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One-Night Stand with the Archangel

By: IrresistibleBeauty



"My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of water, washed with milk, and fitly set. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet as flowers; his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl; his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires. His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold; his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet; yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem."

--Song of Solomon 5:10-16

* * * * *

"Well, you didn't seem to have any problems with me being a pro at that party last month," I yelled into my cell phone, "why are you freaking out about it tonight?" I don't know why I let men get to me like this, especially when I know at some point they always disappoint. Why I would think this putz was any different, I don't really know—wishful thinking, I suppose. Well, I guess this is what I get for wishing.

So here I stand, in the middle of my bedroom in my tiny apartment in any city in the world. Could be in Paris or Pakistan, Moscow or Manhattan, Boston or Bangkok. Tonight I am home, instead of somewhere anywhere in the world I am at home, not by choice, but I am at home, standing in the middle of my bedroom in my tiny apartment. Cell phone is securely placed against ear, hair pulled back so as to more clearly hear the lameass excuses of Roger—I'm sorry, it's Keith—no wait, it's Alex—no no, it's Friday night, on my calendar, 8 to midnight, it's Jerry—"Jerry dammit, why did you even bother setting me up for this evening if you knew—YOU KNEW you would have your kids this weekend?" It seems more and more all men come from the same family, more and more it's Roger Dammit or Jerry Dammit or William Dammit; I ought to know better by now than to try to set up evenings in advance with the Dammit Brothers.

So here I stand, now almost ten, the night virtually wasted. I mean, I suppose there are a hundred parties up in the hills I could crash tonight, all with money and coke, all with testosterone and posturing and drunkery and everything else the Dammit Brothers do to cover up their soft inner cores. And I am quite sure I could make a killing, I could bring home a couple of Benjamins. I sure could use those Benjamins too, Jesus, the rent is due on Monday. It's late, a cab will take too long to get here, by the time I get out to one of those coke parties up in the hills everyone will already be loaded, everyone will already be getting laid, and I will be stuck sucking the cocks of the drunk losers who came alone and who will leave alone. It's late, and though even with that I could make at least a hundred, I don't think it's worth another night of lost dignity.

So here I stand, yelling at the gentleman caller who I met about a month ago at one of those coke parties up in the hills. As you can tell by my raving into my phone, his name is Jerry. Jerry something—I know his last name, it's written down here somewhere, I have to have it because I called him. I had to. It's almost ten and he was supposed to be here by eight. He was supposed to pick me up and we were supposed to have a nice dinner, maybe take a nice drive up in the hills, I would give him the fuck of his dreams, and he would pay me at least enough for rent on Monday. That was the plan. The only thing is, Jerry is annoyed I called because he is having trouble putting his shared-custody kids to bed. 

"Has it occurred to you, Jerry, that you are fucking me in the worst way tonight?" I know that's no way to talk to someone who was going to pay my rent for me, but this is ridiculous. I gave up the best worknight of the week for this asshole, and he has the temerity to blow me off. I understand that girls like me aren't supposed to expect much out of the Dammit brothers, but believe it or not, "believe it or not, Jerry, I am a person too." Slighting hurts, it even hurts whores.

"I at least am an honest so-called whore." Not that I cared for Jerry—I take that back. He seemed a decent guy, collegiate, young, divorced, soft yet well spoken. Why divorced, I didn't care to ask, why single, the same. Were I in high school I would have been ga-ga for a guy like him. I'm not saying I have no emotional tie to him—had this been solely a business transaction to me, I could be as cold as I needed to be. But I did like him, I liked his smile, his soft hands, the way he talked to me like I was better than I am. Perhaps he really is like that, I'll never know now because the prick stood me up.

So here I stand, wearing a blouse and skirt—professional (in a good sense of the word) looking, as if I were a secretary for some power broker on Wall Street. Jerry thought I was classier than I let on, so, upon his encouragement, I dressed a little different, not the tank top and tight cutoffs that I wear on warm summer nights, not the super tight leather with the pushup bra that I wear to the up-in-the-hills coke parties. Tonight I dressed more like a middle class working woman, as opposed to the lower class working girl, as he put it. Heels, pearl earrings, some cleavage but not overly slutty. I even smiled when I looked in the mirror. For a moment I liked the idea of class, and in that premature moment I even liked Jerry a little.

That was two hours ago. "And now my night is wasted, thanks to you, now how am I to pay the rent?" Jerry was my best chance to make rent. Tomorrow night is going to be hell now.

So here I stand, dressed above my class, pissed, phone against ear, getting more pissed, listening to the whinings of Jerry Dammit, getting so pissed I could throw—SHIT—with a thud I threw the phone against the floor. They make cell phones too well these days, because all that happened was the battery came off from the back and the antenna bent. Remember when you could actually break things by throwing them on the floor? Arrrrrgh!! I walk briskly to the fridge and grab the bottle of vodka I keep chilled and take a deep pull from it. I cough and shake my head, but another pull goes down a tad easier. And a few more. I stand against the wall, dressed above my class, pissed, bottle in hand, drowning out the whinings of Jerry Dammit, so pissed I could throw—SHIT—with a thud I dropped the bottle of vodka on the floor. Fuck it, I'll clean it up tomorrow. I stagger to bed, now a little tipsy, now a little less pissed. Whoever said drinking doesn't solve your problems is naïve, for if my problem was being pissed at Jerry, it's not so much a problem anymore. Vodka one, clichés nothing.

I sit on the side of my bed and unbutton my blouse—I gaze at the mirror across the room as I undress. Can't believe I dressed so good for Jerry Dammit. I stand up and touch the mirror, touch myself, touch my cheek, I smile as my cheek feels the soft fingers. I am a good girl, I pay my bills, I don't lie, I'm honest at least to myself. There are still no blemishes on my face; every other girl I know has a scar or a cig burn from some guy that felt it necessary to remind her what she does to pay the bills. I'm lucky, I'm a good girl. I let the blouse dangle from my shoulders as I reach behind and unhook my bra. You honestly think Jerry Dammit would rather have his hands wiping the snot from his brats' collective noses than cupping THESE? Every other girl I know has at least one baby that they didn't want, and one of the grand rewards for doing so in almost every case was to have their tits stretch and soften and fall. I cup them and smile as my fingers softly squeeze the firm titflesh—I didn't let THESE go to waste in the name of premature motherhood—I am a good girl.

I slip my thumbs beneath the waistband of my skirt and, bending, I slip it down my legs and step out of it once it becomes limp on the floor. I smirk as I stand there, wearing only a pink blouse open and dangling, white lace panties, and heels—Jesus I still am fine. No stretchmarks, nothing sagging, I turn and there is no cellulite, no love handles, I still have my legs, Jerry Dammit liked my legs, especially in heels. No marks on my ass. The question beckons as I stand here before my mirror, with a girl as fine as I am (and yes I know I am fine—I am not conceded, I am convinced), why is it the best I can do is the Dammit Brothers?

"Do you really want me to answer that question?"

I gasp in fright as I hear an unexpected male voice coming from behind me. I try to see in the mirror, try to see if I can see, but he is not in range. I dare not turn around—it's bad enough he caught me like this, half naked, high, talking to myself—do I need to face my potential rapist as well? Even whores are scared of rape and murder.

Cockily, the voice resumed, "I can tell you why you can't do any better than the, what is the term you use, the Dammit Brothers."

I hadn't said that out loud, just said it in my head, didn't I? I put my hands across my chest in fear, not quite reasoning why I should do this—he has seen my ass and legs and my hair let down, and if he is at the right angle he could see my face and tits and figure in the mirror. Even whores are scared of rape and murder.

"Please, my money is in my dresser, take it and go." Please be a burglar, please be a beggar, please be a wiseass, please be a loner or a petty criminal or a peeping tom or a john or a neighbor or just a creep getting off frightening me. Please be anything at all, just don't touch me. Even whores are scared.

"Of rape and murder," said the stranger.

Without thinking I started to run, but could only start. Being high and naked and in heels is not a good combination if speed is the goal—I fell after only a few steps. The front door was miles away, it might as well be, I started to cry. Even whores...


"Are scared of rape and murder, yes yes Olivia enough with the pity-poor-me routine." The stranger sounded as if losing patience. The stranger sounded as if he had hopped from the bedroom window onto the floor. The stranger sounded as if he were coming closer—shoes don't sound like that, a rapist would wear shoes, wouldn't he? Too soft for shoes, even for sandals—nevertheless his steps suggested he was getting closer. Facing the floor, I cried, a few tears sticking my lids together, not running down my face, just staying in my eyes, making vision watery.

What is it with this guy anyway? How does he know what I am thinking? Am I muttering? I've been known to talk in my sleep, am I sleepwalking and sleeptalking? Am I just so drunk and pissed that I am having loud conversations with myself, and this asshole is screwing with my head? Is he one of those telepaths I see on every other episode of Star Trek? What is it with him? More importantly, why hasn't he jumped me yet?

"I haven't jumped you, as you so eloquently put it, because I came here to make love to you." A little softer his voice was, although it seemed only a few feet behind me. A little softer, perhaps, but he finally said something to stir up the anger, to make me explode in rage. Wish I wasn't so goddamned wasted, I would slap him, the nerve. But I wasn't so wasted that I had lost my senses or my dignity—my hair shielded my face from him, a saving grace, which allowed me to wipe the sticky tears from my eyes, to not let him see how he got to me. A gentleman rapist he may be, but he is not going to get the satisfaction of seeing my tears.

"What do you mean, make love to me? I have a pimp if you want to fuck, I have his card in my purse, you need his number?" I sat up, still not facing him, not yet wanting to, trying in my head, which no longer seemed a safe place to think, to figure the situation out. "I mean, you did come here for pussy, right?"

Silence. No witty remarks? 

I start to stand as I begin to explain to him the rules. "See, there are two ways this works. Either I approach you, or you approach my pimp." I dry my face with both hands as I continue to talk condescendingly to this joker, this naïve fucking joker. "You can get his number from me or from any bartender in this area." I steady myself against the wall. "The other way is to go to the coke parties up in the hills and hope I get there kinda early." I pull my dark hair away from my eyes. "I also frequent a few bars, and..." I open my eyes and gasp in horror as I look at the stranger.

In the dim light he shone like an Oscar statuette. He was golden—fucking gold colored, I tell you, not tan, not that fake tan body paint, he was golden, shining and everything. Must be seven feet tall, but then again, girls usually think hot guys are seven feet tall until they reveal themselves as Dammit Brothers. Hair even blonder than his skin cascading down his back. No clothing. A body straight from Mount Olympus, with one exception—all the Greek god statues, all those statues I saw in books were of men with the most incredible bodies but the smallest genitalia. Must be eight inches flaccid. I gazed at all this magnificence, but his smile, his kindest smile, I gazed at. His body, his cock, his hair—I gazed at that magnificent smile. Was it for me?

"Yes, Olivia, this smile is yours."

I was breathless, but once breath returned, so did cynicism. "How do you know my name?" There were a million questions I could have asked, but that one spilled from my lips first.

"I got it from your pimp."

I really wanted to trust that warm, warm smile, but the bullshit that came out of it just irked me. "Really! Well, maybe I should call him and ask if he's talked to any giant golden assholes lately." I started to walk back into my bedroom and stared for a long moment at the inanimate pieces of my cell phone and, realizing I would probably embarrass myself by trying to fit it back together with my shaking hands, I just mentally cursed at it. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck this.

"Maybe I ought to start over. Hello Olivia, my name is Michael." If this were a real guy, to say something like that would sound arrogant, self-serving, as if I were misunderstanding the situation. What's to misunderstand? He might be hot, but he is still trespassing and potentially a rapist. Normally someone so patronizing would get the wrath of my hand slapping his face. But there was something that kept me from raising my hand to him. Even as I stood in the middle of the room, virtually naked, wasted, things spilt and broken all over the floor, despite my vulgar mouth and vicious thoughts, despite the hottest man in the world painted gold and standing in the bedroom of a lowly whore, it was he who began to apologize.

"I'm sorry if I startled you Olivia." He bowed his head and put his hands behind his back. I see little boys stand like that when they are being scolded, did he expect me to scold him? Were this one of the Dammit Brothers I would think his meekness a prelude for something on the S&M tangent, something in line with I've-been-a-bad-boy-please-punish-me. But there was sincerity in his stance—in fact, come to think of it, there hasn't been anything insincere about anything he has done since he came. Cocky, perhaps, but cocky can be confidence misread.

A fragment of a smile broke onto my face, just a wee piece of one, just enough to crack the rage that Jerry Dammit and Michael's intrusion filled within me. When was the last time a man apologized to me for anything? I mean, something other than I'm sorry you chose to be a prostitute Olivia, but you chose this life. I don't mean those accusing apologies. I mean a real apology. This was unfamiliar.

"Michael, is it?" I started to walk back to the kitchen. "Would you like some vodka, Michael?" I picked up the bottle—still a little in, still perhaps a good shot or two. "So, Michael, are you new around here?" I was still so frightened, still not knowing what the hell was going on, still thinking of his skin and his cock and his smile and by the way his cock is magnificent and his eyes were they blue I think they were blue and that smile I think I am a little wet thinking about that cock but that smile that was for me he could give that cock to any woman in the world and probably has have I had bigger but that smile was mine he even said it was for me and for me alone has a man ever smiled like that to me no never or to any other woman no never and he smiled for me will he smile like that again will I say the wrong thing and kill the smile oh god please don't make the smile die oh please god don't let it die...

"You do know taking the Lord's name in vain is a sin, don't you Olivia?"

Shit.

"That's better."

I drank another swallow of vodka myself, I needed it worse than he did.

I heard him follow me into the kitchen, and he put his hand on my shoulder as I faced away from him. Dropped the bottle. I closed my eyes and felt a little limp feeling his touch, his strong hand on me, my skin separated from his only by the thin silk of this blouse. His touch was as radiant as his skin.

He spoke, "Believe it or not, it's better to say profane things than to take His name in vain. Fuck, shit, nigger, cunt, motherfucker, all better than calling His name." It sounded so strangely wonderful, hearing him curse, hearing his voice, hearing what seemed to be inane banter, yet his voice, his baritone, his deep brown voice made anything he said sound Shakespearean. 

I still wanted to cry, no longer out of fear, no longer out of anger, but now because I was confused. With shakiness in my voice, I asked, I begged, as if the very words were tears sticking my eyelids together again, "Who are you, Michael?"

Confidently, as if he were awaiting that question since he arrived, he replied, "You know who I am, you read about me when you were a little girl, before everything went wrong, before you ended up here, like this." As cryptic as that seemed, in a way I felt as if I did. At least I wanted to. I wanted that man, that voice, that smile, that golden body and golden cock and golden face to be of someone I had known all along. I really did.

So I turned to face him, and he placed a hand on each of my shoulders. I felt his warmth, and from looking down, from seeing his golden feet and ankles, I started lifting my head, seeing his knees and thighs, then his oh my god sorry holy shit enormous half-erect cock, then his washboard golden abdomen, then his godlike chest then his Adam's Apple, then that glorious smile. And again, I asked, this time with wonder instead of confusion.

"Who are you Michael?"

"I am the Archangel."

He said it with a straight face, but I'm sorry, I bent over laughing. I'm sorry, I'm drunk, I thought you said you were an archangel. You have to be kidding, an archangel. You almost had me, Michael the archangel. If ever I could think a man capable of winning me over...

"I'm not a man, I'm the Archangel Michael."

Amidst my giggles I tried to talk. "OK, OK Michael, you're an archangel. Now tell me how you do that trick, that thing you do."

He continued to smile, not quite getting that I was laughing AT him and not WITH him. "Which trick?" he asked.

"You know, the mindreading thing. I thought I was just talking to myself at first, but whatever you do, you do it well. You have to show me how you do that." I was full of myself. Archangel, my ass. 

"It's not a trick. Sometimes it gets a little confusing because people say one thing when they think another, so it's like two conversations with one person."

"Ain't it the truth, Mike?" I started to stumble back to the bedroom. Very high. Fucking heels, I kicked them off and walked barefoot across the carpet and sat down on the side of my bed. In followed Mike. Oops, sorry, Michael the big and bad Archangel. I giggled because in my mind my voice was so exaggerated, the big and bad Archangel, that was funny.


One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 02



Chapter 2: Friends, Rapists, and Other Lovers

Daddy Vernon and I always enjoyed each other's company. He was always a good friend to me, and in many ways he was more of a father figure to me than my own Dad. Because of this strange love I never minded the fact that his sepia cock always tasted a little tangy. He had been on heroin ever since his wife died, and though I never gave him my pussy, he was always thankful for the pleasure I gave him. We had a symbiosis--he paid my pimp, and I pleasured him. But beyond that, I felt sorry that he let himself get thrown away by society--he was a sweet man, and given the nature of our relationship, he showed me all the love a junkie could possibly show a prostitute that refused to give him a free fuck.

I loved the way his fingertips touched my cheeks and cradled my face as I sucked his cock. They were never forceful. They were tender. Everything about him was tender. I would gaze up into his eyes and see the glint therein, and I liked the way he smiled and moaned at the same time. He thought I was an angel, and he reveled in what he perceived was my ability to make magic.

I didn't care how much older than me he was, and I didn't care that his cock lacked the girth of youth. He made up for it with appreciation. Thus, as I moaned softly on his cock and tightened my lips around it, I did so with enthusiasm; feeling his fingers comb my hair from my face and looking up to see his whole face alight with momentary happiness was my motivation.

On this particular day, though, I was behind on rent and needed Vernon's help a little more than I normally would. He paid Darryl my pimp, but fifty dollars was not going to help much this month. I loved the man like family, and as long as he paid me I would always suck his cock, but I needed to get a little more from him. Had I not cared about him, we would be doing this in a dark alley instead of my apartment, and in that alley I might have rolled him, took his wallet and ran as he wobbled in a confused orgasmic high, his pants rolled down to his ankles. But here, in my apartment, with a man I did love in my own way, I had to get creative.

"Ohh--Oh-liviahhh..." I heard Vernon whimper as his cock grew in my mouth. He always lets himself into vulnerable positions. I had to take advantage of him, but I just couldn't be cruel. "Ohhh, you are so beautiful."

He sat on my couch, leaning way back, legs wide, as I knelt at the floor. We were dressed like normal people--pants, shirts, shoes, whatnot. So don't think I got all gussied up for him--he was a dear friend, but he was also a john.

I released his cock from my mouth and sat up next to him, my fingers stroking him as he stayed in his stupor. I licked his neck and ear a little, and I whispered hotly to him. His cock was so hard, not necessarily large in any way, but sincerely aroused as able as it could have been.

"Oh Vernon, baby," I whispered hotly to him, trying to excite him further, "mmhh, you want me to do something special for you Daddy?

"Ooohhh oohhh sweetie yes yes." he responded.

"You got a few more bucks for your little girl?" My hand is fisting him roughly and furiously.

"Buuh--uhh--but I paid your Darryl fifty already."

"I know, Daddy, but you paid him, not me. I can give you something you've never had before if you want it bad enough." I was turning the slut on full force. The man wasn't rich, but certainly he had a little something for me.

My handjob coupled with my whore talk worked its magic. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and took out two twenties. His shaky hand gave me the money, and I took it happily and placed it between the cushions of this couch for the time being.

"Mmmh Daddy, I knew you would come through." At that, I sat up and smiled wickedly at him, reached to my shirttail, and pulled my shirt over my head. I lightly tossed it to the floor, and I watched his eyes light up and mouth gape a little.

Before he could comment on the size or fullness of my breasts, I resumed my place on the floor and, always looking up at him, I pressed my bosom against his crotch, smothering his cock therein. I smiled sweetly as his hands returned to my face, his way of saying I love you Olivia.

"Mmmmh Daddy Vernon, you like how your little girl likes to play?"

"Ohhhh sweet Jesus."

I leaned to him and pulled his shirttail up a few inches. I began to bite and suck on his flat stomach as I ground my tits against his crotch. I always loved getting my tits fucked, whether I did all the work or not.

His dark skin was kind of loose on his abdomen, as if he lost the muscles underneath. It was flat but not firm. I licked and sucked on his ribs and stomach, making him squirm and squeal a little, seemingly overwhelmed with my idea of fun.

I whimpered a little as I kissed his body--his fingers pressed at the sides of my breasts, forcing my breasts together, crushing his cock in between. Mhhh, this was making me wet, and though I wasn't going to let him even see or touch my pussy, I did grave a good fucking.

His moans and squirmings urged me on, and I got into this, loving giving him such pleasure, loving knowing he loved it.

"Come on Daddy," I moaned as he started to thrust his hips and fuck my tits on his own. "MMMMMhh Daddy Vernon, I love to party with you like this."

He went faster, and he gripped my tits tighter as I saw the desperation in his eyes. He was lost in the purity of the moment, unable to talk, only moaning and whimpering as I felt his cock thicken against my breastbone. I tilted my head back and let Vernon fuck my tits, and I loved it and was so fucking hot from it. I whimpered hornily.

"Oohh Daddy yes, fuck me, fuck your Olivia."

I heard him squeal and grow rigid as he arched and squeezed my tits hard. His body was starting to cum, but his cock was still full. I yelped feeling his fingers clutch my tits, squeezing them. I was so hot.

After a few frozen seconds he removed his hands from me and started to jack off wildly. I licked the tip of his cock frantically, wanting to get him off, wanting his cum on me.

It took just a few seconds. He grunted loudly as a few jets of sperm landed on my neck. He fell back on the couch, spent but excited, his heart racing faster than was probably healthy. I giggled naughtily. I made him happy. And I was happy for him. Getting a few more dollars from him was good, but seeing his satiated glazed-over expression was worth the effort.

I crawled back onto the couch and touched his face tenderly, smiling sweetly, as he caught his breath. "Oh Vernon," I said among my giggling, "you are so out of your league with me."

The old man looked at me, not with lust, but with admiration. He still couldn't speak, but his eyes were sweet, his lips in a grin, his hand touching mine as I touched him. He lightly took my hand and kissed my wrist, and I purred.

"You are a good girl to humor an old nigger junkie, Livie," Vernon finally said once he stopped gasping. "Why such a beautiful girl is giving head to a stiff like me is beyond me."

I pouted playfully at that, knowing he appreciated my company, but also knowing I could have done better for myself.

"Oh I wish you were my daughter Livie, you would have never been a ho."

"But I like to fuck, Vernon, and what's wrong getting paid for it?"

"I wouldn't agree with that line, but I understand it when a seventeen-year-old says it. But you're..."

Knowing where he is going with this, I interrupted, "...older than seventeen." I smiled, and he relented in his pointmaking.

"You know," I continued, "I like you Vernon, and as long as you're buying, I don't care if it's coffee or sex, I will always invite you by here."

"Spoken like a true prostitute."

He's pushing my buttons. "Spoken like a woman who, were we in better circumstances, would still expect the man to buy me dinner and to work while I kept the house nice. Prostitute or housewife, it's still a lady's prerogative to let the man buy."

Vernon smiled broadly at that. "You always make moments like these seem more than they are. Like we're Bogart and Bacall instead of junkie and ho."

"That's the point of all this, isn't it Daddy? If there's nothing special, ethereal, magical between two people, it's just a body function. And at that point, I am getting paid for having someone go to the bathroom on me."

He gave me a mock disapproving look for that comment. "It's a crying shame such a beautiful woman should think sex is someone taking a piss on her."

"You always say I'm beautiful, Vernon."

"You have the face of an angel and the body of a goddess."

"Oh yeah? Then why am I sucking nigger junkie cock?"

Smugly he answered, "Because you like to."

In my own way, I know he is right. Vernon knows me more than he probably should. Michael also knows this. I miss Michael.

After a moment, I stood up and walked to the bathroom. Vernon pulled up his pants and followed me. I looked in the mirror and wiped his cum off my neck and chest as we continued to converse.

"So, Livie, I hope there's a better Bogart in your life than me."

"What do you mean, Vernon?" I pressed a damp towel corner to my neck and cleaned myself as his dark hands cupped my breasts. My nipples hardened in his tender touch.

"I mean, I hope there's someone more special in your life than a pimp living off of your feeling men piss on you and a junkie who, if we didn't have this wonderful but highly unorthodox friendship, would be the pisser."

I dropped the towel in the sink and picked up a brush. I started to roughly brush out and tease my hair as his fingers groped my tits. "Look Vernon," I said as I looked at him in the mirror, "if things were different, and your wife were still alive, and I was a college girl or something like that, I think we would've been friends under better circumstances. I really believe that. I think real friendship is a constant."

I slipped out of his embrace and turned and looked up at him, touching his face again, my eyes gazing up at his tired but pleasant stare. "And I think you were a wonderful husband, and I would have loved to have you as a father."

Vernon laughed a little. "Is that a no?"

"To what?"

"Is there a significant man in your life, Livie?"

I smiled softly. "Well, there's this one guy I know, his name is Michael."

"Does he make you happy?"

"When he comes around, yes."

"That's all I want to know." His smile was broad. So was mine.

Vernon caught himself, realizing I was cleaning myself up. "But, uh, a pretty brunette always has better things to do than to talk to a junkie all afternoon."

"Darryl did set me up for tonight. Thousand dollar night! He'll be by in," turning and seeing the alarm clock on my night stand and reading 4pm, "Jesus, in two hours."

Feeling a little left out, Vernon muttered, "And what does a gentleman caller get for a thousand dollars?"

"Any damn thing he wants!"

"Well, if for ninety dollars I get a blowjob and a tittyfuck straight from heaven, I can just imagine what you might do for more."

"Not bad for letting a man piss on me, huh?"

"For a thousand dollars he can piss on me too."

"If ever I have a thousand dollars to blow, I'll do it for you. Promise."

With that, we were both laughing and carrying on like brother and sister. It was a good moment for Vernon to go, and he saw his cue as such.

"Well Olivia, I hope you have a good time. By all means, be safe."

"I will, Daddy Vernon. And I hope you can come by before you get your assistance check next week. Seeing a friend once a week is sad."

"Well, since you sent me to the poor house for the week, I don't know if I can spare a few bucks for that coffee you invited me to buy for you. Even if I did, can you just imagine us sitting in Starbucks, chatting like this?"

"Yes I can, Vernon, and I wish you could too."

I opened the front door, and as Vernon approached me he gave me a big hug and lifted me off my feet. I could feel the transference of love--or at least what our relationship defined as love--between us in the embrace.

"Stay safe, Livie," he whispered.

"You too, Daddy."

And with that he was out the door. For a little while I was alone. Physically, anyway. A good thing when having to get ready for a thousand dollar date. But with friends like Vernon, I was alone, but never lonely.

***

Impulsively, I eyed the clock on my endtable when I heard a rough knock on the door. It read 5:30, and the first words to pop into my head were, "Damn, this Walter fella is too early. I was standing in the bathroom, applying eyeliner and shadow, when the impatient knock came--my hair was in good shape, teased and fixed. I was only wearing panties; I was going to wear something special for this Walter guy, something hot, something worthy of a thousand dollar payday--perhaps my leathers, men always like it when I wear my tightest leathers pants and my leather jacket with nothing under it. Or should I wear something a little more adult, something ladylike--I have a certain red dress I've been waiting to wear, skimpy, cut at mid thigh, open back, and pushes my tits together and really shows off my cleavage. These are some of the things I was thinking about putting on, and once I had finished putting on my face I was going to leaf through my closet and pick out something real sexy for this Walter.

Another knock at the door, which prompted my words to leap from my head to my mouth. "Hold on!" I yelled, not wanting to let him get away, not wanting him to leave and call my pimp Darryl and nark me out for standing him up. I hastily grabbed a silk robe hanging from the back of the bathroom door--pink with a dragon print on the back--and scurried to the front door.

I opened the door a crack and saw the gentleman on the other side. Scruffy sort of fellow, with unkempt cropped hair and wearing a dingy jeans jacket. Smoking, too. His posture slumped a little. I couldn't make out his face in the shadows. I was unimpressed in my first impression of this guy. But, if this was Walter and was willing to pay a grand for my services, who was I to judge?

"Are you Walter?" I asked through the crack?

"Uh, yeah, Walter," he answered in a gruff undervoice. He shifted in his stance as he spoke, and his cigarette clung to his lower lip as he talked. "You that chick?"

I tried to smile warmly at him in this way, through the crack of the door. I try to be a good hostess, and if I can get away with a smile as a disguise for what I really think about the men I see, I do so with relish. Ever the actress. 

"Yes, Walter," I purred as I spoke, "I am that chick. You're early."

I opened the door wider to let him in. The light of the room gave me a better view. Dark blonde hair, cut short, uncombed and a little grungy. His face could be considered handsome had he not several rings hanging from his eyebrows. His eyes were vacant blue. Denim jacket hadn't been washed, seemingly ever. Same with his ripped jeans. He wore no shirt, he was very thin, but I could see several dark patterns on his chest and stomach that suggested tattooes, perhaps those Celtic swirls. His fingers were yellowish as he took his cigarette from his mouth and blew smoke at me.

"Yeah, well...", he said in a standoffish way.

I looked warmly upon him. In another life I might have dated such a guy, or at least a cleaner version of him. As much as I try to think positive about people and take them at face value, I'd like to think there was something attractive about him. Maybe if I was at a coke party, I could see myself going down on him. I would have to be high to do so for free.

But he paid a grand--time to make lemonade out of this lemon.

I tried to play myself as an actress of some sort. I know too many girls that just lie back in bed, spread their legs, and let their men have their way. In that regard, prostitution is little more than going to the bathroom on one another. The only way I can do this on a daily basis is to make this more than what it really is. That is one reason why I seem to get a better clientele than other girls who just stand on the corner. Of course, I also have kept my figure and my face and haven't let my tits or ass sag. But I try to also be a romantic in this, and in this I make it through the day.

I took a few steps back as he entered. He was staring at my chest. I'm used to that. But his eyes were buggy, wide, hungry. That was a little intimidating.

"I was going to wear something special for you, Walter. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Naah, baby, I'm fine." His voice was low and guttural.

I smiled sexily. "OK, sweetie. Just give me a moment to put something on for you."

I went to my bedroom, to the closet, and ruffled through the outfits therein. Obviously this guy is not one for the refined things, which cancels out most of my wardrobe. Leather it is. I untied my robe and let it fall to the floor; in my panties again, I grabbed what I needed--black leather pants, leather jacket, and stiletto heels. I sat on the foot of my bed as I slipped my pants over my legs--so very tight on me, hugged my ass and waist and thighs. I had to inhale a little to fasten the buckles and zippers, it was so tight. I put my heels on and stood up. I looked at myself in the mirror in my room as I put on my jacket--it feels smooth against my bare arms. I leave the jacket open, showing to all my flat tummy and firm tits. I think I look rather hot.

My heels clicked as I walked out of my bedroom. I gasped as I returned to the living room. My gentleman caller for the evening was looking through my drawers and things, leaving them open as he looked through them.

"Just what the hell are you doing?" His head turned quickly to me as I caught him.

He froze as he looked at me, as if a little timid. His eyes again focused on my chest.

"I said, what the fuck are you doing, Walter?" I hope the expression on my face mirrored the anger welling up in me.

The rummager stammered, "I was..., well, I, uh..."

I walked to the door in a fit and opened it violently. "I don't care if you did pay a thousand to be with me, no one goes through my shit!" I turned back and glared at him to punctuate my want for him to leave.

His eyes widened, and he smiled a sinister grin. "You got a thousand dollars around here somewhere?" He resumed looking through my drawers.

I felt hit right between the eyes with my own stupidity. "You aren't Walter, are you?" I said with my tail between my legs

The thief didn't answer as he lifted the cushions off the couch. His face lit up when he found the two twenties Daddy Vernon gave me. He snatched them in one hand and hurriedly put them in his jacket pocket.

"Where's the rest of it?"

"The rest of what?" I was getting scared, partly because this guy seemed dangerous, but mostly that I had done something incredibly dumb and it was going to present its consequences rather quickly.

"Come on, girlie, you said you had a thousand bucks around here, where is it?" His tone was not yet horrible, for he was still in thief mode, wanting to get the money and flee more than lashing out at me.

I was frozen as I watched him continue to overturn the couch. He looked through a cupboard and pushed the glasses out onto the floor with a crash.

"My... mmmy pimp has it." I tried to mutter.

A little more impatiently, he asked, "Then coke. You got some coke or something I could have?"

I stayed where I was, door open, frozen, silent.

He was breathing harder as I watched him ransack my kitchen and living room. "Then heroin. Got any of that?"

The joy was gone from my face as I watched the pathetic scene.

"Any dope at all?"

"No," I said softly, "no dope."

He was getting ever more impatient by the second, and I watched how his actions grew more desperate. He pushed over a nice lamp that belonged to a friend. His eyes grew hungrier.




One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 02



His impatience grew to desperation, then to anger. "What kind of a whore has no dope?"

This was frightening me. I walked hurriedly to my bedroom and closed the door. I saw my cellphone on the dresser and reached for it. I started to dial 911 as he broke into the room, starting to fume, and going through my nightstand looking for money or drugs.

I ran past him, waiting for the operator to answer. Once I heard the voice on the other end, I began to ramble rather quickly.

"Hello, I'm being robbed and afraid I'll be beaten!" I said in whispers. My gentleman caller stomped out of the bedroom and saw me on the phone. 

He approached me like a monster. "Get someone over here now!" My whispers turned into a yell into the phone.

The burglar shut my front door with a slam and came closer to me. He pulled the phone from my hand and threw it across the room, where I heard it break.

Before I knew it, he was on me. He pushed me to the couch, now without cushions, and knelt on me, his hands on my chest pushing me down, his knees on my thighs. I tried to scream and wiggle away. I am not one to just give into a rape, despite what they tell girls, to diffuse the situation by letting the rapist have you and not fight it. I choose life, and if life is not an option, I choose death by my own choosing, which will always be kicking and screaming.

I expected his hands to wander to my breasts--my jacket was open, my chest exposed, and my nipples erect from fright. I expected him to take two handfuls of tit and squeeze and make me moan in the pain. I expected him to squeeze them so hard he would bruise them. But that is not what he did. His hands went from my chest to my neck. What kind of a rapist was this?

I tried to push him away, but he was too strong. I clawed at his chest, and he winced as he pulled off of me. I tried to crawl away, but he resume his hold of my throat too quickly.

"I'm not going to ask you again, girl. A pretty chick like you has got to have some money or blow or something. I've seen you around. Always wearing something fancy, something to make us all hard, just asking to get fucked. I know you got something for me." I sensed contempt for me in his accusations, as if he had been stalking me or something. Hard to analyze his verbiage with his hands around my throat.

I continued to wiggle under him. I managed to slip one of my thighs between his legs, and as my eyes widened and stared in fright at my assailant...

"UUUHHHHHHHH" came from him as I kneed him in the balls. His hands came off my neck and to his groin at that, and I tried to get away again.

I managed to get to the floor and crawl a few feet when he pounced on me again. I heard a knock on the door. I wanted to scream--was that the real Walter? My assailant put his hand tight around my mouth as I tried to wiggle free and make noise.

"One more sound and I will beat the life out of your hot little body." he said matter-of-factly in a whisper in my ear.

The man on the other side of the door knocked again, and I froze as he pressed his knee into my back. I felt he was breaking my spine this way. His hand was still firmly over my mouth. I was perspiring. I was on my stomach on the hard wood floor. My breasts ached as he put his weight on me, crushing them between my ribs and the wood.

After a third series of knocks, I heard loud footsteps that grew softer, suggesting to me that whoever it was, Walter or otherwise, was now gone.

"Good girl," the creep said. "Now, on your back."

I rolled onto my back, anything to get his knee off of me. His hand stayed on my mouth as I looked at him.

"Now, seeing as how a pretty girl like you has no cash and no dope, there's only one thing I can take from here to make this trip a success." As he said this, he placed his hand over my crotch and rubbed the leather over my pussy. I squirmed a little as he held me like this, one hand on my mouth, the other on my pussy.

As he fingered me like this, I sobbed a little.

"That's it, girl, you know you like that, don't you?

After a calm moment of fingering me, he roughly surprised me by twirling around and straddling my stomach. I screamed the second his hand lifted from my mouth. He faced away from me as he sat on me and fumbled with the buckles and zippers on my pants. I hit his back and claws at it, but he ignored this, and I don't know if he felt much through his denim jacket.

I was so scared as he opened my pants and pulled them down my legs. His hand slipped into my panties, and I shook as I felt his fingers roughly poke at my labia. I whimpered a little as he forced his fingers into my vagina. My legs flailed, and I fought at him with all I had as he penetrated me with his fingers. I wasn't wet--too scared to be aroused--so feeling his fingers inside me hurt a little without wetness to lube them.

He started panting as he ground his groin against my stomach. He fingerfucked me as he fucked my tummy like this, with his pants on, sitting on me, pinning me to the floor. I was so disgusted, and I was crying loud.

"Please," I said through the pain and fright and tears, "please, I'll fuck you, just stop hurting me."

My pleas apparently interrupted his pleasure, for pushed his fingers into me and stopped fucking my stomach. For a second he froze. I gasped to breathe--it was hard to breath, with fingers in me and him sitting on me. 

Like a whirlwind he turned around on top of me and resumed straddling my stomach, only now facing me. His face was sheer anger and terror. His eyes bulged and stared at my tits.

"Why do the pretty girls always beg for me to stop?" He said as tears filled his eyes. "Why?" I didn't understand the question. I had my own issues at the moment to have sympathy for him.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and, lifting my head a little, he RAMMED it to the floor.

"Why?" he said as he did it again, forcing the back of my head to slam against the wood floor.

"Why?" he said again as he plunged my head against the floor. I clawed at his chest desperately to get him off of me, but with every "Why?", my head slammed against the floor, each time hurting a little less, but each time bringing me closer to passing out. My eyes fluttered in my head as he rammed my head repeatedly, each time punctuated by his "Why?"

I kicked and clawed for all I was worth, but I felt my arms and legs get heavy and eventually lose their strength. The man on me became blurred and darker, and his "Why?"'s became distant in my ears.

The last thing I remember was a golden glow coming from behind my assailant. It was brief.

Then I lost consciousness.

***

At some indeterminable time later, maybe second, maybe days, I couldn't know right away, I awoke in confusion, alone on the floor, my leather pants and panties down around my ankles, my jacket open, and my head feeling like it weighed a ton. I couldn't sit up. I was afraid, afraid of what I remember, of what could have happened while I was out, but even more afraid of what could still occur. I tried to lift my head, but gave up as soon as I tried it. At least for the moment I was safe on the floor.

I took a woozy mental inventory of the situation. My arms and body felt ok. I expected to have been raped while unconscious, but as I shifted about a little on the floor, I didn't feel any pain coming from my pelvis. My pussy ached and felt violated, but then again, the asshole on me was fingering me while dry. As I became more and more aware, I realized I probably was not raped, but I didn't know why. The only thing I was certain of was most likely having a concussion, and I feared passing out again and not waking up.

In my determination to not let that happen, I forced myself into a sitting position. I licked my pants and panties off as I looked around my decimated apartment. Everything was broken. I sobbed a little. Even if I wasn't personally violated, my home was. It broke my heart seeing everything formerly in the cupboards broken on the floor, seeing personal trinkets like that lamp in fragments.

It took all my strength, but I stood up and, putting my hand on the wall to balance me, I staggered toward the bathroom. I saw a light coming out from under the door, and I was scared my rapist was in there, doing God knows what. I was naked except for my jacket, and my head felt like it was twice as big as before and it throbbed, but I put my ear to the door to hear what was going on on the other side.

I heard a man crying--it could have been my Walter impersonator. I stood there as he wailed, as if he were a boy sincerely hurt. He was loud and blubbering. Perhaps I should call 911 again--love to, had the phone not been broken AGAIN. I listened as he sniffed and carried on, bawling his head off.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door a crack and peeked in. I gasped at what I saw.

There he was, a seven-foot man, brightly golden in color, with super blonde hair going down his back, naked, sitting on the commode, bent over, crying his eyes out, rocking a little. It was my Michael, and with the door open, I could hear him muttering softly to himself, "I'm so sorry, Olivia, I'm so sorry..."

I let the door fall open as I leaned wearily against the doorjamb. I had no idea what was going on. I ached. There was no more Walter or whatever his name is...

"Jordan Collier," he sobbed as he rocked. He said it a couple times, "Jordan Collier," as he cried and begged in sorrow, "I'm so sorry, Olivia, his name was Jordan Collier," the whole time never looking up at me, as if he didn't know I was even there, yet still reading my thoughts and finishing my sentence.

Considering all that happened, my lone thought was, DAMN, I hate it when he reads my mind like that!

I staggered into the bathroom and leaned against the counter and looked in the mirror. Well, I've looked worse. My eyes were puffy and dark, my hair disheveled, my face generally in tact. I looked down my naked torso, I wasn't bruised or scratched. I wasn't all the worse for wear if I had been raped. I smiled and giggled a tired giggle as I looked at myself, looking like something the cat dragged in, with my Guardian Angel sitting next to me crying like a baby.

"I let you down, Olivia, I am so sorry..." Michael said through his bawling.

I looked at him, not understanding. I didn't know why he was here and why that Jordan faggot wasn't. I wasn't sure if I had been raped or not--pretty sure I wasn't, but in considering all this, I didn't know what to think.

I hadn't seen Michael since that night he seduced me. I hadn't seen him in months. I was hoping he would come to me again, like he had before, like a thief in the night, leaving his wings at the window and enter the room and enter me. Every time I let a man inside me, I dreamed of Michael, comparing the mortal to the angel. No one ever fucked the daylights out of me like Michael had, but more, no one ever understood my carnal desires like Michael. I loved Michael.

But seeing him like this, reduced to sobbing and rocking like a toddler, didn't make any sense.

But since I had no answers, perhaps Michael did.

"Whh--what happened tonight, Michael? I stuttered.

He continued to rock, and he cried harder as my voice commanded to him to recall the information I needed.

"So sorry, Olivia, I really am..." he continued to blubber through his wailing.

I knelt in front of him and looked up at him. His face was covered by his hair, so I couldn't see his beautiful face. He continued to rock and cry.

Delicately I asked the archangel, "What did you do, Michael?"

He roared in tears as I asked him, and he yelled as he spoke.

"He was on top of you, and I couldn't stop him from touching you..."

I closed my eyes and started to cry with him; a tear rolled down my cheek, remembering Jordan on me, cruelly fingerfucking me and humping my abdomen.

"...and, and, and I got here, and he was beating you..."

He stopped often as he told me his tale, stopped to sniff, to sob, to wipe tears from his face with his hand. 

"...so I...I grabbed him and broke him." He exploded again into tears.

I still wasn't sure what he was talking about, except that it seemed he made Jordan go away in the nick of time. The angel was crying, yet I was the one who was almost killed tonight. In a man, I would find that as a weakness. In Michael, all things were possible. I kept my mind open.

"Michael," I said in a low purr of a voice, "where is Jordan?"

He sniffed a couple of times, then, "he is probably in the Seventh Circle of Hell."

I knelt there for a few seconds, soaking in this. He killed Jordan to save me. I was dumbfounded.

I soon stood and walked to my bedroom, leaving the archangel behind to cry himself out. This was too much. I wanted desperately to sleep. I wanted to forget my possible concussion and sleep, forever if it merited so. I was fatigued and aching and so confused. My hero, the man of my dreams, the Archangel Michael, was blubbering like a schoolboy in my bathroom after saving me from rape and worse. I sat on the bed and removed my jacket. I curled into a fetal position, naked on the comforter, and awaited sleep to take me.

The overwhelming want to sleep apparently was greater than my fear of a concussion-induced coma; my eyelids grew heavy quickly, as well as my limbs. I felt my eyes roll back a little bit and darkness start to overtake me. The sole light in the apartment, as well as the sole source of sound, came from the bathroom, and both seemed to grow distant. I felt as if I was falling, and though there was a slight pang of fright in this, I didn't fight it at all. I welcomed this, what dreams may come.

I was shocked out of this pleasure of deep sleep with the feeling of a warm moist hand on my hip. I audibly gasped as it awoke me and roamed in a petting fashion up and down my outer thigh and side. In this awakening and startle I was unsure who was touching me--after a few seconds I remembered Michael was around here somewhere, so I was in no real hurry to turn over to see who it was. I was pretty sure, thus secure, in this realization, so, once the shock wore off, I smiled and purred like a lapcat as he petted me.

"Michael?" my voice cracked as I softly muttered.

"You don't have to talk, Olivia," the archangel spoke in a soft manner far more confident than when last we spoke, "Just relax, everything is alright."

"Michael, I need to know a few things." I stayed in fetal position, facing away as his hand roamed over my ass and thigh.

"Anything." I don't know if he was ready for anything.

"Who is William Sunderman?"

"Sunderman was the boy who you kicked in the groin as a girl."

"Did I hurt him?"

"Definitely, but didn't he deserve it for trying to feel you up?

"At the time, maybe, but if he is still feeling it so many years down the road, maybe it became more than it really was." I began to sit up--I wanted to look at him.

"Don't move, my love--try to relax and just lie there." His hand slipped off my skin.

I sat up and leaned back against the headboard. My vision was a little blurred from the headache and grogginess I was experiencing, but I looked up at the archangel as he sat next to me on the bed. That familiar smile was as warm as ever, his eyes red from crying, his body golden and immaculate. I see that smile every time I close my eyes, sort of like when you've stared at the sun and then close your eyes, how the imprint remains on your retina. I also remember seeing it, however, in a bad photograph shown to me by an asshole cop. And I vague remember a younger version of it from years and years ago, perhaps frozen in a forgotten yearbook in one form, definitely with less hair on his scalp and more malice in his eyes.

"I am so sorry, William." I put my hand out to touch his face.

"For what?" His question was soft, not at all defensive.

"For emasculating you when I kicked you."

Michael giggled a little at that. He caressed my hand with his as I petted his cheek. "You did more than emasculate William, you outright killed him. There hasn't been a William Sunderman since."

I didn't expect that. I expected two responses; either he was going to become irate in my discovery of his former identity that he would become defensive and argumentative, or he was going to break down, his little secret violated, his playhouse torn down. His response wasn't expected. It was stated calmly, even rationally, as if through all this time he truly believed William was dead and Michael inherited his form. I am no psychiatrist, but it seemed he truly believed himself to be an archangel.

The boy I hated in school had seduced me beyond my wildest dreams. The creep who molested me was now my guardian angel.

"I am so sorry, William."

"Olivia," he spoke, a little more seriously, as if he felt I misunderstood him, "William is dead. He died a long time ago."

I took this to mean, in his mind, the boy was dead to him. This seemed alright--the good girl in me died a long long time ago. My identity has been completely transformed since school. I could understand this line of thinking, even agree with it. Of course, I never transformed myself into godly status--then again, was I not a literary archetype as well, the prostitute with the heart of gold?

I so wanted to know this man, this angel, this masculine entity, this lover, this mindreader, this friend, this Michael, and to learn and accept how he transformed from schoolboy to deity.

I wanted to believe him so much.

"What if I called you Temunjin?" I tried to corner him with something the cop said. I remember vaguely something about Genghis Khan.

Still warmly, he took my hand away from my face gently. He turned on the bed so that he was sitting next to me, his back against the headboard. I rested my head on his chest as we continued, his hand cradling my shivering naked form, my hand on his muscular torso, my eyes fixed on his cock--I am still in awe of the fact that that gargantuan thing was inside me. I gazed on it as an idol of love, not of lust. I ached, but I also knew I wanted to feel it in me again.

"Temunjin, Hermes, William the Conqueror, I remember being called those things. I also remember being called Baal and Zarathustra and Torquemada and Marquis de Sade..."

His tone was light and a little amusing, but he also seemed sincere in this. I didn't judge him on this, though I probably ought to be more inquisitive concerning the man I was lying with. I was mentally busy on two fronts--fighting the effects of my concussion and the headache and grogginess associated with that, and fitting this wondrous tale of his into my sense of personal logic, trying to make sense of it. I really wanted to believe him. I guess, at this time, I did in my own way, and if he believed it, and if he personally hasn't really shown anything to contradict it, perhaps I could handle it as well.

"What I am trying to tell you is," the archangel continued, "over the centuries I have been a lot of things to a lot of people. I have always been this."

"I hope so," I whispered, realizing I was putting my eggs in an outlandish basket.

Michael stroked my hair as my hand wandered down to the inside of his thigh. I lightly kissed and sucked and licked his nipple as I began to awaken from my stupor a little. "Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?" he asked lightly.

"Just one more thing," I replied in between licks, "why have you stayed away so long?"

"Because you didn't need me again until tonight." I sucked on his nipple, the same one all this time, as he said this. I didn't answer, because in a way, he was right--I hadn't been attacked or anything since that glorious night of seduction. I have craved his body for months and have dreamt of his smile every day--every hour--since he first came through my window. His logic concerning anything seems twisted and vague, but it always has a kernel of truth to it--although I desired him madly, and though I have compared every man I've had since to him, and though I so hotly want him to be inside me, I never necessarily NEEDED him until the moment his protection and love was needed.




One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 02



I kissed down his massive chest and stomach as he continued to speak.

"Olivia," he moaned and stirred, "does it bother you that I have sex with so many women?

My hand caressed and cradled his stiffening cock. I confess, a twinge of jealousy came over me when he said that. I am one to talk, I am always busy in my job. Just today I was with two other men, one as a friendly business blowjob and tittyfuck, the other as a forced fingering and dryhump, nonetheless I was with two other men. I couldn't exactly say it bothered me to know he had other women when I have strange men on a daily basis. So, upon his question, I took a coward's way out in a sense--I put the tip of his thick cock in my mouth, mostly because I had the overwhelming desire to do so, but also to shut me up, to not have to answer him and tell him that yes, even though I was also a very promiscuous girl, I was bothered.

I peeked in the mirror against the wall as I tightened my lips around the shaft of his cock and my tongue danced on the head inside my cheeks. I've never enjoyed watching myself do dirty things as much as I do with Michael. My lips stretched around his penis as it grew in my mouth. My fingers clutched the base and began to stroke it. My pussy ached, but it was wettening, and no matter how much it hurt, I was going to do anything and everything to fit this massive cock inside it.

I moaned softly as my head slowly bobbed up and down. Michael caressed my back and buttocks as I sucked on his cock, savoring the girth in my mouth, the musky smell of it, the fleshy taste of it, the way it pressed against the back of my throat. I was a little nervous about doing this--last time I was so swept up in the moment that I could only act on instinct. But I was more aware of my actions this time, still very much in awe, but also, having experienced his body previously and having dreamt of it for so long and dreaming of what I was going to do with it if it should ever again appear in my bed, my actions were more premeditated, more deliberate. I sucked his cock and enjoyed every nuance of it, and by the moaning I heard and the way he petted my ass, I was encouraged by his enjoyment as well.

My mouth and hand worked his cock to monstrous size, making it bigger than I remember. My moans grew hotter as it thickened in my throat. I was so very wet for it, my inner walls were clenching mightily. I wanted so bad to make him cum inside me, anywhere in me, but I also wanted to be more active in the creation of orgasms than last time. As much as I wanted him to fuck me for hours, like last time, more so did I want to pleasure him, to use my expertise as a whore, to make him cum with the same helplessness that he made me cum last time around.

I felt him sink in the bed, lying flat. My mouth never left his cock. I straddled him while continuing to suck him in long deep slurps. I felt his hands cup my buttocks and squeeze them--I love his hands on me when I am horny. I squirmed hotly on him as he kissed my pussy and roughly played with my ass, all the while sucking deeply and hungrily on his erection. 

His hands firmly separated my asscheeks as his tongue danced on the exposed flesh that ran from my labia to anus. I shivered and whimpered hotly as I sucked his cock, trying to hold my wetness inside me. I was about to burst, I wanted him so very bad. His nose touched my asshole. I lifted my head from his cock from a second to breathe, to emote several horny whimpers as I fisted his cock. I started to wiggle my ass on his face, wanting to feel it press against my clenching pussy. I wanted to cum so bad I could cry.

I let out a deep moan and closed my eyes tight as I felt his tongue slither between my pussy lips and inside me. I arched a little as my wetness flowed freely from my body to his face. I gripped his cock tight and tugged at it, wanting to make him cum with me, wanting to share this first orgasm. But I knew I had done little to this point but arouse him. If I wanted to make him cum in the manner I wanted him to, I was going to have to be more proactive. Even in this realization, I gasped as my own genitalia spasmed and clenched, and I panted as I came in this first catharsis.

I resumed sucking his cock as I came on his face. He squeezed my ass tight as he feasted on my pussy. I began to grind on his face as we started to really get into this 69. My tits crushed against his steel torso as I slurped on his cock for all I was worth; he replied to my cocksucking by grinding his pelvis against me in subtle strokes, forceful enough to press his deeper down my throat, but not so strong as to outdo my masterpiece of a suck. He was enjoying me, and was ecstatic in this. My heart raced, partly for feeling his tongue slithering inside me, but more so because I genuinely adored Michael.

His hands roamed over my back, rediscovering the curves of this body that never stops craving him. I wiggled erotically on him, loving his fingers on me as I pleasured him. This was indeed nirvana. I could do this all night, and from experience I know he could do me all night as well, but the motives for my deeds tonight were different from before--I wanted to overwhelm him in the same way he overwhelmed me. Cocksucking alone, no matter how good, wasn't going to make an archangel scream.

So I sat up and crawled off of him. I turned around and faced him, still lying on top of him. I was a little out of breath, and I gasped to catch my wind as I sat on him, pussy against his stomach, hands on chest, eyes meeting eyes. I was impressed with the expression on his face, the way his eyes were wide and his chest rose and fell as if also out of breath; I was impressed, not merely that I was pleasuring him, but that I was succeeding in overpowering him. Perhaps he was letting me. Perhaps he was more relaxed than before. Maybe he was comfortable in my feelings for him, and he no longer felt he had to impress me. Whatever his motivation, it was clear I was more of a handful than the last time. And I relished it.

I sat up a little and straddled his pelvis, his cock erect and the head pressing against my swollen pussy lips. I gazed hotly into his eyes as I gasped and slowly sunk myself down on his pole. I clawed at his chest as I impaled myself on him. I watched him arch and moan in pleasure. The awe was still there, that this was mutual pleasure, that this was no longer an immortal and a whore. There was equality, more so than before. I felt at once honored and inspired, and as he arched and whimpered I too gasped and squealed as I forced his cock--all of it--inside me. I couldn't breathe until I sat there for a moment and let my inner walls conform to the size and contours of him, and amid the stretching and spasming I convulsed just a little.

Michael's hands found a natural place in the inner curves of my waist. His face was flushed, his eyes wide and wild. I squirmed for a moment on his cock, seeking comfort, realizing he was just too big to ever feel cozy in me. He gasped as I moved, and I felt his cock thicken at this and twitch. I hadn't done much of anything in terms of riding him, but he was well on his way to ejaculation, far faster than the first time. I smiled and bit my lip in a naughty grin at this, the secret safe inside me that I was in control.

I never raised off his cock. It always remained firmly embedded in me. Instead of riding his cock, I ground against it, trying to force it deeper into me. The sensation of remaining full of cock, but also feeling it move in my clenching pussy, was electric. My hands still rested on his chest, and clawmarks were apparent there. My breasts tingled and jiggled slightly at my motions. His hands slid to my ass, and I giggled sinfully as I continued to grind.

Michael was in the same nirvana I was, and I saw it and felt it as his eyes closed, his grip on my ass tightened, and he shivered under me. I had never before really been in love with a man--this feeling of inspiration, of wanting to make a man orgasm for its own sake and not for ulterior reasons, is this what other women feel for men? Is this love? Or am I just making too much of the dimensions of this fuck, of the necessary discarding of physics necessary to fit such a long and thick shaft into such a tiny and tight hole? I wanted to analyze it, and in time, when I am later pining away for his return, I surely will. But self-analysis, unfortunately, took a backseat to the discarding of physics.

We both whimpered and squealed like virgins as we struggled against one another. Michael dug his fingers into my ass as I continued to grind on him. I gave up staying in a seated position--I lied on top of his body, our perspiration mixing, as I sucked and bit his chest and shoulders, trying to maintain control as we screwed. I knew excessive orgasming would make me lose my grip on this, and this was important to me, this show of control, this want to be his sexual equal. I wiggled erotically on him, clawing at his ribs as I left bruises all over his golden thorax.

I squealed--and me moaned--as he thrust up into me. Didn't expect it, and in this my body shook. More surprising was his reaction--not of power struggle, not of confidence, but of pleasure he couldn't handle. He tried to do so again, and again I squealed in pleasure, and again he moaned hotly, not able to force the outcome he wanted, which was to make me cum and cry and for him to enjoy watching me helplessly shaking orgasmically. 

One more time, and he held himself like this. I heard him inhale deeply and freeze, unable to breathe. He held his cock in me and gripped me tight. I clawed at his back as he impaled me, unable to hold back anymore. I closed my eyes tight and bit hard at his chest, squealing into his skin.

I felt him arch against me, and in this I felt his cock explode inside me. This triggered an orgasm in me as well. I was shaking, but I was so excited in feeling HIM shake as we came together. He whimpered helplessly as his ejaculate spewed deep into me, his cock a cannon, my pussy clenching it so tight. I remember how he came inside me last time, in gallons, and this time was no different. But this time he held me tightly to him, his body shook, his hands trembled, his eyes clenched, his breathing grew erratic, and his cock churned the scalding cum into me.

I felt vindicated on several levels as my heart raced and my eyes almost exploded in my head, tasting a little blood as my teeth broke his skin. I am known to some as a nympho and someone capable of cumming at the drop of a hat, but I never had a mutual orgasm like this, one that made me dizzy. I MADE him cum this time, me, a pretty but relatively anonymous hooker from Phoenix, making the Archangel Michael orgasm, reducing him to quivering flesh, making him seem all too mortal. In the sincere belief that he was indeed immortal, knowing that I was not only his equal, but perhaps even his superior, in terms of sexuality, I was tickled with myself. Even at this, my Michael allowed it, let his guard down, let me see him as vulnerable, as something less than a god--most MEN I know can't even do that.

I purred in our sweat as his cock finally relented--it still remained hard inside me, but it did settle down. I clung to him, clung to the afterglow. This was how every sexual encounter should end--with the man I love reduced to convulsions as he holds my own convulsing body, full of his cum, not worrying about pregnancy and perhaps even welcoming it, secure in the fact that the inhibitions are cast aside, the fears no more, and the real meat of the emotion is allowed to spill over us, coat us, seal us together.

I know he will be gone soon, and tomorrow I will have to deal with Darryl as to why I seemingly stood Walter up. I know next week I will suck Daddy Vernon's cock and have another pleasant conversation as two eloquent losers that love one another can have. I know rent will again be more than I can pay, but somehow, someway, it will get paid, it always does. But for now, just for a moment, brief in the grand scheme of things but an exquisite eternity for now, can't I enjoy this purity? So many things in life are corrupt. For just another minute, I just want to hold him inside me, to feel my cunt muscles squeeze him whenever he moves in the slightest, to taste the blood and sweat on his golden skin, to rest my head on his chest as he breathes and his heart beats therein, to feel safe with his arms around me. Am I selfish for wanting just one moment like this?

An abrupt and cruel knock on the door, accompanied by the masculine forcefulness of "Phoenix P.D., open up Miss Lindstrand," suggested that yes, I am selfish for wanting to savor this tender moment.

I took a second and examined my night, where it might involve the police. Well, about two hours ago--I still wasn't sure about time, still not knowing how long I was unconscious on the floor--I called 911, but I wasn't able to give a name or location. Perhaps it took the pigs this long to run a trace? I also remembered my apartment was trashed by a thief and rapist, and in the struggle therein I probably (I hoped I was at the time) was loud enough to get the attention of a neighbor, to get help or to get someone else to call 911. Lord knows what other people may have seen or heard. And that Jordan fucker--Michael never really said where he was. I knew there would be something to answer for. I didn't want to deal with this right now--I wasn't necessarily frightened of going to jail, that is an occupational hazard in my line of work, nor was I reluctant to deal with police concerning a violent evening at my home. I just wanted to enjoy this moment with the Archangel a little longer.

One more set of furious knocks, followed by, "We know you're in there, Miss Lindstrand," led me to sit up. I looked at my Michael, who smiled that familiar smile. I wanted to tell him I adored him, but if he could read minds, or if he was just mildly observant, he should know. I touched his face with my fingers, a sort of kiss, and then I grimaced as I pulled myself off his wonderful cock and staggered to a standing position on the floor. I grabbed my robe left on the floor by the closet--I bent over, wanting him in a small way to take advantage of my being bent over and fuck me some more in this fashion, but I ended up standing up again, pulling the robe on, and tying it around my waist.

I looked at my Michael warmly, but also knowing he wasn't going to be in my bed when I come back to this room, that he was going to escape the way he came in, the way he always enters and exists, through the bedroom window. His cock was slick and glistening in cum--his smile was of satisfaction. 

"When will I see you again?" I asked, knowing it may be awhile, knowing the Archangel was a busy man, knowing he had other women to pleasure, knowing he was a guardian as well as a lover, knowing he was perceived by the powers that be to be a criminal and a schizophrenic, and especially knowing the long expanse of time between his introduction and this second wonderful encounter. I wanted him to not go, or to return soon, but surely my want was evident, and my begging would be in vain. 

"I will be here the next time you need me," saith the Archangel, "next week, next year, who knows."

I started to walk out the door and through my decimated living room. As my eyes peeled off the sexgod, I thought to myself, I need him right now. Funny how we confuse what we want with what we need, especially when the object of want is about to leave.


Partially to mock the officers on the other side of the door, when I approached it, I kept it closed and asked with lilt in my voice, "Who is it?"

I recognized one of the masculine voices as it answered, "Open this fucking door now, you little whore, before we break it in on you." Yep, I knew the voice AND the attitude--it was that cop that came onto me last time he was here. Christ Almighty (mental cringe in thinking that, remembering Michael doesn't like me to blaspheme like that), on top of all the joy and horror of this night, I have to deal with my favorite person in town, a cop who uses his badge to come on to the girls he bullies.

I opened the door a crack, and my fears were confirmed. Three cops this time, one black, gruff, in uniform and doing all the talking, and two Anglo gentlemen in business attire--detectives? I tried to keep my eyes on the white guys because I could feel the stare of the black on me, and it made me uneasy. He already knew me as a whore, and he came onto me previously--I can only imagine the things in his head as he slobbered his threat to break in on me.

I let the door stay open a crack and walked away--I took a cushion off the rubbled floor and placed it back on the couch and sat as the three entered the room. The uniformed officer, I could hear the TSK TSK come from his lips as he examined the trashed character of the room, all the broken items and open drawers, the signs of struggle. The other two looked around and disappeared into the bathroom and bedroom. Although I hoped Michael would stay but realized he was going to leave via window, I still expected to hear some sort of calamity--I had only left the bedroom a few seconds before, surely in Michael had escaped, he could be spotted running down the alley. Who could miss a seven-foot naked golden Archangel running down an alley?

"Another night in paradise, Miss Lindstrand?" the uniformed gruff black mockingly said as he approached me and got in my face. I did NOT want to deal with his attitude. I also wanted to get this over with and him and his buddies out, and the only way was to cooperate, but to do so in a vague way as to not really tell them anything. I knew his detectives would come back into the room soon, but for just this moment, it was this Doberman Pinscher of a man, snarling in lust and mockery, and me, trying to stand up to him without inciting more rage. 

I said nothing.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, looking around the room. "Another wild party?"

"Can I help you, sir?" I said through clenched teeth. I felt Michael's cum oozing down my thighs. I gritted my teeth as much in anger as in wanting to keep all bodily fluids inside me.

"I sure hope so, Miss Lindstrand. You do like me to call you Miss Lindstand, is that correct, Miss Lindstrand? I remember not too long ago you reminded me we were not on first-name terms."

Teeth clenching even tighter, I demanded, "What do you want, sir?", trying to maintain a civil tone in words, even if body language would not allow it.

"My fellow officers and I are trying to piece together something of a mystery," he said as he strutted about the debris on the floor. "See, at about 5:50 this evening 911 received a call from a cellphone registered to a one Darryl Cortez. Safe assumption is he is your pimp, he seems to be every girl's pimp these days. We contacted Mr. Cortez once we completed the trace at about 6:10, where he said you weren't home and had stood up your john for the night, a one Mister Walter Edgar of Scottsdale, who had paid the ungodly sum of a thousand..."

"And you point, sir," I impatiently interrupted.

Of course he ignored me and continued on his little rant, "dollars for your services for the evening. When you didn't answer Mr. Edgar, the assumption was you skipped on him and were in some trouble elsewhere. So my friends and I some down here--you obviously remember me, and I certainly remember you, Miss Lindstrand, how you answered the door with a nice shiner over one eye and cum dribbling down your legs, just like now..."

"If all you are going to do is talk down to me, maybe you should leave." At least my WORDS could remain civil, if not my ATTITUDE.

"...So we got here about twenty minutes ago, asked a few of your concerned neighbors if they had heard or seen anything, and of course they did and told me all about shit breaking and female screaming. They also told us to check the dumpster. I said, 'Why check the dumpster?' So I check the dumpster. And we find a one," pulling out a notepad, "Jordan Collier of Avondale with his neck broken and his ribs kicked in."




One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 02



He looked me up and down, partly in smarmy lust, but also to consider my size. "I assume a petite woman like you couldn't possibly break a grown man's neck and toss him in the garbage. Then I remembered your buddy William Sunderman and started to put some of this together."

At this, the detectives came back into view, the one from the bedroom holding in his hand the comforter off the bed. The one from the bathroom seemed disappointed in not finding anything to contribute to this case. The uniformed gruff snatched the comforter and noticed the sticky wetness therein.

He chuckled a little as he held the comforter and looked down at my drenched thighs; "You know, if I wasn't a Christian man, I would demand you spread your legs for my friends and I while we take a DNA sample from your noticeably full nether regions, but I think the answer's we're looking for might be still swimming in this. That is, assuming only one gentleman enjoyed you tonight. Who knows how many men come in and out of here."

"Sergeant," the detective formerly carrying the comforter spoke, the professionalism in his voice suggesting to the uniformed gruff to tone down his personal biases, "perhaps we can put together the facts of tonight together WITHOUT harassing the victim?"

The gruff laughed with petulance at that.

I said nothing. Anything I said would either incriminate Michael or myself. It seemed this cop wanted to tie his investigation together here and now.

He noticed the defiance in my silence. He knew I wasn't going to cooperate. What did he need with my help anyway, it seemed he has his own answers.

"Not talking, eh?" the uniformed gruff said. "That's fine by me, Miss Lindstrand. We will just give you a call in the next few days, after we examine the semen in this blanket. But you and I both know what we will find, so let me cut to the chase. Your buddy Sunderman came in here about 5:45 this evening and tore the place up and started to have his way with you. You call 911 but he overpowers you. Mr. Collier came in trying to play hero, and Sunderman beat him to death, threw him in the dumpster. Mr. Edgar knocks on the door while you are getting off in the bedroom, on the couch, in the floor, however you do it when you and Sunderman do it rough, but goes away when you don't answer. Am I close?"

I laugh in disgust. "Not in the slightest."

"Well, Miss Lindstrand," he said as the detectives left the room, "unless you cooperate with us and tell us what really happened, I don't see how we can change our story much. Next time you see us, unless you just so happen to be inspired to call the precinct and help us out, we will be back with a warrant for Sunderman for rape and murder, and for you for aiding and abetting."

The detectives left. It was just the uniformed gruff, my archenemy, and me. "Go fuck yourself," I said with tears in my eyes, "Michael saved me from being raped and killed, and you want to put him away and fuck me in his absence."

He got right up into my face, and he snarled as he replied, "Miss Lindstrand, I could have you anytime. I don't care what your boyfriend calls himself, he is a psychopath and a rapist and murderer."

With that, he put his black hand on my right breast and squeezed it hard. I remember how Daddy Vernon cradled my bosom earlier, how his dark fingers cradled my breasts, eased their weight from me for a lovely moment. But the cop squeezed hard, making me yelp, making my eyes close and roll a little behind closed lids. It forced my inner walls to clench instinctively. The evil in his grasp was as intimidating as the evil in his drooling stare. It sickened me. In its strange way, this impromptu feeling-up was provocative, even arousing, and were this a different time and place and man in question, perhaps such a move would make me horny again. This, however, was not a context conducive to eroticism. The sensations in my tits and pussy were not enough to counterbalance the ill will I felt for this letch.

Perhaps my body language--the gasp at his rough fondling, the subtle squirming in the moistening of my inner walls, my eyes closed and head tilted back a little--but my words--"Says a rapist."--were a succinct simple way to reveal my thoughts. This man would come back, perhaps with evidence to either arrest my Michael or give license to him to shoot him, perhaps without evidence and seeking to have a girl who, on the surface might be pretty but trashy, but on the inside thinks and feels with the same acuity as any other human being, would never willing give in to his disgusting advances. He would be back, maybe in mistaking my movements for nymphomania, but my words, my accusation, should speak louder. At least it would in a court of law. 

He let go of my tit and sneered, "Says a whore to a rapist concerning a murderer."

The uniformed gruff wheeled around and stormed out of the broken apartment. I gasped for a moment, catching my breath after feeling his strong fingers dig into my titflesh, perhaps bruising it. A small price to pay if it meant my lover could go free for another day, week, month, however long it may be before my nemesis returned.

I tenderly walked back across the living room to the bedroom and lied down on the blanket-less mattress. I lied back and closed my eyes, feeling the various sensations my flesh offered, examining them, remembering this latest day in the life, allowing it to end with time to spare. And in the catalog of these sensations--the horny joy in feeling Daddy Vernon tittyfuck me and cum on my neck, the sordid fear of getting fingerfucked and dryhumped by a now dead menace, the supreme victory in feeling a golden cock spray its contents deep into my womb yet again, the disgust of having my archenemy feel me up and witness me fight off my urges--I fell to sleep in the knowledge that this was a very full day in anyone's book, that I am loved with the cum of the angel swimming inside me yet again, and that the consequences of the matters of this day would come to fruition in the all-too-near future. Between being loved and being pissed on in several ways, today ran the gamut.

Slumber is the period that ends this dramatic sentence of a day.



One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 03



Giggling a naughty grin as Scott pulled the needle from my arm, I turned onto my hands and knees. I love fucking on heroin, and as Scott and Jamaal's hands explored my body, my back, my ass, the dope hit me fast. I was naked and horny and well-paid for my efforts tonight, come what may--money had exchanged hands, introductions had been made, and after a few minutes of petting and kissing, we shared a syringe. Well, I myself shared the syringe. Jamaal refused the heroin as an act of morality, which I found a little strange, he pitched in a couple hundred bucks to have sex with someone other than his wife. Scott wanted to, he truly wanted to, but he backed down once he felt the light prick of the needle against his vein. Afraid, I let him inject me, partly to show him if a little girl like me could handle the shot, certainly a healthy young man like him could. He didn't go for it. Hence, although offered to all, I shared the heroin with myself.

I closed my eyes, shivering in my doped horniness, awaiting my gentlemen to hurry the fuck up and do something. Playfully I wiggled my ass at them and moaned in mock heat, wanting them to take advantage of my horny little high. I gripped the mattress of my bed, awaiting something, pretty sure what, perhaps hands and mouths on my ass, mmhhh I work so hard to keep my ass looking like this, was so much easier in my teens to keep my ass tight and hot. Maybe a swift impaling, feeling an overly enthusiastic cock inside some hole, any hole. I heard man chatter and zippers opening and clothing rustling to the floor, and in the moments of anticipation, my mind wandered, even for these fleeting seconds, into a daydream.

And in all my daydreams I picture my Michael in flight, his vast wings spread like a condor as he glided high atop the Phoenix sky. And I am there in this heaven with him, we two naked and coupled, his strong hands holding me about my waist and stomach, his cock firmly embedded in my pussy. I moan and cum as he holds me high above downtown, the hot wind blowing my hair back, my hot body bucking against his in a constant state of orgasm. Here, I feel him holding me out, as if to drop me, away from his body, pumping his cock in and out of me; there, he is pinning me to the side of the uppermost windows of the Bank One Building or some other skyscraper in the pathetic pantheon of the Phoenix skyline, fucking the daylights out of me as he pins me against the glass.

At some point we come to a provocative spot somewhere in the vast city, perhaps an alley, perhaps Encanto Park, perhaps the middle of the Black Canyon Freeway at rushhour, where he holds me down to the earth, the sidewalk, the concrete, the grass, and forcefully and relentlessly fucks me until he cums inside me. So often I dreamed of him pinning me to the hood of some sportscar on the freeway and fucking the complete Jesus out of me in front of the whole city, or against the wall in some dark alley where only strays and junkies can hear me whimper. For this incredibly brief moment my Michael bent me over a park bench in some park, for all to see, with his cock deep inside my ass.

My eyes opened suddenly and my breath left my lungs with a grunt as I felt male hands on my hips and a cock, not sure whose, slowly being forced up my ass. The drugs were working so good tonight, and though I vaguely remember something about Scott and Jamaal being in the room, as far as I was concerned I was in that park with my Michael, him holding me against the bench, pumping his goldencock in and out of my ass.

I clenched the pillow tightly, feeling the cock push into my anus, it might as well have been the bench railing. I squealed softly as Jamaal--Scott sat to face me, so I assume it was Jamaal inside me from behind--gasped, pushing his cock up into me, holding me by my hips, his breath nervous. It hurt a little, feeling my sphincter stretch to accomodate him, but he is no Michael, and I thought of Michael inside me as Jamaal started to fuck me.

"You are so fucking hot, Livie," Scott said to me as he ran his hands over my back. I mewed as Jamaal slowly fucked me, my eyes still closed, my mouth moaning softly, Michael fucking me in the park racing through my mind.

Jamaal moaned like a man trying to impress me, with a lot of deep inhalations, as if trying to hold back a tidal wave. It was a nice anal fuck, not to take anything away from Jamaal, it was a paid-for anal fuck, it was what it was, and I found pleasure in it, I always do. But Jamaal got something in his head, I don't know what, where he had to impress me with his abilities. Apparently he wasn't impressing his wife, or she wasn't impressing him. For whatever reason he fucked me with his marriage band still on his finger.

"MMmmnnhhhh say my name baby." Jamaal said, trying to hold back his cum. I was in my own heaven, squealing a little as Jamaal fucked me in my bed and Michael made love to me in the park. 

"Take your time, dude," Scott said as he rubbed my shoulders, steadying me, "we got all night, and Livie is so fucking hot."

"Say my name, bitch," Jamaal said with more urgency. He pulled me onto his cock harder and faster. My pussy was so wet and needing to be filled. My tits jiggled as they hung from my torso. I gripped the pillow tighter and whimpered hotly as he and Michael each fucked me hard and good in their own way.

I tried to talk amid my whimpers, not really sure anymore who was inside me, Scott or Jamaal or Michael. I love you Michael so very much, that is the name I chose to focus on, that is the cock inside me I choose to cum hard on, his are the hands on me, guiding me, making me convulse.

"Ooo--o-uuhh Michaellhhh..." I yelped in a hot little whisper.

Jamaal slowed for a moment, not stopping, just wondering what I said. "Come on baby," he said, struggling to hold his own orgasms back, "say my name again."

"God, that is so hot Livie," Scott exclaimed as he stroked his cock, wanting to get inside me. 

"Fuck that, she is going to tell me who is fucking her and say my name." Jamaal was growingly pissed, not just because I said another man's name while he was with me, but because Scott found it so hot. He thrust his cock hard, almost viciously, into me again with the demand, "Say it you little whore!"

I whimpered and squealed against the park bench as Michael fucked me deep and smooth, not caring who was watching.

"Oooohh god Michaellnnhh..." escaped from my moaning lips.

Jamaal gripped my waist tight and started fucking me harder and harder. "Say it! Say Jamaal!"

"Come on, dude, Livia is so hot and high, lighten up on her." Scott, my defender, lightly tried to pull Jamaal off of me.

"Get your cracker hands off me you faggot," Jamaal, the paragon of morality, exclaimed to Scott as he analraped me. "I paid three hundred dollars for this fuck, and she is damn well going to know who is fucking the shit out of her." The negative energy seemed so far away as Michael lovingly and firmly held my waist and fucked me smooth and hard on the distant bench.

I felt my blood racing and my heart rumbling behind my tits. I clawed hard at the headboard as my pussy clenched tight, desperate to be filled, leaking. I shrieked as the cock moved in and out of me with growing insistence.

"Say it, Olivia." Jamaal was trying to shout over my squeals.

"Michael!" I shouted as I gripped the back of the bench and my archangel pumped my ass.

"Say it you dumb fucking bitch!" Jamaal was going so fast and was losing control.

"Michael...oooohhh shit Michael baby!" I started to cum fantastically.

Jamaal spanked my ass hard. "Say my name you...ooohhhhhh" His hands shook on my hips as he started to cum hard inside me.

I arched, feeling the hot cum squirt into my ass. My pussy was so tight and hot and swollen and begging to have a cock in it. I came hard, and as far as I was concerned my Michael made me cum.

Jamaal pushed me to the mattress and jacked his cock off violently, a few more jets of cum plopping onto my asscheeks. I squirmed on the mattress, squealing the name Michael as I came in my heroin-assisted orgasmic state.

"My god, that was the hottest thing I've ever seen." Scott said down on the bed and massaged Jamaal's cum all over my ass as I mewed in bliss, my Michael having fucked me back to heaven.

"You both are fucking crazy." Jamaal, naked with spent cock in hand, scooped up his clothes and stormed out of the bedroom. "That bitch is probably the hottest girl in the hood, but she is also the stupidest." He slammed the door, and after another moment I heard his slam the door to the hall.

Scott sat there for the longest time, awaiting for me to come down from my high, rubbing Jamaal's cum all over my hips. "You are so beautiful, Olivia," he whispered to me as the last of my orgasm swept through me, making me shiver in the sheets, "I would love to be your Michael if you want me to be."

Though he so wanted to get into my head, Scott, bless him, didn't get it. Nobody these days seems to get it. I don't think even I get it. I passed in and out of consciousness as Scott rolled me onto my back, placed his hands on my neglected tits and squeezed, fucked me and came a couple of times over the next hour or so, and I heard such lovely words come from him, wanting to be Michael, wanting to be desired by me, wanting to be validated, in his own way, just as Jamaal wanted the same validation. And every time I opened my eyes for a brief moment, I saw Michael over me, his cock twitching inside me, his strong fingers kneeding my swollen breasts, the wet sheets might as well have been freshly watered grass in the park. It was Michael's back I clawed at, Michael's cock I cummed on, and though Scott got off over and over in me calling out the name Michael, surely he must have known I was somewhere else.

***

Darryl was so pissed when I told him I was pregnant. Not so much the fact that I was knocked up--I had had an abortion before, so he knew I was willing to be talked into another one, should the moment arise. Though he was irked that, in the realization that either an abortion or a pregnancy would mean time where I couldn't work, he would be losing good money with me out, that was not the source of his anger. No, this time he was pissed when he heard I was pregnant because I told him he wasn't the father.

It was fine for me to get pregnant and have an abortion, as far as he was concerned, the fewer babies in the world, the better. And since he had me whenever he wanted me--which was about once every three days or so--he felt he had some control over my body and hence could just order me to abort at his command. Up until now, I had no problem with it; most of the men I was with these days were nothing but johns and junkies, so severing any potential longterm ties to these men was fine by me. The last thing I would want from these men is a child, for a plethera of reasons, all of them very very bad. I had sex with them for a living, that was enough and even vile. 

When I told him I tested positive with the little drugstore kit I got, he thought for sure it was a very routine event. He insisted none of his girls use a condom, and I even agreed with it, provided that he provide us with johns with a degree of hygiene. He could live with us getting abortions, but not with us getting disease. There was something twisted in all of this, certainly. As for me, I have never asked a man to wear a condom--many have on their own insistence, bit I never made them, primarily because this is my choice of vocation, my body, and my risk. I want to be able to feel my partner inside me, not the latex. I want to have sex, not just a business transaction. And I go into every such event with this in mind, wanting to momentarily bond with him like a woman does with her man, even if it is fleeting. If I wanted latex inside me, I would masturbate with a dildo and let men pay to watch. To me, that is the same as getting laid with a condom on. As far as I am concerned, you are not putting yourself at any real risk with a rubber, and hence you cannot truly get into the fuck without the slight bit of fear. Any girl can spread her legs and let some fella do his nasty deeds between them if a condom is used. You are less of a woman if you insist on them.

When I told Darryl he wasn't the father, he shrugged again, not diminished in the thought of me still aborting the fetus.

It was when I told him I was keeping the baby that he lashed out at me, and even in his lashing, he intially was controlled.

"Well, if you're gonna have a baby, and it ain't my baby, it best be a nigga child so everyone can al least think it's mine."

I told him the father was white, and he slapped me hard.

Seething, he said between grit teeth his little soliloquy:

"After all I'd done for you all this time, you're gonna repay me with a white baby? Who the fuck you think you are? Out of all the girls I got, you the only one with an apartment to yourself. I give you the best paying men. I bought you a cellphone, which got me in trouble because your dumb ass called 911 with it and traced it to me. I paid for every abortion and every surgery to keep you looking so fine. I got you where everyone in Phoenix would rather have your 34-year-old raggedy ass than the firm teenage pussy most niggas sell. You ain't got to walk the streets, you ain't got to make calls, you ain't got to do anything in this world but keep yourself pretty and fuck whoever I tell you to fuck.

"I don't give a shit who you fuck in your own time, so long as it don't fuck up you taking care of business. You been doin' this since you said 16, so I know you ain't a fucking idiot. You've been doing some strange fucking things lately, and I've turned a blind eye, because I know you know what you are doing and we make a lot of fucking money together. First there was Jerry who you wigged out on a few months ago. Then you stand up Walter Edgar, who bitched me out for paying a grand for you and you stood him up. Then on that same night you call 911 and some whacked out cracker kills another whacked out cracker in that same apartment I bought for you. You piss off Jamaal because you wouldn't say his name in bed, what kind of bullshit is that? I got some nigga cop threatening me with prison if I don't tell him who the fuck is William Sunderman, which means, whatever little secrets you got going in that apartment is fucking up my world. I ain't going to prison alone baby, I don't care how hot you are or how much money you make me, if I go to jail because of you, you and everyone else is going too.

"So you have two choices as far as I am concerned. You've had the first choice before, so it shouldn't be too tough to get your mind wrapped around it and get it all set up and dealt with. I can get that thing in you aborted within 72 hours, and only you, me, the doc, and God will ever know, and the doc can be paid to forget all about it. The other is you will lose your Phoenix privileges, and I don't give a fuck what happens to you after that. You live a real good life, baby, and you know you got it good. There are mamas in this neighborhood working two jobs to keep their families fed, and all you gotta do is fuck whatever I set you up to fuck. Nothing but a crackwhore, and you live middle fucking class, ain't that a bitch!

"You can keep your cracker baby and leave town with nothing, not even the clothes on your back, or you can give it up, live in your apartment, make me money, and continue how you've loved to live all these years. Don't matter to me. You make me a ton of cash, but I can replace you [snap of fingers] that easy.

"Then again, if you start showing, don't think I won't beat you down till I make that kid go away myself. Think hard, Livie, you got more to lose than I do, but I ain't above doin' what I gotta do."

With that, Darryl stormed out of my apartment, frustrated on many levels. He had hoped to just fuck me and give me my itinerary for the next few days, just like always. Didn't even get that. I touched my face where he slapped me, thinking Michael hit me so much harder than that on our first encounter. I am convinced the archangel's baby is inside me. I've heard Darryl berate other girls in the past, hearing men try to tear me down is nothing new. Even the threat of being out on the street is old hat. But I have a piece of Michael inside me, and it's a whole new ballgame. For the first time since I started selling myself years ago, I am frightened.

***

I feigned sleep as Carlos rolled out of my bed, dressed, and left, leaving a note on my nightstand. The morning light was streaming through the window, the window I always leave open, you never know when Michael might be coming home. This is no safe neighborhood by any means, but some leave a porchlight on when a loved one is gone for the night. I leave the bedroom window open.

I sat still as I heard the doors close and Carlos starting his car and leaving. I sat up and took the note:

I HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU SINCE THE DAY I WAS BORN, OLEVEA. MARRY ME.

I just met the man three days ago. This was our second date, hence our second fuck. His ability to express himself verbally was about as off as his ability to spell my name. While I have no doubt he has already fostered strong feelings for me, I am not sorry for wadding up the note and tossing it under the bed. In his own way he is a sweet, if inarticulate, man, Hispanic I think, lovingly aggressive or aggressively loving, however you want to think of a man who just loves to hold you down and fuck, no small talk, just caresses and cock.

Darryl had set me up with Carlos a few days ago, but he promised he would bring back a healthy bag of uncut coke from Honduras if I would fuck him again. This was the morning-after of that second time, and though he still had no coke, I had a degree of faith in him. His words were gentle in his note, had I grown so hard with time and heartache that such words are so conveniently thrown aside? Maybe I was the first woman who made him feel like a man. Maybe he is just infatuated with my looks. It bothers me that people fall in love so quickly and easily, as if they willingly will vault themselves into the same canyon over and over, knowing the pain to come.

Just like my true love, Michael. Haven't seen him since he impregnated me a few weeks ago, which was the same night everything happened with Walter and Jordan and the police. I stood and looked in the mirror, naked, breasts a little swollen, but no longer sure if that is from the implants in them, from men groping them all night ever night, or from someone being inside me. My belly was still flat and firm as always, my ass still as hot as ever, so no one outside of myself and Darryl has the slightest notion that I am with child. Even my infrequent Michael is dull to this. Think about it, I have been with this Carlos guy twice, which is the same amount of times I've been with Michael, and whereas Carlos is just another john, Michael is all I think of. Darryl has had me every three or four days since he purchased me from another pimp about five years ago, heck, I've sucked Daddy Vernon's cock a dozen times or so, both with far more hours of being inside me in one form or another than Michael. Yet it is Michael's baby that is inside me, that I covet, that I defend.

At least I am pretty sure it is his baby. If it is, and I believe it is, shouldn't I be a little less reckless? At least give up the booze and heroin and coke? I may never give up the prostitution, but if what I carry in me is so beautiful, how shitty am I to do what I am doing to it with my other addictions?

Speaking of which...

I reach into the bottom drawer of my dresser, push the jeans and stockings to one side, and pull out a small box I save for when I am alone and want to alter the thoughts racing in my skull. I sit back down on the bed and open. My eyes glimmer sweetly as they glance over the small collection of paraphrenalia therein. I grab a small vial of crank and jiggle it a little, seeing how much I have to enjoy, maybe two doses, one for tonight, one for down the road. I don't feel like sharing with anyone right now, so maybe half a dose will do. I take the wrapper off a fresh syringe and poke the top of the vial, drawing out the fluid. Just a little, though, just a nice buzz today.




One-Night Stand with the Archangel Ch. 03



I pat the inside of my right elbow with fingers from my left hand and, pouting that no vein conveniently presents itself, I grab the rubber hose from the box, wrap it around my right bicep as best as I can with my left hand, and cinch it down tighter with my teeth pulling the hose. This is so much easier when I have Darryl or Amber or someone doing this with me. Like I said, I feel a little naughty and selfish right now, so this is the small price to pay for a nice private high. I rub that same spot on the inside of my elbow again and, nervously, put the needle to my skin where a small vein has emerged. I grit my teeth as a little blood comes forth, proof that I don't know what I am doing, and I push the needle into my vein a few millimeters. I plunge the drug into my blood and quickly toss the needle aside, hearing the glass break on the floor. Hyperly I unfasten the hose and toss it too aside. I throw myself back on the bed, holding my bleeding arm, heart racing, hoping I didn't hurt myself, letting the muddy heroin sleep slowly engulf me.

***

I hate people who bang on the door, and even more so, I hate having to answer the door for people who bang on it, especially when I am stoned out of my mind. I have the habit of not knowing where reality ends and the frolicks of my subconscious begin. It used to be frightening to open the door after a severe banging and greet a nine-foot lizard, or my dead mother, or watch the knob turn to liquid in my hands. That stuff used to scare me to death. But I've matured in my addictions, and I've learned to sit back and enjoy the show, not knowing what might come through my door when I am hallucinating. Things still wig me out a little, but more as if I were watching a slasher movie than in fear for my life. Knowing I am stoned takes the fun out of being stoned. In that case, what's the point? Maybe if I wasn't stoned right now, I could give you a straight answer.

Some hallucinations are so beautiful I end up crying. After Jamaal and Scott left the other night I took a few sleeping pills, wanting to return to the deep dream state, where I had been with my archangel Michael, having the deepest and most erotic fuck, only to have been cruelly interrupted by the monotonous reality of analsex with Jamaal. Maybe that is why I love to fuck on heroin, the erotic images in my eyes are much more interesting than the sameness of prostitution, of the same five things done to me over and over by men who cum in a few minutes tops. Fucking on heroin is like being pinned on Mount Olympus and being gangbanged by every god in the Greek heavens. It is heroic, unusual, surreal. Feeling a man's flest crumble into dust in my fingers while he holds me down and screws my tits, or feeling a man's cock inside me like a toothpick making me cum in torrents--sensations reality doesn't let you enjoy.

Fucking on crank, though, is different from fucking on coke. Coke affects your heart, makes you bunnyhorny, makes you hyper. On heroin, you are in a sludgy murky state, unable to move much, always on the verge of passing out. With coke, you are wide awake and aware of every little detail in the room. On heroin, a cock inside you feels at times like an everinflating balloonn that keeps getting larger and larger until you burst--that is, if you don't have some wild surreality to deal with. On coke, a cock inside you feels electric, sometimes like broken glass. The best way I can describe the difference is like this: say you are in a room with six men, and group sex, gangbang, whatever, is implied. If you are on coke, you are going to jump from man to man all around the room and fuck them all until your heart explodes in your chest. On heroin, you are going to lie there on the floor and let them do whatever they want to do to you, and you will stay there without complaint.

I prefer heroin. I like fucking on coke, but I love heroin. Then again, when the spiders crawl all over you because the shit you took is bad, all bets are off.

Bang Bang Bang on the door, hold the fuck on. I open the door a crack to peek at the intruder, the door is pushed in and in strolls Darryl, full of piss and vinegar, in full pimp regalia.

Darryl is a wannabe historian in several senses. He has no trouble telling you how rough his people, as he puts it, folk of African persuasion, have had it in this country, not that he has any solutions of his own, mind you, but he will tell you in detail the tactics used by Nat Turner in the 1831 Slave Revolt, the exact paths walked by slaves over the Underground Railroad, the precise disfigurement of Emmitt Till after being dredged up in the river, and the reasons why Tupac Shakur is still alive. His historical zeal for accuracy is not confined to dates and events, but his attire as well, wanting to play the pimp-for-all-seasons. His dark skin stood out, his abundant biceps and chest, against the blinding white of his shirt and pants and dress shoes and his white suede fedora on his low-cropped head. He was built to play linebacker, with a babyface that undoes his formidable exterior. He has learned the talk of the business world as well as the hoodlum world and can go back and forth easily. He can charm any girl out of her panties, any john out of an extra hundred, any cop out of an arrest warrant. It doesn't hurt that he is a fantastic fuck.

In all this, as a person, Darryl is as detestable as any of the men in this business, either entrepreneur or customer. As a lay, he is a god. As a businessman he is a savant, and I very much thank him for all he has done for me. Without him I might be married to a good man and live in the suburbs with children, now THAT would be horrid.

Even so, Darryl, in my head I am screaming, what the fuck are you doing here, I am so stoned I am half blind, and you said you would be by day after tomorrow.

"Did you decide, Liv?" Darryl got up in my face and hovered over me as to make me back up, a little frightened. His chest was broad, his expression demanding and flaring.

I turned my head down as I spoke, "I'm keeping it, baby." I felt a little shame from betrayal, if you can call this a betrayal. I was also scared he was going to slap me again.

"Wrong answer, bitch, try again." Darryl slapped my right cheek for emphasis.

I tried to push him out of the room. "Dammit Darryl, stop!"

"Decide, Livia." My pushing was in vain. I was the one who ended up on the floor.

"You don't own me, Darryl. Just stop and come back later."

That got Darryl's blood boiling. "I own enough of you to repossess you whenever I want. I got you this palace you live in. I got you in the gym twice a day every day to keep your wide ass from getting flabby." Now on the floor with me, he grabbed my breasts roughly with both hands. "How many fucking surgeries did you have on this, Livia? How many thousands of dollars have I spent on making you this fucking hot?" He pinned me to the floor as he squeezed my tits harder, almost as if to burst the saline bags beneath my mammary glands.

He had me on my back on the floor, and he spread my legs apart with his. He kneeded my breasts hard and firm, making them ache. I clawed at his arms and chest, trying to get him off of me.

"Call 911 again, you little coward bitch. Call that William cat. Call the nigga cop that's always in here. What you gonna tell them?" He moved one hand to my mouth as he cleverly unfastened his fly with the other, his enormous and erect cock pushing forth. 

See, this is the difference between being on heroin and on coke. Darryl, on the coke, is obviously angry and hyper and will aggressively fuck anything that moves. I, on the smack, am on the ground, prone, unable to move, not really wanting to except for fear of rape, willing to let every man in the building have a ride. Darryl is the busy bee, I am the willing flower.

I screamed into his hand and tried to bite it. I squirmed helplessly as he forced his mammoth cock into my unready vagina. Despite male fantasies to the contrary, women do not get wet when rape is imminent. It hurts like hell. It is dehumanizing. No woman should ever have to endure it. It is frightening and painful. It feels like being stabbed by a pipe in the most delicate area on your body. No woman is ever asking for it, no matter how provocatively she dresses, no matter how flirtatious and teasing she gets.

Darryl seethed and grunted as his dry cock pumped into me briskly and cruelly. My whole body arched against him as I tried desperately to flee. I clawed at his face, his eyes, his neck, he only fucked harder and with growing cruelty.

Tears streamed out of my eyes as I continued to shriek into his hand. Darryl arched a little and moaned, as if about ready to cum inside me. My poor baby is in me, having to deal with this as well.

Removing his hand from my mouth, Darryl demanded, "Say my name, Liv, and get it right this time, don't play that shit you did with Jamaal."

Moaning behind clenched teeth, I clawed and begged him to stop.

"Say my name, dammit!" He pumped hard into me, making my eyes bulge.

"Oooohhhh my...myyhhhnnnghh!" I was going to say my nigga, my pimp, my Darryl, I really was.

Before I knew it Darryl was sitting on the floor, his cock roughly pulled out of me with a little of my blood on it, dazed, groping to fasten his pants and stand. I don't know what is happening, but there Darryl jumps up and dashes to the open window.

"Michael!" I shout it, having wanted to shout it before, ready to amend it for the sake of my brutal rapist, but as I watch the pimp dash to the open entry by which the archangel enters at the moment of crisis, I could only think Michael did it again, he saved me, he caught Darryl's attention somehow, he threw something at him to get him off of me, I don't know. It is part of Michael's modus operandi. Somehow he got Darryl off of me.

Darryl did his white pants up and hovered at the window in question. I don't know what got his goat, what distracted him so. It had to be Michael. Sure. Only Michael would have such impeccable timing. After hollering out the window at whatever pissed him so, hopefully Michael, he bolted out of the bedroom and into the street, but not before giving one last verbal blast:

"Take care of that bastard you got in that belly, bitch, or so help me I will!"

I felt a little afraid when he talked like that to me before. But not now. I was in pain from the rape and shivering from that, but I wasn't intimidated anymore. My Michael saved the day, I was sure of it. My heart pumped wide and wild at the thought, and my spirit soared, even as I sat on the miserable floor, still hearing Darryl's cruelty in my mind, still feeling his bruising fingers on my aching breasts, still shuddering with his monstrous cock pounding my dry and unready pussy. Even so, over and above all this, my Michael avenged me.

I have the deepest belief it was Michael. It would break my heart if it were just a pigeon that flew in through the window and took a shit on his ass, or some kids peeking in.

The smack and the rape took the energy from me, and though Darryl was certainly real enough, was everything else? Michael? The blood on my thighs, is that truly blood, and if so, is it mine? I lied there on the floor and fell into a deep narcotic-assisted slumber, a little frightened that I wouldn't wake up, even more frightened that I didn't care.

Imagine that, a prostitute shot full of a faith more potent than brutal sex and heroin.



One-Night Stand with the Archangel



He knelt. "It's alright, Olivia, we mock at first what we don't comprehend."

I stopped giggling. Enough was enough. "Alright, knock it off. How do you know my name? No more bullshit." I was no longer mad, but I was a little more stern than giggling. Not much more.

"I told you, from your pimp." Have you ever seen a gold man blush? I swear he blushed as he continued, "I must confess, we were sitting around one day..."

Still confused. "Who is we?"

"In heaven. All of us. Angels, archangels, spirits, the Lord, all of us."

I rolled my eyes because this is weird.

"And we all were discussing sex, because that's what guys do when they get together. Guys are the same everywhere, living or dead, heaven or earth."

"OK, and?"

"And we were looking down at the world and discussing women we've had in the past and women on earth now we wanted to make love to. In all the universe the Lord made nothing at all as beautiful as the female form."

Another roll of the eyes.

Still smiling, "And Gabe pointed at Tyra Banks and compared her to when he had Nefertiti. Then I said something about thinking Audrey Hepburn compared to Nefertiti, you know, the long supple neck..."

I wanted him to get to the point quick. Conversations like this are better when you can just fall asleep in the middle of them.

"Then I saw you."

I perked up. What did that mean? "What was I doing?"

"You were about twelve years old, very shy, and a boy—I think his name was William Sunderman—you liked him and you let him kiss you."

I smiled because I remembered.

"But you were further along in your growth than the other girls—your body was more mature than your mind—and when he tried to feel you up, you kicked him in the nuts."

"Knee-jerk reaction, didn't even know what I did until he was on the floor." I giggled, remembering how I didn't think at all, it literally was a reflex.

"Right then I knew I wanted you."

"But why now? Why not earlier?" I was getting caught up in this.

"Because your body was more mature than your mind. Until now. Your words are now as provocative and as mischievous and as rich and dirty and pleasing and sensuous as your figure. You are a well-rounded woman, Olivia, and I want to be with you."

I stood still, silent, breathless, hoping my exhalation wouldn't shatter his words. Never heard anything like them before, may never again. Romeo said things like this to Juliet, didn't he? Is he in love with me? What can my response be?

"Where are your wings?" I finally said in a cracking whisper.

"Pardon?"

"Your wings, where are they?"

"They wouldn't fit through your window, so I left them outside. Didn't your Sunday School teacher ever tell you our wings are detachable?"

Eagerly I scurried to the window, and sure enough, there they were, a large set of wings. White, gossamer wings, with long feathers and a harness that fixed them to one's back. To his back. To Mike's back.

"Oh Michael..."

Confident he made his point, his hands rested on my waist just above my hips. "I kinda like it when you call me Mike."

I smiled warmly. Still staring at the wings, I tried to tie up all the loose ends of his story. "Who did your friend Gabe pick?"

His voice a little deeper, "He picked a girl in Qatar—she grew up to be a princess. Very uninteresting girl, I think."

Almost bursting inside, I kept my composure as best as I could as we talked. "You think a prostitute is more interesting than a princess?"

"Most certainly. In all of history only two kinds of women are remembered, the prostitutes and the royalty. The royalty, however, are known completely because of their men. The prostitutes are known for what they do TO men. Plus there's that other thing."

"What other thing?"

"The fact that prostitutes know how to fuck."

I giggled. My my, the naughty words that come from an archangel's lips.

"Trust me," he resumed, "I have had many women throughout time, and I would pick a poor girl prostitute over a rich princess any day, prettiness not an issue. A royal girl is taught how to fuck, almost like in class; a peasant girl is completely on her own, and with that comes creativity, initiative, cunning, dare I say, an evil streak." By now his face is practically against mine, whispering low into my ear. I am so wet and I swear if he continues this wonderful dirty talk I will cum in his arms just like this.

Trying to say this as innocently as possible, I pouted to him, "But I don't like being a whore."

Burying his face in my hair, he whispered to my very soul, "Yes you do." He knew my deepest, dirtiest secret.

I turned in a flurry and kissed him hard on the mouth, throwing my arms around him, kissing an oh so gorgeous kiss. His hands rested on my buttocks lightly, my hardened nipples grazing his chest, my toes curled, my panties wetter than hell, and I whimpered into his mouth as we kissed.

He pulled away from my kiss after an all too short moment and said, "That should answer the original question. Why can't you do better than the Dammit Brothers? Because it's not important. If you wanted to be a housewife or a career woman, you could and would, and I think you would be excellent. You may still be those things someday. But at this moment, you like what you do, and you are perfect at it. Your mind and body are one. You refuse to be defined by the men in your life—you define them. You can use your sexuality as a weapon or as a gift. You have the power. That is why you are far more interesting than any queen."

His cock was erect and pressing against my stomach, his hand gripping a little tighter on my ass, and I pressed myself tightly against him, my breasts crushed against his abdomen, my head against his chest. I shivered. He knew me and encouraged me. I loved Mike. I wanted him inside me in the worst way, beyond satiation, beyond horniness.

I whispered like a child, "Are you my guardian angel?"

"In a way, yes."

"Will I always suffer"

"You are not suffering at all, Olivia. You are rich and you know it."

His fingers kneaded my asscheeks with growing vehemence and he started to grind his hips and force his cock up and down my tummy.

"Will I see you again after tonight?"

"Mmmmhhooohh—Ohhliviahh—you will see me every time you look up in the sky."

I started to sink to my knees. I felt the head of his cock against my cheek, and his hands caressed my hair. I looked up at him as if he were a god. "No more bullshit, Mike. I want you every night of my life."

"I will always be here in your heart. Remember this night forever. Don't compare me to others, for there is no comparison. I will love you forever and cherish your name for all time. Your name will be etched into history forever. This night will last a lifetime for you. And we will be together forever."

Tears once again came as I wrapped his massive cock in my fingers and cradled the tip in my mouth. I looked into his wonderful eyes as I stroked his cock with my fist and pleasured the head with my lips and tongue. He petted my cheek and whispered, "I adore you Olivia." At that I rolled my eyes back and forced as much of his cock as I could into my throat, stretching my lips.

The archangel groaned as he held my head. I started to bob my head as I sucked his cock in long slow savoring strokes, enjoying as much of him as I could. I wanted him to cum down my throat, to gag me and kill me, to make this the last moment of my life, but at the same time, I wanted him in every way imaginable. To die a thousand deaths with him tonight. I moaned on his cock as I feasted on it, making it harder and longer and thicker. What my mouth could not pleasure, my fingers did, and between my fist and my mouth I worked on his cock. A masterpiece in cocksucking.

My moans and his moans filled the room. Normally my moans are forced, acted. It hasn't been since I was a teenager that I moaned during sex because I was unable to help it. I was sopping wet and with my other hand I slipped my fingers inside my damp panties and rubbed my pussy. One hand around the base of his magnificent cock, unable to get my fingers all the way around it, the other masturbating. I moaned so deeply on his cock, loving its girth, its electricity. I liked it hitting the back of my throat. I liked how my lips stretched and almost tore as I sucked it deep, he was so thick. 

Better than any man. Most cum so fast, most so small, most whimper. Mike enjoyed me to the fullest. Rocking his hips as I knelt, he held my head still, taking the burden off of me. I enjoyed bobbing and sucking, but he started to fuck my mouth, forcing himself deeper down my throat. I clawed at his thighs, he made me gag and choke, but he ignored me, he knew my limits and was surpassing them. My inner walls spasmed wildly and wetness trickled down my thighs as he fucked my mouth deeply, profusely. I loved him and I loved this. I wanted to cum so bad I could cry, but he was using my mouth to its fullest. I gazed helplessly into his eyes as he raped my mouth, and I was praying he would use every part of my body in the same fashion.

"Mmmmmmnnnnyesss Ohliviaahh---ooohh yes I will I will," he answered my prayer.

His hands slid down from my head, setting it free, setting me resuming my cocksucking hungrily. I felt him tug at my blouse, trying to rid it from my body; obediently I let him, I continued to pleasure him orally as he slid my arms out and tossed the fabric away. It felt so wonderful, to suck his cock with abandon, to feel his hands on my bare back, to feel only my wet panties on. And his hands, his electric hands, he caressed my back, my shoulders, my arms, my neck and face as I pleasured him, I moaned as I sucked, enjoying his hands almost as much as he enjoyed my mouth.

He took my hands—so gallant—and brought me to my feet after perhaps a solid quarter hour of the best cocksucking of my life. I can only guess on time—the alarm radio next to my bed said 11:25. He took my hands, I love his hands, I love holding his hands and being held by his hands. I pouted as I rose, pulling my hungry mouth from his wonderful cock, and I gave him a full mock pout—fake sad eyes and bottom lip stuck out—as he brought me to my feet and our eyes met again. And his hands, his electric hands, they caressed my cheeks, and I purred.

"I want to show you something, something I don't show a lot of guys." I stood before him, shivering in my wet nudity, and I took his hands and placed them on my tits. I smiled wickedly feeling his fingers caress and them squeeze them, and after just a moment of his fondling my eyes began to roll in my head, and I started to squirm and pant. Those who know me well know my breasts are very sensitive, and only an occasional lover has discovered that I can cum—and quite hard at that—if he or she played with my tits just right. I wanted to show Mike this.

"Oh—oh that's it Mmmhike." I mewed and wiggled hotly against his hands as he cupped my tits and played with them. I caressed his magical fingers with mine as he fondled me, and my eyes grew wide and wild as I watched his smile, his pure smile. Getting harder to breathe—the more intense the clenching of my inner walls became, the more erratic my breathing grew. We stood there, he and I, with simply his hands on my tits, but it was so much more. I looked over at the mirror and gasped at the reflection, at his rock-hard cock pressing again against my stomach and at his large hands pawing at my swelling breasts. Nipple so erect and raw. So horny and hyper. Oh Mike. Oh God yes yes...

SLAP!

I cried out as I felt his hand smack across my left temple, and I put my fingers to the stinging spot as Michael stepped back timidly.

"I am so sorry Olivia, but you must not blaspheme, I told you that. Say anything at all, I beg you, but whatever you do, don't take the name of the Lord in vain."

He didn't know his own strength. I take it he meant to slap me, but my face swelled, and the stinging did not stop for a good few minutes. I stood back up, facing him, hand to temple, wanting to hit him or curse him or show some sort of rage, but surprisingly I felt none. I never took well to men hitting women, but somehow I felt as if he had forewarned me. I DID call out for God, and he DID tell me not to, right? Perhaps extreme horniness can quench anger. I felt no ill toward him. I wanted him in the worst way.

"Perhaps you can make it up to me, darling." I wouldn't be a woman if I did not at least try to toy with his guilt. At that I stood against the wall—I faced it, bracing myself against it, jutting my ass out at him. I wiggled it at him seductively and moaned as I spoke, "perhaps you can give me something I ache for."

I did not turn to him, but I felt him kneel behind me. His fingers curled under the waistband of my panties and pulled them down my legs, and as he freed me of the last of my clothing, I felt his hands and kisses on the back of my legs. I moaned and giggled a devilish giggle; it felt so light, his caress, his kisses. Toyingly I felt his soft bite on the back of my thigh, and I yelp and giggled a little louder.

He explored my legs and ass with his mouth and hands, and it became difficult to stand, even against a wall like this. My calves he petted, my thighs he massaged deeply, my ass he kissed and worshipped as no man ever had. Spanked, yes, but never worshipped. I was forgetting about the pulsing ache on the side of my face and could only concentrate on the here and now, about the way he loved my legs and ass.

I let out a deep guttural moan as I felt his tongue dance about on my tightened asshole. I was so close to cumming a river. I shut my eyes tight as he darted his tongue against my puckered hole, trying to force it open. Trying to hold back my orgasm forced it even tighter, yet he continued. At long last he did it, his tongue breached my asshole, and I tilted my head back and grunted deeply as it slithered deeeeeeeeeeeeeep up me. I had no more will—I came all over myself.

Panting and mewing, wetness trickled down my thighs. I shook as I whimpered. I wanted to finger myself so badly.

Mike's tongue rescued me—removed from my anus, he licked me thoroughly from ass to vagina, and I wiggled sluttily against him as he lapped at my gushing pussy. His hands rubbed my cum all over my thighs and ass as he feasted on me. I moaned loudly and squirmed as I came, oh Mike this so delicious.

All too soon he stood, ceasing to lick me. But he went nowhere. I shuddered, a little frightened, as I felt his hands grip me about my ribcage. He rested his mammoth cock in the cleavage of my ass, teasing me, making me squeal in anticipation. Then, after a few seconds...

My head snapped back and I lost the ability to breathe as he plunged his cock to the hilt up my tight ass. I expected him to take my pussy. I was completely surprised, and I paid for my error. I clawed helplessly at the drywall as he held his cock deep inside my ass, holding it there, letting me feel it pulse, letting my ass tighten snugly around it. My pussy too tightened involuntarily, and wetness gushed forth from it again down my creamy thighs. But the world was centered on his cock, so deep up my ass I could taste it.

I exhaled as he started to pull out, but his thrust back up me forced a loud shriek from my lungs. His fingers dug into my ribs as he started to fuck my ass. My breasts jiggled from the force of his thrusts, and I moaned sluttily feeling his mammoth cock stretching out my anus. Oooh did it hurt, but it also made me cum, and I shivered against him as he held his cock so deep up inside me.

"You are as good as advertised, Olivia," the archangel whispered amidst his own panting as he slid his cock out of my ass. My asshole gaped as he pulled it all the way out, only to snap shut as he petted my hole with his fingers. My eyes were closed, my mouth gaped, and I could only mew as he teased my asshole like this, first fucking it hard, then pulling out and fingering it to snap it tight again, only to fuck it some more. Perhaps for 45 minutes he did this to me, giving me the best anal of my life—I'd say 45 or 50 minutes, the clock read 12:15 or so.

And he never came.

After wearing me down completely, after fucking my ass raw and turning me into complete jelly, the archangel scooped up my limp body in his arms and brought me to the bed. As he set me down, my eyes were glazed with fatigue and lust, my smile worn but genuine, my thighs drenched in wetness, and I groaned as my ass hit the mattress. But I did gaze up at him, at that smile, that still warm and true smile. Even as he crawled between my legs, he smiled and gave me that stare of his, that stare of complete love. Even as he took my ankles firmly in his hands and pulled my legs apart in the air, he smiled, and as he forced his anaconda up my tightened pussy, he smiled and moaned.

I arched severely and squealed and came instantly. I swear he was pulling me apart like a wishbone, pulling my pelvis in half. He was monstrous, fucking me in a smooth steady rhythm, never faster than I could handle, never too slow to let me fully enjoy him inside me. My inner walls clenched him mightily and clung to his veiny cock. My hands roamed over his godlike chest and abdomen as he fucked my brains out.

Literally all night long went like this, and every position he put me in, no matter what it was, made me cum in torrents. From holding my ankles in the air, he pushed them, pushing my knees to my chest, which gave him the chance to get even DEEPER inside me. He rolled me onto one side, putting one of my legs over his shoulder, which is something I've never had done to me, but it made me convulse in orgasm all the same. From here he got me onto my hands and knees and fucked me like an animal for the longest time. In all this his hands were all over me, especially my tits, squeezing them and pinching my nipples and making me yelp excitedly. Occasionally he would put his fingers to my face, to caress, to let me lick his fingers and kiss them and suck them as if they were genitalia as well. Regardless the position, and there were many, he let me be a whore, and I loved every aching second.

And he never came.

There was a memorable moment when I was on top of him in a 69—I watch myself in the mirror as I sucked his enormous cock—I came on his face, partly because of his magical serpentine tongue snaking up my vaginal walls, but also because I was watching what he was doing to me. I was getting fucked by a god, and I loved it, and it showed in how I was sucking his enormous erection. I pleasured him with more energy and more enthusiasm than I had ever shown with any other man, and the way I sucked his cock, they way I twisted my head, the way I moaned as my head bobbed and I sucked him off in long deep lustful strokes, all proved I loved Mike and was his whore completely.

And he never came.

At one point I was resting on top of him, his enormous erection embedded inside me snugly. I whimpered into his ear as his hands clutched my ass cheeks and pulled me up and down on his cock, and I felt him grinding into me from beneath. Orgasms overlapped. I kissed his mouth hotly, slithering my tongue inside as he fucked me like this, and I came and came and came.

And he never came.

So, delirious, sore, aching, raw, fucked almost to death, I whispered into his ear as he had me on my back again, "don't—oohhh—nnngh—ddhh-ddon't you ever cummmnngh?" His face lit up with that radiant smile of his, and he looked deep into my eyes and said amid his own groans, "Make me." I gasped in frustration, for he had fucked the life out of me, and he expected me to make HIM cum?

At this, he stopped in mid-stroke, his cock half-buried inside my burning cunt. He took my hands, interlacing his fingers with mine, and pinned them above my head on the mattress. I smiled at this, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. His eyes rolled a little as he felt my pussy tighten around him, and with this I realized I just might be able to pull this off. Keeping his stance, as if he were now a statue, he did not move a muscle. But my pussy was spasming wildly, and I was hoping I had the strength to do this.




One-Night Stand with the Archangel



I tightened my legs and forced his cock deeper inside me, to which I heard him moan. I started to grind like this, beneath him, and as I did I watched his eyes, his face, his body twitch. His cock bulged mightily as I fucked him—I was fucking HIM—and I knew I had him. With this regained composure, I started getting into it—beneath him I wiggled whorishly, making my tits jiggle as I screwed him deliciously. His eyes widened and he moaned my name as he watched my eyes. He released my hands and palmed my tits as my hands gripped his back.

I teased him in my whispers. "Tell me, Mike, is this why you like prostitutes over princesses?" I moaned into his ear as I sucked on the lobe. I clawed against his back as he deeply massaged my swollen tits. He whimpered affirmatively at this. "You like fucking whores, don'tcha Michael? Ohh Michael, tell me how bad you like fucking the dirty girls."

He could take no more, what between my hands on his back, my legs around him, my pussy spasming hard, my body undulating erotically against him, my tongue in his ear, and especially my dirty talk, he began to lose his control. My eyes widen as I felt his giant cock leap inside me, beyond the usual bulge and ejaculation I usually feel in men. Michael arched back and cried out as he forced himself all the way into me, all his weight against my pelvis. And he finally came, and as he did I screamed, for it was like feeling my pelvis explode. I arched and came with him, every muscle in my body clinging to his jerking cock. I felt his cumvein rifle off every shot of cum up into me, and my head tilted back and I yelped with every spasm of it inside my raw cunt. I swear his orgasm lasted a full minute, maybe two minutes! His cum spilled out of me even as he continued to cum. 

Reluctantly he pulled his still-cumming cock out of me and, with a yell, he coated my stomach and tits with a few lines of thick ejaculate. Oohhh it was so hot watch him stroke his gargantuan cock and cum all over me, because for one, that beast was INSIDE me, for another, I was smitten, and for one more, I was shivering in my own series of over-the-top orgasms. Finally he rested his cock on my stomach, and as the last of his cum spilled onto my skin, he panted till he caught his breath. When he finally did, he ran his hands all over my torso, spreading his cum all over me, all over my tits and tummy and neck. When offered, I sucked his fingers and tasted the tangy sperm—I looked helplessly into his eyes as I lied there, coated almost literally head to toe in cum, his hands massaging my tits and caressing me, his cum dribbling out of me—I swear he must have pumped a gallon into me, and though I was silently praying he didn't impregnate me, I didn't let him know. All I let him know is that he was the best fuck I would ever have.

Completely drained, he lay on my bed, and I curled up at his side. He was so warm. We kissed, and his hands cupped and gently fondled my tender breasts as we kissed so lovingly for a good long while. I must have fallen asleep at his side as he held me, and we didn't say another word the rest of the night. Last I remember, the clock read 2:30 AM and I purred as I rested my head on his godlike chest, hearing his heartbeat, feeling his hand caressing my hair and shoulders. Like this, I fell into a hard sleep.

A loud banging on the door finally woke me up. At first I tried to ignore it—I was out of it, my head throbbed from the vodka and all the fucking. I stirred and I felt with limp arms across my bed, but there was no one there. I sat up a little, letting my eyes verify what my hand had submitted, that Michael was gone. Clock read 5:45 AM. There was no sign of him, except a puddle of cum, a mixture of both his and mine, on the sheet.

More banging. I was so sore, but I managed to sit up and wobblingly stand. Still more of his cum ran down my legs as I walked, limping, sore, sticky all over, to the bathroom. I looked at the mirror, which confirmed that I had a wild night last night—there was white dry cum all over my chest and tummy and neck, my tits were red with finger bruises and hickies and I swore they had swollen over a cup size—I don't think any girl of proportionate size has ever said her 34D-cups will feel too small, but considering how much they had ballooned, without the use of creams or surgery, considering how much attention Michael paid to them, considering how he used and abused them, I was sure that whatever I wore today, it would be uncomfortable, with or without a bra. My eyes were red and glazed, my skin a little pale, but of all this, the one thing that stood out was a welt under my left eye. I put my fingers to it and winced as it throbbed. I had forgotten most of the night that he hit me, mostly because he was fucking my brains out, but now, looking at the damage and being woken by its reborn sting, I remembered.

Banging again, hold on dammit, I'm coming! I grabbed my silk kimono from behind the door and wobbled uneasily to the door. So sore. Using the walls and the furniture to keep my balance, I slowly made it to the front door. I looked through the peephole—shit, police! I could think of a hundred reasons why the pigs were here—I am a prostitute, after all. Trying to sound sweet and dumb, my voice cracked as I asked through the door, "Who is it?"

Gruff masculine voice from the other side replied, "Phoenix PD, Ma'am, we need to ask you some questions." Oh shit, I thought, who narked me out? Of what I didn't really know, but I had to be in trouble for something. My first impulse was to run to the bedroom and jump out the window and maybe catch some sleep with my pimp or a john—acting on this, I turned too fast, and I almost fell as I felt an enormous twinge from my lower abdomen. Head spun. I underestimated the effects of Michael and vodka. Never had a man fuck me so thoroughly—much less an archangel. Realizing my body had betrayed my will to flee, I reluctantly placed my limp hand on the knob and turned it.

Two men burst into the room, flinging the door open and banging it as they stormed in. One ran into the back of the apartment, into the bedroom and bathroom, gun in hand, looking for something, not really sure what, hoping he wouldn't find anything, thinking if I still had some dope stashed somewhere or something anything he might find and bust me for. I didn't catch his face right off—a short fellow as men go, white guy, dark blonde hair, it was hard to tell in the dawnlight. The other I could see better from the domelights outside my door in the outer hallway—a black guy, kindly face—he stayed with me as his partner ransacked my apartment.

"Are you ok?" the black guy asked in that gruff masculine voice. He put his hand lightly to my arm and looked me up and down. I saw him clearly in the light—maybe too much light—hangovers and light do not mix. I put my head down, partly because I was very tired and sore, partly because I thought I was in trouble, but mostly because the light was in my eyes.

I nodded affirmatively, my hair hiding my face well for the time being.

"Are you sure, miss? We got a call a few minutes ago that a known rapist was seen leaving through your window."

I said nothing because I was speechless. If what went on last night was a rape, I would give anything in the world to have it happen to me again.

"There's no one here, but there are a few things I need to show you," the white guy spoke as he approached us.

"Wait here for a second, miss," the gruff black guy said as the two of them walked around the apartment, one the tour guide for the other. I leaned against the wall and sobbed, not understanding, not believing.

As they walked and talked I sank to the floor and sat against the wall. In their own good time they came back and knelt with me.

"Do you want us to call you a paramedic, miss? The black guy seemed in charge, he was the one talking to me. I nodded no, does one ever have to go to the emergency room because of chronic fucking? His cum was still oozing out from between my legs, and after a moment I was sitting in a small puddle of it.

The black guy pulled my hair gently from my face, to which I heard him say, "Oh Jesus, John, look at this." He must have been referring to my shiner.

As they examined me patronizingly, I mustered a whisper. "Don't take the Lord's name in vain," I found myself saying.

"I'm sorry, miss, what was that?" the black guy asked, though I think he heard me all the same.

"That's why he hit me, because I took His name in vain."

"Who hit you?" he asked with growing diligence, as if I were suddenly saying the right things.

I felt stupid to say.

"It's okay, miss, you're not in any trouble."

Wiping my face dry, I began, "His name was Michael."

His partner began writing this down as he grabbed a small notebook from inside his jacket. "Michael, eh? Was this Michael about seven feet tall, dark complexion, Caucasian, blonde, and wearing nothing at all when he entered?"

He was right about everything, except his skin was gold, not dark. I kept my eyes closed and nodded yes.

His partner was scribbling, I could hear him.

"Miss, did Michael try to rape you?"

I nodded no and started to cry again. We three sat here on the floor as I cried, just wanting to go to sleep and remember the wonderful night last night for what it was, which was perhaps the most erotic night of my life. "Please," I whispered as I sobbed, "please leave me alone."

His partner handed the gruff black guy my purse—I could hear its particular jingling. After a moment he pulled out my ID. "Olivia Lee Lindstrand, born June 26, 1971, yada-yada—is this you, Miss Lindstrand?" Still not looking, I was sure it was me, so I nodded yes.

"Well, Miss Lindstrand," the gruff voice began as I felt him stand, "from your picture you look like a beautiful woman. I don't know many beautiful women who let their boyfriends beat on them, even in the name of love. You're not helping anyone by protecting him."

Getting a little pissed at the insinuation, I dried my eyes again and sat up. "I'm not protecting him," I said in a cracking voice.

"Then tell us something about this Michael."

I felt so stupid as my mouth finally spilled forth the words that sounded so weird once spoken. But they did spill forth, and nothing could put them back as I said, in sheer embarrassment, "He told me he was the Archangel Michael."

Expecting laughter, I shut my eyes tight. But all I heard was muttering and scribbling. 

"Did you hear what I said?" I wasn't sure I actually said it, judging from their lack of laughter.

"Yes Miss Lindstrand, we heard you," he said, a little rudely, as if I were interrupting his muttering and/or scribbling.

I struggled to stand with them, but I ended up leaning on the wall. I put my foot over the wet spot on the floor, else they think to take a DNA sample from his sperm or something. Do angels have DNA? I felt my kimono loosen a little, but I did not cinch it to tighten it, else my tits would ache, and they would look at the rest of me and see all the wonderful marks he left on me to prove I was his girl. Victim, they might say, but I was the girl of the Archangel Michael, and though that is such a strange thing to say out loud, at least the three in this room were not acting as if it were all that strange.

About five minutes passed—I could tell because I looked around the pigs and saw my alarm clock was reading 5:57—in which they spoke amongst themselves. Impatiently I interrupted their tête-à-tête; "If there is nothing else I can help you officers with..."


The black gruff guy looked at me up and down, his eyes fixed momentarily on mine, momentarily at my unsteady legs, momentarily at my cleavage, then back into my eyes. "I think we owe it to you to explain what we think went on here. But first we need to confirm something." His white guy partner handed him a piece of paper, I assume by size and shape it was a photograph. He showed me the face on the paper. "Is this your Michael?"

I looked at the face and smiled very warmly. I put my fingers to the image, as if I could caress his lips with my fingertips. "Yes, that is Michael. Where did you get a black-and-white photograph of an angel?"

"Miss, that's a color photo."

I looked at the black guy, my expression revealing my confusion. "But he was golden and his hair was so shiny..." I stopped there because I just felt too weird about the sentence to carry on.

"Miss Lindstrand, this is a picture recently taken of William Sunderman." My jaw hit the floor.

His partner read a page from his small notebook, very dryly. "William Sunderman, born April 14, 1971, graduated from Coconino High in Flagstaff in 1989, from Arizona Western University in 1993. During college he shot up in height to just under seven feet tall, thought this was a sign from God to try out for the Phoenix Suns. When that failed, he still felt it was a sign of something...

"To which," the black guy continued in a less matter-of-fact fashion, "he took on many identities in the attempt to find the meaning of the sign. William the Conqueror, the Greek god Hermes, the Archangel Michael, Genghis Khan, the lovechild of Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin..."

I burst into laughter because I thought it ridiculous, even more ridiculous than before.

Even the pigs were giggling as the black guy continued, "and right now we think he is delusional and perhaps schizophrenic, not to mention a menace to pretty girls like you."

"Look," I finally spoke up, ignoring the ludicrous story the cops just generated, "this is funny as hell, but I swear nothing happened last night to worry you so. I know it's weird for a girl like me to say this, but I was visited by the Archangel Michael, and we made love all night."

"Really," the black guy said to stop me, "then please tell me why the Archangel Michael looks identical to a known local rapist."

"I admit I knew William Sunderman in school in Flagstaff. We weren't boyfriend-girlfriend or anything. I remember he tried to grab my tits and I kicked him in the balls."

The white guy smiled and said among his giggles, "I guess payback is a bitch, isn't it, Miss Lindstrand?"

"Look, Miss—may we call you Olivia?" the black guy inquired.

I hated their tone as they started to mock me. "No you may not."

With a whatever shrug, the black guy continued, "look, we found the broken bottle of vodka on the floor, and from your scent and speech and eyes we can tell you got fairly lit up last night. Freak you pissed off when you were young hunts you down, paints himself in gold body paint, crawls in through your window, listens to you as you mutter to yourself, gives you a cock-and-bull story your drunk ass seemingly buys, and he gets a free fuck out of it. Crawls out before daylight, neighbors see him leave, they call 9-1-1 because they care, we're called in because the freak fits the description of a freak we've been investigating for months, and here we are, talking to a very pretty girl who got wasted and fucked and seemed to like it."

I hated their tone. "You don't know anything about me or what happened last night." I said in defiance.

The white guy handed his partner a business card he fished out of my purse. "We don't know anything, do we? Perhaps we call the number on this card—I don't have to tell you the name, do we? Maybe the gentleman on this card told William—I mean, Michael—where to find the best piece of ass in the neighborhood. Everyone at the station knows the name on this card. Maybe I should call him and ask if he's talked to any giant golden assholes lately. All I have to say is a four letter word that starts with a P and rhymes with PIMP!"

Trying to keep my shit together, I raised my voice and uttered, "I think you two assholes need to leave before I call that so-called pimp and he and his buddies bust a cap in your collective asses!"

The black guy smiled knowingly, too knowingly. Again he looked down my body, again peeking at my tits, my swollen tits that pressed against the silk of my kimono and ached. Calmly he spoke, "Miss Lindstrand, let me give you some advice. You didn't ask for it, consider it a gift. You need to take a good hard look in the mirror and see where your life is headed. You were lucky that you were only raped—you could have ended up dead tonight. I'm sorry you chose to be a prostitute, Olivia, but you chose this life. You are just asking for trouble living like you do."

With that, I opened the front door and bravely looked at them without speaking, yet getting the message across that they weren't welcome.

They walked out the door, but not without the black one muttering to me, "I will be watching you, Miss Lindstrand. Girls who like to fuck always come running to a cop sooner or later." That was not the first time I ever got hit on by a cop. Not the first time one hit on me while in the line of questioning. But this time it did piss me off to no end, and as they left my apartment, no sooner had they set foot outside than I slammed the door behind them. Fuck! 

I leaned against the door and looked about the room, saw my broken cell phone and the broken bottle of vodka. I started to think about having Michael inside me and I began to slip my hand inside my kimono and treat myself to some masturbatory bliss. But as I touched my raw pussy lips, I yelped in pain, and I jerked my hand away. Shoulda went to one of those parties up in the hills, rent is due Monday, fuck. I walked to the open bedroom window by which my lover had entered and left, and I looked up into the pink and orange sky of a newborn dawn. I sighed. By myself, with the sperm of an archangel/psycho inside me, with my body aching from the most glorious fuck of my life (or a fairly brutal rape, as the pigs were telling me), with tears welling up again as I gazed heavenward, trying to make heads or tails of all this, I yelled as I began to sob...

"William Dammit!!!"