Angela's voice shook with barely restrained anguish. "Why do you do things like this to me, Roger?" It wasn't the first time he'd come home with subtle traces of another woman on him.
"Because," he said flatly, "you won't give me what I want." If he hadn't been drunk, the truth would never have escaped him.
And nothing could have hurt her more. She fled to their bedroom and locked the door. She didn't sleep. All night, she lay awake, wishing he'd come to her. Tap on the door. Whisper how sorry he was for being such a total asshole. Vow it'd never happened again.
But they'd already played that scene twice in six months, with the same results. She'd relented. He'd gone whoring.
His word, not hers. That's what he liked. Down and dirty, sloppy, nasty sex, with painted sluts. So demeaning. So degrading. How could he? And, if that's what he really wanted, why did he insist, over and over, that she was the one he truly loved?
As the eternal night drug on, her weeping subsided and her pain was slowly replaced by rage. Her questions became curses. The last of her compassion for her first live-in lover turned to seared ash.
Angela had always been slow to anger. To be honest, her wrath was so overwhelming that it frightened her. She tried her best to control it, deny it, forbid its emergence. Generally, she succeeded. But, once her volcanic rage took hold, there was no putting it out. Once she became absolutely convinced that she'd been grievously wronged, that no plausible excuse for such behavior could pardon her transgressor, her thoughts always turned to just one thing - vengeful justice.
Roger had never seen the effects of her fury, and it wasn't anything she voluntarily discussed. He knew none of her friends, hadn't met her family, so had no way of knowing the secret side of the young woman he'd lived with for nearly a year. Angela smiled cruelly. All the better. His shock would be complete.
By the time she heard him shuffling around, showering in the hall bath, making the slovenly morning noises he always made, her plan had taken shape. Bracing herself for what she had to do, she checked the mirror to make sure she looked more normal than she felt.
Her long, straight dark hair was brushed, her wooly flannel robe tied securely about her small waist. Its collar was high, chastely obscuring her heavy breasts. Its hem hung well below her knees. She rubbed at her eyes to redden them, although her sleeplessness might have been enough. Satisfied, she shyly stuck her head into the living room.
He was at the dining room table, eating his cereal, reading the paper, already suited up for work. She fought away the urge to pummel him with her tiny fists. He wasn't a big man, but he'd easily be able to protect himself from her if her attack was so obvious. Instead, she poured herself coffee.
She saw the lie forming on his lips by way of his reflection in the window. She cut it short.
"I've been thinking all night," she said with forced nervousness, still not facing him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I am too prudish."
He was taken aback, cleared his throat while he tried to assimilate her words. "It's not really that, honey. It's just that I've always had these special needs."
She nodded, hiding behind her hair. "I know. You've explained them. How strong they are. How powerless you are against them. I guess, since you can't change, I'll have to."
He lowered the paper. She could see the disbelief - and the hope - written on his face. His voice was careful. "What are you saying, Angela?"
She faced him then, but cautiously kept her eyes lowered so he couldn't see the fiery flicker in them. "That if I can't stop you from going out with those horrible women, I'll have to act like one for you."
He still couldn't believe it, of course. She steeled herself, knew that she had to give him some proof. "I want to suck your dick like they do, and swallow your come, Roger. I want you to fuck me anyway you want to." The alien words dripped from her lips like honey, tasted to her like venom.
"Oh, baby! Are you sure?"
"I won't lose you, Roger. I can't live without you. I'll do anything it takes to keep you."
He swallowed. She saw the lump rising in his slacks and knew she was winning. "So," he said thickly, "you'll wear that outfit I got you sometime? And -"
"Everything. Just like you want."
He swallowed again. "Tonight?"
"Couldn't we wait until this weekend?"
He shook his head. This time he said it as a statement, not a question. "Tonight. But, right now, I want you to do something to convince me this isn't a dream."
He was so predictable. "What, my love?"
He scooted his chair further from the table. "Come here."
It was just as she'd thought. While she worked his cock through her mouth, licking and sucking, doing it exactly the way he told her to, she wished she could bite it off. She smiled tightly around his swollen flesh. Getting him to do it himself would be so much better.
After he left for work, she headed for the bathroom to rinse her mouth. Funny. It hadn't been as bad as she'd thought. In fact, his sperm really tasted kind of pleasant. And the sense of power that had filled her as his silken yet hard penis had slipped deep into her mouth had also been totally unexpected. He'd been so helpless. Despite the fact that she was on her knees on the dining room floor, she'd really been the one in control of the situation. That awareness had brought her near the brink of orgasm herself.
She called in and took the day off from work. She was going to need hours to prepare. But, rather than looking at all the things she had to do with a selfless sense of ferocious duty, she grudgingly admitted that maybe parts of it might be fun. In fact, all day she nursed the wild energy created by the blend of her wrath and her arousal. Her long nap was filled with strange new dreams.
Everything was in place. She whispered a brief prayer that she hadn't overlooked anything, then glanced at the bedside clock. 5:08. She had maybe fifteen minutes before he slammed through the door with his prick already half-hard in anticipation. Her next glance was into the mirror in front of her.
She'd been giving herself that same disbelieving look for almost an hour as she'd worked with the unfamiliar makeup she'd found in the plastic bag that'd been part of his birthday gift to her - to himself, really. He'd tucked it on the closet shelf, with the boxed clothes he'd bought her nine months before. Wearing it, he'd said, would be the best gift she could give him. She'd hysterically refused, and he'd eventually hidden it away before stalking out of the apartment and fucking somebody who looked like he wanted.
She'd never worn makeup in her life, and had silently ridiculed women who did. Nor had she ever dreamed she'd be sporting the kind of attire stretched over her lush body. She tried to see herself as he would.
Her black hair shone in the room's afternoon light, curled over her bare shoulders and seemed to lick at the top of her breasts, which overflowed from the form-fitting satiny black minidress. Even standing, it barely reached mid-thigh, barely covered the tops of the black mesh stockings, barely covered the black elastic straps of her garter belt. Her legs seemed impossibly long. Strapped into the five-inch stiletto heels, she'd be taller than he was.
The face he'd be peering up into was just as stark a contrast to what he normally saw as was her clothing. Her lashes curved, long and thick and black, framed eyelids which seemed to droop beneath the weight of silver and grey shadow. She'd painfully plucked arched brows. She'd managed to circle her grey eyes with eyeliner without blinding herself.
"Not bad," she whispered, watching her wide, full red lips shape the words. "You make a pretty convincing slut, Angela. And you're going to act like one, too. You have to, to show him what he really wants."
She eyed herself critically. "A little more lip gloss, and you'll look like a complete whore." Her hands trembled slightly as she applied it. "Just nerves. Relax."
She used her new scarlet claws to peel the cellophane from the lightest menthol cigarettes she could find. She prayed she'd wouldn't choke. Part of what Roger had told her was that all sluts smoke because they have an oral fixation - can't get enough cock. He'd told her a lot in his efforts to persuade her, to manipulate her. And she'd learned from his words everything she needed to know. Not about what whores were actually like - but about why he really needed them.
The cigarette dizzied her, sent her blood racing through her, made the whole thing seem unreal. That couldn't be her hand down there, clutching the little white lipstick stained tube between curved red nails. Those couldn't possibly be her shapely legs, crossed so that the hem barely covered her moist little thing.
She giggled drunkenly, hit on the cigarette again, exhaled a tight plume of grey smoke from between painted lips shaped for a kiss. She kept her shoulders square, showing off the size of her breasts, their nipples soft dents in the thin fabric, just above the swooping neckline.
"Yeah. The fucker's going to really get off on this." Her thighs unconsciously rubbed together in anticipation.
He was late. Her rage rekindled. She was working on her third cigarette when his key rasped in the lock. She didn't meet him at the door, like she'd planned. During the hour she'd waited, her plan had changed.
He froze just inside the door, staring at her feverishly.
She glared daggers. "You're late, asshole. What'd you do, stop off to fuck one of your bimbos?"
He extended the bottle of wine. "I, uh . . . I thought maybe you might like . . . Jesus, Angel! You look -"
"Do I look like an angel, jerk?"
