Angel Faces Demon Minds

by Jessica Rael

  Angelica smiled. ‘Sí, that we have, ángel oscuro…’ The artist pressed the button again, raising the sculpture towards the ceiling. ‘Come, I have more to show you.’

  Shalyn followed the woman into her workshop, a separate extension on the side of the house. The room was a surrealistic clutter of twisted metal and heavy tools, the sullen line of chained girls kneeling in subdued silence along the far wall adding to the impression that the place was a sadistic torture chamber rather than a place of divine expression.

  In the center of the room a similar hanging sculpture dangled over a comfortable chair. ‘This is where I sit to paint my creations,’ the artist explained, deftly sliding herself under the mobile and into the chair. The new design incorporated four girls, two arranged just like the first sculpture but two others had been added, folded carefully around the original bizarre sixty-nine wrap in the contra direction to form a kind of X. The recycling tubes had been totally reworked, skillfully adapted by the artist so that each of the four girls that made up the creation were able to share each other equally, achieved by the addition of a small black pump, added to overcome the drag of the longer tubes the arrangement demanded. Each girl now provided for each one of her sisters-in-art via the crisscross of tubes that resembled the idealistic vines that crept up the naked figures of ancient Greek sculptures. The design allowed each girl to share her gifts equally with the others in the composition, as well as ensuring her entwined companions reciprocated, delivering themselves directly into each other’s mouths.

  Angelica looked up expectantly from the chair, picked up a colored pen and began to work on her living canvas, and the artist’s eyes lit up when she saw the smile of delight spreading across her employer’s face, a face where such gestures were almost as unfamiliar as a tsunami in the desert. ‘I wanted only to please you, ángel oscuro. It is for your kind that I do my work.’

  ‘Then you have succeeded, Miss Ramirez. You have indeed succeeded.’

  Whispers on the Wind

  Vanessa squeezed her tanned, toned Southern Californian body into her fluorescent running kit and slipped her feet into a pair of blue and silver athletic shoes that had been constructed with as much computer simulated design work as the average fighter jet, at least, that’s what the advertisement and the eight-hundred dollar price tag said. She tied her long hair back, stuck a chilled squeeze-bottle of performance enhancing sports drink into a waist holder, and set off at a steady pace. A cool breeze blew across the watered lawns of the park, the dry air picking up moisture and pleasant scents from the sprinklers and coarse grass.

  After about twenty minutes Vanessa began to breathe harder, sucking air in through her mouth, her sinewy body glistening in a sheen of clean sweat. She turned left following her usual trail, heading through a sparse grove of palms and waxy leafed bushes. The bee sting came as a surprise and she yelped, slowing to a walk to inspect her thigh. She stopped, staring at the small dart in confusion. It lay in the palm of her hand, its sharp needle glinting in the early morning sunlight, the breeze ruffling its flight, a soft, purple, cotton down. There weren’t usually any kids in the park at this time of day, but no doubt they found it very funny. Vanessa thought about searching the thick undergrowth for them, and then decided her schedule didn’t allow for it. She threw the dart down in disgust, rubbed her leg, and jogged away.

  The nearest palms began to waver, as if she were looking at them through the thick air of a desert heat haze. There was a sound like rushing water in her ears that grew painfully loud and she felt her legs buckle as she staggered forward, watching with mild surprise as the ground came rushing up to meet her.

  The mood was unusually heavy; even the bright sun that stabbed its way past the swaying palm fronds in the courtyard outside the El Sol de la Mañana was unable to dent it. Rebecca held the piece of paper in her hand as if it were a letter from the devil herself.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Dakota looked squarely at her boss. ‘Good source, ma’am. Been with the Bureau twenty years. Been feeding us for about eight. Cruza money put his kids through college; he’s in too deep to pull anything. Sends us fairly constant reports, nothing too earth shattering… well, until now.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to read here, the FBI are actually connecting one of our authorized hits with a series of front page, TV special serial killer type disappearances? What the fuck is this? Dak? Amber?’

  ‘I read the case file,’ said Amber, sliding the document onto the table in front of Rebecca. ‘Have to say, it stacks up pretty well. Trace amounts of titanium dust found at the scene where that punk dealer Slake was taken out, and at two sites where young women have recently disappeared. Not only is it unusual to find titanium dust, but forensics have been able to test the batch, same marker spikes, so same batch, little too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘Still hard to believe. I’ve worked with her for years, and never seen a chink in that armor.’ Rebecca sighed. ‘You two go pay her a visit, and be careful. I’ll handle the showcase myself.’

  Angelica lay the woman on her workbench, tying down her wrists and ankles with the thick leather straps. She placed a rubber gag in the pretty mouth and set to work cutting away the modest clothing. The young woman woke halfway through the process and began to tug frantically at her restraints, but Angelica worked on unbothered by the distraction. In fact, she found the woman’s muffled cries soothing. Artistic fingers had the girl naked in a few minutes, although Angelica was a little disappointed to see that her pubic region was carefully shaven, depriving her of a much loved little ritual, but then, it was the current fashion.

  The well-defined body was quite beautiful, and great care had evidently gone into its upkeep. The sinews of muscle stood out as the girl fought her confinement, the sight stirring Angelica into a state of sexual arousal that pressed its way past her careful, artistic nature, demanding fulfillment. Angelica left on her baggy T-shirt, but slid out of her paint-stained sweatpants and panties, the need welling up from her groin, ripples of excitement in her chest that crept into her brain, a woozy drug. There were trained slaves in the building and she was free to use any of them, but she wanted the struggling girl on the table, wanted her badly, there was no time for training of any sort, so she improvised.

  The girl’s gag was removed and she began to babble instantly, pleading, demanding. Angelica swung her leg over the young woman, sitting on her upper chest, above her breasts, so that the girl’s chin nestled pleasantly in her moist crotch. The girl fell into a shocked silence for a few moments, and then resumed her babble, though more frantic this time. Angelica sighed, shaking her head, then heaved herself forward, placing her wet pussy firmly over the complaining mouth. She let her legs dangle off the table, pressing her full weight down onto the girl, feeling the mouth close sharply. She smiled, looking down past the black fuzz of her own pubic mound at the pair of stunned eyes glaring back up at her, wondering what was going on inside that pretty head, then decided she didn’t much care.

  The artist pulled up till she was kneeling on either side of the girl’s head, her vagina merely resting on the mouth now, though it remained tightly shut. Angelica began to rub herself on the girl, masturbating on those pretty features, rubbing her vagina on the routinely exfoliated, moisturized, perfumed face beneath her. After a few moments the girl’s face was coated in a slick layer of vaginal juices, allowing Angelica to rub herself more frantically on her lubricated sex toy. She moaned in pleasure, leaning her palms on the girl’s forehead, gyrating and grinding, feeling the lips being pushed to the side as her swollen pussy rubbed on perfect white teeth. Angelica reached down and grabbed the young woman’s pert nose, squeezing the nostrils shut, and finally the mouth opened, inhaling air past the wet flesh. Angelica pressed her advantage, grinding herself onto her captive’s mouth, sliding her legs off the table again so her full weight filled it with dripping pussy, and felt herself leaking into the girl’s mouth
as she orgasmed.

  Living in Babel’s Basement

  No roads led to it, no maps marked it, nothing in the starkly beautiful vista even hinted at its existence. Rebecca had obtained the subterranean military complex via a Pentagon contact five years ago. What she got for her money was more than an impenetrable fortress; she inherited government level secrecy. Not even the FBI knew of the facility’s existence, and in time the Cruza slowly transformed CTS93, shorthand for Command & Testing Station 93, into Babel’s Basement. The notion that the tower of legend, intended to transport mortals directly to heaven, might have a shortcut was not lost on Rebecca’s clients, and to be invited was a highly sought after honor, even if that meant traveling in the back of a comfortable but entirely sensory deprived SUV. The adapted vehicles had been nicknamed float-tanks-on-wheels by those who used them; no sound, no view and little sense of motion, all to protect the secret the desert held beneath its dusty skin.

  The flat plain of sand and scrub seemed to stretch unbroken to the horizon, when suddenly a creek appeared, jumping out of the landscape a bare fifty yards ahead. Rebecca’s SUV followed the steep slope, which to the untrained eye was indistinguishable from the sharp, rocky edge of the gully, down to the shallow trickle of water that ate away at the desert floor with timeless patience. The only visible marker of Babel’s Basement was a crumbling, concrete outbuilding quietly decaying a few feet from the water’s edge. The vehicle elevator at the rear would be invisible to anyone not actually skulking around the place on foot, which given the mass of hidden security cameras, would be a one-way exploration trip. Curiosity often killed a lot more than cats.

  The SUV pulled into the featureless gray storage building, and then transmitted the security code, releasing the heavy metal doors from their hidden recess. The door slid shut, slotting together with an audible click, and the inside of the small building began to descend. For a brief moment Rebecca regretted the absence of her closest confidantes, but State Girl and the Ice Angel were busy following up on the disturbing news. Renegades were not good for business, but the Inquisitor still held hopes that the trail would lead elsewhere.

  Babel’s guest areas were busier than ever before as favored clients prepared for the showcase. Rebecca bypassed the players’ quarters and made her way directly to the deeper levels that held the playthings. Rebecca, heels clicking on the cool stone floor, entered the series of rooms that held the latest influx of sex slaves. They had taken two hundred and sixteen girls from the ship, and only hours before an FBI tactical unit had descended on the Russians. The eventual elimination of the small Russian gang had been merely a consideration at that point, but the arrogant and stupid way the gang’s leaders taunted federal officers with the perfectly executed switch, illuminated a macho recklessness the Cruza could not ignore. Termination orders had already gone out, though Rebecca set the date three months ahead, putting distance between the events.

  Now the Inquisitor wandered amongst her new possessions like a dealer in rare art, acutely aware that each pretty face she held in her hands was hers to do with as she wished, while simultaneously marveling at the beauty of what she owned. The girls had been divided into seven grades according to physical beauty, and then separated out into their respective holding areas. Tradition dictated that five percent of the take be set aside for employees, to be taken equally from all grades. Rebecca rounded in their favor to give them eleven girls, one from each of the top six levels, and four from the lowest. In a small annexed room ten naked, bound slaves lay strewn casually on the floor while half a dozen bored drivers played with the single girl taken from the seriously cute category. A blonde, green-eyed young thing of around twenty lay struggling on a black leather couch as the drivers mauled and explored their prize. The sound of pathetic pleading in broken English and Ukrainian echoed through the underground chambers, dying away into an incoherent sobbing as one of the women decided to put the girl’s pretty mouth to use.

  Rebecca smiled as she continued her inspection accompanied by the delicious sound of supple leather on young flesh, and the equally tantalizing sound of a yelp stifled by a pair of ample buttocks. Rebecca felt her own needs gently moistening between her legs. She scanned the first chamber, her eyes alighting on the cowed form of a slender girl, her tag stating she was nineteen. The Inquisitor lifted the girl’s chin and gazed intently at the pretty but slightly androgynous features as the very pretty dark eyes resolutely avoided her stare.

  ‘This one.’ Rebecca stood up, smiling as the girl’s head fell back into its defeated pose.

  ‘Nice choice, ma’am.’ The curator lifted the naked girl to her feet.

  ‘Yes, I think so. She’s very skilled at faking that cute defeated air, don’t you think? Must be a brain in there somewhere. Take her to my office.’ Rebecca grabbed the girl as the curator led her from the room, running her fingers through the waist-length brown hair. ‘When I’ve finished with you, you won’t have to fake it anymore, sweetie.’ The Inquisitor planted a gentle kiss on the girl’s cheek. ‘Now, won’t that be nice?’

  Rebecca dutifully greeted each of the guests, and then watched the parade. The twenty or so topflight girls were led into the center of the large display room by their handlers, colorfully dressed in bright cheerleader costumes. A series of memorable party tricks followed. Each girl was fitted with a mouth-dildo, a very similar device to a strap-on, except the harness fitted around the slave’s head so the shaft extended from her lips, the ball-like shape at the base filling her mouth. The handlers kept close watch on the girls making sure they were sucking on the hollow dildos. A large backdrop screen presented the audience with charming close-up shots of the slaves’ faces as the dildos they were frantically sucking on were inserted in the vagina of the girl in front. The mock cheerleaders, camera in one hand, riding-crop in the other, formed the slaves into a large circle, then set about encouraging them as they knelt on all fours vacuuming the insides of the girl in front.

  Crops lashed at dangling breasts, stirring the human suction pumps to greater efforts, while handheld cameras zoomed in on desperate faces. A further murmur of appreciation from the lustful crowd of female onlookers rumbled round the room as the slaves were made to remove the dildos and insert them into the poised anus of the girl in front, the close-ups exquisite. Eventually the dildos were removed and the daisy chain of slaves was forced to use their tongues directly on each other. The handlers allowed the scenario to run for about fifteen minutes, before expertly measuring the tension in the room and breaking up the show, handing out naked girls to the drooling audience like sweets at a candy fair.

  Due to the size of the audience the little groups trooped off to the specially provided and equipped playrooms, three mistresses to one slave. The guests had been promised the whole night with their toys, so Rebecca considered her duty shift finished until breakfast, which gave her plenty of time to attend to some unfinished business.

  Back in Rebecca’s office the teenage slave hung limply in the circle of silver tubing. She moved to the rear of the wheel, admiring the red welts that covered the girl’s legs, buttocks and back.

  ‘Wake up, honey,’ the Inquisitor chided, carefully lifting the girl’s hair and arranging it into a tight ponytail. ‘That was just a warm up. Hey, now we can play properly.’ She let the long ponytail fall down the slave’s striped back. ‘Won’t that be fun, huh?’ Rebecca smiled at the girl’s refusal to acknowledge her taunts.

  She pulled a step over to the wheel, climbed up and attached the slave’s ponytail to a rubber clamp at the top of the circular frame, forcibly lifting her playmate’s head up so the girl stared directly ahead. ‘Sorry honey, but I’m going to need these.’ Rebecca stroked the girl’s breasts. ‘And you were getting in the way a little, don’t you think?’ The Inquisitor wasn’t sure how much English the girl understood, but something must have clicked because she began to suck air past her thick rubber gag like a runner going the distance.

>   Rebecca walked slowly to her desk, then stripped down to her underwear, her lithe, tanned body in almost as good shape as her young plaything, despite a few decades’ difference in their ages. The Inquisitor picked up the thin cane, turning it over in her hands as she made her way back to her waiting victim. Rebecca smiled up at the girl, and then caught her a stinging blow on the left breast. The girl rattled against her chains, breathing hard. Her tormentor stood back to enjoy the moment, aware that the cane was designed to be a superficial tool; the pain it could inflict was actually quite minimal and any damage would be negligible, but that’s why such sessions were an art form. To break a slave properly took timing, attitude, and no small amount of theatrics.

  Rebecca stroked the thin red line, cupping the breast in her hand. ‘Ooh, that felt so nice, shall we do it again?’ The girl’s stubborn silence was broken by the swishing slap of the cane as it kissed her right breast.

  An hour later Rebecca had been able to remove the gag entirely, and the slave’s prideful silence evaporated as she realized she was being toyed with. There was no importance to this; nothing was wanted from her, it was a declaration… a declaration of utter supremacy. Rebecca allowed the girl to choose where on her body the cane should caress her, then she watched as the slave’s mind worked, and knowing it would be foolish to select constantly easy targets she would occasionally offer up her breasts, like a form of ritual sacrifice, and Rebecca would oblige. The game was playing out well. The girl took a deep breath, and then muttered something in faltering English.

  ‘Speak up, sweet thing,’ Rebecca said, leaning closer, ‘no need to be shy.’

  ‘My poosy… please… my poosy.’

  Rebecca widened her eyes in mock surprise. ‘Excellent choice, little one.’ The Inquisitor pulled gently on the perfectly balanced wheel, spinning it until the girl hung upside down, her smooth, hairless genitals tantalizingly vulnerable. In keeping with the unspoken rules this first blow was mild, a flick of the wrist catching the soft flesh with a sharp but very swift smack, then the girl was returned to the upright position. The trap had been laid early in the game and the girl was now held firmly in its grip, pulling like a rabbit in a snare. It would only be a matter of time before she would have to offer up her precious little pussy again, and all the while Rebecca would be watching as the girl agonized over how long she could safely wait before offering her tormentor the gift, walking the tightrope that had been so carefully laid for her.