Angel Ch. 03

1.

Day before she bought herself a whole bunch of snazzy new workout clothes, so that morning she went jogging to start breaking them in. The outfit was pretty damn provocative. Felt real nice on her, yet perhaps not in the best of taste, not out on a public street. Not to say she didn't look good in it. Oh no. Too good, though. Too ostentatious. Bright neon yellow yoga pants with a matching sports bra, both obviously very tight. Everything she needed to be was covered and secure—and none of it was left to the imagination. The pants and the top might as well have been spray painted on her skin. Normally she would wear a T-shirt or a hoody on top of clothes like that if she was going out of the house. Just for the sake of politeness. For some crazy reason on that particular morning, she didn't.

Then, on even crazier whim, she jogged past Phil's place, hoping he would happen to see her. Hoping it would drive him nuts if he did. Made for a hell of a long run, much further than she would normally try to go. And it was stupid because the chances of him being there and looking out his window at the critical moment to spot her weren't very great.

She ran all the way out there anyhow, sweating buckets. Her lungs held up all right, thankfully, and her legs. Her heart was thundering but in a good way—she enjoyed the sensation. She had a headband and scrunchy keeping her hair in decent control, despite the wind. Mirrored sunglasses screened her eyes and her identity, nearly, like a superhero's mask, because they were a rather chunky, oversized pair, like everybody thought was hip back in the eighties. She had her earbuds in listening to a song called "Good Mistake" on a loop because she'd got hooked on it the past couple days, and had to carry her phone supplying the music because it was slightly too big for the little pocket on the thigh of the yoga pants that was designed for that purpose—she wished she'd noticed that minor detail in the store before she bought the pants. Her new top, however, was definitely impressing her a lot with its ability to keep her boobs from flying around as much as they usually did when she ran. They still bounced, of course—just not near as bad as she was used to. Whoever designed this sports bra was a superstar.

Her running shoes were bright cherry red. She couldn't decide if she liked the way they looked contrasted against the yellowness of her outfit, or if she should get new shoes the same color. The sole was starting to jiggle loose a tiny bit on the left heel anyhow. She'd had these shoes a long ass time. Except she didn't put them to as much use as she should. Which was why her feet were getting seriously sore.

When she finally got to Phil's street, ended up he was sitting on his porch steps without a shirt on and his hair all mussed up, reading a book and drinking a beer. She didn't look at him as she ran by, teeth grit. Well, she didn't turn her head. Her sunglasses allowed her to look at him without him being able to tell. His expression was just about exactly what she hoped it would be. Like he was about to have a heart attack. Perfect!

Mission accomplished.

She decided to turn around at the end of the block and come back the same way. Would he still be sitting there in the same spot? He wasn't. He'd retreated indoors. She wondered if he was already masturbating helplessly in there on his couch, thinking about her. Odds were pretty decent that he was. Not a sure thing, but knowing him like she did, it was hardly an outrageous suggestion either. She turned him on like crazy. She always had. Hell, she turned on most guys, and didn't need to wear an overly-explicit outfit like she had on at present to make that happen. Just a gift she'd been given, luck of the draw. You're either hot or you're not, and she happened to be hot. No sense pretending otherwise. Wouldn't last forever. She'd enjoy it while she had it, and put it to use.

Today she'd just used it to torment Phil. Childish, admittedly, and mean-spirited. She didn't care. She didn't regret the impulse. The sonofabitch owed her big time, for the shit he'd put her through. And for the fact she couldn't stop thinking about those times. Couldn't put it all behind her, no matter how hard she kept trying.

Maybe she'd just made Phil jerk off to her, or maybe she hadn't—either way, when she got back home and got in the shower, she was almost certainly going to masturbate herself, and she would be thinking again about Phil while she did it. Like pretty much always, nowadays.

So embarrassing. That fucker! But she couldn't get him out of her head. Nothing she'd tried shook him loose. It had been almost two full months since their last ... encounter, or whatever it should be called. She'd balled eight different other guys in that time (three of them more than once, and two of those more than twice). Kind of a lot of fucking for that period, even for somebody like her. There was a thing that happened just the last week in one of her regular hangouts where she stopped to say hi to an acquaintance on her way to the ladies room, this guy sitting at the end of a booth squeezed full of people, and then when she looked over the rest of the group, she realized that in the course of her college career she had slept with every other guy sitting around that table—five guys, and three of them she couldn't remember their names. Hadn't known until that moment any of them knew each other (not that it mattered to her, really, in the long run, one way or the other); apparently they were all close buddies. She wondered if they all knew they'd all been with her on different occasions. Whole group pretended they didn't recognize her (most had girlfriends sitting with them) except for that one guy on the end she'd noticed in the first place (who she ended up going home with an hour later). It was pretty funny at the time. Hard to maintain a straight face. Later on for a spell she felt differently, sort of sick to her stomach.

None of her last eight hookup's, that dumb guy included, had succeeded in giving her an orgasm, even the ones she allowed to make multiple attempts, in a spirit of optimism and fair play—no successes, at least not proper ones. Some little weak halfassed ones that were about as fulfilling as a fart or a sneeze. She could only seem to come right anymore when she made it happen by herself, and furthermore, when she was fantasizing again about goddamn Phil. It was infuriating. It was obnoxious. But she couldn't break the cycle. Not so far.

He had her stuck in a loop, like the silly song she was addicted to on her phone—frenzied and pounding. She never used to masturbate much. Never had a need to. When she happened to get horny, she'd go out and hook up with a guy and that was that. Things were no longer that simple anymore. It really sucked.

God, she realized all the sudden she was turned on again right then and there on the sidewalk as she ran ... Not just a little bit, either—a whole lot. Thinking too much about all this shit, she'd got herself super seriously fired up, all at once. It was getting worse and worse. The motion of her legs, and the burn in their muscles, complimented with the sheer silky squeezing that her yoga pants were giving her, these factors were contributing to her condition—aggravating it, in fact. Her pants and her top both felt like they'd shrunk a couple sizes too small, plus they'd started itching everywhere they touched her skin. She couldn't breathe right anymore. She wanted to tear the clothes off and fling them away behind her into the street, yelling like a maniac as she did.

She wanted to be naked. She wanted Phil to be seeing her when she was. Again.

She wanted more than that. She wanted to be having sex. She was craving it. practically. She wanted to come, and come huge. Right goddamn that second. Jesus Christ!

What would Phil say if she turned around again and ran up to his door and pounded on it? He'd freak out, of course. He'd think she was gonna try attacking him again. But she obviously didn't have any scary thugs with weapons accompanying her this time, like he'd be expecting, and if all she did right off the bat was look him dead in the eye and said: "You can do anything you want to me"—what would he actually do?

Then it occurred to her that since she wouldn't be able to stop wondering about that scenario and imagining it in vivid pornographic detail all the way home (which would take her another ten or fifteen minutes) and while she was showering and fingering herself into a pathetic panting stupor ... she might as well just play it out for real, since she was still so close to his place. It would only take thirty seconds from this spot to reach his door.

Because yeah, fine, it was a crazy thing to do, and stupid, and dirty, and embarrassing. But she was gonna end up feeling humiliated and pissed off and guilty anyway, if she just continued on home. There was no escaping Phil in either direction—he still had too much power over her. Sexual power, which she couldn't deny. Phil was gonna fuck the hell out of her again today. If it didn't really happen in real life, it was still gonna happen to her in her imagination.

Of course if it stayed in her imagination—if she just continued home and took care of her desires alone—her disgrace would stay private and secret. Phil would never know and nobody else would. Just her.

Small comfort. So goddamn cowardly and weak, on top of all the rest. More things to feel ashamed of. No! She was stronger than that! Always had been. Always fucking would be.

Let it happen for real. That was what she decided. Felt more dignified, and even heroic, to a point. She wouldn't hide what she was feeling and what she needed from the guy, not this time. Instead she'd be honest and courageous, and the two of them could just get right down into things. No bullshit, no disguises.

2.

It's no more than five minutes later.

Angel's now inside Phil's apartment, in his living room, sitting on his couch—a couch she's very familiar with from her previous visits. Actually, she's not so much sitting as sprawled—that's a far more accurate term. Her phone is resting on the couch beside her with the earbuds unplugged in order to allow that song she likes, "Good Mistake" from Mr. Little Jeans, to fill the room. It's blasting loud as the phone can go, only of course it sounds kind of tinny and crappy because of the limitations of the phone's tiny speaker.

She doesn't have those bright yellow yoga pants on anymore, and the sports top that goes with it is pushed up over the top of her breasts out of the way. She still wears her spongy headband, however, and the scrunchy in her hair, and she still has her chunky mirrored sunglasses on, though they're pushed down to the tip of her nose so Phil can see her hazel eyes over their rims.

Phil's pulled off her bright red running shoes, but not her socks. They're footy socks, the no-show kind, and they're not a matching pair. One is purple and the other is green. Phil is holding one of her feet in each hand, suspended in the air and widespread, far as he can stretch his arms. And it's probably a good thing that he's holding them that far away—they don't smell very nice. It was pretty noticeable when her shoes first came off. The rest of her body doesn't smell so wonderful either after such a long run. She'd put on a ton of deodorant, only that stuff smells just as nasty as B.O. Or at least it does when you go overboard with it like she must have. It was supposed to have pleasant flowery scent; it wasn't pleasant at all, it was sickening. Thankfully the smell of sex has already fogged the room enough to cover everything else, more or less. Not her favorite atmosphere either, but in the circumstances far preferable to the reek of B.O/flowery feminine deodorant.

Phil is kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, in front of Angel. His pants and boxers are pushed down around his knees.

"Oh God," he says, "Oh my God. Oh yes. Yes! Like that! Like that! Oh God that's so good."

He's making these passionate exclamations because Angel is holding Phil's erect penis with both her hands, pumping the shaft forcefully and tickling the tip and the rim of the head with her thumbs. She's worked a great deal of goo out of it already, and got the stuff splashed all over her hands and her forearms and her belly too.

Angel doesn't have any panties on. In fact she hadn't been wearing any under her yoga pants. Are you supposed to wear underwear with yoga clothes? Angel usually doesn't, whatever the rule is, if there's a rule. Juices leaking from her pussy have made a dark shiny splotch on the leathery couch cushion underneath her.

She wonders how much of the sex smell is from her parts and how much from his, and which of them is contributing more. Which of them is the more riled up. Hard to say—or impossible, more like. Awful lot of moisture flying around here on both sides.

"Can I put it in now?" she asks, "Can I put it back in me?"

Phil nods, and she guides the penis inside her cleft. Phil moans and presses closer, with his whole body quivering like he's receiving electric shocks, and starts fucking her—or rather, he resumes fucking her. His movements (at least the voluntary ones, forward and back) are slow and gentle. Angel fiddles with her clit and with her nipples while he works. Mostly she watches Phil's cock, and watches what it's doing to her. Each times she glances upward, Phil is looking direct into her eyes. With a look of wonder and of worship.

She finds this disconcerting, and finally readjusts her sunglasses to their proper position.

"Hey," Phil protests, "Don't do that."

She sticks her tongue out at him.

He smirks. "You're such a brat," he says.

She shrugs. Then she grabs his hips and pulls on them, trying to speed up his thrusts.

He obliges, but only for a few moments. "Oh God. I'm ... I'm not gonna be able to hold out much longer. I'm not gonna last long enough to make you come before me. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she says, "It doesn't matter."

"I'll use my tongue. All right? I promise. I'll make you come with my mouth. I won't leave you dangling."

"It doesn't matter," she repeats. She can tell she isn't managing to lie any good.

"I know I'm not very ... skilled at this. I don't get to have sex very often, is the issue. Frankly I need lots more practice. I wish I could make you feel as good as this feels for me. It's unfair, isn't it? I wish this was as big a deal for you as it is for me."

"It's fine, I said."

"But it's only been a minute and I'm about to ... about to explode. Like a teenager. Jesus."

"You were beating it already before I knocked on your door. Weren't you? You were sitting right where I am now, your pants around your ankles, beating the hell out of it hard as you could. You went inside and started beating it the second after you watched me run by."

"No. No I swear." His face has turned crimson, though, and she's quite pleased by the fact. "No I wasn't. No."

"I don't believe you. I heard you fumbling with your pants before you opened the door. I heard your zipper. Just admit it. You were right on the brink of shooting, weren't you? You were about to come because of me. I bet you still jerk it to me every single day. Don'tcha? Huh?"

"You're so ... hot. And always mean to me, too. So goddamn hot and mean. It's not fair."

"I know."

"It was like you were already naked. Yoga pants like that should be illegal outside a gym, I swear. I could see your pussy! I swear to God I could! Bulging! Bulging right through them!"

"But you can see it better now, can't you? Look how far you're making it stretch open. Uhhnnuuh."

"Ahh. Uhhaahh. Jesus. Ah my God. Uhhuuhhaah. I'm losing control so fast. Can't help it. I'm sorry. It's too amazing. You're destroying me. Ahhuuahh. No. Oh no. I don't want it to end!"

"Just chill. Quit fighting it. You don't gotta prove anything. Not to me. Just fuck me and enjoy it while you can. Come when you wanna come."

"All right. All right. You're right—I'm being annoying about this, aren't I? Just making it worse for you. I'm sorry. Won't take much longer. Uhhuuhh. Just a little more. Let me have another minute, at least. Please God. Please. Uh yes ohhooh."

"You like that pussy, huh? You like that?"

"I do. Oh God I do. I love it! Angel! I wish you were mine all the time! I wish to God I was good enough at this to keep you with me. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe you came back here! I'm inside you!"

"You didn't spank me. I thought you would, before anything else."

"Why? You haven't done anything bad or mean. The polar opposite! You're being as nice to me as it's possible for a girl to be—why would I wanna spank you for doing that?"

"Well, I don't know, what about if I had sort of wanted you to?"

"No! Come on! There has to be reason for it. I couldn't punish you for no reason."

"What if the reason was I asked you to?"

"That wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be the same thing, either. It would just be pretend and it wouldn't feel the same, for either of us. It would just be silly."

"You mean it wouldn't excite you. You don't wanna do that unless ... unless I don't wanna have it done. That's pretty dark."

"I did that to you when I was pissed. We both know I had good reasons to be, both occasions. Now that's over and done with. Now we're making love."

"No we're not. We're having sex, is all. I'm letting you have sex with me. I'm not in love with you."

"Okay. Fine. Doesn't change the fact I'm still a little in love with you, just the same as I always was. And I want things to be nice between us."

"Nice! Jesus Christ! What would be nice is if you could get me off—but it looks like you can't manage the job, can you? You're just not good enough at fucking. You're not enough of a man. Not for me, anyhow. That's all there is to it. Get off of me! I'm fed up with this—this is too boring! Let me up! I'm getting out of here!"

Phil didn't try to stop her. He didn't look at her as she pulled her clothes back on. He laid face down on the floor with his hands over his head. Like people do in movies when bank robbers hold them hostage.

As she was tying her shoelaces, she announced: "I'll have to find somebody better to fuck me today. Shouldn't be too hard. Just about any other asshole out there on the street would probably work out a hundred times better than you."

Then she left. Or she would have if he hadn't grabbed her hair from behind just after she stepped out his front door, in order to drag her inside again.

She screamed. She fought. She slapped his face and punched his belly. Phil didn't hit back at her, but neither did he let go of her hair. He did kick the door shut as he spun them around and then shoved her ahead of him across the room to the couch. Aiming for one of its armrests.

"No! No! I won't let you! You can't make me!"

Except it turned out he could. He was stronger than her, and made her bend over the armrest of the couch, up on her tiptoes. Then he ripped her yoga pants down to her knees.

"Fine," Phil said, "We'll do this your way." Then he slapped her ass. Hard as he could.

"Ahah! You fucker!" She kicked backwards and nailed his shin with her heels, making him grunt and curse. Didn't prevent him from putting his cock into her and making her scream again.

Before he fucked her, he took a minute to drag her sports bra off over her head and then used it to tie her elbows together somehow behind her back. She didn't bother struggling as he did that—not with his cock planted in her to the root. He also plucked off her shoes and her socks, but left her yoga pants around her knees to trap her legs together. He took away her headband and her scrunchy so her hair was all undone, and then he held it all gathered tight in his fist to drag her head back while at the same time keeping her bent ninety degrees at the waist against the side of the couch. Every single time he jerked on her hair like that, it made her eyes water and her nose run, and it also made her pussy sizzle and clench on his cock. Which also happened each and every time he struck her sweaty glistening buttocks with the flat of his other hand, over and over and over. Because women are wired like that, most women—they've evolved to get fucked in that position, and they've evolved to get excited and be thrilled by it, bent over and dominated and spanked. Or at least it's a goddamn sexy idea, if it's bullshit. The appalling wrongness just makes it sexier. Ordinary lovey-dovey sex just can't cut the mustard anymore, once a person develops a taste for the rough-and-nasty style.