered, realizing I was putting my eggs in an outlandish basket.

Michael stroked my hair as my hand wandered down to the inside of his thigh. I lightly kissed and sucked and licked his nipple as I began to awaken from my stupor a little. "Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?" he asked lightly.

"Just one more thing," I replied in between licks, "why have you stayed away so long?"

"Because you didn't need me again until tonight." I sucked on his nipple, the same one all this time, as he said this. I didn't answer, because in a way, he was right--I hadn't been attacked or anything since that glorious night of seduction. I have craved his body for months and have dreamt of his smile every day--every hour--since he first came through my window. His logic concerning anything seems twisted and vague, but it always has a kernel of truth to it--although I desired him madly, and though I have compared every man I've had since to him, and though I so hotly want him to be inside me, I never necessarily NEEDED him until the moment his protection and love was needed.