Angel, Demons Pt. 05

"But? Do I hear but?" she asked. Her hand twisted to make the tugging more painful. "When will you ever grow up and jump the shadow of your selfishness?

"You know very well that this fine lady gave your husband what he really needed, honey. So when will you accept the truth that you obviously aren't good enough for him?

"If you really do love him, as you keep telling me, why begrudge him a better woman, the woman he really loves?

"Apologize to her, silly slut. Thank her for giving the love of your life what he needs, and what you obviously kept away from him."

The woman slapped the girl twice before letting go of her hair.

"Do it, slut. Thank her now!"

The girl sank to the floor again. She was a heap of sobbing misery. The black-haired woman watched her, holding her breath. The blonde was obviously embarrassed.

"It... it's all right, really. She doesn't have to..."

The woman turned to her.

"Don't you interfere, please. This is between her and me. You'll never understand. She needs this.

"You robbed her of so much; don't rob her of this chance."

The girl lay in the puddle of her private humiliation.

She felt defeated and destroyed. Of all people to pleasure, Mistress had chosen the woman her husband had replaced her with.

The bitch had not only gloried in her victory, she had done everything to let half the world know how much the man preferred her over his former wife.

There had been screaming contests on the phone and in the streets. There had been bitch fights. They always ended with her ex asking her not to make a fool of herself before he took the hand of the goddamned whore and the two of them walked off -- hand in hand, smiling, smooching, laughing.

It had taken her years to at least dull the pain a bit and allow her wounds to scab over -- and now this cruelty tore open her hardly mended heart again. Why? Why did the woman do this to her? She loves me, she says. She says she loves me and now she destroys me.

Suddenly there was a voice whispering in her ear.

"Sweet slut," it said. "Crawl over to the woman and kiss her feet. Ask her to forgive you. Then ask her if you may please take off her pumps and suck on her toes.

"Pleasure her, honey, and do it gladly; she deserves it and so do you. Be sweet with her. Show me you can be what she never could -- what she can't even dream of being.

"I care for you. I know you want to do this to become who you need to be -- who you truly are.

"So, ask her to forgive you. Then ask her to kick you."

The words churned through her mind like a slowly gyrating whirlwind. They turned and twisted, changing their colors and their meaning as she rocked forward and backward on her knees -- seeing nothing; hearing nothing but the voices inside her.

The slow, slow storm traveled the length and breadth of her soul, digging up deep emotions and even deeper experiences until it bared her essence -- the bleached bones of her deepest being.

She looked. And she knew.

Her man had left her to be happy with a better woman.

Why hate him for that? Why hate the woman who gave him the love he didn't want from her? She should be grateful for the years he gave her -- she never deserved his love. She was just a worthless, talentless cock sucking little slut who had no claim to any love, not his, not the love of her parents, her brother and sister.

No one owed her anything -- she should be taken for granted, the lowest of the low. She could only gratefully accept what leftovers life threw her way.

Mistress was right. She could only be what she always had been -- nothing.

Being nothing was her only gift and her only chance, her only capital. When you're nothing, you are strong: you can't be harmed. When you have no aspirations, no ambition, you're untouchable: no one can take anything away from you; no one can hurt you; you can't fail. There is nothing to be ashamed of -- no sticks, no stones, not even words can hurt you.

A warm, sweet glow invaded her cried-out body. A new energy flushed in to fill her emptiness. She rose to her hands and knees and crawled towards the woman.

"Please, Ma'am, forgive this stupid slut for the silly things she did," she mumbled, before raising her tearstained face and asking in a clear voice: "May I kiss your feet?"

A storm came to rest; a new world settled inside her.

She bowed and closed her lips on the woman's toes. Her tongue curled around the nylon-clad flesh, drenching it with her saliva. Then she looked up, smiling, and a shadow arched over her -- filling her with an incredible sense of safety.

She swallowed the foot to muffle the primal cry that struggled out of her throat. Her entire body shook; hot juices drenched her inner thighs. And when the shadow passed, a sapphire sky opened-up.

The sweet rays of a new sun warmed her body.

"Please, kick me, Ma'am," she whispered.

***

The black-haired woman took her to the limousine, bundled up in her arms, exhausted. Back at the apartment, she made tender love to her limp, distant body, washing her and tucking her in.

The next morning, she was gone.

The day after, she called.

She had to think. She was sorry.

***

A girl, interrupted.

A week went by since she'd called the woman.

She'd tried, hadn't she? Honestly, she had. She'd begged forgiveness and promised to earn it. She'd promised the woman, she'd promised herself.

But this... this...

Nobody could expect her to accept this, could they? This wasn't about shame or failure at all; not about discipline. It had been about her very life. Her existence had been destroyed, obliterated. How could she show herself in town after what happened?

She could almost taste the humiliation.

She'd braved the rape at the dirty bar, the cup of piss. The naked blowjob in the park, being led by a dog, nights of pain and humiliation, being fucked by a blind man, by three men at once... she'd done it all. But this... Oh my god, the bitch will tell everyone. She could meet her in the streets any day, any moment... she and her ex...

Why had she fought so hard to be with that woman again? Why did she have to return and return and return? What was wrong with being, you know, a normal person? Living a normal life?

Of course, she knew why.

But knowing wasn't admitting, was it? Being accepted back by the woman she'd called mistress, had felt good, so good -- she'd been forgiven, she'd been... happy, most of the time. But just closing her eyes was enough to bring the horrible images back.

Devastating they were, debasing, disgusting. They made her want to hide inside herself, like a turtle -- and never come out again.

After waking up, she'd sneaked out of the apartment, feeling hurt and betrayed, robbed of her private life. And now she stared into the darkness of her bedroom, telling herself how wronged she'd been, abused, victimized.

Destroyed.

She'd cleaned the house from attic to cellar. She'd done the laundry. She'd worked and worked to drive the ghosts from her mind... the bitter taste from her mouth. But the questions remained... the Question.

Why had she kept coming back for more -- and more?

Bewitched she'd been, hypnotized, surely. It wasn't her fault, others had done this to her; the woman, the club. She was a victim -- absolutely; an abused, defiled victim.

There was only one tiny thing though, that punched her inflated anger like a pin would do a balloon; the same nagging thing as always: she knew it wasn't true.

Oh, for sure, she hated what had happened, and it truly made her reel with shame and embarrassment. But the real horror was something entirely different. It was the perverse, overwhelming... attraction of it all.

Admitting that would be real sick, wouldn't it?

Who'd admit being attracted to all this humiliating, shameful shit? Who'd admit that their panties kept dampening whenever they thought of debasing themselves for the new bitch of their husband, begging her for forgiveness? Who'd survive heaping so much shame on top of everything else -- and be aroused by it?

Nobody would in their sane mind. So why was she still feeling her nipples tighten while her pussy drooled?

Her slick, shaven, treacherous cunt...

***

A girl, swimming.

Being away from the woman felt like kicking a habit, cold turkey and alone, fruitlessly numbed with bottles of wine.

She knew what to do, but was hard to keep focused on her intentions.

She felt like an ocean swimmer -- one moment rising on a wave, seeing a distant coastline on a shimmering horizon; next moment drowning in the cold, deep green water, every purpose forgotten.

But she'd rise again, she told herself, gasping, spluttering, filled with the certainty that one day she might be home again, complete and accepted by her neighbors and friends -- hugging the dull but so very safe life she'd been used to.

It was what her sanity urged her to go for.

But why did even the mere thought of it make her lose confidence? Where did this feeling of incompleteness come from? Why was it so hard to choose sanity?

Or to simply choose at all?

Maybe it was because of how she grew up. Or maybe she'd just had the talent all along -- the talent to live her life on two levels. One she considered the upper level, and one she called lower.

On the upper level, she was a pretty woman in her thirties.

She considered herself a respected businesswoman and up until her divorce, a loyal wife. After she'd sworn off all men, she became a devoted soul mate to her girlfriend. She also was a great cook, specializing in the Lebanese cuisine, proudly making the best hummus ever.

She loved to cook, she loved to love and she loved her work.

The problem was, however, that for her this was only half a life. Many people would be happy with such a half-life, but she wasn't one of them. She was way too passionate to be satisfied with half a life.

Her body needed more, much more -- and so did her spirit.

Maybe that was why she always found herself sooner or later (often sooner) in her virtual cellar to open the hatch to a place she called her lower level. And when she did, her fingers trembled, her heart raced and her pussy tingled.

Below the hatch was paradise.

It was a wild, anonymous place where she could be anybody but the sweet and well-adapted woman she was supposed to be. She could dream and fantasize. She could feel the surge of horny need hit her again and again and be assured of instant satisfaction.

She could fuck whomever she liked, anyone who wanted her. There was no awkwardness, no inhibition. There was just the exhilarating certainty that they would want her, anytime she lifted the hatch.

She learned new, unspeakable things and knew that no one would tell on her -- as no one even knew who she was. She could come and go and cheat and lie -- and no one would mind: they all did it, didn't they?

There was no guilt, no shame, for she'd told herself that she was an entirely different person down there -- a wild, wild woman playing a game. It was all a game. It was all just one gorgeous, heart stopping party and she loved it.

She'd dived in naked and never left the warm, bubbling, gushing Jacuzzi again.

So, what went wrong? Why couldn't she have both?

Her lips closed around the moist leather of her stiff companion. She ran the knob down her chest and belly, leaving a snail's trace on her skin. She gasped sharply as she watched the shaft enter her cunt -- a slender cock it was, a black, slippery cock.

Her hips gyrated.

The fingers of her free hand fondled the piercing in her left nipple. She saw its elegant image light up behind closed eyelids and once more she came with an intensity that blacked her out.

***

What am I doing, she asked herself, when she awoke at first daylight, shaking the lingering fumes from her mind.

I shouldn't be doing this. I'm an adult woman, a free, intelligent businesswoman. I've been married and have lived in sane, mature relationships.

There's more to life than sex.

I'll go out first thing in the morning and apologize to my friends and to my customers. I'll find excuses; they'll take me back and things will be as they were again -- as they were again; as they...

Once again, her lips closed around the moist leather.

***

A woman, desperate.

There was nothing. No phone call, no message, no scratching at the apartment's door.

After four days went by, she sent e-mails without getting response. Her phone calls went to voicemail and were never answered.

She got worried.

So many things could have gone wrong -- from accidents to sickness. And if it wasn't that, things could even be worse. Did she go too far -- again? Did she cross a line?

On day five there was an e-mail.

"Sweet woman," it said. "This is...this is something I can't do anymore. I spoke to the priest last night...at some length. I have been wondering what to say but what can I say except that I want to try something different with my life.

"I need to move in a direction that I... will feel more fully comfortable with...spiritually. And I urge you to do the same. There is no future for what we have. It is so shallow... only emptiness and incompleteness. I'm very sorry, but it isn't good for me or for you what I've been doing.

"Please don't be sad; it is better for both of us. And I... I know you can find happiness... which I wish you.

"Be well and be happy."

The pale woman read the message twice and then once again, hoping there might be something she'd missed. The girl had never shown the slightest sign of religiosity.

She knew her family had been members of one of those Christian churches that make the Lebanon a veritable quilt of believes -- and a veritable powder keg too, surrounded by Islam. Those same churches had traveled with the emigrants to America, when staying in the Middle East became precarious.

The woman sank back in her chair, shivering in her wide wool sweater, staring at the screen. She struggled with the heat of anger rising in her throat. They'd been so close, so close and now this?

Forgiveness she'd made her ask. Had the prize been too high?

She clicked 'reply' and her fingers started typing a response.

"Ah, sweet little darling," she wrote. "Fold your hands and pray for your soul if you need. But please, leave me out of this."

The words were colder than her heart, which was sizzling with anger. The typed words also had a sense of finality that she wasn't sure of at all. She would always love the silly thing, whatever she did. But she did press the 'send' button, watching the message disappear.

There was no answer.

After three more days, a desperate feeling crept in. Why had she responded as she did? How could she allow the girl to treat her like this?

Look at yourself, she mused.

You act like a moonstruck teenager. What slave would respect you for that? What respectful sub would have dared talking with a priest about her relationship with a mistress? With a goddamn priest, no less -- the sanctimonious two-timers, the vile child abusers!

'I urge you to do the same,' the brat wrote; she actually wrote that -- to her! 'I know you can find happiness,' she'd added, for crying out loud. And what did she do after reading it? She crawled into her misery, sobbing in her pillows.

"This ends here," she said out loud. "Let her fucking choke on her righteousness.

"I don't need her!"

But sleep didn't come.

***

A woman, decided.

What is it about escapism, the woman mused, sitting in the back of a cab, on her way from the airport to a supplier.

They say you must have the right personality for it, or the right circumstances. Others suppose you're just a weak loser, not able to live a real life.

She wondered.

The girl loved to escape. She was a real artist, the woman realized -- she ran both ways.

She ran to the club to flee guilt and sorrow, failure and loneliness. She also ran from stressful commitments, especially since the betrayal of her husband. And mostly: she ran from mind-deadening boredom.

But now, the woman mused, she also ran back, scared by what she'd found while escaping. She chuckled, but it had a bitter edge. It must have been such a shock: fleeing one demon to find another.

In the end, she was on a constant flight -- from herself.

The woman knew she was no psychologist or therapist; the only thing she knew was what the girl craved. Which of course happened to be exactly why she wanted her.

She was no altruist.

She had her own load of baggage, which had turned her into a predator, always hunting girls like her. Funny thing was that this time she ended up being the victim as well -- falling in fucking love with the girl.

The irony made her chuckle, less bitter this time.

The girl was perfect, she admitted -- well, perfectly flawed, many people would say. She looked to escape from a boring life that offered nothing but loss and defeat; she was sex-addicted and had been a submissive victim since childhood.

Like the typical addict she was, the girl was prone to hypnotism. She more than once remarked that she only fell for the woman's outrageous demands because her sweet voice and green eyes hypnotized her.

The woman didn't agree; she thought the girl just needed the excuse. Certainly, she had helped her along. As every religious leader knows, there is a strong hypnotizing effect in repeated rituals.

It was why she insisted on strict rules when the girl visited the apartment.

She always had to undress at the entrance, oil every inch of her naked and shaven body, and kneel in a minutely described submissive position. She had to do this in the same sequence; any deviation -- however small -- might result in physical punishment.

The hypnotizing effect of these rituals spread as easily as the oil she rubbed into her skin.

When it all began, there just was the immediate arousal of exposing her body, but soon her cunt already started to flow when she opened the first button of her dress -- the zipper of her skirt.

Later, the effect started reaching back to the moment she pressed the button of the elevator taking her up to the apartment -- or even further back to her leaving home to go to the club -- sitting on the faux leather of her car seat, turning the ignition...

Soon the act of shaving her pubic hair was enough to flip the proverbial switches in her head -- or the scent of the lather she used.

And by the time she smelled the perfumed oil her fingers spread on her skin, the ritual's repetition and anticipation had her already on the brink of a premature orgasm. She often had to struggle not to explode, the moment her knees touched the tiles of the apartment's floor.

Soon, she was already a helpless piece of shivering jello when her bare tits kissed the marble and she raised her ass in the exact, prescribed way. The cool breeze invading her exposed openings were the apotheoses of a ritual descent into breathtaking, submissive bliss.

Sure, the girl was hypnotized every time she visited, but not by her mistress. She did it to herself -- and she did it very well.

By now the girl ought to be convinced that becoming a slave was her destiny. Her craving was obvious. But if so, what took her so long to accept it? Why this constant running off, this escape from escapism?

The woman sighed as her car crawled through narrow streets filled with market stalls and people in jellabas. From a nearby minaret echoed a summons for prayer.

How to break the circle?

Someone else might have long since given up on the girl. But she hadn't. She kept nudging her on, even if she balked and fled at each new challenging step.