Fallen Angel

Note: August 2023 - Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. This story (Fallen Angel) or any portion thereof may not be reproduced without the writer's express (written) permission.

...........................FALLEN ANGEL by Nellskitchen

̼̼ˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑThe Fallen are bored in Heaven and alone in hell.

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PART 1 -- Mr. Six and Mr. Nine O'clock

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It is recklessness; she knows it and does it anyway. Recklessness comes naturally for some; it does for her.

It is Tuesday. It is not her favorite thing, but sometimes she does triples on Tuesday. Triples tire and confuse a girl. Clients' likes and dislikes get lost in the shuffle, and mistakes get made. She does triples because, in a few hours, she makes enough to rest her body for a few weeks. That is the upside. There are downsides.

It is nearing eleven. She has already been with two, one at six, the other at nine. Mr. Six was routine. Mr. Nine upset her. Mr. Eleven scares her.

For an extra two hundred, she negotiated with Mr. Six. After some back and forth, she conceded the standard condom requirement. It was idiocy. For the money, she did it.

She met Mr. Nine just outside Washington Square Park. Handsome and friendly, he proved gentle and did not complain when she dribbled his cum into a tissue. Ordinarily, she did not mind swallowing. After all, handsome men have a way of making a girl want to devour them.

He did something that perturbed her, however. He wore his wedding ring. Swallowing is intimate; a married man's sperm is his wife's property, and guilt follows ingestion.

Oddly, his fondness for betrayal had not stopped her from daydreaming about being his wife. That delusion crashed when he groaned Marsha's name as he came in her mouth. Since she is not Marsha, she spit into a tissue.

She knew it was his first time with an escort. Visiting the city on business, he half-tearfully admitted to missing Marsha. He even regretted his decision. By then, it was too late. He had finished in another woman, forever compromising his connection with Marsha. To make matters worse, she, a whore, was complicit. She hated herself.

So went the story of Mr. Nine O'clock, Marsha's husband. Now it is late, and the alone girl, having slipped the desk clerk a fifty, glides past the room numbers of the carpeted, ominously silent hallway of her eleven o'clock's swanky hotel.

She has never met him, but this particular man frightens her. Their brief phone conversation should have served as a storm warning, a dress rehearsal for trouble. Instead, and despite the call's outrageousness, she has convinced herself to see him. Handling men is what she does; whoever he is, her skills are equal to the task.

Self-confidence aside, the tone of his call preoccupies her. A nervy sort, that very morning, he intruded on her grocery shopping and acted as if it was no big deal.

When her phone rang, she had been reading the calorie count on a plain Yoplait yogurt. Barely paying attention and intently scanning the container's tiny print, she assumed the caller to be her girlfriend, Megan. Without thoroughly reading the screen, she unwisely picked up.

"Hey..."

"We need to meet," he said.

Indifferently, she asked, "Who are you, Mister?"

"Who I am isn't important," he softly insisted. "When can I see you?"

His voice had a slight rasp; it was an attractive mannerism for some reason. His few words revealed much. His utter disregard for subtlety and laser-focused determination appealed to her.

Opting for boldness and without breaking her yogurt inspection, she half-dismissively pressured him. "I don't do walk-ins; call my agent if you want time with me." He's a former professional boxer, just so ya know." She dropped the yogurt into her basket and added, "Besides, Mister, by definition, you're unvetted. I don't see un-vetted guys."

"I don't make arrangements through other people," he mildly scolded. "And nobody vets me, ever. I'll make it worth your while. See me tonight. Block out two hours. It's Tuesday. You're busy on Tuesdays, right? You have two bookings, so fit me in after you've finished with them. What do you say?"

Pushing her cart forward, she picked up a carton of eggs, rolled her eyes at the price, and answered smartly. "I'd say fuck you, Mister."

"There's big money in it, and you can sidestep your usual agency fee. Your madam takes forty percent. In fairness, shouldn't that money be yours?"

He knew too much. It made her nervous. How did he know? Panicky, she replied, "I'm hanging up, Mister."

"Magdalene, wait," he interrupted. "Promise to think it over. Give me two hours."

He knew her name! She freaked. Taking the phone from her ear, she switched to speaker and frantically searched the screen. There was nothing. "Who are you, Mister?"

"Dress tastefully," he said, changing the subject. "Nothing slutty; a business suit will do, powder blue, with a skirt that reaches the knee. Be ladylike. Above all, be modest; do not attract attention. There's a prepaid gift card on its way to you; pumps bore me, so shop for black heels with straps to bind your ankles."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mister," she lied. Protectively, she added, "For your fucking information, I know all about being ladylike. Who gave you this number?"

"I got it how I got it," he replied curtly.

"I'm hanging up. No way I'm seeing you!"

"Aren't you curious about me?" He asked.

"Not really," she lied again.

"Yes, you are," he insisted. "You are totally female, a classic bad girl; you insist on knowing everything. You're disobedient and defiant; rules mean shit to you. You crave discipline; admit it."

"I'm not admitting squat, Mister!"

"You're looking at this all wrong," the man corrected. "My offer is a public service, and it's time-sensitive. Accept it, and I'll make you a more complete woman. It will work out for both of us, you'll see. Say yes."

He had to be kidding. Magdalene knew men; she dealt with her share of crazies. In her firmest voice, she replied, "You're insane, Mister, fuck you."

A racket shattered her defensive façade, and she turned to see a handsome, twelvish black kid balancing himself on a fast-moving skateboard. He held a phone to his ear; his sudden appearance turned the dairy aisle into a frenzied miniature of the Brooklyn Bridge at rush hour.

Coming straight at her, the grinning boarder nearly sideswiped three other customers, one of whom, an elderly woman, screeched at the sight. As he swooped by, he hurled a brown envelope into Magdalene's shopping cart.

"Hey, kid!" she called. "Watch where you're..."

By then, three terrified women gawked at her, and the boy vanished around the corner at the end of the aisle. Magdalene scrutinized the envelope and anxiously snarled into her phone. "You're fucking nuts, Mister. Don't call me anymore." She was talking to the wall; he had hung up.

Emotionally drained, she grabbed the envelope, abandoned her cart, and fled to the street, where she tore open the wrapper. Inside were twelve crisp hundreds. Clipped to them was a prepaid Macy's gift card and clipped to it, a note:

'Magdalene,

>>Don't flatter yourself; I am not watching.

>>By now, you have left the store to investigate what the resourceful Kenvante, an unwitting but capable associate, delivered to your shopping cart.

>>Enclosed is your gratuity, the first of two. If you turn me down, keep the money. If you opt to see me, there is more where that came from. Like everything in life, earnings depend on performance. Assuming you fall within these guidelines, this and your hourly rate of two thousand should make for an acceptable evening. The Macy's card gives you another thousand. Remember, powder blue. I'll be in touch.'

Magdalene, agitated and dazed, fell back against the store window. Shaking her head, she whispered, "Fuck me."

ˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑPART 2 - Mister Eleven O'clock

"So, Mister," she resolutely began, "I'm here; how about clueing me in on all this; I mean, what's the deal?"

Her tone was confident, her question direct. Her words were meant to keep him guessing and seethed self-protective scorn. So did her intentional avoidance of eye contact. It was a miscalculation, and it irked her that he disregarded the question.

Like the outer hallway, his hotel room was nearly dark and eerily silent. A trove of candles, the only light, flickered on either side of him. Despite the subdued glow, his handsome features stood out. In his fifties, he was tall, strong looking. He wore his hair longer than most men do at that age; it was black and sprinkled with gray; the loose style became him. Dressed in black, he wore jeans, a heavy black belt, and a turtleneck.

Magdalene liked his look but did not show it. Instead, she turned away, casually unbuttoned her blazer, removed it, and let it fall to a chair just inside his room. As a precaution, she had intentionally left the door ajar, and thinking she might need to quick-draw her trusty pepper spray, she left her open purse on the chair.

Magdalene strode a few steps closer to him; her slightly more relaxed demeanor made the statement that she was not afraid, even though she was.

For now, she dispensed with her smart-alecky comments about his grocery store ambush earlier that day. Two steps later, however, she changed her mind, and stopping, she looked down at him and gave in to her impulses. Sassily, she remarked, "You're a mysterious fucker, aren't you."

Though slight, she almost thought he smirked, but a flash-moment later, it passed, his handsome face turning sober again. Instead, with his legs crossed in the way men do, he eyed her, his raspy voice a reminder of earlier misbehavior.

"I like your ass," he brazenly said. "It's rounder than I imagined." She smiled but, otherwise, did not react. Instead, taking the compliment for granted, she looked away.

Casing the place, she did her standard stroll. After treading carefully, she stopped and pretended to be interested in two colorful prints on the wall opposite his chair. A vase of colorful flowers and a little girl frolicking in a golden meadow in summer were the usual hotel adornments.

Meant to allow him added opportunity to study her figure, shapely, according to some, she took her time. Stepping again, she stopped and abruptly turned to him. Confrontationally, and in her most demanding voice, she asked, "So, Mister, are you going to tell me why I'm here? I mean, what the fuck?"

She looked at her watch. "It's getting late. You said eleven. It's eleven. Don't I get applauded for that?"

He smiled again, a twinkle betraying his otherwise mysterious, dark eyes. Pretending to clap, he said, "Consider yourself applauded." As obviously as she could, Magdalene looked askance, stepped toward him, and stopped.

"Like I said, Mister, I'm here. What do you want? Oh, and while you're at it, why me? Thousands of escorts flutter around this dump of a city. Why me?"

Not waiting for an answer but taking advantage of her momentum, she laid down the law. "Mister, the rules are; you get to nut twice. Where you do, is a matter for discussion."

He stayed quiet a long moment, then spoke the outrageous. "This is not about what I want, Magdalene. It's about what you want."

She stood straight and insolently elevating her chin; she eyed him suspiciously, then glanced back at the door. Comfortable that she could reach it if he tried to grab her, she said, "I don't know what you mean, Mister." Moving forward again, she lowered her pelvis to the level of his knee. She pressed her weight against him, and he pressured her back.

Finally, the chilly atmosphere had warmed a precious degree, and she shifted gears, grinned at him, and picked up the pace. "You're wasting time, Mister. A girl gets paid by the hour. The clock is marching to midnight, and I'm expensive. Make your move before Cinderella turns back into a scullery maid."

Maddeningly, none of her time-tested manipulations jarred this guy. Like a cat giving herself a moment to think things over, she spun away and faked examining another framed print, this one, an image of the 'Madonna with Child.' Strangely, the piece, hinting at the way women lived long ago, gave her pause. For the second time today, she felt inexplicably jealous.

Turning about, she faced him. Unbuttoning her white silk blouse, she slipped it from her shoulders. Enticingly, she dropped it into his lap. Suggestively, she balanced herself by placing a hand on his still-elevated knee and, propping herself, reached down to fumble with her shoe buckle.

"Leave the shoes on," he immovably ordered. "Take off the bra." Grateful he had finally noticed her, she smiled alluringly. Reaching behind herself to unclasp her bra, she said, "Look, Mister, I'm in kind of a hurry and..."

"...you'd be better served," he lectured, "to listen more and talk less. Do all Vixen girls blab this much? Or is it just you?"

She shot him a look as she freed her ample breasts and said, "Mister, I won't stop talking until you tell me why you brought me here. By the way, that whole thing on the phone was pretty weird. What's with the cloak and dagger? Why the escapades at Trader Joe's with that adorable kid on the skateboard? And yes," she added belligerently, "Vixen girls are...well...we're New York girls! What did you expect, some shrinking upstate wallflower? When a guy orders up a city girl, it's a safe bet he's cruising for a big-time blabbermouth, so here she fucking is!"

By then, she had slipped her bra to her wrists. She let it fall to the floor. Like a runway model pausing mid-flight, she stood proudly and, pinching her nipples, held up her breasts for his inspection. "Do you want to suck my tits?" she asked.

"You still don't get it, do you," he evaded, shaking his head. "We're not here to take care of some need of mine. We're here to see to you." He looked her over, and Magdalene, confused, rotated slightly to allow him better access.

Topless but still wearing her skirt, she rested her hands on her hips and exhaled. About to speak up, he intervened again. "No panty lines," he said. With a look of satisfaction, he added, "Lose the skirt."

She reached back and unzipped. The skirt joined the bra at her feet.

"Do you like how I dressed for you? Am I pretty?" She seductively asked. Posing majestically, he inspected her, taking in her black garter belt, sheers, and stiletto-heeled ankle strap sandals.

"I like all of it," he admitted, nodding. "The shoes are especially tempting. You bought them with the gift card?"

"Yes, but what about the rest?" With sultry eyes and going full frontal, she played him a lazy dance. With her shaven sex on parade, she reached down and slipped a finger into her slit.

He watched and said, "Take your finger out and suck it into your mouth." She did as he asked, promptly tasting Mr. Six O'clock's leftover semen.

Trumping her again, he asked, "Do you like his taste?"

"A little," she fibbed, blushing that he detected the remnant of her earlier client.

Paranoia kicked in, and she wondered if the strange, manipulative man might have had something to do with her earlier appointments. "It just so happens cum turns me on," she snapped defensively. "Some scientists said sperm is an aphrodisiac; you should be happy I didn't waste time cleaning up. Maybe it makes me want you."

Her self-protective comment was foolishness, and ignoring it, he pointed at the coffee table in front of him. "Lie there, face down," he ordered.

Hesitantly and against her better judgment, Magdalene yielded. After lowering herself to the cold marble tabletop, she turned her head and looked up at him questioningly. He produced a loose coil of soft rope and a bundle of lengthy black zip ties from a shallow drawer on the table's underside. He seized her wrists, carefully put his knee to the middle of her back, and tightly secured them with one of the ties. Following up, he just as expertly spread her legs wide apart and roped each knee to either side of the squatty coffee table. Dangerously locked, she lay helpless. Endeavoring to veil her unease, she asked, "Are you going to fuck me in the ass, Mister?"

He did not answer or make the slightest move to get undressed. Instead, he walked to the door, locked it, turned to her, and removed his black leather belt. Before she could object, he was on her and viciously smacked the belt to the tabletop. It landed inches from her face. Two strikes followed, directed at the backs of her knees. Magdalene screamed!

"Let me go," she insisted. "You're not supposed to hurt me, Mister!"

He parted her buttocks with skilled fingers and touched his thumb to her sphincter as if inspecting its tightness. Stepping back, he smacked the hostile strap against her lower back.

Magdalene, her voice a torrent of jitters, pleaded with him. "Please, Mister, I let you tie me, okay? So don't hurt me, okay? There's a glass dildo in my purse. Shove it in me if it's what you want. I'm...I'm sorry about all that bitchy stuff I said." Struggling to get loose, she twisted and squirmed, but it proved more form than substance, and in a strange conversion, instead of displaying torment, and for reasons Magdalene would never fully comprehend, she lifted her pelvis to the extent the bindings allowed. The gesture invited her tormentor to continue.

"You need to hurt," he reproved, promptly applying four rat-tat-tat stripes to the small of her back. She shuddered involuntarily but without further complaint, her eyes brimming with tears.

Starting at her shoulder blades, he raked her skin with his fingertips. Moving down her back and carefully avoiding the heated streamers left by his insistent lash, he jammed his thumb into her rectum. Using it as a pry, he lifted her and forced four fingers into her sopping vagina.

His voice filled with disdain, and he admonished her, saying, "Your earlier client's semen has done its work. You let other men come in you today. How many?"

Reacting to his outrageous question, she launched into him and accused the man of questioning her virtue. "What kind of girl do you think I am, anyway? I'm an angel compared to most, Mister. Besides, there was only one other guy!"

"You're a fallen angel," he evenly asserted. "You're rebellious; it's all about you, a hooker, thumbing your nose at me, a paying customer. You should have scheduled shower time between appointments. You're a bitch, and worse, you're unprofessional!"

A single word, 'unprofessional,' drew sobs. "It's...it's true. And, I'm sorry, Mister. I mean, I would have cleaned up, only there wasn't time and..."

"...you're lying. You're a sorry excuse for a woman."

Grabbing her hair, he yanked it, hoisting her body against the restraints of her coffee table confinement. "A man deserves respect," he warned. "What do you think I pay you for? Instead of making yourself exclusively ready for me and showing up like a true professional, you're dripping somebody's leftovers, probably a married dude you'll never see again."

He was right to be angry. She had done it before, had carelessly slept with client three, bearing cum from client one and, sometimes, clients one and two. No one had ever called her on it.

"I pissed you off by intruding into your precious grocery shopping," he continued. "Instead of ladylike, as I told you I wanted you, you present me ultra slut."

His sharp words affected her. She cried and, searching for him through a blur of tears, accepted his scolding. Nodding, she sobbingly admitted, "Yes, Mister, I'm a bad girl, a fallen angel like you said. I promise it won't happen again; I'll be a perfect angel for you next time."

"What makes you think there will be a next time?" he blandly asked. "This is complete bullshit, and I've paid you too much to accept bullshit. Frankly, you don't do much for me. You need punishment. Tell me, how many stripes will it take to bring you to heel?"