Lloyds Angel Ch 09

Lloyd's Angel: Saving Glory

November 2010

Thanks, Danny.

It was one of the "the merchandise has left the store" sort of problems. One of the girls hadn't come in that night. It wasn't unusual, but there was a protocol for these things. Had the girl given advance notice of the absence? No. Was she answering her home or mobile number? No and no. Did a discreetly vague query at her emergency contact number result in an acceptable response? No. Was Lloyd in? Yes.

I sighed heavily and asked for the driver to bring the car around while I looked at Glory's personnel file and printed a locator map for her residence. Ironically, I would have been better off in my rumbled and soiled suit, but really this wasn't the sort of job that called for a suit at all.

Angel was still in the shower, so I ended up leaving without saying goodnight and studied the map during the ride home. When we arrived, I fed the paper into the conveniently installed cross-cut shredder, and told the driver I'd see him the next day.

It seemed likely to be the sort of job that benefited from proactive medication, so I gulped some aspirin and changed into a boring, forgettable black sweatsuit. I left my wallet on the dresser, and took only my license and proof of insurance.

I rehearsed various scenarios, none of them good, on the way across town, and pulled up to the curb on a dark side street a block from Glory's house. The ID and key went under the floor mat; my car was old but sported one of those combination code entry systems. As prepared and deniable as I could be, I started walking slowly down the block, just another old geezer out for an evening stroll.

Glory lived in a small single-family residence, which was good, and there were lights on, which could be good or bad. Increased numbers of people meant increased volatility and decreased controllability; family interventions were the worst, almost impossible to sort out. I didn't see any movement inside the front windows.

Telling myself to quit stalling, I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. There was no answer, but I concentrated and listened hard. There was faintly audible screaming and shouting inside, which suggested things might have turned violent. I consoled myself with the thought that, as far as I could determine, there were only two people inside the house.

I started ringing the bell repeatedly, and finally one of the people inside came to see what was going on. I pushed

I am not threatened by the old man

and

contemptuous indifference

through the door, blind, and braced myself for whatever might happen next.

"What do you want, you old motherfucker?" was the greeting I got. The guy looked like a redneck who'd been drinking. Looking past him, I could see Glory cowering in the hallway. She'd been beaten pretty badly; a quick glance was enough to see a black eye, welts on her arms and legs, and blood on her lips.

I hated physical violence, with a passion, but I hated those who dispensed it even more. This creep was going to get what was coming to him. "Might I borrow your phone?" I asked politely.

"What do I look like, a fucking operator? Fucking go buy your own phone, pops -- I'm busy!" He slammed the door in my face, convinced that was the end of the matter, but I'd braced my shoe by the jam and it bounced back before it latched; he'd already turned away and consequently didn't see the door swing open behind him.

I was sorry for what I was about to do to Glory, but I didn't have time to think of a clever solution to the problem, and she'd suffered enough already.

I love rough sex

, I pushed down the hall to her.

Physical punishment makes me hot

. The resistance I felt tugged at my conscience, but I kept pushing until it faded.

There was probably another five seconds before the guy noticed me standing inside the door. I focused on him; it took almost no effort at all to push

I need to put women in their place

into his mind.

I slowly pushed the door closed with my toe, but I needn't have worried. The guy was already slapping Glory again, calling her a slut and a whore. She gasped with every blow, but I noticed she wasn't trying to get away.

All Mr. Redneck noticed was that he had an erection that needed servicing. He threw Glory against the back of the sofa and started plowing her from behind, doggy style, while continuing to beat her and scream obscenities. If he saw me at all, he evidently calculated that I was completely beneath his notice.

That was as well, because my oh-so-great plan was already in danger of unraveling. I hurriedly cast about in the kitchen before locating a bottle of vegetable oil. Now came the part I knew I'd pay for in the morning. Closing my eyes and struggling for calm, I focused on myself.

There was the tangled mass of my consciousness, an order of magnitude more complex than any other I'd seen, and entwined with a forest of other objects I'd never been able to visualize with anybody else. I held my breath, searching, and then stroked carefully. If pressed, I would have said that it was like laying memories into Angela, except I didn't actually send anything.

Whatever the mechanism, the impact was immediate and definite. My sweatpants tented out and I swayed dizzily as what felt like half the blood in my body suddenly surged into my engorged penis.

I staggered in the direction of the rutting couple, and dropped my drawers. I poured oil over my beet-red organ, not trying for neatness as long as it stayed away from my shoes, and stepped up behind the guy, who was still ignoring me. Heedless of my ballooning headache, I pushed myself hard into his ass, using my position to grind further into him. As my tool sank into his rectum,

this is the greatest feeling I've ever had

sank into his mind with all the strength my splitting head could muster.

He stopped struggling against me and I could feel his sphincter spasming involuntarily as he orgasmed hard and dumped his load into Gloria. I felt nothing but disgust, for him and myself, as I pulled my still-rigid cock out of him. He slid to the floor like a drawing unpinned from a cork board.

Ignoring the oil and shit covering my cock, I hauled up my bottoms, and looked down at the human vermin before me.

Boasting about punishing women makes me feel strong

.

I boast when I'm frightened or nervous

. I hoped I'd be able to drive when I got out of there.

Glory was looking blearily around. "Lloyd?"

"Dial 9-1-1," I told her, slowly and clearly. "Tell them you're being raped." I had to repeat myself several times before she moved brokenly toward the phone; her asshole boyfriend was starting to stir.

"You can do this, Glory," I encouraged her. "Remember, you're being raped. Make them believe it."

She nodded and dialed shakily. Her voice was slow and wooden, but people in shock behaved in all different kinds of ways.

"Who you callin', bitch?!" the redneck demanded.

Absolutely perfect. I silently mouthed, "forgive me," and elbowed Glory in her breast as hard as I could. She gasped violently, hopefully in arousal, and dropped the phone; I could hear the dispatcher's voice asking if she was okay.

I made my way to the back door, taking care not to step in anything, opened it, and wiped the knob with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. After stepping outside, I closed it the same way. I ghosted across the back yard and through to the other side of the block without being seen. I was just approaching my car when the police, all sirens and flashers engaged, blasted through the intersection ahead on their way to the scene of the crime.

It took me twice as long to return home as it had to make the drive out. Once inside, my clothing went straight into the trash. It took a long hot shower and several Sudafeds that probably did nothing good for my blood pressure before my angry erection subsided and I felt at least physically clean again. I didn't think I'd ever feel mentally clean, and not just because of what I'd done to one scumbag who'd deserved it.