Literotic asexstories – Fallen Angel by Nellskitchen,Nellskitchen
Note: August 2023 – Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. This story (Fallen Angel) or any portion thereof may not be reproduced without the writer’s express (written) permission.
………………………FALLEN ANGEL by Nellskitchen
̼̼ˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑˑThe Fallen are bored in Heaven and alone in hell.
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PART 1 — Mr. Six and Mr. Nine O’clock
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It is recklessness; she knows it and does it anyway. Recklessness comes naturally for some; it does for her.
It is Tuesday. It is not her favorite thing, but sometimes she does triples on Tuesday. Triples tire and confuse a girl. Clients’ likes and dislikes get lost in the shuffle, and mistakes get made. She does triples because, in a few hours, she makes enough to rest her body for a few weeks. That is the upside. There are downsides.
It is nearing eleven. She has already been with two, one at six, the other at nine. Mr. Six was routine. Mr. Nine upset her. Mr. Eleven scares her.
For an extra two hundred, she negotiated with Mr. Six. After some back and forth, she conceded the standard condom requirement. It was idiocy. For the money, she did it.
She met Mr. Nine just outside Washington Square Park. Handsome and friendly, he proved gentle and did not complain when she dribbled his cum into a tissue. Ordinarily, she did not mind swallowing. After all, handsome men have a way of making a girl want to devour them.
He did something that perturbed her, however. He wore his wedding ring. Swallowing is intimate; a married man’s sperm is his wife’s property, and guilt follows ingestion.
Oddly, his fondness for betrayal had not stopped her from daydreaming about being his wife. That delusion crashed when he groaned Marsha’s name as he came in her mouth. Since she is not Marsha, she spit into a tissue.
She knew it was his first time with an escort. Visiting the city on business, he half-tearfully admitted to missing Marsha. He even regretted his decision. By then, it was too late. He had finished in another woman, forever compromising his connection with Marsha. To make matters worse, she, a whore, was complicit. She hated herself.
So went the story of Mr. Nine O’clock, Marsha’s husband. Now it is late, and the alone girl, having slipped the desk clerk a fifty, glides past the room numbers of the carpeted, ominously silent hallway of her eleven o’clock’s swanky hotel.
She has never met him, but this particular man frightens her. Their brief phone conversation should have served as a storm warning, a dress rehearsal for trouble. Instead, and despite the call’s outrageousness, she has convinced herself to see him. Handling men is what she does; whoever he is, her skills are equal to the task.
Self-confidence aside, the tone of his call preoccupies her. A nervy sort, that very morning, he intruded on her grocery shopping and acted as if it was no big deal.
When her phone rang, she had been reading the calorie count on a plain Yoplait yogurt. Barely paying attention and intently scanning the container’s tiny print, she assumed the caller to be her girlfriend, Megan. Without thoroughly reading the screen, she unwisely picked up.
“Hey…”
“We need to meet,” he said.
Indifferently, she asked, “Who are you, Mister?”
“Who I am isn’t important,” he softly insisted. “When can I see you?”
His voice had a slight rasp; it was an attractive mannerism for some reason. His few words revealed much. His utter disregard for subtlety and laser-focused determination appealed to her.
Opting for boldness and without breaking her yogurt inspection, she half-dismissively pressured him. “I don’t do walk-ins; call my agent if you want time with me.” He’s a former professional boxer, just so ya know.” She dropped the yogurt into her basket and added, “Besides, Mister, by definition, you’re unvetted. I don’t see un-vetted guys.”
“I don’t make arrangements through other people,” he mildly scolded. “And nobody vets me, ever. I’ll make it worth your while. See me tonight. Block out two hours. It’s Tuesday. You’re busy on Tuesdays, right? You have two bookings, so fit me in after you’ve finished with them. What do you say?”
Pushing her cart forward, she picked up a carton of eggs, rolled her eyes at the price, and answered smartly. “I’d say fuck you, Mister.”
“There’s big money in it, and you can sidestep your usual agency fee. Your madam takes forty percent. In fairness, shouldn’t that money be yours?”
He knew too much. It made her nervous. How did he know? Panicky, she replied, “I’m hanging up, Mister.”
“Magdalene, wait,” he interrupted. “Promise to think it over. Give me two hours.”
He knew her name! She freaked. Taking the phone from her ear, she switched to speaker and frantically searched the screen. There was nothing. “Who are you, Mister?”
“Dress tastefully,” he said, changing the subject. “Nothing slutty; a business suit will do, powder blue, with a skirt that reaches the knee. Be ladylike. Above all, be modest; do not attract attention. There’s a prepaid gift card on its way to you; pumps bore me, so shop for black heels with straps to bind your ankles.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister,” she lied. Protectively, she added, “For your fucking information, I know all about being ladylike. Who gave you this number?”
“I got it how I got it,” he replied curtly.
“I’m hanging up. No way I’m seeing you!”
“Aren’t you curious about me?” He asked.
“Not really,” she lied again.
“Yes, you are,” he insisted. “You are totally female, a classic bad girl; you insist on knowing everything. You’re disobedient and defiant; rules mean shit to you. You crave discipline; admit it.”
“I’m not admitting squat, Mister!”
“You’re looking at this all wrong,” the man corrected. “My offer is a public service, and it’s time-sensitive. Accept it, and I’ll make you a more complete woman. It will work out for both of us, you’ll see. Say yes.”
He had to be kidding. Magdalene knew men; she dealt with her share of crazies. In her firmest voice, she replied, “You’re insane, Mister, fuck you.”
A racket shattered her defensive façade, and she turned to see a handsome, twelvish black kid balancing himself on a fast-moving skateboard. He held a phone to his ear; his sudden appearance turned the dairy aisle into a frenzied miniature of the Brooklyn Bridge at rush hour.
Coming straight at her, the grinning boarder nearly sideswiped three other customers, one of whom, an elderly woman, screeched at the sight. As he swooped by, he hurled a brown envelope into Magdalene’s shopping cart.
“Hey, kid!” she called. “Watch where you’re…”
By then, three terrified women gawked at her, and the boy vanished around the corner at the end of the aisle. Magdalene scrutinized the envelope and anxiously snarled into her phone. “You’re fucking nuts, Mister. Don’t call me anymore.” She was talking to the wall; he had hung up.
Emotionally drained, she grabbed the envelope, abandoned her cart, and fled to the street, where she tore open the wrapper. Inside were twelve crisp hundreds. Clipped to them was a prepaid Macy’s gift card and clipped to it, a note:
‘Magdalene,
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