RetributionChapter 14 Angel of Los Angeles
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The Angel Room free porn video
The Angel Room
by Aimee 2
The room is smaller than it first appears. That's because one whole wall
is mirrored. That's a bold design choice. I'm not sure how many people
really want to see themselves doing what they're doing in this room. The
air reeks of burnt cigarettes. The bed has been turned back. On the
television, a porno film: the kind with no faces, just two bald crotches
thrusting at each other, your basic pole in hole. I turn away from all
that, careful not to look in that direction again. On the other side of
the bed I see a woman in a black micro-miniskirt, a pink trimmed corset,
and pink fishnet stockings. Her hair is done in long pigtails on either
side of her small, bewildered face. That woman is me.
Cassie--that's the name she's using--is on me without preamble. She's
taller than me, a good deal heavier, wearing a short, straight, henna-
colored wig. She's got on a lot of blue eye makeup and a leather corset
with steel rings where her nipples would be if she were topless. She has
on sheer black stockings, sheer black panties, and black high heels. I
can't see anything else, I can't get a better perspective, because she's
got her face right up against mine and her tongue is already in my
mouth. Whatever she's used to cover the taste of the cigarettes she's
been smoking tastes good. I let her tongue play with mine. She sits back
on the edge of the bed and pulls me down onto her lap. I put my arms
around her soft shoulders. My eyes stay squeezed tight.
* * *
When she opened the door she stood behind it, like it was opening by
itself. Creepy. I would never have gone in the room if my husband hadn't
scoped out the situation five minutes earlier to make sure that Cassie
was on the level. He came back to the car where he had me wait to tell
me that everything looked cool. "But," he said, "I have to say, she
wasn't what I was expecting."
"What do you mean?"
"Well for one thing, she told me she was petite and she's taller than I
am. Even accounting for the heels."
We're parked on a side street across from the motor lodge. I can't tell
if the neighborhood is really as dodgy as it looks or it just that way
because the sun's gone down. Everything, as they say, looks better in
the morning. We'll be long gone from here before that. We might even go
within the next minute or two.
"Let's just say she looks nothing like the pictures she sent."
"Oh."
"I'm just warning you."
"Well I have no expectations. I mean...I've done it with all kinds of
people. I'm not expecting to get turned on by her. I'll get turned on if
you get turned on."
"That's what I'm saying. I don't know if I can. I don't feel attracted.
At all."
"It's up to you. I mean, if you're up for it. If not..."
"I could text her. Tell her to forget the whole thing."
"Whatever you want to do."
"Oh fuck it. We've come all this way. I don't want to hurt her feelings.
Let's see what happens. If it doesn't feel right we can just leave."
"Okay."
We get out of the car. I walk carefully over the broken pavement on
rope-soled platform sandals. There's a mailbox on the corner. We cross
the street, approach the dismal entrance.
"Maybe we need a safe-word," my husband suggests. "In case anything she
does makes you uncomfortable. I can get you out of there."
"So long as you're okay, I'll be okay. I can't imagine she's going to do
anything too terrible."
He holds the glass door open for me. The lobby--well, there isn't any
lobby. Just a kind of gloomy corridor. There's a glassed-in area where a
person should be waiting with a greeting to check you in, but there's no
one there. You get the feeling that's the service they provide:
discretion. Whatever you're doing there, they don't want to know about
it. They want to be able to honestly say they didn't know, they didn't
see, they didn't hear a thing if the police come around asking
questions. All they ask in return is that you don't do anything to get
yourself arrested. Just don't kill anyone. Don't die in one of the
rooms.
My husband leads me down a corridor. There's a soda machine--the
brightest, most alive thing I've seen so far--an ice machine, no pictures
on the walls, doors that look battle-scarred, the reek of a lifetime's
worth of cigarettes burnt down to the filters.
"It's this one," my husband says, standing in front of a door like any
other. If there's a number I don't see it.
He knocks.
I don't know that I could've done it myself.
* * *
"I'm sorry," he says, starting the car.
I shrug. "It's okay. It wasn't so bad. I didn't mind."
"I just couldn't get into it. I tried. I got on the bed. I touched her
legs. I tried to get into watching the two of you kissing. Nothing was
working. It just wasn't happening."
"Well there was no sense in forcing it. If it wasn't good for you."
"I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but it is what it is."
"I thought it was courageous of you, actually, to put an end to it. You
can't just go having sex with people because you feel bad for them. I
would, I've done that, but that's me. I'm lucky I never got myself
killed or sick with some horrible disease. You did the right thing. I
wish I were able to do it."
"I gave her half the money for the room. I felt bad, but what could I
do? She wasn't what I expected. She completely misrepresented herself. I
don't know why people do that. You're going to find out sooner or later.
She said she would suck me off and then I could fuck her in the ass like
a slut. She had these photos of herself being fucked."
"So I guess I was just the appetizer. You were the main event."
I say this lightly, jokingly, but the truth is I'm getting a clearer
picture of what we were doing here. He had sold this rendezvous to me as
a chance to have a sissy girlfriend. Of course, I knew that wasn't all
there was to it. But I'm beginning to realize I was an afterthought all
along as far as Cassie was concerned.
He says, "I didn't think you seemed like you were all that into it. Were
you?"
"I would only have been into it if it were turning you on. Later, I
might have gotten excited, thinking back on it. But my main reason to do
it was that I thought it was something that would excite you to see. If
not, there was no point in it for me."
"Well she seemed turned on by you. You must have liked that."
"Yes. That was nice. I did like that. But it wasn't like I was going to
orgasm from it or anything. I can have sex with anyone. It doesn't
matter. I just like to please them. That's what I get off on"
"I know. It turns you on to feel desired."
"Yes it does. I'm a people-pleaser. I have to be careful because of
that."
"Anyway, it was an experience, even if it didn't quite work out like
planned. Better to try something and decide you didn't like it than go
to your grave regretting you never tried it at all."
"So long as you don't get shot or robbed or raped or something like
that. Any experience you can walk away from unharmed is a good one,
that's what I always figure. That's always been my philosophy."
"I started wondering how many people she's been with. You never know. I
didn't see any condoms around. She seems pretty promiscuous from what
she wrote. From the photos she sent of herself getting fucked. If it
even was her. Anyway, it wasn't worth the risk. You're too important to
me."
"Especially if you're not enjoying it. Then it's definitely not worth
the risk. Well, I wouldn't have let her fuck me or anything. But if you
were going to fuck her..."
"I would have used a condom of course."
"Yes, I hope so. I don't really think...from what I understand
anyway...that you can get AIDS or HIV from oral sex. Other things, I
guess you can get. I don't know."
"It would be hard to get AIDS from oral. A lot of things would have to
line up just right. You'd have to have some really bad luck. Anyway,
like I said, it wasn't worth it."
"No, it wasn't.
I turn my head and frown at the street flashing passed the window. The
auto body shops, the grimy brick walls, the graffiti, the dark cars, the
spindly trees, the fire hydrants--all of it looking abandoned by people
who might have vanished into thin air. The man at the wheel who I call
my husband is a stranger like every person is a stranger. The closer you
get the more space there is between the atoms that hold us together. He
could have snuck down here alone to be disappointed or, if it turned out
the way he imagined, to fuck Cassie's lights out. He's telling me the
truth because he has no idea that I'm hurt by what he's telling me. I'm
imagining him scanning Craigslist ads looking for other girls,
exchanging emails, pictures, fantasies. If I let on how hurt I am, he'll
know enough next time not to include me in his fantasies. This hurt I
feel is the price you pay for honesty, for being part of the solution to
your partner's inevitable restlessness. And if I'm honest, don't I feel
something of the same thing he feels? Don't we all? We can hurtle
towards each other and pass right through there is so much empty space
between the particles that make us who and what we are. There is so much
emptiness inside us that we can pass right through each other even at
the most intimate moments.
* * *
She puts her hand on my tittie. So I put my hand on her tittie. Her hand
is between my thighs, my hand is between hers. I've learned to mirror
other people in bed. They usually are doing to you what they want done
to themselves. They are using you like a map to guide you to where they
live. Her hand is on my ass; my hand is on hers.
* * *
Later, when we get home, we have cake and chocolate ice cream at the
kitchen table together. It's the part of the evening I've been looking
forward to the most. I have an extra half-helping as a reward. I figure
I earned it. I wash out the bowls and spoons. Then I sit on the floor
and brush the cat who's been waiting patiently for us to get home, to
resume the normal routine. She sniffs deeply and inquiringly at my
fishnet stockings. She looks at me with her ancient eyes. I don't doubt
for a second that she knows what I've been up to--a cat's version of it,
anyway--and that she's deeply disappointed with me.
* * *
I'm lying curled on the bed, face to face with Cassie. She's rubbing at
the back of my head, pulling me towards her invasive kissing, pulling at
my pigtails as if she's trying to pull them off, which, of everything
going on, is the one thing that's really annoying me. Does she think I'm
wearing a wig, too? Her crotch feels damp, but otherwise soft. She turns
to my husband momentarily, reaches towards him and says "I'm sorry, but
she's just so hot." Then she starts kissing me again. Where is this
going, I wonder. Should I go down on her? It feels like we can keep
doing what we're doing forever. At a certain point, I sense my husband
moving around in the room. Cassie's computer, open on the table beside
an ash tray littered with cigarette butts and a couple of cans of some
kind of ghetto alcoholic beverage, pings with incoming email messages. I
sense my husband pulling on his pants.
"Cassie," he says at some point, "I'm sorry. I tried. But this just
isn't working for me."
* * *
Upstairs, in bed, I uncharacteristically ask my husband for a few hits
from his joint to unwind. My insides are racing; I'm never going to be
able to get to sleep. He inhales, holds it, then blows the smoke into my
face, which I do my best to take into my own lungs without going into my
usual coughing fit. I fail, start coughing hysterically. I've changed
into a black velvet nightie trimmed in pink satin. I'm still wearing the
pink fishnets. I haven't showered. I can still smell the cigarette smoke
in my hair, a faint trace of whatever perfume Cassie was wearing. I
brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth out with mouthwash but I can still
taste the taste of her tongue in my mouth. I feel terrible that we left
the way we did.
* * *
"What's the matter," she asked, sitting up, looking confused. My husband
standing there with three twenty dollar bills in his hand.
I'm trying to pick one of Cassie's cheap bangle bracelets out of my
fishnet stockings. It's come right off her wrist and attached itself to
me, like some kind of metallic parasite in a sci-fi film, leeching off
my inner thigh. It seems devilishly complicated the way it's gotten
itself tangled.
My husband apologizes again. I'm looking down, working at the bracelet,
"it doesn't want to leave me," I say, trying to make a joke of it all,
not looking at anyone, not wanting to see anything of the uncomfortable
scene unfolding. I finally get the bracelet free and hand it to Cassie.
My husband hands me my shoes. I find my glasses on the table and
struggle into my coat. I apologize to Cassie. She works her way around
my husband and gives me a hug and a kiss. I kiss her back. I have the
sudden urge to give her my email address and tell her to write if she'd
like but I don't because I almost just as suddenly think "what the hell
would she want to write to me about anyway?" This whole thing was about
getting fucked and she didn't even want to fuck me. She wanted my
husband to fuck her. She mutters something in my ear like she's trying
to give me a secret message out of my husband's hearing but the only
thing I can make out is "so hot." My vision seems to be scoping in and
out, mostly out. I can only see two inches in front of me at any given
time.
My husband is now holding the door to the room open. "Good bye," I'm
saying, "good bye."
* * *
Did I leave her smell on me purposely to punish myself? To punish my
husband? To somehow avenge Cassie? Or do I want to bring her to bed with
us, after all, in some symbolic way. I imagine her alone right now in
that horrible motor lodge, feeling even crappier than I do, rejected,
smoking a cigarette on that stale bed, watching that awful porn,
explicit as open heart surgery, her life projected back at her from the
mirrored wall. Knock it off. She probably dressed and split shortly
after we did. She's probably done this so many times she's hardened
herself to a percentage of no-shows and no-gos. It comes with the
territory.
"Maybe she called up someone else to come over to play," my husband
suggested earlier on the drive home to make us both feel better. "That
computer of hers was pinging with incoming messages."
I remind myself that she would probably have had no trouble fucking my
husband behind my back. She wouldn't have given it a second-thought.
She wouldn't have felt sorry for me. Screw her. To my surprise, not even
this works. I feel awful.
* * *
My husband slips into bed beside me. He's horny. The evening has left
him frustrated and uneasy, guilty and embarrassed. He doesn't know what
I'm really thinking about it all and that's probably just as well. He
wants reassurance that everything is still okay between us and up to now
I've done my best to give it to him, but now I'm exhausted. Now I need
some time to think it all through on my own. The pot, as it often does,
has made him somewhat paranoid. He's overly sensitive to my silence. He
kisses me with an uncharacteristic sloppiness, an uncharacteristic
roughness. He's pushing so hard against my head it's hurting the
vertebrae in my neck.
I don't want to complain. The pot also makes him sensitive to criticism
or, more accurately, the most innocuous comment that he perceives as
criticism, and after what happened tonight I'm afraid he's already
feeling overly sensitive to any nuance of complaint, even those that
aren't there. I subtly move my head back on the pillow, which causes our
lips to disengage for a moment.
"You're so quiet tonight," he says.
"We were just kissing. It's hard to talk when you're kissing."
"Not just then, smarty-pants. Is anything wrong?"
"Just, you know, unwinding."
"Unwinding," he echoes. Silence. Then "You'd tell me if there was
anything wrong."
"Sure. Of course."
I kiss him again. A little neck pain is better than feeling the
pressure of having to go on with this treacherous conversation or trying
to make some kind of small talk. Any talk at all. I don't want to talk.
I've had enough talk. I just want to suck his cock and go to sleep. I
just want to lie in the dark and think about what happened, what it
means, if it means anything.
I reach under the sheets and find his cock. His underwear is damp with
sweat and precum. His cock half-hard, bony, like if you cracked a
vulture's egg and found a vulture chick inside. He reaches down to push
my hand aside and release it and I take it in my hand again, this time
naked. I work my way down to his waist. I lick his balls, lick up the
shaft, and his cock hardens, stretches upward, bumps my nose. I open my
mouth and close my lips around the engorged head. I slowly work my way
down the shaft until I've swallowed it all, until my throat constricts
involuntarily, like a vaginal wall. I leave my fingers at the base in a
kind of cock ring. I move my head up and down, followed by the ring of
my fingers. It's like playing a musical instrument.
He doesn't want to cum just yet. He wants to make it last. He grabs my
hair, which I've now got in a long bedtime ponytail, and pulls it off
his cock.
"If it had worked out," he says, "I pictured you both sucking my cock. I
would like that. One of you would do the balls and the other would do
the cock. Then you'd change places. When I came, whoever got my cum
would kiss the other one and give some to her. You'd have to share.
You'd have to resist the urge to swallow. Do you think you could do
that, you slut?"
"Yes."
"I pictured you sucking me off, or you both sucking me off. Then I would
have fucked her in the ass."
"Mmmm..."
"I pictured someone more feminine. Someone daintier. More petite."
"I know."
"Maybe next time we should try a woman...a born woman...someone mature.
I mean, in her forties, adult. You can do lesbo stuff with her and I can
watch and then I can fuck her."
"Maybe."
I feel the sadness crack open inside me. Is that what this is really
about? Does he want a woman? Is he dissatisfied with me, even though
this is the way he insisted that he wanted me; it's something we've
discussed. I'd go for the surgery in a heartbeat if that's what he
wanted. I'm of two-minds about it but he could tip the balance. He could
unify my mind. But he doesn't want me to have the surgery.
"I like you the way you are already," he insists. "You're unique this
way. Why should you have society dictate to you how your body should
look? As far as I'm concerned, you're a woman already."
Three years ago, going for a consultation, the surgeon herself told me
that some guys are like my husband.
"They get off on it--the she-male thing."
She was implying...what? That they wanted you to remain a sex-fetish
object. I didn't mind at the time. I still don't. Besides, why should I
conform to the expectations of society? Why should there be just two
sexes?
"You have to decide for yourself," she advised.
Decide for yourself. Easy for you to say. Easy for everyone to say, I
thought.
"Good luck finding a woman to join us," I'm thinking as my husband
continues to tell me what he would do with this other woman, but I don't
say it. I just want to get his cock back into my mouth as quickly as
possible; that is the easiest way not to have to say anything without
seeming as if anything is bothering me. So this is what he does upstairs
after breakfast, I'm thinking, he cruises the online sex ads, emails
other girls. It's not the end of the world, it's no big deal, I
suspected as much, I look at online porn, too, post pictures of myself,
so what, but somehow it hurts to know he's doing it, that he's taken it
as far as he has, but I suppose I should be grateful he included me,
took me along for the ride. If I want him to continue to trust me, I
can't show a crack in my compliant facade.
He falls silent for a moment like he's switching between fantasies and
then he unexpected says "I can't have all the dirty thoughts myself. I
need some help."
"Oh I think you can handle the job just fine."
I try to scrub off any trace of sarcasm in my voice. I mean it as a
goodnatured joke. I'm careful to add a laugh so there's no
misinterpretation.
"I know. I'm good at it. Still, I'd like to hear what you'd like to do
sometimes. What adventures...if there's anything you ever want to
do...all you have to do is tell me."
"I know."
"Well?"
"I don't know."
"There's nothing you fantasize about doing?"
"I don't know," I repeat. "I'm okay with what we do. I mean, I have
fantasies about...oh I don't know. Like maybe you tell me to suck off a
guy in front of you."
"Is that what you'd like?" he says, with the frustrating literalness
that comes when he smokes pot.
"I'd get into it, if you did. If it turned you on. That's what I'm
trying to say. I like to do things that turn you on."
"But what turns you on?"
He sounds frustrated, close to getting angry. He isn't getting it. How
can I make him understand? I just want to suck his cock. I just want him
to do with me whatever he wants to do, whatever gets him off. Why is
that so hard to get across? I just want to be an Angel of Fuck. A Fuck
Angel, yes, that's it. He wants me to implicate myself by admitting that
I'm as dissatisfied as he is, that I want something more. I want to
shout up to him, "For crissakes, what other woman would put up with what
I put up with tonight? What other woman would allow herself to be
dragged across the city to a hot sheets murder lodge to meet some
stranger you met online that you wanted to fuck and have me make out
with her while you watched and when it didn't work out because you
weren't attracted enough to get a hard-on you drive me home and have me
give you a blow job because you're all backed up and on top of it all
you want me to entertain you with dirty fantasies? Name me one other
woman on the face of the earth that you think you could get away with
being treated like this! Please no more questions, okay? I don't want to
talk. I just want to suck your cock!"
I don't say anything, of course. Because to say anything would be a
mistake, a mistake any other woman would make and I can't afford to be
just any other woman. So I say nothing and eventually he obliges me. He
puts his cock in my mouth.
* * *
The oddest thing is that the next day neither one of us will bring up
the subject of Cassie at all.
* * *
He holds me afterwards, both of us silent for a long time, then he tells
me how he'd like to bring me to an adult movie theater. I can give him a
blow job in front of whoever wants to watch. Maybe some of the other
guys will take out their cocks and masturbate over me. Cover me with
cum. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, you little slut?"
"Yes."
He goes on like this for a while, touching me here and there. I don't
want to have an orgasm, I'm just not in the mood to be shaken apart like
that, not tonight, but I know I should, just to be companionable, to
avert his suspicion that something is wrong. I should have an orgasm to
keep the peace. I should have one for his sake. Bizarre, isn't it? As
his skilled fingers inevitably bring me closer and closer, I close my
eyes. There's no way I can tell him what I'm thinking, the fantasies
that really turn me on. What I would like to happen to me--in real life,
we could never make it happen. What I imagine is an orgasm I won't
survive.
Except if I were a Fuck Angel.
As a Fuck Angel I could survive anything I could rise from my broken
body. I could be resurrected again and again and again from the wreckage
of my mortal remains. I could survive anyone's fantasies. Even the
worst.
Even my own.
I want to be a Fuck Angel.
* * *
If she had wanted, I'd have gone down on her. I'd have given her an
orgasm. I'd have been her friend, I'd have seen her again. I didn't find
her attractive or unattractive. After a time, everyone's tongue tastes
the same in your mouth, everyone's cock. She was just a person, a person
who seemed to desire me and that's all I ever needed to have sex with
someone. Why is that? Who taught me that? I have theories but I can't
impugn anyone based on just theories. The truth is that I can't
remember. There is so much missing time. The truth is that I don't think
I'll ever know. I wasn't present for an entire third of my life.
* * *
I have an orgasm and with it finally everything is back to normal as far
as he's concerned. Maybe he's right. Maybe it is. What is normal,
anyway? Is this normal? The weirdest thing of all is to think this is
normal. But it is. It's as close to normal as I get.
Beside me, he falls into a deep sleep, his breathing regular and even.
I lie awake staring up at the ceiling.
I would have liked to have been your friend Cassie. I would have liked
to have made your fantasies come true, at least for one sordid night.
If it were up to me, I would have stayed in that horrible antechamber of
hell we were all calling a motel room until you came--or until you gave
up trying. I wouldn't have given up first. Never. That much I know. You
never told me what they were, your fantasies, your hopes, your dreams.
You told my husband instead, but I don't think I was any part of what
you wanted. At least not before tonight. And maybe not even tonight.
And, anyway, now it's too late.
I know this much: there was a fleeting look between us at the door. Like
two people seeing each other through windows on trains leaving the
station going in opposite directions. I thought I recognized something
in that look I don't want to name, not that I could, or that I even want
think too much about.
Maybe I misinterpreted it like I've misinterpreted so much else in my
life.
I sure hope so.
I know this much: I'm not sure of anything.
For more of my writing & art please see my blog: Sissypop!
sissyforlife.blogspot.com
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