14 comments/ 38408 views/ 11 favorites Life is Wonderful By: jack_straw Author's note: This will be my 100th submission to Literotica. Over the past four-plus years, it's been a pretty wild ride, and I appreciate all of those who have commented on my work – good, bad or indifferent. I've tried to share some of my life, some of my fantasies and tried to write stimulating stories that make people think. For my 100th story, I decided to have some fun and write an erotic take-off on the classic movie, "It's A Wonderful Life." Some of you may find parts of this story silly or sacrilegious, but just remember this is a fantasy, and it's all in good fun. It is long, but I think if you stick with it, you will enjoy it. Before I get into the story, I would specifically thank the following people who have made an impact on my writing: My wife, for keeping me sane and providing me with some pretty juicy fantasies; Paws, for continued love and support; Rick in the Great Northwest, for having one of the dirtiest minds around; Randy in Atlanta, no I haven't forgotten about you; Emily in New York, hope you're doing well; Richard in Memphis, for critical comments; Peggy, Patricia, Lexie and Soccer Mom, for being there. Finally, I want to offer a special prayer and thanks to Anne in California. I know it's been a rough couple of years for you, and I still think about you a lot. I hope you've found some happiness and peace in your life. Lord knows, you deserve it. ------ Marie Booth was a firm believer in the power of prayer. She wasn't a particularly religious person, and she'd done some things a lot of church-going people probably wouldn't do. But in her 30 years, it had been her experience that every time she got down on her knees and really prayed, prayed hard and prayed for specific things, her prayers were always answered. She unlocked the door to her small apartment in a quiet section of Clarksdale, put her purse on the sofa and went into her darkened bedroom. She didn't bother to turn on the light, but fell right down on her knees. Tears streamed down her face as she began to pray for Greg Baldwyn. Marie was a waitress at the Crossroads Tavern, a popular music club several miles out of town, not far from the legendary crossroads of Highway 61 and Highway 49 where Robert Johnson was reputed to have sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the ability to play timeless, incendiary blues on the guitar. Sometimes, the Crossroads hosted a big-name blues artist who had come to Clarksdale to pay homage to the birthplace of the genre in the Mississippi Delta. But otherwise the house band was a hot local group called the Bluesrockers, and Greg Baldwyn was the lead guitarist. Or he had been the lead guitarist until a mysterious stranger had showed up, and suddenly Greg's life had fallen apart. He'd lost the ability to play, and with it his place in the band and the hottie girlfriend that had come with it. Marie had been to Greg's house after leaving work, and she had been shocked to her core. He was drunk and high – a condition in which she'd never seen him – he had a loaded pistol, and he was talking dangerously of murder and-or suicide. He'd basically chased her out of his house, so now she was on her knees praying for his salvation. She wasn't the only one. Greg's mother, a devout Catholic from Louisiana, had been working her rosary overtime praying for her son's deliverance. So had his sister, brother, friends and even his bandmates, who had come to genuinely fear the stranger who had stepped into Greg's role as bandleader. They all asked for the same thing: salvation for Greg's soul, a restoration of his talent and some kind of dealing with the man who had turned his life upside down. Marie also asked for something else. "And please, Lord, let him see me, and know how much I love him," she prayed. "I've never wanted anyone like I want him, and I know I could please him if only he could see what I have to offer. Please, Lord?" Marie was a nice-looking woman with short dark hair and a quiet personality. She was decently built, with a trim little body that she kept in good shape. But her looks, body and personality had been no match for Delilah Jones, a stacked, aggressive brunette who had moved in and knocked Greg off his feet. With a heavy sigh, Marie said her amens, then stood up and began to get ready for bed. She'd done her part; now it was in God's hands. ------ God was in his workroom, with the large crystal bowl in the center of the room that allowed him to see anything that was happening with his people anywhere, any time. He was, of course, the God of all the living creatures in all the planets in all the solar systems in his creation, but he had always had a special fondness for the leading species of the out-of-the-way planet its inhabitants called Earth. He had even sent his son to them for the remission of their sins and to offer them eternal life in his heavenly abode, but only if they believed in him. But they had always been a contentious, willful species, and most of them never made it past the golden gates that guarded entry into heaven. He always heard the prayers of the believers, though, and sometimes even he had trouble filtering out the truly needy from the cacophony of petitions that came through his prayer receptacle. That wasn't a problem tonight, though. He was getting a lot of requests about one Greg Baldwyn, a 35-year-old man said by his friends and loved ones to be a decent man who had been led astray, then waylaid by someone who may well be an agent of the Dark One. Any time God saw the hand of Lucifer at work with his chosen people, it caught his attention. Sometimes, the cases were so hopeless that even God could do nothing. But if there was a chance to save a soul and inflict a defeat on the enemy, God was determined to take it. And for that he had his soldiers, the AAF, the Angel Armed Forces, under the command of Joseph, his first and still his most dedicated general. Whenever divine intervention was called for, it was troops of the AAF that were sent down to do the dirty work. They didn't always succeed, especially if they were sent to do battle with one of the devil's minions. Many an angel had returned from a sortie on Earth soul-weary and needing care at the highest level. That was usually the job of Jesus, whose limitless healing powers made him invaluable in restoring an angel into an effective warrior. Moments after sending out his celestial message, God looked up to see Joseph striding confidently into the workroom. He quickly brought Joseph up to speed on the Greg Baldwyn case. "It looks like tonight is his moment of truth," God said. "This is one I'd like to not lose." "I agree," Joseph said. "There must be something about this man that he would attract the attention of the Dark One." "Who is up on the rotation?" God said. God saw suicide as a mortal sin, one that bars a soul from entry into heaven, because it usurped his role in the order of life and death. However, prevention of suicides, by the protocol of heaven, was not the work of the higher echelon angels. They were the task of those who had reached the rank of second-class, which denoted efficient domestic duty. Reaching Angel Second Class was relatively easy, but getting past that rank and earning one's wings, was more difficult. Once an angel reached second class, they fell into the rotation for service on Earth, where they performed the hard work of soul saving. One of the requirements for angels to earn promotion to Angel First Class and get their wings was to prevent someone from taking their own life, thus saving their soul. The rotation was quite rigid, and when an angel came to the top of the rotation, they were sent, regardless of who or what they were. If an angel failed in their task, they were sent for rehabilitation and placed back at the bottom of the rotation. It might take as many as two generations by human reckoning for an angel to work back to the top of the rotation. Joseph consulted his duty roster, which he carried with him everywhere he went, and his face fell. "Oh my," he sighed. "It's the tavern owner's daughter. You know the one. Clarissa Goodbody." "Oh dear," God said. "She's been a bit of trouble, hasn't she." "I'll say," Joseph said. "The last time we sent her on a mission, not only did she not save the subject, but she also sent his wife plunging off the building with him after the stock market crashed in 1929. And that wasn't the first time." "How many times has she been down?" God asked, a bit perplexed. "This would be her seventh time," Joseph said. "You mean she's been down six times and STILL hasn't gotten her wings?" God said. "What is her problem?" "The same one that got her here in the first place," Joseph said. "She's a sweet girl, but she's, well, she's too easy, and she's not real bright. She's ... She's very sensual, very pretty and very horny, all the time. So when she gets back to Earth that's all she wants to do." "Refresh my memory, how did she get here?" God said. "Oh, you remember when the Dark One sent that woman to Salem back around 1690 and created such mayhem?" Joseph said. "Clarissa got caught up in that. She attracted the attention of a married farmer, they were caught, um, fornicating in his barn by his wife, who accused her of being a witch, and she was hung. Poor thing was only 16, but she looked 20. The thing that saved her soul was that she refused to forsake you. Even on the gallows, she professed her faith." "Hmmmm," God exclaimed. "Well, the humans consider seven to be a lucky number, so maybe Clarissa's seventh try will be the one that gets her her wings. Send for her, and give her the story of Greg Baldwin, so she knows what she's doing. Who knows? Maybe her particular, um, talents are just what it takes to win this one. I'll be in the study. Keep me appraised." "Yes, Lord," Joseph said. Joseph turned when Clarissa entered the workroom. He looked her up and down, and once again understood why humans had trouble keeping their hands off of her. After all, he had been a man once, long ago, and he understood temptation. He could see that Clarissa, in all of her innocent glory, was a mighty tempting dish for vulnerable humans. She had golden blonde hair, thick and curly, a truly beautiful face, with laughing blue eyes, and a curvy body that even the formless gowns that were the uniforms of angels couldn't hide. "You sent for me, sir," Clarissa said, in a voice that reminded Joseph of a glockenspiel. "Ah, Clarissa, my dear," Joseph said kindly. In spite of his frustration at her failure to get her wings, he was quite fond of Clarissa. "Clarissa, how long have you been here?" he asked. "Three hundred and thirteen years, eight months and 14 days," Clarissa replied immediately. "But who's counting?" "And how many times have you been back to earth to get your wings?" Joseph said, a little more sternly. "S-six," Clarissa said, a little sheepishly. "You know, people are starting to talk." "I'm sure they are," Joseph said. "Well, it's time for you to try again, and I have an assignment that is of the highest importance. The Big Guy himself is taking personal interest in this one." "Wow!" Clarissa said. "He must be some big wig." "Well, we're not sure yet," Joseph said. "We're getting a lot of requests for intervention in the case of one Greg Baldwyn, in America. We've investigated and found he's salvageable. Your job is to save his soul and defeat the demon that has vexed him." "Yes sir!" Clarissa said. "I've been doing a lot of praying, a lot of practicing. I'm ready, sir!" "Not so fast, my dear," Joseph said. "You need to become acquainted with your subject. Come." Joseph swept his hand over the crystal bowl and a picture emerged of Greg during one of his soulful solos with the Bluesrockers. "Hmmmm, he's very nice-looking," Clarissa said as a slow smile creased her face. "Verrrrrry nice." "Now, Clarissa, your job is to save his soul, not steal his heart," Joseph said. "I would think after all the fixes your libido has gotten you into over the centuries that you'd be a little more cautious. When you get your wings – if you get your wings – you can have all the sex you want with whomever you want. That's one of the privileges of promotion to AS1. But until then, you must stay focused." "I'm sorry, sir, I'll behave," Clarissa said, but she still stared at the image of Greg with naked desire. It had been a long time since she'd felt the caress of a man, and she still ached for it, and probably always would. "Pay attention," Joseph said. "We're going to start at the beginning, so pull up a chair and let's review this man's life." ------ Greg was born in central Louisiana, not far from Natchitoches (pronounced NACK-a-dish, for reasons unexplained). He had an older sister and a younger brother, and his father died when he was 6. His mother may have been a devoted Catholic, but she'd caught rock-and-roll fever the night she watched the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, and she had become a serious fan of rock and blues music. He'd also had an uncle, his mother's brother, who was a blues aficionado. Whenever he came down from Natchez to visit, his mom would play the old standup piano that always seemed to be slightly out of tune, his uncle would play guitar and they would all sing rock and blues classics. So it was that when he was 10, his mom gave him his own guitar for Christmas, a beginner's acoustic, and Greg was officially hooked. He bought a couple of instruction books so he could learn the basics, then taught himself the rest simply by listening and imitating whatever he heard on the radio, or on records and tapes. Once he had mastered the acoustic, he saved his allowance until he had enough money to buy a beat-up Fender electric guitar and an old Peavey amp. From then on, the night would often be filled with the sounds of Greg playing in the upstairs bedroom he shared with his brother. Greg was a smart man in many ways. His IQ was off the charts, but he was an indifferent student. His only real interest lay in playing the guitar, and as he grew into his teens he started playing in a variety of bands, but he never could seem to find one where he fit. He was a bit of a loner, and somewhat shy around women, never mind Eddie Van Halen's famous comment that, "once I got good, I got all the pussy I wanted." Clarissa watched all of this pass by in but a blink of an eye in the great crystal bowl. She winced when she watched his first fumbling attempts at having sex. He was so cute, and so utterly clueless at first that her heart went out to him. Eventually, he figured out what to do, but he always seemed to be a sucker for a good-looking chick, especially if she had big tits. After high school, Greg joined the Navy in hopes of finding a career in something other than music. But he was a lost cause as a sailor, and all his four-year tour taught him was that he wanted to make a living as a musician. For awhile, it wasn't much of a living. He lived in New Orleans for awhile, trying to pick up gigs here and there. He was good, but his style wasn't readily accessible to any of the genres around the Crescent City. It wasn't until he returned to his roots, back to the blues, that he finally found his niche. His uncle helped him get in with a blues band in Jackson, and he'd played there until the lead singer got busted for selling cocaine and the band broke up. At loose ends, he'd driven one weekend to Clarksdale, just for the heck of it. While there, he saw a flyer for the Crossroads Tavern, and saw the come-on for the guitarist's challenge. Every so often, the Crossroads would bring in a hot-shot guitarist, someone who'd paid the owner, Manny Jones, a hefty fee, who could challenge the lead guitarist of the house band, the Bluesrockers. Manny had started the practice for two reasons: One, it was cash money that went straight into his pocket. Two, it was a way of cutting the ego of the nominal bandleader down to size, a way of keeping them in line. Invariably, the lead guitarists would begin to ask for an increase in the salary, start to attain a following, and when that happened, Manny would bring in someone who could knock the leader off his pedestal, sending him packing. Of course, Greg didn't know all of this at the time. He just thought it might be a novel way of picking up a job. So he'd scraped up the money for the fee, auditioned for Manny and was put in a slot. At that time, the lead guitarist was a guy named Steve Dumas. Steve was a nice guy, and a decent guitarist, but Greg quickly figured out that he wasn't a true lead guitarist. His practiced ear had noticed that Steve's best notes were chords, rather than leads. On the night of his challenge, Greg had plugged in his old Fender, which he had painstakingly rebuilt, piece by piece, and started jamming. It was pretty clear from the outset that Steve was no match for the searing leads Greg was playing. Instead of playing standard songs, however, Greg started stretching out, getting the band to play some jam-friendly tunes so he and Steve could send the music soaring. As they did, he coached Steve into playing the fills, the rhythm parts, to complement his solos. It was wildly successful. The Bluesrockers show that night was one of the band's epic performances, and when the vote came in, it was a landslide for Greg. Steve Dumas was dejectedly heading toward the backstage door, with his guitar case in his hand. He'd grown to like playing with this band, in the short time he'd been the leader, and he'd especially liked the show that night. He was just about to the door, when he heard Greg calling for him to wait. "Hey man, don't be so down, you're a great player, just not a lead player," Greg said. "In fact, you're the best rhythm guy I've ever played with. I've never had a second who picked up on what I like to do so quickly. We made some magic tonight, and I think we can do it again, every night. Let's get together tomorrow and play, just you and me." "Are you serious?" Steve said. "I mean, I don't think Manny's going to pay for an extra guitarist. That's not how this thing works." "Fuck him," Greg said. "Great art can't be bounded by cheap little men like him. Look at it this way. If we get to where I think we can go, in a year, two years tops, we can start getting some attention from some people besides the yokels around here. You want to stay in Clarksdale all your life?" "Well, it is home, but..." Steve said. The next afternoon, Greg got together at Steve's garage and that's where their partnership was cemented. They both just plugged in and started noodling, and before they knew it they were jamming hard. The first hour, they didn't even play songs; they just let the music flow, making it up as they went along. Think Duane Allman and Dicky Betts, or Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir, and that's what Steve and Greg sounded like that afternoon. After an hour, they took a break, then went back at it. This time they tested each other's repertoire of songs they knew by heart, blues standards and rock classics. They ended up jamming for four hours, until Steve's wife finally made them come in for dinner. As Steve had expected, Manny balked at the new arrangement at first. But by the time the band made its presentation to the club owner, Greg had brought the rhythm section into the conspiracy, and they were all of one mind. Manny was forced to accept a second guitarist, but he didn't like it, and Greg quickly figured out that he'd made an intractable enemy out of Manny. As the new Bluesrockers gained an increasingly larger following over the next year, and Greg started to become the toast of the local music scene, Manny's hatred for the serenely confident guitarist grew by leaps and bounds. Life is Wonderful Envy and enmity on earth always attract the attention of Lucifer, and Clarissa was heartsick at her first look at Damian Porter, the emissary the Dark One sent to take Greg's soul. Manny Jones had long dabbled in the occult, and he believed fervently in the legend of Robert Johnson. One evening, just after sunset, but while it was still light, Manny visited Johnson's grave, and he made an idle wish. "I'd sell my soul if someone would come down and take that smug bastard off my hands," he said out loud, to no one in particular. At first, he didn't notice the man who seemed to materialize out of nowhere at the cemetery. Manny turned to leave the place, and nearly ran into him. "Where in the hell did you come from?" Manny said. "Oh, around," Damian said in a smooth, oily voice. Manny looked the strange man up and down and felt a shiver go through him. The man was several inches over six feet tall and lean, darkly handsome with jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail that flowed down his back almost to his waist. He was wearing black leather pants and a blood-red silk shirt, and Manny couldn't fail to notice the large bulge in the man's pants. "How did you get here?" Manny said. "You sent for me, I believe," Damian said. "What are you talking about?" Manny said. "Did you not say you'd sell your soul for a solution to your problem?" Damian said. "Well, ur, that's just a figure of speech," Manny said. "Come now, Manny, you should know that Lucifer answers all requests for the sale of a soul," Damian said. "Especially from someone who's been such a loyal servant to the cause." "I, uh," Manny sputtered. He was becoming genuinely afraid. "Oh yes, you've been a very good contributor to the cause of evil," Damian said. "And now I'm here to give you what you want. You say you want a solution to the problem of Greg Baldwin, and Lucifer has the answer to your desire. Frankly, he's aggravated at this man's nauseating decency, and he wants to help." "Help how?" Manny said. "You may or may not know this, but when Lucifer sends a representative to earth in answer to a petition, the requirement for readmission into hell is a soul," Damian said. "It doesn't matter whose soul it is. It can be the soul of the person the petitioner wants removed, or it can be the soul of the petitioner himself or herself. Doesn't matter to Lucifer; a soul's a soul. You want Greg Baldwin removed, and I want a soul so that I can return home to the delicious torment that I crave." "Well, then," Manny said. This was too easy. He would offer up Greg's soul, and he'd kill two birds with one stone. He'd be rid of Greg and he wouldn't have to sacrifice his own soul in the process. "There is, however, a fee that the petitioner must pay in order for another person's soul to be taken in their place," Damian said. "That fee is whatever Lucifer's representative – i.e., myself – decides is appropriate. Are you willing to pay what I require?" "Uh, sure, whatever," Manny said. "Good," Damian said with a leer. "Suck my cock." "What?!" Manny said. "I'm not a fucking faggot! Suck your cock? Like hell I will!" "You might want to rephrase that," Damian said in a menacing voice. "Do you want me to take Greg Baldwin's soul, or do you want me to take yours? You have 10 seconds to decide." Manny looked around wildly to see if there was any way out, but the thought of going to hell was suddenly a lot less appealing than sucking Damian's cock. So he dropped to his knees right there in front of Robert Johnson's grave, reached up, undid Damian's pants and stared as the biggest dick he'd ever seen flopped out and hit him in the face. ------ Clarissa stared goggle-eyed as Manny opened his mouth as wide as he could and fed as much of Damian's horse cock past his lips as possible. "How disgusting," she said, and that brought Joseph's attention back to the bowl. He'd been off in another part of the workroom on some other business. "Yes, the Dark One often uses men that way to attain what he wants," Joseph said distastefully. "But, you needed to see what you're up against, see how Greg's life was placed in jeopardy. Come, let's move on past that." Clarissa moved the wheel and Greg's life story lurched forward. Thus, she didn't see Damian put his hand on the back of Manny's head and force his cock into the man's throat, didn't see the drool running out of the corners of Manny's mouth, didn't see the pained - then lustful - expression on Manny's face, didn't hear Damian grunt hard as he spewed a huge thick load of cum down Manny's throat, and she sure didn't see the wet stain that formed in Manny's pants when his own cock exploded in orgasm without even being touched. ------ Greg's trouble started when Manny's daughter showed up in Clarksdale unexpectedly. To say Delilah Jones was a hot number would be a serious understatement. Manny had sent his only child to Ole Miss for four years in hopes that she might find some sort of career. But the only thing she was proficient at in college was sex. A dedicated Chi-O, she'd been the queen of Kappa Alpha ... and Kappa Sigma ... and Sigma Nu, Sigma Chi and Chi Psi. She'd been a regular at the Pike house and the Deke house, and she had spent more nights with the Phi Taus, Phi Delts and Phi Kappas than she had at the Chi-O house. In fact, the only fraternity guys that she didn't know intimately were the Omegas, because, as she once so eloquently put it, "Ah do have mah standahds, and ah do NOT fuck niggahs." It wasn't hard to see why she was so popular at Ole Miss. She had a thick mane of raven hair that cascaded down her back, big brown eyes, full lips, a pendulous pair of rounded tits and an ass that was most commonly referred to as succulent. After college, about the only job offer she got was from an import-export company in Fort Lauderdale, which she quickly learned was a front for a large drug smuggling operation. She had no qualms at all about giving her body away in the furtherance of the company's dealings, but she had somehow gotten a warning that a major bust was imminent. She had fled town just two days before the FBI staged a major raid on the company's headquarters. Delilah had high-tailed it to Clarksdale until things cooled off, sneaking off with a large bundle of processed coke and a half-pound of quality marijuana. It never occurred to her that her theft might be noted once everything died down, or that her bosses might wonder about the timing of her departure. Greg was playing hard on a typical Saturday night when Delilah showed up at the Crossroads for the first time. She looked Greg up and down about like a hungry dog eyes a T-bone. Her pussy started flowing as she stared lustfully at Greg. She saw a man in his mid-30s, with brown hair that he wore a little long, but not too long. He had a thick moustache, sparkling blue eyes in a nice-looking face. He was slightly under six feet tall and trim, with an especially cute butt for a man. Greg couldn't fail to notice the curvy brunette who sauntered to a spot right in front of the stage. It would have been hard not to notice her. Delilah was wearing a short skirt and tight blouse, both black in color. The blouse was open to expose an ample amount of her generous cleavage, which spilled bounteously from the top of her black lacy bra. She had fishnet stockings encasing her legs, five-inch heels, and she was quite exquisitely made up. She stood right in front of Greg through the remainder of the set, staring at his rapidly-stiffening cock and licking her lips seductively. As far as Greg was concerned, she might as well have had a sign around her neck saying, "fuck me!" Which he did. After the set, Delilah walked over to the bar and ordered a drink, and Greg walked over and introduced himself. Greg was taken aback – a little wary – when he learned who she was, but she was smooth. "You know Daddy listens to me, and he'll give me anything I want," she said in her syrupy Southern drawl. "I'm sure I can get you whatever you want, if you treat me right. Why don't you hang around backstage later and I'll show you what I can do." She traced a finger up Greg's jean-clad leg to where his cock was straining to get free. Greg was absolutely intoxicated with lust. There was no shortage of willing women who were eager to fuck the lead guitarist for the Bluesrockers, and Greg had availed himself of a few of them. But he'd never had a woman who looked like Delilah come onto him like that. She was all he could think about during the last set, and with his concentration elsewhere, the show degenerated into a sloppy mess. Greg's bandmates – especially Steve – had taken note of the exchange, and the result, but they just figured it would be just a one-time thing and let it go. The rest of the band drifted away that night after the club closed, but Greg lingered. He was about to give up on Delilah when he heard the click-clack of her heels. There was a fire in her eyes as she walked right up to him, pressing her hot body to his. She pulled him into a fierce embrace and in seconds they were kissing ravenously, her hot tongue invading his mouth. And Greg responded in kind, slashing his tongue against hers in a duet of all-consuming lust. Delilah's hands roamed all over his body, down his back to his butt and around to his front, where his cock was rock hard in his jeans. Greg filled his hands with her delightful tits, and she groaned in lust. She broke the embrace long enough to push Greg onto the battered sofa that sat against one wall. She sat down next to him, reached in her voluminous purse and fished out a vial with a small silver spoon attached to the top. Delilah unscrewed the top, stuck the spoon inside and brought out a measure of crystal powder. She didn't even give Greg a chance to say no. She just stuck the spoon to his nose and told him to snort. Greg could feel the whispers of warning from his conscience. Cocaine had been the downfall of his last band, and he'd never been much of a user himself. But it happened so fast that he really didn't have a chance to think about what he was doing. He just took it and the second shot up the other nostril, then watched through lust-glazed eyes as Delilah gave herself a couple of snorts, then put the cap back on stuck it back in her purse then set the purse back on the floor. Then she resumed her attack on Greg in earnest, and he didn't resist in any way, shape or form. She drew him to her again and they kissed again, hot and hard. She dropped her hand on his lap and kneaded the hard bulge under his jeans. Greg deftly flipped open the rest of the buttons on Delilah's blouse, then popped the clasp on her front-loading bra. He gasped as her breasts fell open, the pink nipples hard with desire. He filled both hands with her tits, squeezing her flesh and lightly pinching her nipples. As Greg fondled her tits, Delilah unbuttoned Greg's pants and fished his cock out of his boxers. It was hard, purple and throbbing with need, and as the cocaine began to work through his veins, his seemed to take on new dimensions. He couldn't remember when his cock had been harder, and a big ball of pre-cum oozed out the tip from his arousal. He slid his hands up Delilah's legs, past where her stockings were attached to her garter belt and was pleasantly surprised to find that her clean-shaved pussy was uncovered by panties, and that she was dripping with the juice of her passion. Greg dipped two fingers in Delilah's creamy cunt and rolled her clit around with his thumb, producing a low growl of lust. He rolled her tight skirt up to her waist, while she pulled his pants down to his knees, then she straddled his hips. Gripping his cock at the base to keep it aimed high, she fit the head to her gash and slid her pussy all the way down, engulfing his cock in one long plunge. In all of his 35 years, Greg had never had his cock in a pussy as hot as Delilah's. She was hot, wet and muscular, gripping his cock with her sugar walls as she worked her hips up and down. As the cocaine hit them full-force, they humped like demons, with Delilah slamming her hips down on Greg's cock, while Greg pushed his hips up to drive his nuclear spear deeper in Delilah's hungry cunt. Animal sounds of lust escaped their lips, then Delilah found her voice, and it rang throughout the club. She didn't care who heard. "OH GOD! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!" she wailed. The noise drew the attention of Marie, who was counting up her tips behind the bar. There was no mistaking the sound, but she was curious to see who it was. She slipped quietly behind the stage and peeked around the corner into the backstage area. It took her several seconds to figure out who it was, then her hand went to her mouth. She watched fascinated as Greg's cock drilled up and down in and out of the clenching pussy of the dark-haired woman she'd seen earlier that night. The sight was quite stimulating, and she could feel her own pussy start to moisten. But it also filled her with dismay, because it was Greg fucking another woman. She'd fallen for Greg the very first time she'd laid eyes on him, and they had become friends. So far, there was nothing more between them, but she always had hope that he'd see how she felt about him and ask her out. Yet she was too shy to ask him herself, and now Manny's daughter had swooped in and apparently had gotten to him. As he worked Delilah's hips up and down on his iron shaft, Greg happened to look over Delilah's shoulder and saw Marie staring at them, with a crestfallen look on her face. He felt bad that she'd seen what she'd seen. He liked the quiet little waitress; she was someone he felt comfortable talking to, and she was a very sweet girl. But he was way too far gone to stop what he was doing, and he really didn't feel like he owed Marie anything anyway. She was nice, but it wasn't like they were married or even dating. Then he felt Delilah forcing one of her breasts to his mouth and he turned his attention back to the task at hand. He licked and sucked on her bullet-hard tips, sending spasms of lust through her body. When he released one tit and went for the other, he looked back toward the door, but Marie was gone. Delilah was oblivious. She worked her body up and down on Greg's piston, a colossal orgasm building to a white-hot intensity in her body. She could feel it building in her gut, and she began to shudder and quake as it came to a head. She threw her head back and screamed out her passion, and Greg gasped, then grunted as his own climax exploded in his groin. Like a runaway train, their mutual orgasm swept them along. Greg felt the crackle of sensation as his cum jetted through his shaft and spewed out the end of his cock, and Delilah felt her own juices spurting from deep within her womb s her climax ripped through her body. For long seconds, they clutched at each other as their passion slowly ebbed. Then, as Greg's slightly-wilting cock slipped out of her sheath, Delilah slid to the floor, kneeling between Greg's legs, took his cock in hand and slowly, sensually licked him clean of all the slimy juice that covered his cock. His cock stayed semi-hard, thanks to Delilah's ministrations and the cocaine that was still surging through his system. And Delilah could feel her own arousal reigniting as she felt Greg's cum oozing out of her dilated pussy and down the insides of her thighs. "How about we go back to my house where we can go another round in more comfortable surroundings?" Greg said. "I never thought you'd ask," Delilah said. She stood up then, and Greg stood up then. He stuffed his cock back in his pants, but she didn't bother to close her bra or her blouse, but walked out with Greg with her tits swaying provocatively. They went back to Greg's small rental house, where Delilah lined out another healthy dose of coke and they smoked a joint of her potent herb. Then they got naked and fucked until the sun was well up in the eastern sky. Greg fucked her everywhere – fucked her mouth, fucked her ass and fucked her pussy again, and Delilah came over and over again. She moved in with him the next day, much to the chagrin of Marie, who had gone home that Saturday night and cried herself to sleep. Greg seemed to be his old self at the Bluesrockers' next performance. In fact, he seemed more amped than usual, but Steve suspected that there was something behind that, something white and crystalline. He knew Delilah from way back, and he knew she was wrong for Greg. But Greg was deaf to any suspicions, besotted as he was with Delilah's hot body. Not to mention the fact that Delilah talked Manny into giving him a healthy raise. Manny didn't mind doing it, because he knew he'd soon be rid of Greg anyway. It went on for a month before Steve caught Greg and Delilah doing spoons of coke in the men's bathroom on Saturday night between sets. He watched undetected as they snorted up two spoonfuls each, then he watched dumbfounded as she dropped to her knees, pulled out his cock and sucked him off. Delilah smacked her lips and licked a little drop of cum from the corner of her mouth as she saw Steve standing there. She smiled wickedly and ran her hand over his cock, which was stiff in his pants. "If you want, I'll give you blowjob too," she said. Steve just turned and walked away in disgust, with Delilah's mocking laughter ringing in his ears. That was just the latest of many little things Greg had seen and heard about his new girlfriend that disturbed him. He could sense that things were suddenly falling out of control, that a good thing was falling apart, especially when Steve lit into him the moment he got Greg alone. "You're letting that ... whore ... fuck you up, man," Steve said. "I thought we made an agreement about no drugs in this band. What happened to that? I'm telling you, flat-out, brother. I've known Delilah Jones all my life. You forget, I grew up here, and she's always been bad news." "Ah, you're just jealous because I'm fucking her and you're not," Greg mumbled. "Look, we've got something good going here, and you're letting her ruin it," Steve said. "Greg, you know in your heart that I'm right." "Yeah, well, we can talk about it some other time," Greg said. "Right now, we got another set to play." It was about halfway through that set that Damian Porter made his first appearance at the Crossroads. He slipped in apparently unnoticed and stood at the back of the bar, just watching. As he was playing a solo, Greg felt something funny and he missed a couple of notes as he got a sense of something, some presence. Then he shrugged it off and continued playing. Damian then turned his attention to a nubile young thing who was swaying drunkenly to the music. She was, of course, captivated by his charms, never suspecting his true intentions. It would be weeks before her remains were found. After the set, Greg's fingers were aching, almost like he'd contracted a sudden case of arthritis. But no one in his family had ever had arthritis, a fact he confirmed when he called his mother the next day. However, his fingers continued to ache all day and through Monday, and by Tuesday he could barely move them He had spent Sunday and Monday doing what he'd done every Sunday and Monday for the past month - snorting coke, smoking pot, drinking a little beer and fucking Delilah. She still had plenty of her coke left, and so far no one suspicious had come around looking for her. Nevertheless, she kept a loaded .38 in a drawer, just in case. Greg arrived at the club on Tuesday to discover that Manny had set up a challenge for the next night. He tried to limber up his aching fingers in preparation for the night's show, but it got worse, especially after he saw the tall stranger walk in and sit at the bar to observe him. Life is Wonderful Through sheer effort, Greg got through the night, but the sets were short and perfunctory. After the last set, Steve came up to Greg backstage. "What's wrong, man?" Steve asked. "You look like you're hurting." "It's my fingers, I can't seem to get them to work right," Greg said. "And before you ask, I did not snort up tonight. Delilah had some place she had to go tonight, and I decided to stay away from it." "Probably going to fuck some other guy," Steve said. "I'm going to forget you said that," Greg said. "You really don't like her, do you." "I'm sorry, Greg, but I'm worried about you," Steve said. "I've known her all my life, and I know what she's like. I'm still trying to figure why the hell she showed up here all of a sudden. Last I'd heard she was in Florida somewhere living the good life. She's never made a secret about how much she hates it here and how she never wanted to come back. Then, out of the blue, she shows up? And stays? I'm telling you, bro, something's not right about any of this." "Well, I don't have time to worry about that," Greg said. "I've got to figure out what to do about my fingers before tomorrow. I'm going to see a doctor in the morning." "Good," Steve said. "And Greg? Please, take what I've said to heart. I've really gotten to like you as a friend and I love playing with you. I don't want to see you get hurt." "Thanks, man," Greg said. Greg went to see a doctor, but they could find nothing wrong with his hands. Nevertheless, the pain got worse through the day, and he was genuinely worried about that night's challenge. He knew nothing about the fellow who'd challenged him, other than that he'd showed up out of nowhere the previous week. When Greg finally met Damian, he felt a stab of fear roar through him. The man was tall, lean and he had an aura of menace about him, not to mention that he had a top-of-the-line instrument. Greg loved his old Fender, but compared to what Damian was carrying, it was awfully shabby. Greg had tried everything he could think of to unlimber his fingers and play the way he was capable of playing. Most of the patrons knew what Greg was capable of, and they rooted him on when he took his turn. But Damian was a whiz, his fingers flowing over the fretboard as he produced some awesome sounds. It was really no contest. Greg's fingers simply wouldn't work right. The judges had never heard Greg play before, and they left baffled as to how a player that bad could have played with the Bluesrockers for over a year. Greg was in a daze when he left the club. The rest of the Bluesrockers had been sympathetic, especially Steve, but the rules were the rules, and Damian Porter was now the new leader of the band. Greg stopped at a convenience store and bought a case of beer, then returned to an empty house. Delilah's things were still there, but she was nowhere in sight. Somehow, that made him feel better. He spent the rest of the night and much of the next day drinking beer, snorting coke and smoking pot. He managed to get out that afternoon to grab a hamburger and some more beer. He returned to find Delilah waiting for him. She was actually a little sympathetic, and more than a little horny after her two-day junket to Oxford to see an old college friend, so she decided to take Greg to bed to cheer him up. They each did a line and smoked a joint, then they got naked and got in bed. And nothing happened. Greg simply couldn't get it up, no matter how hard he tried. After trying for an hour, Delilah finally got pissed off. "You're as worthless in bed as you are on stage," she sneered. "I'll bet that new guy... Damian? I'll bet he can give me what I need. Hell, I'll even leave you my stash. Give you something to remember me by. I can get plenty more where that came from. Damian told me he's got connections for the best stuff around." She angrily gathered up her things and stormed out, laughing hysterically as she piled her things into the back seat of her car and drove off. That had been Thursday. He had finally crashed around midnight that night, after drinking, smoking and snorting virtually non-stop, then got up on Friday and started all over again. He spent that day and night continuing his binge, unable to stop. He'd finally passed out around 2 o'clock in the morning. He'd finally roused himself enough to fix a decent meal. But then he'd gone right back to his binge. At some point, he vaguely recalled calling his mother on the telephone and rambling incoherently about what had happened to him. As he continued to work through what Delilah had left him to smoke and snort, he thought about what had happened. He'd had a good thing going with the Bluesrockers, the best thing he'd ever had. He'd felt like they had a chance at the big time, and he couldn't understand how it had all fallen apart so quickly. He alternated between fits of self-pity over his situation, and blind rage toward the person he blamed, this Damian character. It was while rummaging through a drawer that he'd come across Delilah's pistol. He looked at it oddly, wondering if he could really use it, either on himself or Damian. Or both. Marie showed up at Greg's door a little after 1 o'clock in the morning, after the club closed that Saturday night. "Greg, please, let me in," she said loudly as she banged on his door. "Please, it's Marie. I need to talk to you. It's urgent!" Greg finally shuffled to the door and Marie was momentarily taken aback when she got a look at him. He was shirtless, with a pair of dirty shorts all he was wearing. His hair was disheveled, he was filthy, his eyes were red and unfocused and it looked like he hadn't shaved in days. But what stunned Marie was the casual way he was carrying around the pistol he held in his hand. She wanted so much to go to him, to hold him, but something in his demeanor held her back. "Nice to know I've got friends," Greg said bitterly as he motioned for Marie to take a seat. "Oh, Greg, that's not it," Marie said. "This guy who took your place, Damian, he's a devil. He told the others in the band if any of them came to see you, they'd be out of the band. God, it's awful. He said he'd know, and they believe him. Everyone's terrified of him. Everyone was backstage after the show Thursday – and I'll tell you about that in a minute – and he'd gathered them together to set down the new rules. In the midst of it, a mouse scurried by. How he even knew it was there was beyond me. But he stopped everything, bent down and caught it, then crushed it with his bare hands." "And this is my problem how?" Greg slurred. "Greg, please, don't wave that pistol around like that," Marie said. "You're scaring me." She looked around and was appalled to see the beer cans and beer bottles strewn everywhere, and the open bags containing what was left of the cocaine and weed Delilah had left him, a supply that was starting to dwindle rapidly. "OK, so he's a tyrant who's cruel to small animals," Greg said dully. "What's that got to do with me?" "You've got to rescue the band, Greg," Marie said frantically. "You have to stop him. Damian's got them playing mostly headbanger stuff, and some really sick stuff too. Nobody can keep up with what he's doing, and some of the guys are threatening to quit if this keeps up." "Look, my interest in and concern for everyone at that place ended when I was dumped," Greg said. "But I will say this. One way or another, the problem of this Damian and-or the problem of Greg are going to be solved. Tonight. Somehow, that cocksucker ruined my life and he's going to pay for it. And if I can't play any more, I might as well shoot myself. Wanna see me do it?" Greg put the gun to his head, and Marie screamed, "No!" "Then I suggest you get on your pony and ride," Greg said, removing the pistol from his head. Then, just before she hurriedly reached the door, Greg called out to her; "Have a wonderful life, Marie." After she was gone, Greg shrugged his shoulders, walked to the refrigerator, pulled out another beer, popped the top and took a big gulp. In spite of his anger, Greg knew he couldn't kill anyone. It just wasn't in his nature. And besides, he thought glumly, if this Damian really was a devil of some sort, how could he kill it? He sat back down with the pistol in his hand and mulled it over. Shit, he thought, better just to end it now, put himself out of his misery. He was worthless as a guitar player – the only thing he'd ever really loved in his life – and he was worthless as a lover, as Delilah had so cruelly put it. He broke open the chamber of the revolver to see if it was fully loaded, and it was. With tears streaming down his face, he put the barrel to his head and was about to pull the trigger when he heard a loud commotion in his garage, like something – or someone – was barging around in the dark knocking over boxes and other stuff he'd had lying around. "Gads!" he heard a melodious female voice exclaim. Greg held the pistol in front of him as he walked warily toward the entrance to the garage. He opened the door carefully and called out. "Who's there?" he said, then switched on the light. He was confronted by a woman, but she didn't look like any woman he'd ever seen. She was beautiful, with golden hair that fell in curls down past her shoulders and merry-looking eyes. Then he saw she was dressed in a strange-looking white gown of some sort, a gown that in no way hid a very curvy figure. "Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in my garage?" Greg snarled. Clarissa picked her way through the tumbled-over boxes and made her way to the door. Greg was so stunned that he just let her push on past him and enter his house. "I don't think I invited you in, and you didn't answer my question," Greg said. "If you will come in, sit down, put that gun away and listen, Greg, I'll tell you everything," Clarissa said. Greg sighed and shuffled drunkenly over to where he'd been sitting. He put the pistol on the table next to the sofa, took a swig of his beer and looked over at the blonde woman, who had seated herself on one of his kitchen chairs. "OK, I'm all ears," Greg said. "By the way, how do you know my name? I'd remember meeting someone who looked like you, and I've never seen you before." "Oh, I know all about you, Greg, everything from the beginning to right now," Clarissa said. "My name is Clarissa Goodbody, AS2, and I have been assigned as your guardian angel." Greg had just taken a drink of his beer, and he spewed it out in disbelief when he heard that. "My guardian angel?" Greg said. "And what do mean, AS2?" "Angel, Second Class," she said proudly. "Wait a minute, you say you're an angel," Greg said. "Where's your halo, where are your wings?" "Oh, haloes are only reserved for the saints, which I'll never be," she said. "And I haven't earned my wings yet. That's why I'm here. I have to save you from losing your soul so I can be promoted to Angel, First Class, and get my wings." "Jesus, that bitch must have cut that blow with something," Greg muttered. "I'm hallucinating here. You say you're here to save me from losing my soul? What's that all about?" Clarissa told Greg about Manny's deal with the devil, the petition that had brought about the arrival of Damian to Clarksdale. "He's truly a minion of Lucifer," Clarissa said. "He's already murdered two girls in this area, but that's just his way of entertaining himself while he waits for you to do what he wants you to do." "Which is?" Greg said. "Kill yourself," Clarissa said. "Suicide is a mortal sin to God, because it's Man playing god, and the Good Book says, 'thou shalt have no other gods before me.' I'm not sure exactly how it works with this soul-selling business. You know, I'm not up on all the rules Lucifer has for his demons. But Joseph told me that when an innocent's soul is sold to the devil, the demon who is dispatched to take it can't actually take it. It has to be given. Once you commit suicide, you are denied the protection of God, and Lucifer is then free to take your soul." "Joseph? Who's he?" Greg asked. "You know, Joseph Joseph, from the Bible," Clarissa said. "He's the commander of the AAF, and he's a wonderful person." "Joseph. As in the coat of many colors?" Greg said incredulously. "The one and only," she said cheerfully. "And what's the AAF," he asked. "Why the Angel Armed Forces," Clarissa said. "Anyway, we've got to get you cleaned up, get you ready. We have a demon to do battle with." "We?" Greg said. "Yes, we," Clarissa said. "You have to reassert your position in your band, defeat Damian at his game, redeem yourself." "Goodbody, huh?" Greg said drunkenly. "Maybe you could start by showing me that 'good body.' Maybe you can take care of this (and he grabbed his cock hard) and get it to work again." "Oh, I don't know if that's allowed," Clarissa said. She was definitely interested in doing just that, but she had promised Joseph before she left heaven that she would keep her hands to herself and stay focused on the mission. But maybe that was exactly what was called for here. She stood up and walked to the kitchen and appeared to be in an animated conversation. "Well, Joseph, what do you think?" she whispered. "He needs his manhood restored before he can do anything else, and he needs someone to really love him. ... I promise, when I'm finished with him, I'll turn him over to Marie, better than ever. I'll make sure he sees that she's the love of his life." She turned back toward Greg and walked slowly back toward where he was seated. She stood in front of him, then reached down and pulled the hem of her formless gown up over her head and tossed it aside. She stood in front of him naked, her perfect breasts sitting high on her chest, her hips in proportion to her body, her legs slightly spread so that Greg could see the golden thatch of hair at her crotch. Greg just stared in awe. There was almost a shimmering glow about her, and her skin seemed to be covered in glitter. His mouth was dry, and his cock was stirring. Clarissa wanted to just jump on the lump of flesh she saw rising in Greg's shorts, but now was not the time. She was under orders not to do anything until he was clean and sober. She bent down and met his lips and it was like tasting ambrosia. Greg lost himself in the most sensuous pair of lips he'd ever seen. He reached up to fondle her dangling tits, but Clarissa gently slapped his hands away. "I'm going to show you just what an angel can do, but not now," she said, softly, gently. "I'm not doing anything with you until you're cleaned up, and rested. Come on, Greg, let's go to bed. You need some rest." As if in a dream, Greg let himself be led from the sofa to his bedroom. Clarissa gently laid him on his bed, then climbed in after him. She lay down next to him, spooning her body to his, holding him in her warm embrace. She gently massaged his temples, ran her soft hands over his face, and in seconds, Greg was sound asleep. As soon as Greg was fully asleep, Clarissa got up, walked to the closet and found an old dress shirt of Greg's. She put it on and walked back to the main part of the house, looked around, then set to work cleaning up. It was well past noon when Greg finally woke up. He shook his head and chuckled as he recalled the weird dream he'd had. He dreamed an angel had visited him. How absurd! He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard that same high-pitched voice from the night before. "Well, it's about time you woke up," Clarissa said. "Do you always sleep this late?" "Whuddafuck?" he mumbled as he fell back on his pillow. "I thought you were just a dream." "Oh, I'll be a dream come true in a little while," Clarissa said in a sultry voice. "How do you feel?" "Like a truck ran me over," Greg said. "But I'll feel better when I get some coffee and a little jolt of the good stuff." "You mean the drugs that woman left you," she said. "Forget that. I threw all of that out. You need a clear head and a sober body if you're to regain your manhood so you can overcome Damian. You know that stuff is no good, that it will kill you. Greg was angry at first, but then he realized she was right. He had been killing himself, killing the Bluesrockers with his sudden eagerness to get high. He shook his head in disbelief as he struggled out of bed and got the coffeepot going. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of Clarissa Goodbody. She was gorgeous, he knew that. A little ditzy, yes. But an angel? He still had his doubts. But as he drank his coffee and engaged Clarissa in conversation, it became pretty apparent that she was either what she claimed to be or a damn good actress who was seriously deranged. He listened open-mouthed as she talked about her life in Salem, and her death, then she talked about all of the previous times she'd tried to get her wings. Greg rolled his eyes when she told him about all of the times she had tried but failed to get her wings. "Great, just my luck," Greg said a little bitterly. "God sends me a guardian angel, and I get the one who's the fuck-up." "Greg, please, don't be that way," Clarissa said, her eyes filling with tears. "There are a lot of people who care about you. I care about you. I've watched your whole life go by and you have so much to offer, if we can just get past this." Then she started fiddling with the buttons on the shirt she'd borrowed, and slowly unbuttoned it, then let it fall to the floor. Greg stared at Clarissa's heavenly body, with her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing, the nipples hard and swollen with lust. He felt like he was under a spell as she slowly walked to him and gathered him in her arms. They kissed deeply, passionately, and her hands roamed all over his body. She quickly had his shorts off and could feel his cock, which was swelling by the second. Then she pulled away and turned him toward the bathroom. "Go get cleaned up, and I'll be waiting," she purred. As Greg showered, he tried to clear his head. Was Clarissa really an angel, or just another demon in disguise? As he shampooed his hair, he decided, "what the hell. She can't be any more of a devil than the last woman I had." After his shower, he returned to his bedroom to a stunning sight. Clarissa was on his bed, on her side facing him, with her legs spread, giving him a good look at her juicy box, and she was twirling one of her nipples between her thumb and forefinger. She just crooked a finger and beckoned him to join her on the bed. They came together like it was a dream, their lips touching tentatively at first, then with more and more passion. Their tongues jousted together as they lost themselves in lust, their hands roaming. Clarissa managed to get Greg on his back, then started working down his body with her tongue. She stopped to lick and nibble on his nipples, which resembled BBs. As she did, her hand curled around his throbbing cock, and she slowly stroked it up and down, in the time-honored method. She worked her mouth down his stomach, over his abdomen. She inhaled his fresh, clean scent, then slashed her tongue up the underside of his cock, lapping him like a cat laps at a bowl of cream, up, up, up, until she slid her tongue up even further, over his crown. She licked the tip of his cock, savoring the clear fluid that bubbled out of the hole. Opening her mouth wide, Clarissa slipped her lips over the head of Greg's cock and sucked him in, slowly. Down his shaft, she sank his length into her mouth, until he hit the entrance to her throat. Then she pulled back and began to work her mouth up and down, very slowly. Greg's eyes were squeezed shut from the sensations that were crackling from his cock to his brain. From a sheer technical standpoint, he thought, Delilah had been a more proficient cocksucker. But he'd often got the feeling that she was just masturbating him with her lips. Life is Wonderful Not Clarissa. She loved him with her mouth, with her hand subtly working him at the base. She looked up and stared into Greg's eyes, and a merry twinkle radiated from her eyes to his. After a few minutes, she came up for air, smiling broadly. "That's one thing I like about these times you line in. We can do this without being though of as whores if we do it," Clarissa said. "You know, that's what got me hung. I was taking Farmer Brown in my mouth when his wife caught us. She said only witches put a man's penis in their mouth, and somehow it stood up in court. The bitch." "Swing around here," Greg said. "I want to see what an angel's pussy tastes like." "My what?" Clarissa said. "You pussy, your vagina," Grag said. "You know, that wet gash between your legs that wants my cock." "Ohhhh!" she said. Clarissa eagerly swiveled her body around so that she was straddling Greg's face. Greg looked up at the dripping cunt over his face, grabbed her hips and brought her down onto his mouth. He slid his tongue up her furrow and was rewarded with a welling of moisture from her inner depths. That was all the incentive Clarissa needed to lean over Greg's body and resume sucking his cock, with a little more ardor this time. She wanted to give him every bit as much pleasure as he was giving her. Their hands gripped each other's hips as they feasted on each other like two starving people, which, in a sense, they were. Greg could feel his cum starting to boil over, and he drove his hips up into Clarissa's voracious mouth, while he tongued, kissed and sucked her squirming pussy. They were both driving hard to a mutual climax, and as much as they wanted to hold back and fuck, they were in the grips of something too strong to stop. With a muffled whimper, Clarissa arched her back as she felt the climax rush through her body, and her trembling pussy erupted over Greg's mouth. At the same moment, he threw his hips upward as he surrendered one of the king cumloads of his life into Clarissa's throat. She swallowed as much as she could, but after the first hard spurts, most of his semen ended up flowing over his shaft and down over his balls. Their bodies were twitching as the dregs of their passion washed over them. When her shuddering finally subsided, Clarissa rolled off Greg's body, but she kept her mouth close to his crotch, then leaned in and licked every drop of cum that she had failed to swallow, until he was relatively clean. Then she crawled up into his arms and they lay back in the sunny afterglow of sex. Greg was feeling a peace about life for the first time in weeks. Suddenly, everything seemed clear. His hands weren't hurting any more, and he knew he could beat Damian at his own game. And it was all because of Clarissa. She sensed his mood, and knew she had to be very careful. "Greg, you know I can't stay," she said. "When my work is done, I'll go back to heaven where I belong, and I won't be back. Once I get my wings, assuming we're successful, there will be no need for me to ever come back to earth. So. I want to enjoy what I have with you today, but I also need to prepare you for when I'm gone." "What do you mean?" Greg said. "Greg, have you ever been in love with someone, but that person didn't know it?" Clarissa said, then continued when Greg shook his head no. "Well, there is someone who loves you intensely, and you just look right through her. She worships the ground you walk on, and you can barely give her the time of day. She'll do anything to save you, but you just brush her off like she's crazy." "What are you talking about?" Greg said. "I don't understand." "Who was it that risked her life to come over here last night to check on you, dummy?" Clarissa said. "Is that making it clear enough for you?" "Marie?" Greg said. "But ..." Then he stopped and thought about it. Marie, who always had a smile and a sparkle in her eyes when he spoke to her. Marie, who had been a sounding board when he first got to Clarksdale. Marie, who had cared enough to see him at his worst because she was afraid for him. Marie, who loved him. "I, er, I've never really thought about her in those terms," Greg said. "I mean ..." And again, he stopped and he thought about Marie. She was quite pretty, with an underlying grace that enhanced what she had. She was quiet, but deep. "See what I mean?" Clarissa said, idly stroking Greg's cock. "I've looked at her life, and she's a strong woman with a lot of character. There have been a lot of ups and downs in her life, but there is strength in her that most women do not have. You may say you don't love her, but give her a chance, and I'll bet you can learn to love her the way she loves you." "But what about you, what about today," Greg said. "Oh, she's gone to her mom's in Memphis, so you won't have a chance to see her today," Clarissa said. "But tomorrow, I'll be gone, and she'll still be here." "Where are you going to go?" Greg said. "I have business to attend to tomorrow," Clarissa said. "Business that you can't be any part of. It's the down and dirty part of soul saving when a demon is involved. But I have that tomorrow. Today is ours. Now, are you going to love me or not? We have to build up our reserves before we go out to fight Damian." Greg laughed then, the best and hardest laugh he'd enjoyed since this whole thing had started. He took Clarissa in his arms and they proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon and most of the night in bed together. Despite the workout he'd gone through that day, Greg woke up refreshed on Monday. He wasn't surprised to see that his bed was empty and Clarissa was gone. He sensed that he'd see her again before she left, but that they would not repeat Sunday's fuckathon. And he didn't have time to dwell on it. He had things to do. He got out his guitar, plugged it into his small house amp and began to play, and to play like he'd never played before. He played with a joy that surpassed all understanding. After three hours, he was rejuvenated enough to leave the house and start getting the old Bluesrockers back together. Damian Porter was seated in an overstuffed leather chair behind the desk in the office in Manny Jones' house, where he was staying while he conducted his business in Clarksdale. He was resting his eyes, when he felt a disturbing presence. He opened his eyes to the sight of a good-looking blonde woman striding into the room. She was exquisitely made up, with pink lip-gloss, heavily shadowed eyes and wearing a filmy white dress that did nothing to hide the pink coloring of her unfettered breasts or the golden thatch of hair between her legs. He smiled a greeting, yet something about the woman disturbed him. "Who are you? And how did you get in here?" Damian said. "Oh, I let myself in," Clarissa said, working hard to drop her voice down several octaves from her normal pure tone. "You didn't answer my question," Damian said. "Who are you?" "Just call me Clara," she said, as she unfastened the sash to her dress. It fell to the floor in a gossamer flow. She walked up to Damian and leaned over letting her tits almost brush his face, but when he reached up to fondle them, she flitted just out of reach. "Not so fast, lover boy," Clarissa said. "Didn't your mother teach you that all things come to those who wait?" Clarissa's heart was beating 90 miles an hour, but she willed herself to be calm, to be strong. This was the critical part of the battle, and she was taking a huge risk. If he got his hands on her, got his cock in her, she would lose. But if she got her hands on him first... "They tell me you have the biggest and best cock in town," Clarissa said. "They say no woman can resist it. Is that true?" Damian's pride swelled, and it momentarily clouded his judgment. "Would you like to see it?" he said, already anticipating ravishing this delightful treat. "Oooooh! Can I?" she said. Damian grinned evilly as he unfastened and unzipped his leather jeans. His huge cock sprang out hot and hard. Clarissa's eyes widened. It was one thing to see it through God's crystal bowl, but quite another to see it in person. "Can I... Can I touch it?" she said. "Why of course," Damian said, lust flowing through his veins. "Touch it, suck it, do anything you want with it." Clarissa knelt at Damian's feet, between his spread legs, and took Damian's cock in both of her hands and held it tight. Damian's eyes were closed in reverent anticipation of the blonde's seduction, so it took him several seconds to figure out what was happening. As Clarissa held his cock and prayed, it slowly, steadily shrank in her hands, until it was the size of a gherkin, all but invisible in his forest of dark pubic hair. Then she let go of it and dashed from the room. Damian's eyes were wide with shock and rage when he saw what had happened. He looked up just in time to see the tail of Clarissa's dress as she floated out of the room. His scream of rage was positively diabolical as he realized that he had let an angel touch his dick. It was like a game of celestial tag, and the genitals were the key. Demons and angels held the power of evil or good in their sex organs. For angels, it was merely the receptacle of their power, but in demons, their power derived from the size and capability of their genitals. So in the warfare between demons and angels, whoever got their hands on the other's genitals first possessed those organs, and could do anything they wanted with them. Clarissa wanted to rob Damian of his manhood the way he had robbed Greg of his, and she had won. The noise had roused Delilah from her sex and drug-sated slumber and she stood in the doorway to the office, naked, her brunette locks tousled. "Whasamatta, baby?" she drawled. "You like to wake up the dead with that racket." Damian's pants were still open as he stood up, and Delilah saw what was left of his cock. Where a short while before there had been the cock of the ages, as far as she was concerned, now there was shriveled stump. She couldn't help it. A stoned giggle escaped her lips when she saw what Damian had buried between his legs. But the giggle died on her lips when she saw the look on Damian's face as he strode violently toward her. He backhanded her across the face, then dragged her by her hair to the bedroom she'd grown up in, with the expensive four-poster bed she'd begged Manny to buy her for Christmas when she was 15. Damian dragged her to the bed, threw her on it, then took the cover sheet and tore it into four long strips. As Delilah lay screaming in fear, he rolled her onto her stomach, then tied her to the bedposts, so she was spread-eagled. "Oh God, please don't hurt me!" she wailed, but Damian was oblivious. He found some Vaseline and an old softball bat she'd had from her younger days. He was going to show this whore that Lucifer was not to be mocked. And he did, and then some. He smeared a generous amount of the Vaseline on the end of the bat, then thrust it roughly into Delilah's pussy. Her scream of pain was otherworldly, but Damian just kept viciously pushing it back and forth, back and forth, stretching her to an obscene width and depth. Just about the time Delilah was starting to adjust to the size of the intruder in her pussy, Damian wrenched it free and pressed it to the opening to her ass. Delilah screamed bloody murder then and tried to shy away from the assault that was coming. But there was nowhere for her to go. When the end of the bat wouldn't go in her anus at first, Damian opened her up roughly, spreading her open with his fingers. Then he tried again, and this time it went in, as Delilah went through a whole songbook of terrified, painful screams. Damian fucked her ass with the bat until she finally passed out from the pain. Then he shook her awake and started the process all over again. Delilah was a shapeless mass of screamed-out flesh around 10 o'clock that night when Damian finally tired of abusing her with the bat. He untied her ankles and wrists, but if, in some dim recess of her tortured mind, Delilah thought she was going to get a respite, she was sadly mistaken. Damian's rage was still white-hot, and he'd made some contacts in town to give Delilah Jones a punishment she would never forget – or would never remember. He dragged her by her hair, stumbling and mumbling incoherently through the house and out the door. He threw her into the back seat of her car, where she lay almost comatose, then drove angrily to the black quarters, to a well-known crack house. The ride had allowed Delilah time to regain some of her awareness, and when she saw where Damian was taking her she screamed, "Nooooooo!" Over and over, as he dragged her out of the car until he brought her to the front door, she screamed hysterically. A group of hard-looking men simply stepped aside to let Damian bring his white whore into the living room of the house, where a dozen or more men sat around in a smoky haze. "I bring you a gift, from sweet Satan," Damian said. "A stuck-up whore who thinks she's too good to 'fuck niggers,' as she once put it. Use her to the fullest extent. Call as many of your friends as you can find, keep her for as long as you like. I'm finished with her." He turned and walked out the door, and the men all gave him a wide berth as he stormed out the door and drove off in Delilah's Mercedes. Then they turned their attention to the naked woman lying on the floor with an expression of utter, irrational fear on her face. A dozen men surrounded her, and they leered at her as they began to unfasten their pants. Much earlier that day, in a quiet neighborhood in Clarksdale, Marie was folding clothes on the sofa in the front room of her small apartment when she heard a knock at the door. She caught her breath when she looked through the peephole and saw Greg on the other side. "Greg!" she said as she threw the door open. "Thank God, you're OK. Come in, come in. Sorry about the clutter." Greg chuckled at Marie's definition of clutter. He'd never been to her place before, and all in all it reflected Marie's personality. It was clean as a whistle, everything was in its place, and tastefully decorated. The only clutter he could see was the small pile of freshly washed clothes on the sofa. He also took note of the nervous twinkle in her eyes when she saw him come in, the excitement in her eyes at seeing him alive and well. He wondered how he could have missed it before. As a result, he was all the more glad he'd bought a long-stemmed rose at the florist on his way over. He produced it from behind his back and offered it to her. "Marie, I owe you an apology for my behavior the other night," he said. "I was way out of line. It was just that no one had been to see me in four days, like I'd just disappeared, and I was a little bitter about it." "Well, you scared me to death," Marie said, touching him gently on the arm. "I ... worry about you." "Is that all?" Greg said. "Just worry? Or is there something else?" She stared in his eyes, and saw something she'd never seen before. Love. For her? She wasn't quite ready to believe it. "Marie, the most incredible, wonderful thing happened to me Saturday night after you left," Greg said. "I ... realized that life truly is wonderful, that the secret to life is love, true love. I thought about it yesterday. I started thinking about you, thinking about the talks we've had, about the way you look at me, the way you overcame your fear to check up on me. And I remember the look on your face when you caught me and ... that whore ... screwing backstage that night. It was like someone had just told you there was no such thing as Santa Claus. You were just ... crushed. Yet you came to see me when I needed you most." Marie was crying when Greg finished, and she couldn't help herself. She threw herself into his arms and they embraced like they never wanted to let each other go. "Oh, Greg, Greg, I prayed for this," she said weepily. "I've loved you since the first time you showed up at the club, and I was hoping and praying that you would see it. I know I'm not as pretty as some girls, not as well built as some girls or as full of zip as some girls. But ..." "Nonsense," Greg said. "You're very pretty, big tits are overrated, and your personality is just fine. Anyway, I'd like to take you to dinner. I want to know all about you. Everything. I want to touch your soul." "Let me change clothes and I'll get my things," Marie said. At dinner, Greg talked excitedly about his day. After getting his playing fingers back, he'd gone to see Steve and they had played together for about an hour. When Greg left Steve's, they had agreed that Greg would be back in the lead role for Tuesday's gig, that they would stand up to Damian, and to Manny. Marie could hardly believe that this animated, virulently alive man was the same figure of walking death she'd seen just two nights before. It was a miracle, and, she knew, an answered prayer. Some time during the evening, Marie let it slip that she'd taken piano lessons for years, and that she'd gotten to be pretty good, and that she'd sung in the choir at her church, before she strayed away from the straight and narrow. That gave Greg the germ of an idea, but he kept it to himself. He was having too much fun sharing the story of his life with Marie and learning about hers. And it was a life that had had some dead ends and wrong turns. Marie had always thought she was plain, and her shyness in high school down in South Alabama left her pretty insecure. As a sophomore, she had tried to overcome her shyness – and her difficult home life with an abusive father who drank a lot – by giving the boys what they wanted, and had ended up pregnant at 17. She'd let herself be talked into having an abortion, something she said she'd never quite forgiven herself for. Later, she'd been married for three years to a guy who was a heavy drinker, and when he started roughing her up, she'd left him and gotten a divorce. She'd moved to Clarksdale, because it was a long way from anywhere and anything she'd known before. She'd wanted a new start, and so far she'd straightened her life out in the three years she'd been there. By the time she got to that part, they were kicked back on her sofa, relaxing and listening to some old blues records. Greg had his arm around her shoulders and Marie was snuggled up against him. It felt right. Neither one said much, then Greg turned slightly, and looked her in the eyes as he slowly brought his face close to hers. The first touch of their lips together was light, tentative, but within seconds all of the pent-up passion flowed between them, and they were working their mouths together furiously, their tongues fighting for space in each other's mouth. Greg brought his hand around to pull her to him, running it up her side. It was then that Marie broke the embrace. She looked up at him with sparkling eyes, yet there was almost a sad look on her face. "Greg, please," she said. "I love you, and I want you, but not now, not tonight. It's too soon. One of the mistakes I've always made with a guy is to rush in and jump in bed with him, and then they don't respect me afterwards. I don't want that with you. I don't want to be just another piece of ass for you." Greg smiled at that, even though his hard-on was quite painful. "I promise I'll be a gentleman," he said. "But I still want to kiss you." And he did. They kissed with the ease of two people who knew their time was about to come. When he left a little while later, Greg said he'd have a surprise for Marie in the morning, and that he had some place he wanted to take her that afternoon. When Greg returned to his house, he was surprised to see Clarissa sitting quietly on the chair. She had a beatific smile on her face and she was back in her uniform. Life is Wonderful "I knew I'd see you again, but I didn't think it would be this soon," Greg said. "Oh, I'm almost done here," Clarissa said. "I just wanted you to know that you don't have anything to fear from Damian. I, uh, robbed him of his power over you. So, how did it go with Marie?" "Wonderful!" Greg said. "My only regret is that it took so long for me to figure out what she'd like. Did you know she sings and plays the piano? I'm telling you Clarissa, she's the piece we've been missing. You know, none of us can really sing. We do it because we have to. But if she's as good as I think she is, she'll be just what puts us over the top." "But do you love her?" Clarissa said. "Yeah, yeah I do," Greg said. "The longer we spent together, the better it felt. She's what I've been missing in my life. And we didn't even have sex. I think I'm going to wait until she's Mrs. Greg Baldwyn before I, uh, before I make love with her." "Before you fuck her," Clarissa corrected with a peal of laughter that sounded like a chorus of seraphim. She'd always been a little earthy, and she wasn't offended by the occasional f-bomb. "Clarissa," Greg said, suddenly a little solemn. "Thank you. I wish you could stay and we could be friends, but I know you have to go back." "Oh, you'll see me again," she said. "I'm not leaving until I'm sure Damian's been sent back to hell where he belongs. And I think you'll see me when it comes time for you to join us in heaven. I'll be keeping an eye on you when I get back. You're a good man, Greg Baldwyn, and I predict great things for you." They hugged then, before Clarissa opened the door and walked out. Greg looked back to see her leave, but she was gone from sight. Then he shut the door with a smile on his face and a tear in his eye. The next day, Greg was up early and out the door. He avoided the main drags, but otherwise didn't make an effort to hide. His first stop was to his favorite music store, where he looked at electric pianos. He knew the owner, and got him to part with a loaner for the night, and if things worked out, then they would talk in a day or so about buying one. He took the instrument to Steve's house and set it up in his garage. Steve and Lanny, the drummer, looked at him curiously when he set it up for the rehearsal they were planning for that afternoon. He was grinning inside and out when he drove by Marie's place and picked her up. She'd been dying of curiosity about this surprise he had for her since he'd brought it up the previous night. When they got to Steve's place and she saw the keyboard set up, complete with a microphone, Marie's eyes went wide. "I don't understand," she said hesitantly. "I've thought about this, and the one key thing we've been missing is a keyboard and someone who can sing, I mean sing well. You know most of these songs by heart, you've got a great voice and we need a singer. How about it?" "Oh, I don't know if I could get up on stage," Marie said. "I'd be scared to death." "Bullcrap," Steve interjected. "You know all of us, know a lot of patrons. We're all friends, and you could just think of it like fooling around with family members." "Give yourself a chance, Marie," Greg said. "We're going to rehearse this afternoon, get you comfortable with the repertoire, and give you your shot. If it doesn't work this afternoon, I won't embarrass you by asking you to come up and play tonight. But if it does, we could be onto something good." "Well ..." Marie said. "I'll give it a try." Marie sat in front of the keyboard, and it was apparent from the start that she could play and play well. She had an improvisational style of playing that complemented what Greg and Steve were doing, and when she started singing, it was in a clear alto voice that was perfect for the blues. She flubbed a few of the lyrics of some of the songs she wasn't as familiar with, but she was dead-on with other songs that the band hadn't played before. It was when they were taking a break that she started fiddling with the keyboard, playing softly, slowly. And when she started to sing, softly, almost to herself, everyone in Steve's garage stopped and stared. "It's summertime, and the livin's easy," she sang, oblivious to the effect she had on the rest of the room. "Fish are risin' and the cotton's high." Greg looked at Marie with a dumbstruck look on his face. She got through the whole first verse before she realized what she was doing, then stopped, slightly embarrassed. "Boy, still waters really do run deep," Greg said softly. "It's my favorite song," Marie said. "Somehow, it always soothes my soul when I'm feeling a little funky." "You think you could sing that on stage?" Greg said. "I guess so," Marie said. "OK, let's work that into the third set, make it a real slow showstopper," Greg said. "We're all agreed, then. We're taking this band back, doing what we do best." "What about Damian?" said Tyrell, the bass guitar player. "You haven't dealt with this guy on a one-to-one basis, man. He's got some bad mojo." "You let me worry about him," Greg said with more confidence than he felt. As it turned out, he didn't have to deal with Damian at all. Somehow, Damian had convinced himself that Greg was still a non-factor in the Bluesrockers, and he was still the leader of the band. He had plans for that night's show. He was going to take out his rage and frustration on the audience that night, show them that Lucifer was the king. But as he neared the backstage door for the night's gig, he was confronted by an apparition in white standing in the doorway. His rage boiled white-hot as he realized who it was. "YOU!!!" he screamed. "Yes, me," Clarissa said merrily. "How's your cock doing? Having fun with it?" Damian screamed in impotent rage, but Clarissa just gazed at him impassively. "This way is barred to you, by the power of Christ," she said, her voice gaining authority with each word. "You have no power over Greg Baldwin; he is out of your reach. So you can go back to hell where you belong!" And as she did, she pulled out the gold crucifix that was the symbol of angelic power and held it up where its light shone directly into Damian's eyes. He shrunk back in fear as Clarissa stood her ground, then he slunk back into the shadows and disappeared. The early crowd was fairly light, as patrons were a little wary about what they'd heard about the new Bluesrockers and the new leader. They were curious, however, when they saw the keyboard set up, wondering what to make of it. Steve Dumas led the band on stage for their first set, and started the show with the song that had been their standard opener with Greg, Little Feat's "Skin It Back," then broke into the instrumental that they used to introduce the leader. "Ladies and gentlemen," Steve Dumas announced from stage front. "The old Bluesrockers are back, better than ever. We have a couple of surprises for you tonight, and I'd like to introduce the first one at this time. Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors, brothers and sisters, let's have a fine hand for Greg Baldwyn!" The audience seemed genuinely glad to see Greg back and able to play again, and Greg quickly led the band through a searing sequence that started with "Crossroads," continued through "Roadhouse Blues," then "Jesus Just Left Chicago." As the band grooved behind him, Greg went up to the mike. "Ladies and gentlemen, I recently had an epiphany," he said. "I learned that we have had a diamond in the rough hanging around this place for three years now, and nobody knew. Well, now we do. So, tonight, we have a very special guest we'd like to bring up tonight. Marie? Please, come up and join us, would you? Ladies and gentlemen, Marie Booth on the keyboards." Marie sat her tray on the bar, took off her apron and turned to Julie, one of the other waitresses. "Can you cover for me?" she said. "I think I'm being paged." "You go, girl," Julie said, staring appreciatively in disbelief. At first, Marie just played, getting comfortable with being on stage, and it was during that part of the show that a handsome black man in his early 30s slipped quietly into the club, took a seat at the bar, ordered a drink and sat back to watch the band. There was nothing noticeable about him, which was how he wanted it. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a polo shirt, rimless glasses and his hair was cut short, but not shaved. After a couple of songs, during which Marie got her first chance to sing, he took out a small pad of paper, a pen and jotted down some notes. It was early in the band's final set that Manny pulled into the parking lot, as was typical on a Tuesday. He usually showed up late to count the gate, because he didn't trust anyone else to do it. He was already in a foul mood, because he'd been unable to locate Delilah, and there was evidence in her bedroom that had disturbed him. But his mood turned to one of shock when he heard the music that was being played and saw Greg on stage jamming like crazy. And that wasn't all. They had brought in some woman to play keyboards and sing, and when he realized who it was his rage was overflowing. That mousy waitress could not possibly be up there playing and singing. Something was wrong. He had been assured that Greg had been taken care of, that he was one push away from suicide. Suddenly, he was seized by fear. He stormed up to his upstairs office, and was relieved to see it was empty. He shut the door and locked it, then walked nervously to the bar he kept along one wall and poured himself a glass of bourbon, downed it, then poured himself another one and downed that one as well. Downstairs, the audience was reacting enthusiastically to the new Bluesrockers, and for Greg it was like watching a flower bloom before his eyes. The longer she played, the more confident Marie became. She had a quiet yet powerful stage presence, and her playing was strong. And when she sang "Summertime," you could hear a pin drop. She poured into the performance all of the frustrations she'd had in her life up to that point, and all of the joy she knew she had to look forward to. At the bar, the black man who had been taking notes nodded his head appreciatively. It had definitely been worth the effort to get there. Manny had about convinced himself that nothing was going to happen, when he heard a knock at his office door. "Who is it?" he asked fearfully. "I've got the gate, boss," he heard his doorman say. Manny unlocked the door and opened it to see Damian Porter standing there. Manny tried to shut the door quickly, but Damian flicked at it lightly and it swung open. Manny backed away as Damian entered the room, shutting the door behind him. "But, but... I thought it was ..." Manny sputtered. "Come now, Manny," Damian said. "Didn't you know that we can imitate anyone's voice to gain entrance anywhere we want? One of the little tools that Lucifer teaches you when you arrive in hell. You'll learn them all, quite soon, in fact." "Wait!" Manny squealed. "This isn't over yet. We can still get rid of Baldwyn, still salvage this." "No, Manny, WE can't," Damian said. "Someone interceded on his behalf, and that ... person ... got to him before he could take his life. I can't reach him, because he's protected now. So ..." "No, no, no!" Manny cried out, "Wait!" "You knew the deal when you made it, Manny," Damian said. "If I can't have Greg Baldwyn's soul, then I must take your's. And unlike him, I don't need for you to kill yourself for me to take your soul. That only applies to innocents like him." "Wait! Can't you wait awhile longer?" Manny said. "I'll take him out myself!" And he rummaged in a desk drawer for the pistol he kept there. "It's too late for that," Damian said. "I must return now. I have been ... incapacitated. It is imperative that I go back and regain my strength. Come, Manny, it is time." Damian swept his hand in an arc and a crevasse, with fingers of fire spilling out, seemed to open across the floor of the office. Sparks of flame spit from his fingers as he closed on Manny, then gripped him by the throat and dragged him toward the fiery opening. Manny's unholy scream was drowned out by the din from downstairs as the Bluesrockers finished their final set, to the tumultuous approval of the crowd, which had swelled impressively as word got around town of the performance. No one would ever really figure out what happened, but just about the time the band finished packing up its gear, which they did after every show, someone smelled smoke. Then Marie looked up and saw flames racing across the ceiling from the upstairs office. Fortunately, no one was injured in the blaze, other than Manny, whose charred body was found in the wreckage. But by the time the fire department arrived on the scene, the entire building was involved, and the best the firemen could do was simply prevent the fire from spreading. Greg and Marie had their arms wrapped around each other as the Bluesrockers watched the Crossroads Tavern burn to the ground. Marie was weeping, but Greg was somewhat impassive. Somehow, he knew what had happened. Just then, he saw a modestly dressed black man walk up to him. "Greg? Greg Baldwyn?" the man said. "Yeah, that's me," Greg said, holding his hand out in greeting. "My name is Tom Dixon, and I represent Checkerboard Records out of Chicago," the man said. "I've been trying to work it to come down here for six months to hear you guys, and I've got to say it was worth the wait. You were sensational." He handed Greg his business card, and Greg nodded as he looked it over quickly. "Uh, thanks," Greg said. "This was Marie's first gig with us, and I thought it went real well. She's actually been a waitress here for three years, and I just learned she can play piano and sing." "Really?" Tom said. "I'm floored. Look, I'd like to buy you all some breakfast and maybe tell you a little about our company." "Well, I can't say no to a man who wants to buy breakfast, especially after a night like this, and I'll listen to whatever you have to say," Greg said. "Any of you guys have any objection?" The smiles of his friends in the band gave him the answer he expected. As he turned to escort Marie to his car, Greg happened to look to his right. Standing at the edge of the woods was a figure in white, with golden hair. Clarissa Goodbody put her fingers to her lips and blew Greg a kiss, mouthing the word, "goodbye" as she did, and Greg blew her a kiss and saluted. When he looked back a second later, she was gone. He laughed then, loud and hearty. "What's gotten into you?" Marie said as they reached his car. "I'm just thinking about how wonderful life is," Greg said. "Wonderful, indeed. Marie, I don't know if I've told you this yet, but I love you, very much, and I'd be honored if you'd marry me." "Oh, Greg," Marie said as she buried her head in Greg's shoulder and wept tears of joy. "It truly is an answered prayer." And when they arrived at the all-night diner, a bell tinkled as they opened the door. "You know something?" Marie said. "My mama always said that every time a bell rings, it means an angel has gotten their wings. What do you think, honey?" "I think you should always listen to your mother," Greg said. Then he looked up toward heaven, winked and whispered something no one else heard in the clamor to order breakfast. "Congratulations, Clarissa, you deserve it." ------ SIX WEEKS LATER Greg and Marie stopped in front of the door to their hotel room, the honeymoon suite at the Peabody Hotel in downtown Memphis. He slipped the key card into the slot, turned the handle, threw the door open, then lifted Marie off her feet and carried her into the room. She wrapped her arms around her new husband's neck and kissed him deeply as they walked into the suite. Then Greg set her on the floor and they walked to the bar for a drink, straight soda for both of them. They toasted each other then and stared lovingly into each other's eyes. "This has been the happiest day of my life," she said softly. "You know, I never thought this would happen when I saw you with that woman that night. And, frankly, I wasn't sure I wanted you after that. But I loved you too much, and I figured you'd tire of her, or she'd tire of you." "Oh, she was such a self-centered bitch," Greg said. "You know, it's funny, though. It's like she just dropped off the planet right there around the time of the fire. I wonder what happened to her?" "I don't know, and I don't care," Marie said. At that very moment, Delilah Jones was strapped to a bed in a mental hospital outside Jackson. She was moaning and thrashing about, as she had been almost continuously for over a month, ever since she had been found wandering aimlessly along a Delta highway, naked, bruised and incredibly filthy. She was bleeding slowly from her vagina and anus, both of which were dilated to unbelievable size. She had no recollection of who she was or where she was, no identification and no one in the area had any idea who she was. The surgeons had managed to repair the damage to her body, although her colon had been perforated to the extent that she would probably have to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of her life. But the psychiatrists at the state hospital had had less success. They said it might be years before she regained her mental capacity, if she ever did. Delilah may as well have been on Mars for all anyone in the honeymoon suite at the Peabody Hotel cared. The previous six weeks had been a whirlwind. Greg had gone the next day and bought Marie an engagement ring, then they talked some more with Tom Dixon. He told them some more about Checkerboard Records, which was a successful indie label specializing in Chicago-style and Delta-style blues. They had recently signed a distribution agreement with a national company and the future looked good. The band didn't make any commitments, but they liked Tom and his easy-going style. Over the next few weeks, the band lined up some gigs elsewhere in the Delta, in Memphis and in Jackson. Their reputation as a tight, top-notch R&B band had suddenly taken off. And the more Marie played with the band, the better they got. In the midst of all of that, Marie and Greg planned an intimate little wedding in the small church Marie had been attending for most of her three years in Clarksdale. There was no question in anyone's mind about the love between them when they saw the look on Greg's face when Marie came down the aisle in her tasteful steel-gray dress, accompanied by an uncle. After the reception, they had driven leisurely up to Memphis, where they sat in the lobby bar and had a drink as they watched the daily parade of ducks that were such an attraction at that venerable hotel. And now they were at the moment they had been waiting for. They stood in the middle of the room, just looking at each other. They came together slowly, and kissed softly, sensually as they circled each other in a loving embrace. Their mouths worked languidly, their tongues picking up steam as their passion deepened. Greg reached behind Marie's back and slowly drew the zipper of her dress down, then she stepped back and shrugged the dress off her body onto the floor. She stood in front of Greg in just her black bra, skimpy black panties and thigh highs. She reached back, unhooked her bra and dropped it to the floor. She held her small breasts out with each hand, offering them to her new husband. Greg smiled as he accepted her invitation. He filled his hands with her tits, lightly kneading her flesh, then moving his fingers to roller her hard brown nipples. Marie closed her eyes and felt the sizzle of lust as worked his hands over her breasts. Greg wanted more, and he took what he wanted, bending down to kiss her precious little tips. He savored the feeling of her hard nubs as he tenderly kissed, licked and sucked her nipples.