Angela and Vonda Ch. 09

Brandon left his self indulgent wife Angela upstairs in her room. He understood now, he understood fully what his sister had meant. Angela had fallen completely under the control an array of self destructive behaviors. Maybe her dissolution wasn't completely her fault? Maybe Vonda had a lot to do with it? That no longer mattered. What did matter was the family name, their fortune, and what Angela might do if she were ever free to act rationally and independently. He understood, yes he understood; Angela could never be allowed out again. Her future, her life, her very soul, was now, as of today, fully and totally predetermined. They couldn't kill her; he would never allow that, but they'd certainly have to destroy her, destroy her independence, her self confidence, and her will. Angela had to be made into a hapless, hopeless, groveling idiot. If that meant total sexual self centered behavior, utter and complete emotional and intellectual ruination, and physiological as well as psychological devastation, then so be it.

He had the tools. He had the resources. He could confine and manage his pathetic little wife right there in the house for the rest of their lives. No one need ever know what they did, what happened, who she even was. He could do it. He had to do it.

He walked into the rear parlor where Mary had been working earlier. She wasn't there. He scouted about the house until he found her. She was on the back porch, in the sun room, straightening magazines and chairs.

Brandon looked her over. Mary was pretty, beautiful actually, but in a quiet soft way. Her complexion was clear and clean, eyes vivid, slightly almond shaped, long lashed and indescribably delicious. She had a smallish figure, though well hidden by the uniform she was wearing, he could discern nice breasts, a waspish waist, terrific posterior, and shapely legs. The soft sheen of the black silk maid's uniform accentuated her rounded breasts as they shifted and moved beneath the folds of the outfit. The long sleeves, tight fitting white cuffs, and stiffly starched white Peter Pan collar gave her a sexual allure far different from the childish, infantile, concupiscence of his emotionally diseased wife.

He approached her carefully, "Mary."

She turned around and saw him coming toward her, "Sir?"

"Come over here and sit down. We need to talk some more."

"Yes sir."

He began carefully. He'd treat her much the same way he'd treated his wife when they first met, as a fearful frightened fawn, "Mary I've been thinking."

She walked over and sat beside him on the divan, "Sir?"

"You've been a good and loyal servant. I admire that."

"Thank you sir," it was a soft feminine reply. He liked it.

"I've been thinking about you."

"You have?"

"Yes, from now on I want you to refer to me by my first name. From now on it's Brandon, Brandon and Mary. Understand?"

"Yes sir. I mean yes Sir Brandon."

"No just Brandon."

"Brandon."

He looked at her as she sat beside him. She looked as though she were ready to run, to flee. He had to be careful, guarded, "From now on you and I are going to be close friends, partners." As he spoke those words he took his left hand and rested it on the back of the divan, close to the back of her head.

She stiffened.

He smiled at her; a warm affectionate smile, "Yes, I want to be able to confide in someone. I'm afraid I need you." He took his fingertips and gently stroked the back of her neck. He watched as her hackles rose. He could see the goose bumps. That was good he thought. He had an effect on her.

She didn't move her head away. She answered, "I'm here if you need me." She said it in a soft somewhat frightened voice. She wondered if he knew how she felt about him. He was her dream, her idol, her vision. She'd do anything for him.

Brandon continued to softly, tenderly caress her neck with his fingertips. He liked the look and feel of the soft fronds of hair that graced the lower part of her neck. He leaned a little closer, close enough to be able to talk in a low whispered tone, but no so close as to frighten her. This had to be handled delicately; she was a young deer, he was the hunter, "You look uncomfortable in that tight fitting uniform."

Mary made no attempt to move, "Oh, it's OK, I guess."

Isn't that collar uncomfortable?"

"It's a little tight, but I don't mind. I'm used to it, and Vonda thinks it's appropriate."

"Here let me loosen it for you." He leaned even closer, took his hands, and undid the top button, "there that's better isn't it."

"Yes thank you," Mary felt a swath of heat flow over her. His proximity was having its usual affect.

"Look let's get you relaxed," He took the next few seconds to undo the rest of the buttons down the front of the uniform, "here let me see those sleeves," he proceeded to unfasten the three buttons that trapped her wrists in each cuff.

Mary sat stiffly beside Brandon; the front of her uniform completely undone, and the cuffs of her sleeves unfastened. She peered around at him out of the corner of her eyes.

Brandon took his right hand and held her chin. He pulled her face forward and softly kissed her lips. They were warm, soft, and dry. He saw she was wearing only the faintest traces of pink lipstick; all very innocent and alluring.

"Come on," he said, "let's get you out of this tight outfit. You look like a prisoner in some penitentiary." Without resistance he dropped the top of her uniform down around her shoulders. He lifted her arms free from the rigid constraints of the long stiffly starched sleeves. He gazed at the top of her chest and her undergarments. He knew it. She was wearing a silk camisole but no brassiere. Her breasts lay loosely, lightly, inside the camisole. It was white, silk; delicate silk lace partially concealed the tops of her supple pear shaped breasts, those perfect woman's orbs.

She murmured, "No please."

He ignored her, he pulled the camisole down from her breasts; leaning down he pressed a tender kiss on each nipple. He took his right hand and caressed each one, carefully rubbing his palm around and over each aureole. Her nipples involuntarily pressed outward against his palm. She sat stiffly, as though she was pretending nothing was happening.

He kissed her more forcefully. This time she responded with a kind of tremulous feminine urgency. He could see her flushed skin, the soft sheen of wet warmth that was passing over her.

Brandon needed no further encouragement. He swiftly pulled the offending uniform completely away. He slipped the camisole over her head. She was wearing a half slip and white silk panties. These he pulled down below her ankles and off her legs. Last he pulled down her dark, charcoal colored nylon stockings and slipped her feet from their tight fitting black lace up high heeled shoes. In a few swift moves and short seconds she was beside him completely undressed, while he remained fully clothed.

He looked her over. He studied her exposed defenseless body. She had a smooth flat stomach; not flat like an athlete's, but soft and demurely flat, and perhaps with just a hint of rounded soft fatty flesh. She had slight, gently, curved hips that swept deliciously outward from a narrow waist. She had small feet and hands with thin wrists and ankles all of which added a subtle sense of additional vulnerability, like someone who could easily be crushed or damaged. She looked delicate, fragile.

Of course her greatest treasure was her special woman's place that rested comfortably, secretly, between her upper thighs. She was tightly squeezing her legs together; trying to hide that most special delectable reward she wanted so much to guard. Still he could see a part of her cleft, the tops of her delicious labial lips, a handful of titillating wispy coils of brown hair that hinted at the sexual delights awaiting the man who laid claim to the fortress concealed within. He had to have it. He had to have her. He would be Sir Edmund Hillary, and her Mons his Everest.

He stood up, reached down and lifted her as though she were a baby. He carried her from the sun porch through the main house to the stairway that led upstairs to her back bedroom. He went up the steps, to her room, he deftly turned the latch, flicked on the light, and pushed the door open with his foot. He walked to the side of her small bed and sat her upon it.

While she sat on the bed he slipped his clothes off. He pulled her to her feet, pulled down the covers, and pushed her back on the bed. He lay beside her. He was surprised at how excited he'd become. Even after just having been with his wife, and he was fully erect. He rolled over next to the girl and started to kiss her mouth, her neck, and down to those two perfect nipples that sat so firmly erect, two engorged pinnacles atop two beautiful pear shaped fleshy mountains.

She returned every kiss he gave with one of her own. She whispered, "Oh Brandon."

He heard her, and he knew she wanted this as much as he did. Of course she did, he knew she'd been infatuated for some time. He was simply giving her what she had secretly wanted. It was easy with women; they all wanted the same thing, attention, tenderness, and affection. With a man like himself, young, strong, handsome, and sexually vigorous women were easily controlled and manipulated. Mary would be a good girl for him; work for him, do his bidding. If he were a pimp he would have his family crest tattooed on the back of her neck, his name over her vagina. He still might. He'd be able to use her in bed and publicly. She was just what he needed; a soft subservient, loyal, docile, but beautiful girl. Yes, he thought, he'd find a way to set the one upstairs aside, and use this one as his trophy, his wife, his whore, his object, his thing.

As he reached down and fondled her vagina he whispered in her ear, "I thought about you Mary, thought about you a lot."

She whispered back, "I love you Brandon."

He made a mental note, that's what he wanted, needed to hear. She'd be that much easier when it came time to re-engineer the life style of the one upstairs. He whispered back, "I care about you Mary. I cherish you."

She warmed to his touch, but she especially responded to his gentle voice, his loving remarks. She heard him; she felt his warm breath on her cheeks. He didn't say love, not yet, but she knew it was there, it was just a matter of time before he'd love her much as she loved him. She was his. She'd do anything, be anything, say anything, she'd become anything, go anywhere for this man.

He continued to stroke the outside of her Mons. Her crease was neatly trimmed, not shaved smooth like the one upstairs. Oh he liked a smooth clean pussy, but he also liked one with a woman's hair too. This one had the makings of a true woman, a woman he could use, show off, and be proud of, like a good dog or a good hunting piece. With the right training, the right discipline this one would be everything and more than the one upstairs could ever be. He thought about it; it could be fun to watch this one spread her legs for another man while he watched. Then afterward he could beat her for infidelity.

He kissed her lips. He pressed his body against hers. He slowly, deliberately pressed his manhood inside her. She was tight, small, not used to a man's treatment. He was careful, but careful only up to a point. A man's machine had the ability to make a woman happy, but used in the proper way it was a constant reminder of her own woman's inferiority, her own vulnerability. A big hard erect rod pressing deep inside a woman's womb should cause some pain, some discomfort. It would remind the woman who the master and who the object was. He was the source of the power. She was the vessel.

He started slamming in against her, in and out. He felt her react with passion, but with pain as well. Yes he had her. She was his. This one, like so many others, was beginning to learn, to appreciate, the power of a man.

Mary lay beneath Brandon. She received his masculine power with a mixture of joy and suffering. This was what she wanted, what she'd dreamed about, what she craved. She felt fulfilled, loved, cared for, and complete. He was inside her. Yes, it hurt, but it felt good too. God she loved this man.

They thrashed back and forth, up and down, for what seemed like hours; actually it was only a few minutes. Finally he could control himself no longer. He plunged in as deep as he could. He felt that he'd reached the extreme of her vaginal cavity. He released his semen. He spewed his juices upward, inward, and deep inside her. He felt her react. She thrust her hips up against him. She shivered and shook. She whimpered. Yes, he'd climaxed, and he'd reached her too. She'd done it, done it all.

Brandon rolled off the girl, his girl, his acquisition, his newest piece of property, "I have to leave. I want you to get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow." He turned around and kissed her again, "Till morrow."

She kissed back, "I love you. I love you Brandon."

He tweaked her nose, "Till tomorrow."

She lay back on the bed, sheets in disarray, damp from sweat, her womanly fluids, and his semen all over her. She knew she should get up and shower. The stuff was sticky, but she decided to lay still; she'd go to sleep with his masculine smells and manly residue all over her. She loved the way she felt. It was too good to just wash away, to wash away the feeling, the sensation, the comfort of being held, caressed, loved, and cherished. His gooey semen felt sticky, but good on her soft skin. She fell asleep, happy, comforted, complete.

Brandon walked down the hall. He felt sore. He needed a drink, a shower, then maybe watch some television. The football season had begun. He liked to bet on the teams. He had no favorites, but he liked the risks of playing the odds. Next to closing a big deal and making a lot of money, a good bet was the greatest, and oh yes, sex was good too in its place. Yes, he liked sex; it reaffirmed his power, his ability to control, to dominate.

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Upstairs, alone in her tiny room Angela thought about her husband. She'd let him down. He'd come back in and found her abusing herself. If he only knew, only understood; she was all alone. All she had was Mary, her only friend, a couple of indifferent maids and then her body, her only release. She'd change, she'd get control of herself, she'd fight what was happening to her, she'd regain her poise, her sense of self. She'd show him she was still the woman he'd married, the woman he loved and respected. She'd get it together.

But oh she thought she was so desperate. She continued to rub her cleft, her hot wet engorged labial lips, she reached inside her vagina and squeezed the top of her clitoral walls. Oh she was always so hot, so horny, so ready. What was wrong with her? All she could think about was sex, the warm feeling she got when she rubbed herself, touched herself. All she could think about, every waking moment was how much she wanted, wanted, wanted the feel of her fingers, her hands, her fingers inside her pussy, inside her ass. She wanted, needed the feel of a man's body against her, inside her. She kept rubbing, kept groping, kept fiddling, fondling, squeezing, pinching teasing. The more she touched herself the more she wanted it. She'd reach a peak, have an orgasm, and no sooner than she'd climaxed than she'd begin to think about it again. She'd hold off. She could off for a while, but soon the cravings would return, the moisture, the heat, the hunger, the sensitivity would come back, and she'd have to do something.

Often she was so sore it was hard to even contemplate touching herself, but the urge was always so strong, so intense. What was wrong with her? Were they giving her something? No, she doubted that. Vonda probably would, but she had Mary. Mary was her friend, her last resort, last resort until now, now that Brandon was back. Oh why did he have to come back in and catch her that way? She cupped her labia in her left hand while she used her right hand to push in and out of her ass. What was wrong with her? Where as Mary? She needed someone.

When Mary came she would cradle her head in her lap, sing softly in her ear. She'd rub her back and the nape of her neck. It was a different kind of arousal. It was the same, the same sexual feeling, but coming from someone else's hands it always felt better, and Mary always knew how to touch, how to speak so softly, and she always had that candy.

She wished she'd had another piece of that candy. It made her feel so good. She started to weep. Oh help me. Brandon where are you. She started to climax, again. Oh if she could only get to sleep. Why wouldn't someone take these damn bells off? Every time she moved they jingled and jangled, and it was like every soft tintabulation was a reminder of what she wanted, she needed. She started to cry. She'd just reached orgasm, and already she was thinking about it again. She rolled over and pressed her puss against the soft blanket. Maybe that would make it go away. It didn't. She reached down again.

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Mary lay on her side. She thought about what had just happened, where she was, who she was, and she thought about the other woman upstairs. Sure she cared about Angela, but Angela was yesterday, she, Mary, was today, tomorrow.

The bed sheets felt cold, dry, sticky, but they still felt good. This was where she'd fulfilled her greatest fantasy. She'd do what needed to be done. She'd take care of Angela, be good to her, but it was about her now, about Mary, Mary and Brandon. She pressed her head against the pillow where he'd had his head. She sniffed his manly aroma again. She saw a spot where his saliva had dribbled on the pillow case. She sniffed at it with her nose. She took her tongue and licked it. It was his saliva, his spit, and it was hers too.

She curled up. She pressed against the pillow where his head had been. She took her two hands and started to rub them against her cleft. She touched herself. It felt good. She half hoped he'd come back. She was ready to do it again. No he was probably downstairs working. He was such a workaholic. She started to rub herself. She felt warm all over again. She stopped. She pulled her hands up to her face. She tasted her juices. She took her right hand and found a place where some of his semen had leaked out around her nether lips. She wiped them, and put her fingers to her mouth. She tasted his salty remains. It tasted good, a little strong. She wondered what it would be like to have him in her mouth. She slowly drifted off to sleep. This was love.

Part Two:

The next morning Brandon was up early. He had several important things he needed to do. First he called the woman who'd been referred to him, a Mrs. Vermillion. Mrs. Ruth Vermillion was a semi-retired health worker; a woman in her early fifties who'd worked around people with varying kinds of emotional and physiological disorders all her life. At one time she'd been brought up on charges for one thing or another.

The records his friend at the hospital had e-mailed indicated the woman had something of a criminal history; issues related to an overarching fondness for particular types of treatment procedures that could at the least be called fetishistic and at the worst downright sadistic, especially on the more cerebral level. Mrs. Vermillion seemed to be just the kind of health care giver Brandon was looking for; someone who would give Angela just the kind of attention that would best satisfy the needs of the family.

She was reputed to be a brilliant woman, but given to an obsessive nature that occasionally betrayed her inner nature. In other words, she got carried away. Brandon thought, with Mary on hand she would provide just the minimalist type of restraint on the older woman that would enable her to work her special magic on Angela without going too far.