Angel, Demons Pt. 01

There is this thing about being normal.

It is often described as the preferable way to spend our lives, telling us how to behave socially, how to prevent embarrassment, how to be accepted by the people around us.

But do we really know how it's properly done?

Are there rules, say, things written down? Oh sure, there is the law, of course, and there are the ten commandments, or whatever moral rules your religion prescribes. But they're just meant to keep our inner animal in line, aren't they?

The truth is, normalcy isn't a fixed thing -- it fluctuates.

What used to be a taboo for our parents, is shrugged off by our children. And what our grandparents found perfectly acceptable might be a horror to their offspring. In one city people act out things in public that gets them arrested somewhere else. And on one site of erotic stories subjects are banned that are easily accepted on another.

This is a story about people who don't behave normally.

We're not meant to understand them or accept what they do, nor is there a morale we're supposed to look for. It is about two people acting in ways they might not even understand themselves.

It's a struggle.

But, in the end, it is their way to find happiness.

***

Angel, demons.

A story of a girl and a woman.

***

Part One.

A girl, explained.

She didn't doubt she was what people call a slut.

There may have been times when she thought differently, but she must have been fooling herself. Some might say she came a long way, others that she fell deep, depending on their outlook.

But she knew better.

She never became a slut, she'd always been one -- she just didn't admit to it until someone pointed it out to her. That someone owned her now, she was her property. The woman enslaved her, and in doing so, she set her free.

Yes, you'd call that a contradiction.

The girl knew better.

***

Before we go on, let's visit the house where the girl was born and where she lived all her life. It was hers, as far as it was a house at all.

At night, it felt more like a huge skeleton of shadows -- the belly of a crouching dragon. It was a house to stumble through on bare feet, feeling your way into velvet darkness, sensing the cool shrouds of familiar ghosts grazing your face.

If you were her, that is.

To you the house would feel perfectly harmless -- you might not even notice the ghosts' presence at all, not even at night. Because, you see, they were entirely her ghosts, the demons of her youth.

Firstly, there was the silent ghost of her father.

It was as cold in death as he had been in life -- an ambitious immigrant who never allowed his warmth to show through his need to climb socially and be accepted in the country of his dreams. But now he was gone. And all he left behind for his youngest daughter was this skeleton of a house.

Plus, the eternal certainty that she was inadequate.

Then there was the ghost of her mother, who always knew how to behave -- outwardly. She also knew how her youngest daughter should behave. There was never a question about what the girl might have wanted, or even what she might have been able to do, or be.

The child's small fingers were trained and molded to conquer the piano during endless afternoons with cruel taskmasters who were more interested in her flirting mother anyway. They taught her how to play; she even started teaching others. But after her mother died, she never touched a key again.

Yet, the woman's ghost kept feeding her guilt of wasting a talent she never had.

Then there was that other specter, a demon really. In its own seductive way, it was more horribly evil than the other two combined. It was the ghost of her older brother, who forced his hard erection on her, making her suck it. Over time he taught her how to take it down her throat, suck it to completion and swallow its salty essence. But more than that, he taught her to like it and in the end, to take pride in it.

Sucking cock became her one redeeming quality, she knew.

Then he died in an accident.

One more ghost kept her awake at night and even haunted her during daytime. It was the only one she felt was benign; the one that kept her sane.

Maybe.

It was the ghost of her older sister, who died of cancer, leaving her in a sobbing pool of misery. Her death was the ultimate disaster. The girl always thought her sister was the only human being she could share her fears and defeats with, even the dark and embarrassing ones.

Although she never told her what she did with their brother.

The death of her sister was more than just a heart-breaking loss: she felt betrayed. It was then that she learned there must be a Power somewhere who needed to punish her at every turn of her miserable life. The memory of her sister grew into maybe the most devastating one to plague her.

It kept reminding her that no one should love her.

Ah yes...then there of course was this other presence. Not a demon, really. Not even a ghost, as its owner was still alive. But it was there and it was evil enough to cause turmoil in her mind. It was the memory of her husband, the man who once lived with her in the huge house. He made it feel less empty for a few years.

He made her feel noticed, wanted.

And his cock was the most beautiful she ever sucked.

Of course, he left her; everybody left her in the end, didn't they? Especially the ones who claimed they loved her. He slept with his secretary for more than a year before she discovered it -- how pathetically cliché.

She threw him out of the house, then fought a long and bitter struggle over divorce. Even when the curtain fell at last, she knew that she would take him back in the blink of an eye -- him and his glorious cock. But, finally, all that was left was this skeleton house and the demons that lived in it.

She loved her husband. She still loved him.

But deep down she now accepted that he could not have acted differently. Betraying her was the natural thing to do. For her, loving someone must be like nursing a futile emotion.

Eventually it would wither in the garish light of reality.

She deserved what happened to her. She did. She knew she deserved everything the world had in store for her.

And then some.

***

A woman, explicated.

"Do I need love?" she mused.

The mirror reflected her pale face as she set off a sparkling green eye with careful lines of black. Her night-dark shining hair was slicked back to reveal a porcelain brow.

She pouted, making the mirror's vanity lights gleam on dark, wet lipstick. An ironic chuckle escaped her throat as she inspected her face.

"Sure," she mumbled. "If somebody could tell me what it is."

***

Before going on, let's go back -- fifteen years, maybe, to a tree-lined street and the entrance to a looming, gothic building.

She was a slight girl.

Her hand clutched the hand of the tall man beside her. Her eyes searched his to find trust and warmth. They were sparkling emeralds, set in dark, thick lashes. They looked bigger because of her narrow face and pale complexion. The straight frame of thick, black hair added to their dramatic effect.

It made her look frail and vulnerable.

The hem of her summer's dress danced on the breeze, just for a second exposing more of her skinny leg. Her age was hard to guess. She held her gangly body in the awkward stance of adolescence, any hints of curve hidden by the way her chest sank into the hollow arch of her bony shoulders. It gave her the unconnected quality of a puppet, only held together by the steady hand of the man.

He pulled at the chain of an antique bell.

It hung beside a door that was set in the stone front of an ancient building -- cast iron adorning its polished wood. Again, he smiled at her as they heard the sound slowly die away. Her response was weak.

Her lips trembled.

"Don't worry, chérie. Everything will be fine," he said. His voice sounded rich and sympathetic. Another fleeting smile touched the girl's face, but it melted away as the big door opened. Her bony right hand fidgeted with the grip of her suitcase.

The woman in the door opening was neither old nor young.

Her waxen face showed no wrinkles, even though she smiled. And her face was about all she gave the world, being a nun dressed in black. Her head was tightly wrapped in white under a huge sailing ship of immaculate starched cotton.

After a first quick look-over, she ignored the girl and only addressed the man. She offered a pale, narrow hand and welcomed him. Even when he introduced the girl, she only glanced briefly in her direction. Then she invited the man in, telling him Mother awaited them.

The cool hall opened on a wide corridor.

It was closed on the left, but open to a lovely green garden on the right, done in the classic French style. A colonnade of pillars made a pattern of bright light and deep shadows on the floor. They walked behind the nun to the very end of the hallway. Her white hat caught the light like a lamp switching on and off.

The girl looked around.

Her eyes dashed, as she took in every detail of this strange new world that was supposed to be hers for years to come. When they passed a door that stood ajar, she saw someone move in the shadows behind. The moment was so short, that she hardly grasped what she saw.

She dismissed it at once as totally impossible.

Then they reached a room at the far back. The nun begged them to enter. It was a high vaulted, very light office with white washed walls. The tall gothic windows let in green sunlight, filtered through imposing trees.

At the center was an oak desk. It looked like a fortress.

Beside it stood a petite woman in her early fifties. Her dark eyes gleamed like chocolate pralines on either side of an almost beaklike nose. Her mouth was smiling, but in a very thin way. She was dressed as a nun, but did not wear the sail hat.

And although she looked very small and fragile, an immense force emanated from her presence.

Again, like the other woman, she did not seem to notice the girl, only the man. She nodded and addressed him with reference, as though he were her superior. Then, only after the man introduced the girl, she took notice.

"So, you are the one called comme les anges. Such a lovely name."

Her piercing eyes belied the warmth of her words. They went from the top of the girl's head down across her pale face, soft throat, chest, belly and thighs. She even walked around her.

The girl expected any moment to feel her probing fingers.

Then both man and woman walked to the side of the room. They whispered while looking over to where she stood. A strange, lost feeling came over her. But soon the man returned, smiled at her and nodded encouragingly.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

"This is where I leave you in the good care of Mère Supérieure and her sisters. I am sure they will teach you well, ma chérie.

"They shall turn you into the splendid woman we all see in you."

He turned on his heels, nodded again to the nun, and added: "I'll be back around Christmas to admire her progress."

He walked out, not even looking back.

The gaunt girl made one hesitant move to follow him or call him back. She murmured "Papa..," but somehow knew the futility of that. So, she stood idle at the center of the strange room, eyes downcast. She felt the woman stand close and heard her almost whispering voice.

"Don't be scared, little one. These will be the best years of your young life, believe me."

***

Back to a more recent time, the woman rose from her chair.

Her body passed through the vanity mirror's frame, her white throat replacing her face. A pale expanse of chest followed, her breasts only partly hidden by soft black silk. Then came her waist and flaring hips, covered and yet exposed by her filmy-thin evening gown.

Love was an emotion she often pondered, but never really understood.

It was there, surely. She'd read about it and studied it. She knew there were myriads of people who claimed to love or have loved. Girls told her how it changed their lives. Men assured her they were head over heels in love with her. Women swooned when she only gazed into their eyes.

But she never understood what they meant with this love thing; not really. And she certainly never experienced it herself.

She knew why that was; how it had come about.

She supposed she should regret how those experiences estranged her from love. But how do you regret the lack of a feeling you never felt? Should the blind regret their lack of vision? Or should they revel in the heightening it causes in their other senses?

The intensity of taste and touch, of smell and sound?

For the woman, so many other feelings substituted this fabled thing called love -- emotions that made her head spin, her heart race and her vagina drip with aroused heat.

"Lust," people called it, "it's only lust".

How wrong they were with that simple word "only".

Her lust was a many faceted diamond at the center of her existence. It was a shining jewel, so dark one moment, so brilliant the next -- like her eyes. Lust was a deceivingly simple word for a never exhausting well of inspiration.

It was an oasis of the lushest green, luring many aching hearts her way.

The woman smiled at her reflection one last time. A blood red nail touched the upturned corner of her lips. Her mind remembered the echoes of moaned whispers, of panting breaths. Whimpering groans were punctured with cruel cracks of leather whips. She remembered the wet sucking on dripping flesh, the desperate begging for release.

And she kept hearing the screams of their abandon.

Above all she remembered the quiet sobbing when all was spent. The throaty, exhausted whispers of "I love you..."

"Love," she mimed and smiled, letting her feline body escape the frame of the mirror.

***

A woman, introduced.

As she entered the lesbian club's salon, the woman wondered where most of the members she used to know might have gone -- and why. She'd been away for a year; it seemed she hardly knew anyone anymore.

What's more, she hardly recognized the place.

Walking into the huge, chandelier-lit room, she looked around with wonder. Salmon-pink curtains were drawn across tall, half-round windows that formed bays, strewn with white, silver and pink pillows. Sweet girls in pastel outfits sat on them, giggling and gossiping, while sipping their pinkish colored drinks.

The overall style was dollhouse kitsch -- white furniture on spindly legs, a ceiling lined with plaster decoration and a myriad of pink stucco roses. The room screamed "Girlie" from the pink wall-to-wall carpet to the baby-blue-and-silver striped upholstery.

The utter sweetness of it all threatened to crack the enamel on her teeth.

As she walked in, thirty-odd faces turned in her direction, the omnipresent murmuring dying down for a second.

The woman was tall, slender, and dramatically dressed.

She loved contrasts -- like the whiteness of her exposed throat and chest against the black leather of her corset. She liked its severe tightness. It pressed her back into a proud stance, and her tits into a high cleavage, while her hips flared out from a narrow waist.

Long, old fashioned gloves of black satin covered her arms, but her fingers stayed free to show the sparkle of white gold rings and the deep purple of her fingernails. Her ankle-long skirt was black. Its satiny silk showed an ever-changing shimmer as she moved around.

The woman was sure she'd be the only one wearing a corset here, tonight.

She wondered if it might even be the first genuine, laced up full-corset any of the present visitors had ever seen. Between the crystal chandeliers and the cotton candy decorations she stood out like a black panther in a hen house.

She noted the crowd's startled eyes as she led an almost naked creature on a leash. Nervous giggles broke the silence and a murmur of whisperings followed.

"Hi girls," she said, smiling as she tugged her toy along.

She didn't miss the dark, disapproving gazes, the narrow slits of their mouths. But wasn't that a big part of her reason for providing this little show? And didn't she also see the sudden blushes at their throats, imagining the stealthy glances behind her back?

The woman had mixed feelings about going to lesbian parties.

Sure, she preferred women to men. She often used to say: "I like men for what they have, but I love women for who they are."

Men catered to some of her more urgent sexual needs, but her emotions belonged to the realm of sisterhood. Still, she never felt entirely at ease at all-female parties.

"Nothing personal," she would say, smiling. "I feel just as uncomfortable at an all-male sports happening or an exclusively Roman Catholic gathering."

So, the party didn't appeal to her, but it was held in "her" club and as she intended to start visiting again, this seemed a welcome chance to put prejudice aside and get newly acquainted.

The woman introduced herself on arrival.

Most of the women were new to her. Accepting champagne from a girl who was as high-stemmed as the glass, she made polite conversation with a tall bottle-blonde. She was Australian, she said, smiling a smile of sweetest candy between nervous glances at the leashed creature crawling at the woman's feet.

She could have been American for the big hair and the cut-off denim shorts. An unbuttoned shirt was tied under her breasts, leaving her midriff bare.

"Must be high summer, down under," the woman chuckled, fixing her gaze on the studded belly button. The empty-faced response warned her that this woman's sense of humor was probably not quite the same as hers -- if even there.

"Lovely sandals!" the woman added quickly, admiring the silver wedge-heeled shoes the blonde was sporting. It was a futile peace offering, though, as the woman murmured an excuse and left.

Ah well, can't win them all, she thought.

She gave a tug at the leash and walked over to a curvy and deeply tanned brunette who wore a dark green business suit that stretched shiningly and sexily at all the intended places. Her face was pretty, although it had to struggle hard to get through generous layers of make-up.

It also seemed permanently darkened by a scowl that spoiled her amber eyes.

The woman introduced herself and missed the name she got in return. She did understand however that she should call her BB as everyone else did. Can't be because of her tits, she thought, they must be quite a bit further down the alphabet. But after her recent experience with the blonde, she refrained from making a joke about it.

BB, just like the Australian girl, didn't seem the type to appreciate it.

"I am a business woman," BB offered, stretching her five feet four by rising on tiptoes. Before the woman could respond, she explained how successful she was, traveling three weeks out of every month and beating the results of all her male colleagues, hands down.

The woman murmured a "good for you," but it didn't save her from a ten-minute explanation of activities that involved medical appliances. It sounded as impressive as it was boring.

"Are you a domme?" BB suddenly asked.

It was a question the woman hadn't expected, as it seemed rather obvious that she was. She tugged her leashed play-thing closer as a means of explanation. There was no trace of irony whatsoever in BB's eyes.

"I'd say that's obvious?" the woman said and shrugged.

"Is she your slave?" BB went on, now staring wide-eyed at the kneeling creature, her face flushed, her mouth half open. The woman yanked the blonde's face up, making it gag.