Angel Lost in the Dark Ch. 06

It’s been awhile since I’ve added to this story, but I haven’t been idle. This is chapter six and I have chapters 7-10 completed. With the exception of some minor changes in wording, they are ready for posting.

In the chapter you are about to read Tom meets Angel, the title character, for the first time. For those of you who have not been following the story (or perhaps forgotten it?) this is the perfect opportunity for you to catch up. Chapters 1 through 5 contain background information on Tom (the “I” in the story) and it is suggested that you read them since this and future chapters contain references to past events. It will also give you insights into the formation of Tom’s somewhat contradictory character traits and confused philosophy of life. For those of you who elect not to read them I have synopsized the chapters so you will at least be aware of the basics.

Chapter 1begins with a short introduction in which Tom describes as his ‘kink’ What turns him on sexually is watching women, especially exhibitionists who enjoy showing themselves off in front of strangers. He never stoops to the level of illegality – no peeping, no two-way mirrors installed in his house, no loitering near dressing rooms hoping to catch a glimpse of someone changing their clothes, - but he certainly enjoys watching when it happens, The story itself begins with the circumstances birth, his childhood, and his short relationship with Ellie, a plain and overweight girl who he meets in college. Despite her physical appearance she is extremely sexual and exhibitionistic. it is with her that Tom loses his virginity and discovers his ‘kinkiness.’

Chapter 2 begins by telling the reader how Tom built his business and met his wife Helen. One night while he is driving home from work he stops at Terry’s Tavern, a drinking hole to which he is unfamiliar. He is about ready to leave when he notices a couple at the far end of the bar. She is wearing a very short skirt and her partner is rubbing her upper leg. He decides on having one more beer while he watches them and he is rewarded for his patience. An ‘audience’ is what they have apparently been waiting for and they take full advantage of Tom’s presence and give him the show of his life. He begins obsessing about them and begins stopping at the bar almost every night on his way home from work hoping he will see them again. At first Helen accepts the explanation that his increased tardiness is caused by work, but when she finds a stash of pornographic magazines hidden in the basement she puts two and two together and concludes that Tom is having an affair. He’s not, of course, but she angrily confronts him and they argue. The argument ends when Tom convinces Helen that he is innocent of adultery, but he does admit to enjoying pornography. He enjoys it, he says, because it is something he can fantasize about. He likes his sex ‘dirty’ and she likes hers ‘romantic’, he tells her, and as the chapter ends she is crying.

Chapters 3 and 4 deal with the aftermath of the argument. He convinces Helen that if they both try to please each other their sex life can be better. She agrees. Tom goes to mall and buys her some very erotic clothes and convinces her to wear them while he takes her bar-hopping. Her agenda is to loosen up and have some fun while his is to experience what his fantasy couple had experienced the night he had watched them. Helen is conservative by nature, but as the afternoon turns into evening and as the drinks begin to pile up she lets herself go completely. Thinking that she pleasing Tom, she flashes passing cars as she drunkenly walks down the sidewalk, dances naked on a pool table, and gives a blow job not only to Tom but two strangers as well. When they leave the bar she walks naked down the darkened street for two blocks before reaching their parking spot and then fucks Tom on the asphalt outside their car with the bright lights overhead making them visible to whoever might pass by.

Chapter 5 begins with Tom telling what happened the morning after the infamous night at the bar with Helen. She is filled with remorse over what she has done, and she blames Tom for allowing it to happen. She tells him she will never have sex with him again, and she never does. At first he satisfies himself with masturbation but as the years pass he finds it harder and harder to achieve an erection. More time passes. Helen dies of lung cancer and Tom develops emphysema. Now, impotent and facing his own mortality, he tries to reach out and seize life. He’s rich enough to be able to afford it, so he places an advertisement in the newspaper for the purpose of hiring a model. The model he selects will receive $500 per day for 20 days. Since he’s ‘impotent’ she is not required to have sex with him, but instead assume the role of an exhibitionist as he takes video tape of her. He wants to see her exposing herself at beaches, mountains, lakes, bars, stores, anywhere and everywhere there are men like him who enjoy watching such behavior. He’s looking for a model that would not only be ‘willing’ to wear the short, sheer, tiny, outrageous clothing he has in mind, but one who ‘enjoys’ wearing them. In short, he wants not just a model, but a co-conspirator as well. The chapter ends after his interview with Karen, the first of the two models he has scheduled for an interview. Angel is the second and as Chapter 6 begins he is waiting for her to arrive.

The story is completely fictional. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

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When I first decided to hire a model I really didn’t know what to expect. The first two girls that responded I only talked to on the phone but I got nowhere. I would have hired the first girl I spoke with, but since her salary demands were so far out of the reach of my budget it proved impossible. When I mentioned the salary of $300 she laughed and informed me that she had ‘starred’ in ‘adult’ movies and had received $1000 per day! We negotiated, of course, but in the end we were still far apart. My final offer was for $500 per day with a guarantee of twenty days work and hers was for $750 per day as long as she didn’t have to ‘take it up the ass.’ For her to drop her rate by $250 per day ($5000 for the entire shoot!) made me think that perhaps she wasn’t all that fond of anal intercourse, and for me to raise my rate to $500 per day was out of the question.

The second girl I talked to was so strange that I eliminated her long before our (her) conversation ended. We were on the phone for five minutes before I said anything more than hello. She never shut up long enough for me to interrupt. She took pride in her ‘nastiness’, which was fine by me, but when she bragged about fucking a midget she had met one evening at a Bingo Parlor I suddenly realized that her ‘nastiness’ was perhaps a little too nasty for me to tolerate. I’m certainly not opposed to fucking midgets, you understand, but to fuck them BECAUSE they’re midgets somehow seemed to cross the line. All my life I’ve been against exploitation and discrimination and this certainly seemed like one or the other.

I was luckier with the next two girls who responded. I had good conversations with them both and both accepted my invitation to an interview. Karen was the first scheduled and she passed all the requirements I had set. She had taken off her clothes without hesitation when it came time for her to do so and she’d worn the ‘close-to-illegal’ clothing that I had selected for her to wear for our trip to the adult bookstore. I still had a few minor misgivings about her, but all in all she was acceptable to me.

Angel was the second girl that would interview with me and I had already made up my mind that I with make my selection between the two of them. I was itching to get started and I didn’t want to say no to both only to find that no one else applied. The only fair way to compare the two, as I saw it, was to have them do the exact same things. I would ask Angel to wear the same peek-a-boo Daisy-Mae’s that Karen had worn and I would take her to the same bookstore. Whichever one ever made the best impression on me based on the taped interview and the trip to the bookstore would have the job. Hopefully I could get started the following day.

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Tardiness on the part of others has always made me anxious. If I have an appointment somewhere I try leaving my point of departure long before necessary, and over the years have accumulated literally days and days of time idly spent sitting in my car thinking, planning, or just relaxing by listening to soothing music on the radio. Sometimes there is quiet bar near my rendezvous where I can have a cool drink with nothing to say, no one to say it to, and no one but strangers to hear me if I suddenly began talking to myself. Over the years I have accumulated days and days of what others would call wasted time, but to me it’s cathartic. I think it’s made me a better man. I don’t expect others to appreciate wasted time the way I do, of course, but if they did the world would surely be a better place. Being early is blissful and relaxing, but being late is frustrating, especially for the one that’s waiting.

Angel was late, and I was waiting. Despite my displeasure, however, I was also relieved. There was something missing, something that I had forgotten. I couldn’t think what it was, but given time I would remember, and her tardiness was giving me that time.

Things that lie just below the surface of consciousness – names, titles, even faces – can sometimes be brought to mind by starting with the letter A followed by B and then C and so on through the entire alphabet. Somewhere along the line the name will appear or it will trigger something else and I’ll come up with the answer. If I forget someone’s first name, for example, I think Aaron, Able, Abner, Aiden, Alfonse, Alfonso, Allen, Andrew, etc. When I finish the A’s I’ll begin the B’s. There’s names I skip over, obviously, and it doesn’t always work, but I will usually find remember the name searching for before I reach the Z’s.

Applying this exercise to a list of unknowns is a little more complicated than names (there’s too many variables) but I was using it anyway. A equals access, albums, amenities, antiques (Me, of course, but I didn’t count it), apples, arrival (no, she was already late), assumptions (God, I hope she’s not a pig!), attention, audience (no, not yet anyway), audition. I stopped and thought about the last one for a moment and then I dismissed it and began with the B’s. B’s equal babies, barrooms, bathrooms (I’d hate to have her find one of my unflushed turds floating in the toilet bowl if she needed to use the restroom), bedroom (I doubted she would see it), beneath, benefits, (I already had planned for that one), between, beverage (Had I remembered to refrigerate the wine?). Before starting the letter C checked both bathrooms for turds and then the refrigerator where I discovered the three chilled bottles of wine I had placed there the night before. I returned to the living room already engaged in the letter C.

I was perhaps half way through the letter E when the doorbell rang. It was fifteen after two and I still hadn’t remembered what it was that I had forgotten.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” were the first words she said as I opened the door. “You ARE Tom, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and you must be Angel. Come on in.”

“I wrote down the address as Liston Road but I didn’t remember if it was north or south. I drove by earlier but when I saw it was a house I kept driving and stopped at South Liston first. I expected to find some kind of a studio or something.”

“Well, at least it didn’t take you too far out of the way. This is only the 200 block,” I replied.

Her face broke into a smile and then she started to laugh. It was a lilting, wonderful, full of life laugh and I was soon to find out that it was one of her most endearing qualities. I hadn’t realized I’d said anything funny until she laughed, but once I did I started laughing along with her as I escorted into the living room.

She was nothing like I’d expected. In talking to her on the phone I was expecting someone younger and more like Karen. Instead, she was older and her appearance was radically different. If Karen were to stand on the Complete Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary she would still be a page or two short of reaching Angel’s height. While Karen had been dressed provocatively, Angel was hidden under a lumpy lightweight sweater that hugged her body like a tent. She was covered completely from the waist down by baggy sweatpants that were as large and loose as her sweater. The only concession she had made to nudity was that she was barefoot and wasn’t wearing a veil. Her faced was finely chiseled and her nose was slightly humped as if it had been broken sometime in the past. Though her loosely hanging sweater gave no confirmation, I assumed that unlike Karen’s her breasts were real since had she the funds she would surely have chosen to repair her nose before her tits. A subdued shade of lightly applied lipstick and a few strokes of eyebrow pencil was all she indulged herself in the way of makeup. As for body adornment there was only a silver anklet and a red ribbon wrapped around the knot of a golden-haired ponytail that fell half way to her waist. The only fragrance I could detect was the smell of soap and shampoo. She smelled clean and natural and wholesome, and for a person like me – a person who would gladly pay a car wash NOT to dangle air freshener from my rear view mirror – that was enough.

“Come on in and have a seat,’ I said as I led her to the bottom of the stairs and then pointed to the couch in the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in just a few seconds.” No, I hadn’t remembered what I had forgotten, but I did remember that while searching for the possible turds I had needed to urinate and hadn’t. Doing it now would eliminate the need for breaking into the interview.

It wasn’t until I had returned and taken my seat on the easy chair facing the couch that I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten. Angel was sitting on the sofa across from me and she was flipping through the pages of one of the magazines that Karen had purchased from the book store. The title “Cum Sluts on Parade” was emblazoned on the cover in large red letters.

I was embarrassed but I bravely pretended not to notice. I turned on the video camera saying, “If you don’t mind I’d like to videotape the interview. It gives me something to refer to when I make my final decision. You don’t mind, do you?” It was the same line that I had used with Karen and I saw no reason to change it.

“Not a bit. That’s what I’m her for, isn’t it? You’re hiring somebody to be video taped aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, right. What I meant was the interview. You haven’t been hired yet, so I just want to make sure that you were OK by being taped now. That’s what I meant.” I was beginning to feel like an ass and I mentally kicked myself for failing to associate the letter C with cum. Had I done so I would have been reminded of the magazine..

“Feel free to tape away. That’s why I’m here,” she said.

I looked through the viewfinder to make sure it was positioned right and that everything was in focus. It was. It was so in focus that I could clearly see that her eyes had been diverted back to the magazine. Afraid to immediately look up from the viewfinder I watched her image as she slowly turned each page and was studying, or so it seemed to me, each and every photograph.

Finally I had no other option than to face her and begin the interview. “So tell me a little bit about yourself,” I said. “Have you had much modeling experience?”

“Enough to tell the difference between what good quality work is and isn’t. Look at this photograph for example.” She rose from the couch and approached me with the open magazine. “Notice how his cum has hit her just below the eye and it’s dribbled down the side of her nose and onto her lip? See how her tongue is sticking out? It’s already covered with cum, yet she’s smiling and trying to reach even more. It’s as if she’s powerless to resist her hunger and you can read volumes into that. It’s a real classic.” She closed the magazine and returned to the couch saying, “Overall I’d rate the magazine a B-. It’s good as masturbating material but most of the photos lack real artistic merit.”

If an earthquake were to occur at this point I wouldn’t have minded. If the truth be told, I would have been happy. A fire, a flood, an atomic bomb detonation, it didn’t matter as long as it diverted attention away from that fucking magazine! Unfortunately no fire, no flood, no explosions occurred and I was forced to finally say something.

“I think I can explain why the magazine was there,” I offered in way of an explanation. “Karen, the girl I interviewed earlier, left it here. It’s her magazine, not mine.”

“Really? Which page is she on? I like to check out my competition.”

“Oh, she’s not in the magazine. She brought it with her and forgot to take it home.”

“That seems a little strange. The ad you placed in the paper said that this was supposed to be non-pornographic. Why would someone bring a magazine like this to an interview unless she wanted to show you some of her work? That makes no sense.”

Could this get any worse? I prayed ‘Please, God, please. Give me a heart attack, a stroke, a sudden case of fast moving cancer, SOMETHING! I have to get OUT of this mess.’

Maybe there’s a God after all, I thought, or perhaps Angel had sensed my discomfort and decided to back off, but in either case she suddenly tossed the magazine aside. “Getting back to your question, yes, I’ve had quite a bit of experience. About half of it was for Department Stores catalogues but the rest was for the skin trade. Most of that was just T and A. I was never well known, but my agent did get me a photo shoot for Playboy. It would have been great to be the Playmate of the Month, but after the shoot they never called back. I also appear in a few soft-core movies to help pay the rent, but the sex scenes were all simulated. They were all small parts but it wasn’t it that bad and the money was good.. The most explicit thing I’ve ever done was the time my agent got me a photo shoot with Hustler magazine. It ended up as a four page spread of me, a girl named Heather and a guy that must have had the world’s biggest cock. If you take the raunchiest pornography you can imagine and then take away the insertions and the mouth to genital shots then you can imagine what it was like. There was one photo they ran – the most explicit – where I was positioned on my knees and holding that monster in one hand. My mouth was open and my tongue was less than an inch from touching its head. My body was twisted sideways so you could see that my hand was between my legs and I was spreading my lips open for the camera. Heather was beneath me and my ass was right above her mouth. Like me she had her tongue was out and it appeared as if she was getting ready to lick my asshole. When the issue came out I bought some copies and when I saw what I looked like I was actually ill. My friends laughed at me for a long time, but I certainly got paid a lot. I made $1000 for a four hour shoot, and when the pictures were published I got another $2000. I don’t think I’d do it again though.” She paused for a second and then, smiling, added, “Unless I was really hard up for money or wore a wig to disguise my identity.”

I gulped once and then just stared at her for a moment before I managed to say anything. My mouth was dry when I heard her give the amount of money she had earned and I was suddenly afraid that my offer of $500 a day wouldn’t be enough. I didn’t want her to laugh at me like the girl who didn’t like it ‘up her ass’, but I was resolved not to go higher.