Learning What Angie Did free porn video

Angie!  She was the girl on the college bus, the girl in the provocative skirts whose legs I wanted to lick. And though I didn't know it back then, she was the girl I would one day marry.

It took the bus thirty minutes to get to college. During the journey, hardly awake, I would listen to her sweet voice as she gossiped with Kerry Bailey, their happy tittle-tattle lapping the shore of my drowsy mind.

 Although both stunning looking girls, Angie had depths that usurped her immediate sexual draw. There was something about her that called to me, caused me to wonder about her life. She would steal glances at me, her fleeting covert gaze brimming with irresistible allure.  Little by little I came to want her — body and soul.

Soon I was getting up half an hour early to walk the half mile to her bus stop so I could spend an extra few moments being near her. I'll always remember the look in her eyes that first time I shambled up to the bus shelter where she waited alone. When she saw my approach, there was a moment of disconcerted unsureness in her eyes. And then her self-satisfied smile, a smile that said, of course! Why wouldn't he be here? I saw how in spite of herself her eyes fastened onto me, shining with bemused delight from knowing I wanted to be near her. Even so, it took me another month to pluck up the courage to ask her out, even after her coy morning smiles, her barely audible hi.

She said yes. I could not believe she had. That first date, The Wagon and Horses in town, the pub where the all the kids drank; the one with the heavy metal jukebox, the place the police would visit unannounced to pull out under-age drinkers. Forwarned of their arrival, we would kiss to hide our faces as the uniformed bobbies scanned the room.

We spent our first weeks together, those autumn evenings, lying on my single bed in a darkened room kissing long and deep as Roy Harper and Nick Drake played in the background, me breaking off every twenty minutes to turn the vinyl. Sometimes there would be silence, our kissing too intense to be interrupted — though it was no silence at all, the t.v. in the living room below rising through the floorboards, the passing traffic outside penetrating the single glazing of that time. But to me, as we kissed, the quiet of the room was absolute. Yes, just kissing, kissing, Kissing, while downstairs my parent allowed their lives to drain away, their evenings filled by Corrie, Morecambe and Wise, the News at Ten.

Angie said we had to wait until the time was right — until she was sure. We would lie together on my childhood bed and as I kissed her I would press my hips tight against hers, my erection, constant, unforgiving. One time I came in my boxers from all that kissing, all that pressing — all that waiting. Have you ever tried to hide your orgasm when in the arms of another? Later, when our sexuality became all-consuming, and we could talk about anything, she said she had no idea that I had cum that time. She had thought me merely excited, my suppressed moan of disappointment taken for pleasure.

 Until I met Angie, I thought sex something girls endured grudgingly, their allowing a boy to touch their bodies being just one more sacrifice made to further some as yet unknown feminine purpose. The war of the sexes was. As a boy, my role was to coax sexual favours from girls. It was a long fought guerilla war and I had yet to win a battle.

All that changed the first time I got my hand in her knickers. Her wetness puzzled me, the copiously viscous honey of her excitement on my fingers, her moans of pleasure, was a revelation of a female need I had never suspected. When my fingers fist slipped into her cunt, I knew the tide had turned, my first victory now in plain view.

While I fingered her she fumbled with my belt, her long nails grazing the peeping tip of my engorged cock. I was primed, an explosion heading her way. I had to hurriedly disengage, remove her hand, embarrassed at my incontinence, my copious. My underpants would be icky for hours to come. Months later when I told her what effect that first touch had brought about, she told she had thought herself incompetent, wondered what she had done wrong.

We were both sixteen and knew nothing.

By the age of seventeen, we knew loads. I had purchased a book: The A-Z of Sex. It told us everything.

We married a year later. How young eighteen seems today. How grown up we felt at the time. Back then it was what young working-class couples did. The majority of our friends were married by twenty, had jobs and homes, some had cars too. Strange as it may seem now, no one I knew had a telephone — landline that is. Mobiles were just an impossible fantasy back then. If you wanted to meet friends, you made arrangements well ahead.

We had both abandoned schooling when we were seventeen. Angie went to work as a ledger clerk in the office of Harrison and Son, the electrical cash and carry warehouse on the edge of town. She was an exceptionally bright girl, could have taken her education further, gone to university. But she didn’t. We wanted to wed, saved for a deposit, would eye furniture in the Co-op megastore in town every Saturday afternoon.

A year into our marriage she still worked at Harrison's, leaving the house at eight-thirty every morning to walk the mile to work. No matter the weather, she wore a mini-skirt and knee-length boots over ten denier sheer, flesh-hued tights, and when cooler, a short grey-blue leather coat. That particular look was just about still in fashion at the time, had not yet become the call-girl cliché it later would. Angie had the best legs I’ve ever seen on a woman, then or since, and she loved to show them off.

The summer we married, I worked as a bricklayer's labourer. A minibus would pick the subcontractor's gang up at seven every morning and take us to the site, bring us home at four-thirty in the afternoon.

There was this one time on the bus coming home. We were getting close to where they dropped me off when I spotted Angie walking up ahead, our side of the road, her back to the traffic. A couple of the guys in the van had noticed her too, their eyes captured by her short skirt, her revealed legs. Even now, forty years on, I can see her walking along, the confident steady stride of her legs, her long chestnut hair in the afternoon sunshine falling over her shoulders, and how she tossed her head every so often to clear her hair from her face.

“Oh, Jeeez! Just look at her,” said the thirty-something recently divorced guy sitting next to me as we slowly came alongside her, the bus now matching her pace in the crawl of tea-time traffic. “Can you imagine fucking someone so sweet.”

“I don’t have to imagine,”  I said.

“In your dreams."

"No. Really. That's Angie. She's my misses!"

Others had heard my boast and I was met by a fusillade of “Fuck-offs” and “In your dreams, kid.” And although it irked that they didn’t believe a girl as gorgeous as Angie was mine, I felt smug to be married to her, someone others so blatantly lusted over.

Most of those guys were in their thirties or forties. God, how they must have longed to taste some teen-pussy like Angie. The memory of her, even all these years down the line, torments me like the sight of her must have tortured those men on that May afternoon all those years ago.

I didn’t push it. Already they were leaning out of the window and propositioning her, asking if she was getting enough, beckoning her to get into the van. Most of them couldn't give a shit if she were my wife or not. Guys did crap like that back then. Women just had to suck it up.

I have to admire Angie. She just turned to face them and smiled, a twinkle of delighted satisfaction sparkling in her eyes before she turned her head away, completely unfazed as she continued on her way. In five minutes she would reach our front door.

I was already home when she got in. I told her how I had been on the bus and seen how the guys harassed her. I asked her what it was like to be heckled like that.

“It happens nearly every night,” she said. “I’m used to it.”

“But doesn’t it bother you?”

“It’d bother me if guys didn't.”

Her workplace was no refuge from male attention either. The business customers who came into her office flirted with her iniquitously and in the evening she would tell me the stuff they’d said. One time, a bloke in his fifties who ran a chain of small shops took her to one side and offered her a hundred pounds to spend the night with him. A hundred pounds was no small amount back then, more than I made in a month. When she told me this, I had half a mind to say do it, tell him yes, take his money. We both gave it considerable thought. But at the end of the day, I could not stomach the idea of her with another man.

When she tactfully declined his offer, he made like it was just a joke. I try to imagine the look on his face if she’d said yes. I’m of a similar age now as that guy was back then. Jeez! I’d love to fuck a sweet, fresh thing like Angie was when she was nineteen.

Things changed at Harrison's when James Harrison, old man Harrison’s son, took over the running of the business, Harrison senior having been cajoled into retirement by his wife on the advice of doctors after suffering a minor heart attack. James was the local boy made good, already on the way to being a wealthy man, his fortune self-made.

On the first day James took charge, Angie came home that night and told me how he had gathered the workforce together in the staff canteen and given them a prep-talk, laying out his plans to incorporate Harrison & Son into the rest of his business empire. He intended to introduce fresh lines, take things in an exciting new direction. He also went on to say that his staff would be crucial to realising his plans.

Angie seemed impressed. “He really is very charming,” she’d finally said after she’d told me all about James; the way he dressed, his charm and eloquence. From then on it was James this and James that. I got sick of hearing about James Harrison, came to despise the name.

And James took a keen interest in Angie too. He’d homed in on her the very first time he saw sat behind her desk, had immediately gone over and asked her name.

It was about a month into the new regime that James mentioned to Angie he was an amateur photographer. He caught her alone while she was making tea for the other girls, came right out and told her she was beautiful and asked if she would pose for him during her lunch break. He told her she had a certain something, a something the camera could really work with. He explained how his wife had been a model in London when younger, that they knew all the tight people.

Angie came home that evening full of herself. “James has asked me to sit for him,” she said.

"Sit for him?” I asked. I hadn’t a clue what she was going on about.

“He says I have a certain something, a something the camera will like. Do you think the camera will like me, Paul?” Then she kissed me. As we kissed, I felt an excitement coursing in her I had never felt before. The idea of being photographed by James had set her alight and our lovemaking was voracious that night. We rarely made love on weekdays after work, but just then it was as if it was her first time with me.

A few months ago I was sorting through stuff for a car boot sale and came across some of those first photos James took of her. They’d escaped the anger of our break up, and the purges of subsequent relationships.

The prints are excellent, professional, his camera obviously expensive — which really did mean costly back then. Her beautiful animal physicality breathtakingly conjured,  the camera transforming her into something more than she ever really was as my wife. James as a photographer has fashioned her, somehow revealed her unalloyed sexuality. In those shots, he has captured a girl I never came close to knowing. I now see he was a true artist, his creative eyes spotting in Angie something unique. There is glee in her eyes, a delight at the attention the lens pays her. Or was it that James conjured it, set it alive in her half-formed self, her girlish heart.

In the years after our divorce, I became grateful to have those images of Angie. Every so often I would take them out and think of those fleeting years I spent with her. Even though the prints are faded and brittle with age, her beauty remains undeniable, her love of life beaming out you from across the decades.

I have them on my desk right now as I type, those ten large glossy prints. The first shows her looking girlish, biddable. But as I go through each one, something shifts in her expression. There is a hint of darkness beneath the glint and sparkle, an inkling of the power her beauty could bring her.

James has her in various poses, still looking to-die-for gorgeous even dressed in her everyday work clothes: a simple white cotton short-sleeved summer blouses, the light grey suede mini skirt she’d once borrowed from her sister but never returned, and the strappy high-heels she must have taken along especially for the occasion, because invariably she wore boots to and from work. I couldn’t imagine her walking all that distance to Harrison’s in those tottering, outrageous shoes. Or had James supplied the footwear? They do not come to mind as a pair she would have chosen.

One image in particular appeals. He has her posed on a park bench, the shot angled, taken from low down. I reckon he would have stooped to get it just so — or even lain on the grass flat on his belly, stretched out with elbows steadying his hands as his fingers gripped the camera. Her eyes are bright and eager, her complexion fresh and girlish even in the unforgiving spring morning sunlight. Her knees are raised high, arms hugging legs, fingers entwined across kneecaps. From the angle the shot was taken, the full expanse of the underside of her thighs are revealed so that you are not quite sure if the promise of her silky, white panties beneath stretched nylon is actual.

Six months after James took over Harrison’s, Angie was promoted. As his personal assistant, her desk was in his large office. Taking on this new role boosted her confidence. Even though she had no shorthand, she was capable enough, proud of herself for landing the position. The extra money was a welcome boost to our household income.

It was about that time James began taking her to pubs and restaurants for long liquid lunches. Sometimes it would be just him and her, other times she would be eye-candy for corporate buyers.

It was during those leisurely lunches that he eventually talked her into doing more intimate photo shoots: glamour, semi-nude — quite tasteful, she reassured me. Those photo shots were only half of it.

He told her he knew people, had contacts in the press, and that he could get her image onto page three of The Sun — which could be a door into modelling. She told me all this quite openly, and I did not mind her being photographed by another man. It was the seventies, after all, an age when we pretended hang-ups were taboo. I thought it might be a new career for her. After all, James’s wife was an ex-model.

 I never did get to see those shots.

Months later, when she told me James had asked if she’d consider doing soft-porn, I have to admit I was shocked. He told her he and some friends had shot scenes with other girls, ordinary girls just like her. She said he’d sold them on to some guy in London who had contacts in the business. James explained that those girls had made good money when the footage was taken up by a distributor in the USA. He assured her they would never be shown in the U.K., no one who knew her would ever get to see her on screen. This was 1974, a few years before the VHS revolution in home entertainment, so his statement was believable at the time. The amount he said she could make made the hundred pounds the old guy had offered her for a single night between her legs seem like pocket money.

She asked me what I thought. I said no — then gave it serious consideration. The money was tempting. But In the end, I couldn’t live with the thought of her letting some stranger fuck her. She absolutely assured me she would tell James it was not for her. I was so proud that she could tell me stuff like this. It reassured me, made me think she really loved me. Like the idiot I was, I felt we had this wonderful and honest marriage. I had yet to learn what some women are capable of.

Angie was doing well, bringing home more wages than I was from my new job, continental shifts at the tyre factory. She had money to spend on clothes and spend it she did. It became a bone of contention between us, and we would argue. Looking back I realise that her making more than I did hurt my male pride. I told her I wanted to save for a bigger house, maybe have kids. But she would have none of it, was happy to blow it in boutiques at the weekend.

I should never have asked her to quit her job at Harrison's. I think that was when she took stock of her life and came to realise spending hers with me would be one of inescapable mediocrity.

 I sensed her increasing disenchantment with our marriage. I tried to rescue things, suggested we move to Cornwall. It would be a new start. She loved St. Ives, had often said how one day we might live there.

Her immediate response to my suggestion: “Are you for real? Give up all the money I make! Oh, wait a minute. Yeah! We can pay the mortgage with seashells.”

Eventually, it all came out — what she had really been up to. Our marriage was on the way to hell in a handcart and we would row constantly. Her words became murderous, intended to slay me.

I remember one particular day in May. She was already home when I arrived back from work. It sticks in my mind because when I was on an early and she didn’t usually get home until after me. I walked into our lounge and found her lying naked on the sofa while caressing her cunt. She did not open her eyes when I entered. I just stood looking down at her wondering what the hell had got into her, not even sure she knew I was there. When she opened her eyes, she smiled at me and said, “I want you to fuck me like you’ve never fucked me before.” I had never seen her so not herself. She appeared alien, driven by something I would never understand.

I did not know at the time, turns out she’d just got back from a torrid afternoon with James. She’d not yet to washed, had his dried semen in her hair, on her skin, in the comers of her mouth. She was thoroughly sullied. His lust for her adhered, contaminated the sweet-girl flesh I licked and kissed every inch of. Later that year, after she had confessed to me about this day and others, she told me how while we shagged she thought of James and how my sperm mixed with his, his fertility and abundance awash inside her.

Towards the end of our marriage, days before she left me, she told me she’d lied to me about taking James up on his offer of cash for porn, that she hadn't turned him down at all, had agreed to his proposition. Looking back, I realise this was her parting shot, the broadside she hoped would sink me. At the time I thought it just more of her cruel hyperbole, lies as nails for the coffin of our marriage.

I did not believe her. Even though I knew by then how much she loved to fuck different guys, I was sure she would never risk her family getting to see her being the slut she really was, no matter how small the risk or high the rewards. It would have broken her mother’s heart to learn about her sweet Angie, the whore.

I didn’t want to confront the truth, so I said nothing. During those last few days together the subject was never mentioned again.

But the thought of her being filmed with another man has writhed at the back of my mind for forty years. With age I came to think the worst, imagining she had done the porn shoot, just as James had wanted.

No news of Angie these least forty years, but thoughts of her began to plague me. What kick-started my mania happened one Sunday afternoon while I was hiking alone on the local moors. It was midday, and I was sat eating my packed lunch at the highest point on my route. The day was warm but not overly so. In the distance I saw a couple, male and female, walking in my direction.

Something about the girl attracted my attention. It was in the way she walked, a gait that suggested something intensely sexual. She wore pale blue jeans and russet woollen top; clothes that reminded me of those Angie wore at the weekend when out of her work things, her mini-skirt and blouses. This girl had the same built as Angie: breast large but not overly so; shapely legs in stretched denim. As they got close, I watched their progress from behind my sunglasses. For a moment I was convinced it would be her. But no, stupid! She would be in her early sixties now. I thought of a daughter, maybe one she had raised with another man.  

I considered going to greet them, show the bonhomie of a passing fellow walker, some casual chit chat, the weather, the vistas stretching out over the Chesire Plain. And then perhaps I could fish for her name, her origins. But my nerve failed and then the moment had gone. I let them pass while I coveted the sea-swell her buttocks as she sauntered away arm in arm with her fellah, finally screened by tall Hawthorne. I was left bereft.

After that fleeting encounter on the moors, my previously half-suspicions of Angie and porn was breathed new life. Angie's memory obsessed me, thoughts after thoughts luring me to the unthinkable. And then that one big thought; the one I had baulked at the foot of for so many years: that throwaway remark of hers about making a porno with James.

That moment of mistaken identity up on the moors ignited a mania. Alone in bed at night I would conjure the girl on the moors in my mind, allowing her to meld with my memory of Angie. I ran through every possible scenario that James might have lined up for Angie, but nothing I imagined could have prepared me for the reality.
 
I was a haunted man. My past life, the one I thought I’d long ago left behind, was taking on an irrational, salacious gravity. With the increasing availability of porn-streaming, I found a new purpose to fill my lonely nights. If footage did exist of Angie there was a good chance it would have found its way online. And so Angie on film became my quest, my home life become an interminable run of evenings checking out the "vintage" category of various streaming sites. Sometime it would be dawn before I found my way to bed.

It took me two months to find what I was looking for.

That night, I was wallowing in a mire of porn-fatigue and at first did not recognise her, nearly dismissed the clip, passed it over. Her face was hidden. The camera shooting from the left did not penetrate the long hair curtaining her features. Only when she brushed it aside, laughing nervously, did I recognise her.

Ice began to crack beneath my feet. To eventually discover that something that you only half-believed in is real . . . Well!  Worlds in collision, a pole reversal. It was my own personal paradigm shift, the onset of a psychological unravelling that continues to this day.

A stark white-walled room. There are no blankets on the solitary double bed, no eider-down or duvet, only a tightly stretched undersheet as white as the walls surrounding. Angie is sitting upright at the end mattress wearing her work clothes. She looks nervous, unsure. Filmed from her left, the camera unsteady as it moves closer for her a close-up, her introduction.

"Tell everyone your name, sweetheart," a male voice asks. It is James speaking. I would recognise his plum thick public school accent anywhere.

 "Meldoy," she replies.

"Well, Melody, is this your first acting role?" James asks.

"Yeah." She smiles a smile to please.

"Do you have a boyfriend, Melody?"

"Yeah."

"Does he know you're in the movie business now?"

"Yea, we talk about everything. He's cool."

"You ready to meet your co-stars?"

"Okay..."  I have never seen her so apprehensive.

Off-screen a door slams and she turns, startled. Then:

"Melody! Meet, Kev, Pete, and Craig "

She is a she-cat on heat watching the Toms gather. There is suspicion in her eyes before the camera leaves her face to travel over the heave of her breasts, down to her thighs, her fingers clutching her knees and drawing them tightly together.

Abruptly the camera leaves her and focuses on the men who will have her. And there they are, three men aged in their late thirties, one maybe early forties. They are all bare-chested, big men, one perhaps carrying a little too much weight, his paunch erotically incongruous. The other two are more muscular. None are handsome.

The camera returns to Angie. Her eyes are feral with apprehension. The hounds have found the vixen's den. I feel for her as her eyes go darting from one man to another. The camera returns to the men, their arrogant ease. Some private joke bonds them — emboldens them. She is uncomprehending, smiles unconvincingly while she fidgets and strokes her thigh. And there it is, that thing she does when nervous, the constant brushing back of her hair from her eyes. God! How young and vulnerable she looks. How beautiful she was. And then it hits me, the memory rising like a whale from an empty expanse of ocean, just how much I loved her.

One of the men walks over to her and takes her by the hand and pulls her to her feet, drawing her to him. She becomes enveloped in his arms, subsumed in his all-encompassing masculinity. They start to kiss. It is as if they are actual lovers. The other two undress. She is ready for them when they return, their cocks full of obscene need, bloated with genuine lust. No fluffer required to set the mood for the fucking of my Angie.

They pass her among themselves, each having a chance to kiss her as she stands among them. One man gathers her hair into a ponytail and uses it to pull her to face him, interrupting the kiss she was in the depths of. It is horrible to watch, to see her become cargo, passed back and forth, unloaded of her dignity by these groping stevedores. The one who now wants to kiss looks old enough to be her father. I almost expect her to reject the advance of his tongue as it appears from between his lips to taste the air, seeking traces of a young girl's coy tongue.

 But she does not hesitate, is eager to engage. I watch their two tongues dance together in plain view. Their lips hardly meet, two serpentine tips sliding into fullness from their burrows to twist and curl in the light of day. Then their coming and going, back and forth in and out of each other's mouths. And I think: no one actually kisses in such a way. This is an exhibition to titillate the viewer. She has been primed for this, knew this moment was coming, has long prepared. And I have to hand it to her, she is a star giving her all for the camera. Jeez, Angie, this is your legacy, your very own Warhol fifteen minutes captured for perpetuity.

Angie was five-seven tall. These guys all look at least six-foot, one even taller. She is lost among them, is absorbed by their muscle, caged among their limbs. Debauchery unfolds, and my heart is pounding. I feel light-headed. I empty my glass, feel the burn and rush. I reach for the bottle and refill my glass.

They handle her carelessly. Six hands roughly undoing buttons, removing her blouse and bra, her skirt. Their mouths scrabble for her breasts while shovel hands rummage between her legs. I imagine the hiss of nylon over white silken panties. The body of her tights ripped, micro mesh collapsing, shrinking in on itself, and stark flesh left gaping. The tatters of nylon hang like distressed bunting from her waist. Mouths snarl, are unrestrained in the taking of pleasure without thought of giving pleasure. Their tongues roam, take greedy sweeps, her flesh industrially trawled.

One man goes down on his knees to worship at the altar of her arse. He removes her panties and splays her haunches and presses his face forward, his tongue delving deep. And then him relaxing his hold on her so her buttock halves collapse, smothering his cheeks while his tongue presses onwards. And I imagine its secret journey, how it would circle her pucker in the secrecy of her darkness.

They lift her, toss her onto the bed. She becomes girl-meat displayed on a slab of white linen. Her skirt removed, she is nearly naked now, just her boots remain; and the threads of her tattered tights, their waist elastic a ragged girdle circumscribing her midriff.

Angie was not a delicate flower. At school, she had swum competitively for the county, was lithely muscular. But still, their combined bodies overwhelm her. She wilts before their onslaught, the blitzkrieg of their bodies. Her hands take on all the cock-flesh they throw at her. It is her last stand, a determined rearguard. She is giving her all, her head turning this way and that to find a mouth, a random passing cock. But she is caught up in currents too fierce to oppose, and so she surrenders herself to their whims, allows them to set the pace, write the script. She became carnal debris swept along in the spate of their lust.

One guy's head between her legs while the other two kiss and suck her breasts. The camera captures her face: she stares at the ceiling biting her bottom lip, eyes blank, enduring. The camera moves out. The guy who looks the older of the three, the heavier one, is now bodily between her legs, his hairy buttock rising and falling. And while he fucks her, his hips pummeling, the other two remove her boots.

Those two then flank her head, jab their cocks at her face, both still monstrously engorged. They jostle each other, each eager to get his cock between her glossed lip. They seem to reach an understanding, one standing back while she allows the other access to her mouth. But she gags as he pushes deeper than she had anticipated, her hand flying up to stem his momentum.  And all the while she sucks on him, the other man wipes the end of his cock around her flushed cheeks, across her neck, her ears, and amongst her hair, until she takes him in hand and begins ferociously wanking him.

And it carries on like this, and then each taking turns to fuck her. I count their thrusts. One guy does a hundred and withdraws, then another takes his place. Repeat, more or less. This is fucking by rota. From cunt to mouth, mouth to cunt, one man and then the next, eventually coming full circle. Her expression is stoic. Again, she endures.

They roll her on her belly and apply lotion between her butt cheeks. The dominant of the three gently massages her arse with one finger to relax her muscle, tracing circles and gently probing. One digit, two digits, three. His delving piggies have found a new home and she groans in welcome.

She is primed, muscles loosened centimetre by centimetre Now his cock sinking deep, accommodated oh-so-snugly. I imagine the clamp of her cunt muscles about him as he inches into her, pushing into her deepest recess, his oily cock reappearing briefly as he backs up to lunge before once again vanishing. Her discomfort cries out to me in every groan his tunnelling cock elicits.

When he is done, he rolls from her to allow the second man to take his place. Already breached, he enters her easily. The camera is up close and shows the cum that seeps and oozes from her as tag-team buddy squeezes his fat cock into her just vacated darkness, its length slowly devoured as if by some hungry sink-hole of flesh. I can only imagine Angie's face — the camera does not show us. Each uses her in this way, and yet in his own way. I watch as she is relentlessly sodomised, my mind impaled by the obscenity of it all.

It last fifteen minutes in all.

My memory is violated, assumptions debunked by this newly discovered visual archival material. It is a revising of history, the textbook of my youth re-written. And I am angry, angry, angry —  furious that she could allow herself to be debased so thoroughly.  And I realise this was the moment of the beginning of the end for Angie and me. And I wondered where she was now, whether she knows her moment of glory is online for all to see. And as the third man ejaculated into her rectum, I repeated to myself this isn't Angie, the girl I fell in love with on the school bus all those years ago. How could I have failed to see how James Harrington had contaminated her, poisoned her blood, infected her mind. This was not her true nature; there were no dark needs raging in her blood of the girl I married.

Her starring role lasts for forty minutes, and when they have done with her she is lies abandoned and exhausted on the bed. She can't believe it is over, sits up and looks about as if expecting others. She wipes between her legs with tissue taken from a packet she reaches from beneath the bed. The camera studies her face as she cleans herself. Her features are a landscape pillaged by some passing army. There are no tears in her eyes, but her physical discomfort is engraved there.

The Camera changes hands and James comes into view. When he approaches, her demeanour is transformed. Did you see me, Daddy? Didn’t-I-do-good?  He takes both her hands and sits beside her, kisses her softly on the lips. After they kiss, he puts his arms about her and holds her close. She clutches him as if he is her saviour.

His tenderness is fleeting, and she is soon up on her feet, her expression now bright as brass. She looks down at James as he sits looking up at her.  He's saying something to her, but it is too fleeting, the sound poor. I rewind and try to read his lips. Was it, “I love you.”? She returns to him, sits on his knee and they kiss long and deep. In my mind, she has told him she loves him. She has her back to the camera, and so I will never know for sure.

She stands again, becomes busy gathering her clothes, retrieving her leather handbag from beside the bed. She sits back down next to James, now constantly talking while rummaging, finally extracting a new packet of tights. I hear the crackle of the cellophane as she tears open the packaging.

The girl now talking is the Angie I knew and loved. I hear her inane chit-chat, that long forgotten pitch and rhythm of hers as she slips each leg into the fine mesh of new hosiery. This is an act I saw her often perform on a weekday morning as she readied herself for work. Her sweet voice would be sing-song, animated with family and workplace gossip.

Watching her engaged in this nearly forgotten, yet achingly familiar everyday personal task, a wave of heart-wrenching nostalgia overwhelms me. I long to go back to that time and become that younger me. He would be a wiser me; a me with a lifetime of experience to guide him. If I had that chance to go back I would cherish her, love her unconditionally.

And as I sat in silence and watched that footage run its course, with every iota of my being I wished I could be back in our small terraced house on the evening of the day she was filmed. I would be waiting for her to come through our front door so that I could put my arm about her and tell her how much I loved her. I would take her in my arms and kiss her softly on the lips and then tell her that I could forgive her anything.

And she would confess. And I would say, “That’s okay. I love you no matter what.” Then I’d carry her upstairs and we would make love in the small back bedroom of our home, on that old metal framed bed we never did replace.

Exhausted from our lovemaking we would lie entangled, our limbs twisted tight into an unsolvable Gordian Knot. Our moorings loosened, we would drift into the depths night together, melded in an eternal Klimt kiss.
 
The screen goes blank as tears fill my eyes.