Finally, Angela stepped back. “Don’t move!” she told him, before speaking for the camera. “My inspection is completed. A foreign object appears to be concealed near the subject’s genital area.” She looked distastefully at his tenting crotch. “Lloyd?”
I had to let up on the pressure to talk, but I’d already worked out what I was going to say, which made things easier. “Sir, our policies strictly prohibit invasive searches by members of the opposite sex. Therefore, I am going to remove the object you have concealed in your pants.”
I walked over to him, a little unsteadily, then brusquely pulled out his waistband with one hand, reached in to grab the plastic packaging with the other, and pushed as I withdrew it. I didn’t quite have the socks clear before the punk exploded all over the inside of his pants. He jerked like I’d sucker-punched him, but the recording would make it clear neither of us had done anything of the kind.
“Angela, can you escort this gentleman off the premises?” I needed to catch my breath.
“Certainly,” she replied with crisp enthusiasm. “Further, as an attempted shoplifter” — the bag looked like it might not be suitable for returning to inventory — “you are no longer welcome in this establishment. Please do not return.” She marched him out while he was still poking ineffectually at his pants.
“Lloyd, what the hell was that?” Angela asked when she returned a few minutes later.
By then I was up to having a conversation, or at least avoiding one. “I guess you’re just too hot to handle, Angela! Hell, if I were his age, I’d probably have that problem too. No offense intended, of course.”
“None taken, of course,” she rejoined, looking unsatisfied. “Should I feel offended that towards the end I think he was paying more attention to you than me?”
“Probably just worrying that I’d clock him if he got frisky,” I quipped.
“Now I am offended,” Angela said with a smile. “You think I can’t take care of myself? You looked like you were getting winded just holding up the wall, Grandpa; everything all right?”
“Oh, fine; just not a spry as I used to be.” I pushed myself back to my feet. “Let’s get back to making the world safe for retail therapy, shall we?”
With luck, we’d never see sock-boy again. If I’d done the job right, he’d be too interested in getting felt up by other men to bother coming around here. I told myself it was good for the store, and good for Angela, and tried to put it all behind me.
The activity made it easy to do; maybe the official holiday shopping season hadn’t started yet, but the decorations and holiday displays were up, and foot traffic was heavier than usual. We circulated randomly, and I dispensed a few light I hate shoplifting pushes at people that looked problematic.
I hadn’t done a big push like that in a while, and I guess my adrenaline was still going, because I was a little wild that afternoon. Angela got a line on a girl we suspected of being a serial shoplifter; clever enough to never get caught, but always seeming to come out of the changing rooms with less than she went in carrying. While Angela was conducting an on-the-spot search, I pressed my back to the other side of the partition, located the static of the unfamiliar mind, and pushed it makes me hot to leave my clothing in dressing rooms.
Angela subsequently reported she hadn’t found anything incriminating, but that the girl “was weird” without providing any details. I kicked myself, wondering why I’d passed on the usual reinforcement and wondering if the girl would actually stop stealing or just start trading outfits. Well, spilt milk.
The most exciting moment, for bystanders, came mid-afternoon. A guy at the watch counter tried a snatch and dash, with Angela in hot pursuit. In the open, she probably would have caught him; in the store, the gawkers stirred up by his passage got in her way and she was losing ground.
He was at the limit of my range when I pushed a frantic I love to taunt people but couldn’t feel if it had any effect. Whether it was me or karma, he turned to look back at Angela and ran right into a newly-emplaced Christmas tree inside the store entrance. A gun I hadn’t realized he had went skidding away, and my heart missed a beat — what if he’d shot her?
Angela was on top of him before he could regain his footing, and it was all over after that. She had him on the ground and cuffed before I could even get there. My contribution was to collect the watch and gun before somebody else could. The onlookers applauded as she jerked him to his feet and we marched him back to our holding room to wait for the real cops to take him off our hands.
I tried to apologize, although I wasn’t sure for what exactly, but Angela cut me off and told me she knew I wouldn’t let her get hurt. It felt nice, if unrealistic. I’d already hurt her worse than she’d ever know.
Dinner was reassuringly normal. I gulped a couple aspirin for my headache, and flipped through another chapter of “Advanced Topics in Supply Chain Management” while I waited for the microwave to heat one of those allegedly healthy freezer meals, and then absent-mindedly consumed it.
After that, I sacked out in my recliner and listened to the classical station for half an hour or so while I just let my mind drift. Then it was time to get dressed for my night job. Ironically, although the surroundings were seedier than my day job, the dress code was much classier. The commute was better, too; I walked downstairs and the car was waiting as usual.
It whisked me, with only desultory conversation, to an uninhabited alley. I let myself in the back door, nodded to the staff in sight, and headed up to my office. If I’d gone in the front door, I would have had to navigate velvet ropes and bouncers to pass under a sign reading “HOME RUN — Home of the Grand Slam Girls.”
My office door boasted a small sign that read, “LP.” It amused Danny, the owner, to use the same term the store did — “loss prevention” — even if the merchandise was different. I was already getting hard in anticipation as I opened the door and walked into the office, closing it again behind me.
“Boss,” she greeted me, rising from the expensive chair. “Angel,” I replied. The body was the same, and the perfume, but nothing else. She was my greatest creation, my worst failure, the fairest fruit of my gift, and a stark warning of its corrosive effect, all rolled into one sultry package.
Like a modern-day Jekyll and Hyde, two personalities inhabited the body before me, each ignorant of the other. Angela had a body built for sex; Angel frankly invited it. Angela was my partner; Angel my depraved toy. She stalked across the office to me, displaying herself for my enjoyment.
There was a lot to enjoy. Dark hair cascaded across one shoulder to fall just short of her breasts. As I watched she brushed it back with one hand to present herself, parting lips painted a deep ruby red to reveal a flash of white teeth and pink tongue. Her breasts, high, firm and beautifully shaped, rode exposed atop the ribbed bustier she’d chosen to wear this evening. The nipples capping them were rigidly erect and dark with rouge.
Angel’s hands drifted to her hips and plucked the ties of her string bikini, letting it fall to the floor. It revealed a bare sex swollen and dripping with desire. She swayed close to me, limbs covered with opera gloves and dark lace stockings, balancing gracefully on the five-inch heels that enhanced her blood-boiling gait.
“Fuck me,” she breathed in a husky voice that couldn’t be mistaken for her alter ego’s business-like soprano. I unzipped my fly, but she batted my hands aside and finished unfastening my trousers. Squatting gracefully, she inhaled my rigid organ until her nose was nestled in my wiry hair.
My balls churned and I shuddered with need, but she knew my body nearly as well as I did. She rose again and pulled me toward the desk, which not coincidentally was cleared. She leaned back against it, and the slight spreading of her legs and the molten urgency in her dark eyes was all the invitation I needed. I sheathed myself in her welcoming depths, both of us gasping with the intensity of the sensation.
I hissed, “Fucking slut,” through my teeth as I withdrew slightly and forced myself into her again.
“I’ll always be your slut,” she sighed, her eyelids heavy with desire. I knew I’d go to Hell for what I’d done to her, but at the moment there was nothing the Devil could tempt me with that would outdo my Angel. I shot my load inside her, and she climaxed too, as she always did. She milked my rapidly deflating organ with her muscles, and then pushed me away so she could kneel and clean me with her kitten tongue.
While she worked, I stroked her hair gently and carefully laid my latest reading assignment into the baroque tangle of sparks that was her mind. Angela would wake with memories of another lecture. I actually was qualified to teach this subject, and most of the others Angela had “taken” over the past two years; it was the least I could do for her.
Our mutual tasks accomplished, we dressed ourselves. Angel didn’t bother to clean herself before tying on her panties and checking her garters and stockings were straight. Call me petty, but it was another unexpected twist to our strange arrangement.
A hint to other seventy-plus-year-old would-be perverts: do not acquire companions whose sex drives significantly exceed your own capabilities. I could play a few games with my own mind, but my body just was not physically up to the challenge of orgasming more than once a night. Angel lived for sex and needed multiple climaxes a night to be happy; unfortunately my conceit of tying her orgasms to her partner’s necessarily meant she was a party girl.
She fit right in at Home Run. A natural Grand Slam Girl — “you get all the way to home base, and so do your friends!” — Danny usually had her booked well in advance. I wasn’t the jealous type, mostly, as long as I made sure all the other guys got sloppy seconds. I kept an eye on her, and knowing she was taking all those other loads solely because I wanted her to pandered to my baser instincts.
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