Fallen Angel

"If we knew one another's secrets, what comforts we would find."

I've never, in my entire life, done anything to deliberately hurt someone. I'm a typical "nice guy." On those rare occasions when something I've said or done caused distress, I've felt deep remorse and done my best to make amends.

Given that, you can imagine how sick I felt at my reaction when Angela, my girlfriend of two years, told me we were breaking up. We'd given one another our virginity just six months before. She was a terribly cute little five-foot-two brunette, who tended to put on weight just looking at sweets, but who fervently worked it off with sporadic, episodic bursts of aerobics. I'd actually considered asking her to marry me, and now she was calling the whole thing off. On the outside, I was my normal passive, sensitive self. On the inside, I was feeling a burning rage unlike anything I'd ever felt before in my entire nineteen years.

"Gino, it's not that I don't still love you, it's just that Richard makes me feel, well, so excited, so alive. I don't know how to describe it –"

"- It's okay. I understand, Angela." I hazarded a weak smile, amazed it wasn't the snarl of some nightmare beast. "I really don't want to hear all the gory details. Richard's everything I'm not. Rich and glamorous, with clothes and a new car. He can take you on vacations. He –"

"- Oh, Gino, it's so much more than that! It's not just the material things! You know I'm not that shallow."

But, in a sudden burst of insight, I realized that she was exactly that shallow. Never had a girl been more image-conscious, more peer conscious, more approval seeking. Granted, I'd always found her little vanities entertaining – even cute and endearing. Now, I realized it for the character flaw it truly was.

And then came the line, delivered with batted lashes: "We can still be friends, can't we?"

"Sure, Angela. Sure we can," I somehow muttered through the blooming black rage.

I thought it might pass. I prayed it would pass. I tried to ignore it, but the sickness grew within me.

We still saw one another once in a while, and talked on the phone weekly, at least. Learning the details of exactly how and when she'd hooked up with Richard, the new love of her life, was raw torture, and fuel for the beast within. How he'd wooed her and seduced her and his prowess as a lover, and how she'd hidden her growing infatuation and infidelity for three months before breaking up with me, and what a prince I was for still caring for her and how I was her dearest friend ever.

About the dinners at the finest restaurants and the dresses he bought her and their weekend skiing, and, in giggled whispers, of the naughty things they did in bed.

The key that opened the lock that freed my monster was her fear of putting on weight. She'd gained seven pounds, and was terrified that her dear Richard wouldn't find her attractive.

"Please," she whined across the table one afternoon at the library, "it's the only way I can lose the weight. You know that, Gino. I've tried everything."

What I knew was that Angela had no will-power. She wasn't able to commit to a diet or willing to exercise regularly on her own. After taking a psych class together, we'd dabbled with hypnosis as a way to motivate her to do what she was otherwise too lazy to accomplish. It'd worked.

My beast nudged the cage door open and surveyed the vastness of his new domain. "Sure," I told her, closing my book. "Why not. And we can toss in a couple of other cues to help you concentrate better."

She squeezed my hand. "You're the best. Can we do it right now?"

I didn't give in without a fight. I didn't do anything hideous to her right away. I helped her control her appetite and improve her study habits. About the only concessions I made to the whispers from the darkness were to encourage her to trust me even more and to make her more truthful with me.

Those suggestions became a two-edged sword. While I was assured of her never totally leaving me – in fact, of needing me to be a major focus in her life – I also was burdened with more than I bargained for. Most of this education came while she was under, during the weekly tune-up sessions I saw to it she desperately needed. For instance, Richard thought I was a wimp, she informed me, and my dear Angela never defended me. Because, in her secret heart of hearts, she admitted that, in a way, she agreed.

The monster cackled, molted, and grew. When she awoke, following that session, her feelings about me were slightly different. By the time she left my apartment, there was a moistness in her loins inspired by being near me that'd never existed before, even back in the good old days.

In another session, she'd revealed that Richard, during the months that he'd fucked her before he made her break up with me, had reveled in sending her back to me with his sperm fresh inside her. And how they'd laughed when she shared how I'd unwittingly eaten it out of her while performing oral sex.

Suddenly (though it didn't seem that way to her) Angela began having daily fantasies of the XXX kind, and feeling horridly ashamed of herself. Most were moderately innocent – like imagining herself not wearing panties or a bra all day in classes. Or feeling an urgent, frequent need to masturbate in front of her bedroom mirror in imaginative positions. A few weren't quite so vanilla – like the dream featuring herself as the center of a fraternity gang-bang, or the one in which she was savagely raped by invisible strangers. Simultaneously, her sex-drive mysteriously increased. Her multiple orgasms were full-fledged screamers. Richard was sorely pressed to keep up with her. Though he wasn't complaining. Yet.

*

She fidgeted on the sofa. "I . . . I have to tell you something."

"Anything. You know that."

"I, uh, oh shit – I can't say it!" I grinned inwardly at the curse word dripping so easily from her formerly puritanical lips. She hadn't been going to church nearly as much, and the word Jesus had pretty much dropped from her vocabulary except as an expletive.

"Relax, Angel." A neat little trigger that caused her to do exactly that. (Wonderful irony, too, in that she hated that childhood nickname spoken by anyone but yours truly.) "Now out with it."

"Well, it's just that I'm turning into this nympho or something. I've been having all these, well, dirty thoughts, and they're turning me on something awful."

"So being turned on is a bad thing?"

"No! But I'm just so fucking horny all the time, Gino."

"Richard isn't taking care of you?"

She blushed even more brightly. "Yeah, he is. Twice a day, at least. But it's . . . he's . . ."

"Not enough?"

Her eyes were pleading as she nodded. "That's not normal, is it?"

I pretended discomfort. "Hey, normal's relative, you know? What's normal for a monk isn't the same as what's normal for a, uh . . ."

"Slut?" she finished for me in a quiet hiss, her eyes blinking with a growing, uncomfortable awareness.

"Well, that's not exactly what I was going to say, but . . ."

She wasn't under, but her eyes glazed slightly and her voice lost some of it's lilt. "Sluts are always horny, aren't they? They're always wondering what nasty things feel like, and thinking about doing them makes them all wet and short of breath." She blinked rapidly, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Am I? Is that what I am?"

"Oh, Angel, no! No way. It's not like you're out there fucking everybody on campus. You're a one man kinda girl."

She nodded thoughtfully, looking slightly relieved for a moment. "But, Gino, I did sleep with two guys at the same time – you and Richard. For three whole months." Her eyes were a bit hooded, her voice lower. "And I liked it, I guess. I mean, I really liked it." Okay, so maybe her memory was enhanced a little. "You both made me cum like crazy. And it was so fucking naughty." She unconsciously rubbed her legs together. "I'd never done anything so wicked before. It was so dirty. So slutty. Wasn't it?"

"Well, now that you put it that way, yeah, I guess. Maybe a little."

Her nipples were denting her cast-iron bra and no-nonsense white cotton blouse by then, and the movement of her jean-clad thighs must have been doing nice things to her succulent clit.

"You know," she went on, very seductively, considering the source, "I still think about you. I think about you a lot. When I masturbate, I remember some of the things we used to talk about doing. Ropes and lingerie and stuff. I really wanted to try them, but I was scared."

"Scared I'd hurt you?" I wondered with surprise.

"No, silly boy," she giggled throatily. "Scared of being bad. Scared I'd like it too much." She licked her dry lips. "I guess maybe I was right. I think when I started fucking Richard while I was still fucking you I opened the floodgates or something. I guess maybe I really am a slut, Gino."

My cock was a steel bar in my jeans. I inhaled deeply through my nose. "Jesus, babe! Just talking about it must have really got you cranked. I can smell you from way over here."

She actually writhed a bit on the sofa. "God, yes! My fucking panties are soaked, honey." Her eyes registered the budge tenting my lap. Her hands idly drifted to cup her groin. Her moan was pure, raw, lust. "Oh, fuck, I miss your cock, Gino. I fits my pussy so well." Her eyes sought mine. "Do me? Please? I need you so bad, lover."

And so I let her seduce me, proving to herself that she was, undeniably, a slut – and that she'd never loved anything more in her entire life more than spreading her mouth and legs for dick and orgasming until she passed out.

Her shame and self-disgust also ran deep - just as deep as her emancipated lust. Oddly, the worse she felt about herself, the more she felt compelled to act out her fantasies. Now she was getting her wicked jollies by sneaking around behind Richard's back and fucking us both raw.

*

One Thursday evening, while she was supposed to be attending some fictitious study group, we surfed porn sites with her rising and falling on my lap, fully clothed except for bra and panties, which she'd not put on that morning.

"God," she groaned, pinching her own nipples through her baggy blouse, her vagina tightening around my cock. "That bitch looks so fucking hot!"

I ground hard against her and rolled her clit through her long, loose skirt. "She looks like a fucking whore, you mean. That vinyl looks like it's painted on her, and she's wearing enough makeup to fill a store."

"Umm," Angela squealed as she fell back against my chest. "And those cunty high heels. God, she's so fucking gorgeous!"

"No more gorgeous than you could be."

"Yeah, right," she giggled, elbowing me playfully in the ribs. "In your dreams."

"Your's, too, I bet," I laughed. Then, "Here, I'll prove it." I called up Photoshop, and loaded an old picture of her – a semi-close-up of her face and chest. I dabbled it briefly, letting her continue to bounce gently on my lap while I colored her lips a deep, glossy vermilion, plucked her bushy brows, and tinted her lids with blue and silver.

As the five minute process went down, my lap dancer panted and juiced up even more and groaned quietly and quaked through a couple of mini-orgasms.

"Ta da," I sang, "Angel the Whore, at your service. One hot slut – even without a kinky wardrobe."

"Oh," she whimpered. "That's really me. I saw – I saw you do it. I'm – oh, fuck." her eyes closing. "Oh, fuck, yeah. I want to do it, baby. I want to paint my face like a total cunt and wear fuck-me heels, and – oh, shit, here it comes! I'm gonna – I'm gonna – fill me up, Gino! Shoot your cum way up inside my filthy fuck hole!"

After a break, I introduced her to some shopping sites I'd bookmarked featuring sexy club wear. And bondage equipment. And – well, I'm sure you get the picture. I wondered how she was going to cover the four-hundred and fifty dollars in charges she made that night. Not to mention the bucks she added to her card the next day on a full salon makeover and ten pounds of cosmetics.

We were well on the road, it seemed.

*

". . .And after he finished fucking me he told me to go wash all that shit off my face," she pouted with dark red lips, recrossing her hose covered legs, letting her red miniskirt slide higher up her thighs. "Can you believe it? After all the trouble I went to be all hot for the prick, he said I looked like a fucking truck stop whore and wouldn't even kiss me." She giggled. "God, he fucked me good though. But I'm sure glad I listened to you and left my sexy new clothes here. If I'd been dressed and made up, he'd have totally come unglued."

She didn't look like a truck stop whore. Not quite. I shook my head in commiseration. "Hard to believe. What'd he have to say about your hair?"

She reflexively patted her freshly platinumized locks with stubby red nailed fingers. "At first he thought it looked cheap, but he's gotten used to it, I guess. Shit, everybody wants to fuck a hot blonde, right?"

"I sure do," I admitted, staring into the deep cleavage displayed by the thin white blouse and the hard nipples just out of sight, "in every hole available."

"Aw," she grinned, sliding closer to me on the sofa "you doll. You know just how to sweet talk a girl." Licking slick lips, she added, "which hole do you want to start with?"

It was her first time ass fucking, but she took to it like a pro and screamed like a banshee when she came. What made it even better is that I'd hadn't had to suggest it.

*

"So fucking nasty," she whispered, staring enrapt at the lipstick streaked all over my drooping dick and licking the cum from her smeared purple lips. Now, she looked like a truck stop whore, complete with garish eyeshadow, overstretched tank top, sprayed on daisy-dukes, and clear platform heels. And she sucked cock like one, too.

"So fucking hot," I corrected, running my fingers through her hairspray stiffened white-blonde hair.

"Same thing," she grinned up at me before climbing onto my lap and snuggling. She looked down at her bare belly and lost her smile. "I'm still too fat. Look at that huge roll of shit on my gut." She pinched the offending little tuck between long violet talons. "That's probably why Little Dickie doesn't fuck me enough. I need another tune up, lover."

"Angel, we just did that yesterday. You've lost fifteen pounds in the two months we've been doing this. You barely eat enough to keep a bird alive, and you're working out three times a week. Besides," I said, kissing her neck, "I think it's cute."

She moaned and made her throat more available. "I'm not about cute, Gino baby. I'm about walking-wet-dream-sexy. Now put me under, you fantastic fuck, and fix it, then we can do the dirty some more."

*

She was more than a little drunk.

"Oh, Angel, you didn't!" I exclaimed.

"What the fuck else could I do," she wailed, pacing the room in front of me, her stiletto heels causing her tits to bounce freely inside her "I Fucked Your Boyfriend" tee shirt. "We've tried everything else, and I've got to get rid of this fucking beer gut. Smoking helps you keep weight off. Everybody knows that. Sure, it's a bad habit, but, fuck, I can quit anytime." She looked at me, her eyes deep pools of lust. "You can make me give them up anytime I want, right?"

"Well, yeah, but -"

"Besides," she said, digging into her purse and coming out with a box of Fantasia's, "it's sexy as fuck." She inserted a long hot pink cylinder between even hotter pink lips. It bobbed wildly as she spoke. "At the bar tonight, before Dickless came in, I had this one poor bastard buying me drinks and creaming his jeans watching me smoke, dreaming it was his dick instead of the cig in my mouth."

She lit it with a match, waved it out and decided and empty glass would work as an ashtray as she blew a plume of smoke. "I had the dude begging me to let him take me home. I damn near did it, too. Even if he was a shitty lay, it'd have been better than having Dickie scream at me in front of the whole fucking bar over a little fucking thing like smoking. Motherfucker demanded that I put it out and throw the pack away. Demanded!" she shouted indignantly through a gray cloud.

"So what'd you do?"

"Exhaled straight into his face and told him to go get fucked and came straight over here where I knew I'd be appreciated for what I am," she cooed throatily, swaying toward me. "You think it's sexy, don't you?"

"Appreciated for what you are?" I asked her back as she straddled my legs and sat on my lap. Her pink skirt slid up, displaying her shaved, seeping slit.

"Um hum," she half groaned, taking a heavy drag and grinding her cunt against my thigh. "Appreciated for being one hot, nasty slut."

"Oh, Angel, you're hot okay. The hottest. And nasty. And probably the best fuck on campus. But you really aren't a slut."

She leaned back far enough to grind her cig out in the glass, thereby thrusting her wet pussy against my raging boner. She put a hand behind her on each of my knees and continued to slowly dry fuck me, staring at me through heavy lidded, thickly mascaraed lashes. Her voice was thick and rough. "Why do you say that, baby. I mean, just look at me."

"Oh, I am, and I fucking love what I see! You look and act like gift-wrapped fuckholes. But . . ."

She was panting and whining softly. "But what, lover?"

"Well, what kind of real slut has only fucked two guys her entire life? I mean, a true slut would have balled that guy at the bar, wouldn't she?"

Without breaking contact with my crotch, she stretched back for her cigs – a blue one this time - and forced her cunt even harder against me. It's lips split and seemed to be trying to suck my cock in right through my jeans. I grabbed the matches from her shaking hand and lit her smoke.

"There wasn't time," she moaned, shivering through a little orgasm as she exhaled. "I was waiting for Dickie."

I grabbed her nipples, tried to help them rip their way through the tee. "There's always time to fuck, Angel."

Cigarette dangling from pink lips, she rose slightly, unzipped me and sat back down hard, impaling herself to the root. Her eyes rolled back in her head. "Yeah," she gasped. "I could have just gone out to his car with him, or we could have hidden behind the dumpster in the alley, or . . ." She lost the ability to speak for a few seconds as her tight cunt contorted around my shaft. "Or I could have just fucked him in the men's roooooooom," she wailed loudly and shook all over.

I pulled out, and she fought weakly to keep me in. I pushed her back, then down. "Lick your sweet cum off my cock baby. Fix your lipstick and give me a hot, wet, sloppy, smoky blow job like a good little whore."

*

"You're sure you don't mind?" she called from the bathroom.

"Not at all," I said enthusiastically. I was laying on the damp, disarrayed sheets, my cock limp and wet against my thigh. She was fluffing her lengthening silver hair in the mirror, turning her head this way and that checking her makeup.

"I mean, I've already fucked you and Dickless both twice today. We could just hang out or something. I don't have to have more cock or anything."

"True – but you want more cock, don't you?"

"Well yeah," she laughed, like that should have been perfectly obvious. She adjusted her lipline with a long, curved, silver fingernail bearing a little red stencil. Flicking her bic on a Marlboro Light, she turned to check her ass. She frowned, cigarette dangling from fat red lips, at the line her thong made under the scarlet micro-mini, then shimmied the offending tiny scrap of black cloth down her sleek thighs, revealing her hairless, pouting pussy in the process.