The Dismantled Ones
Angie, known for her fair complexion and chubby figure, was an extraordinary sight in a sun-scorched, famished region. She possessed palish skin, gaze, and hair, accompanied by a powerful yet melodious voice. Physically, she resembled a mother figure but had never been one.
Living on the outskirts of a weary, cracked town near the desert, Angie's abode showcased a sign displaying her sole profession: "Companion to Men." This wasn't about prostitution, although some approached her seeking that. Angie would turn them down, as she wasn't providing mere sexual nooky. Instead, she supplied conversation, music, and time. Additionally, she addressed their issues, relieved them of nightmares, and handled their secrets they'd rather conceal from their spouses and clergy. Angie cherished each patron uniquely and passionately.
Men couldn't reciprocate her love, though. It was unavoidable, and Angie recognized this. When she expressed interest, they'd confide in their lack of interest, making her reject them with showy disinterest, a war on emotions she'd already prepared for. She knew they couldn't love her. She acknowledged this reality and the painiferous repetitiveness of it.
Angie grew fond of pre-emptive rejection, initially dreading the topic of love. They came with disgusted expressions, believing her undressed or involved in intimacies distasteful, highlighting such discomfort. She'd chuckle, happier about their aversion, humorous folly that possibly let them experience her in a way they would have dismissed otherwise.
"I'd have no choice. I'd need to leave town," they'd joke. While some might have deepened the wound, her standard response would be, "Aye, I'm a horror," her tasteless jokes flourishing despite the blood-filled mouthfeel.
This mindset became more natural. "There's something revolting about you," summed up her understanding of herself.
As if to mock, she'd revel in their deception. Though they may enjoy her persona as a joke, perhaps her witchcraft, silently she craved being chosen. Therefore, she let their humor trickle into their lives, assuming they'd offer her affection after winning them over. Despite their deceit, her heartstrings were materially severed.
Yet, every so often, she met damaged men. The cause of their maladies was incomprehensible. Human nature repelled them, and her appearance - once troublesome - seemed enticing and useful.
Piercing Angie's poise were these Broken Men, reflected in their mesmerizing eyes. These glances enraptured her, signaling they yearned for her, not knowing the grotesque mystery hidden beneath her charm, discerning no hidden secrets.
In moments of desperation, she'd turn off the lights, guiding them toward her room. Guilt tormented her spirit, donning a serpent-like form biting down on her heart. Nonetheless, she couldn't resist, enabling self-satisfaction that robbed others of what they craved.
She identified him by his eyes, as always, recognizing the Broken Man as he strolled through her dimly lit parlor. Footprints spread dust, her rug soiled with tracked dirt. Nevertheless, even the pain of guilt would be trumped by the joy of treasured fulfillment.
Angie straightens up and welcomes the stranger as he enters, smiling with gratitude since it's been a while since she last saw one of the Broken Men. She motions him to take a seat, which he does, sitting next to the other men there to watch her performance.
"Hi there, stranger," she says, nodding her head towards him. "May I know your name?"
"Jack, usually," the man answers, causing the other men to laugh. Angie just smiles back.
"Hello, Jack," she replies, truly welcoming him. "I'm Angie, my regular name. You can call me whatever you like." She picks up her instrument, placing it in the crook of her neck to play a lively tune that causes a few of the men to start clapping along. Jack smiles, a small expression on his face with his wide-brimmed hat hiding most of it.
Without warning, Angie stands up, incorporating a dance in her performance, spinning and leaping like a whirlwind as she plays. She turns into a blur of movement, with her flowing hair and fast-paced music, and the men cheer, clapping their feet and stomping in rhythm.
The man named Jack doesn't make a sound, watching her with increasing wonder and a very evident appreciation. She becomes a living storm and then suddenly stops, ending her song with a climactic note that lingers in the air for a few seconds. Angie bows, pretending to be outrageously dramatic, and grins at the men watching her.
As the day goes by, the men ask her questions and she answers with her wealth of knowledge and opinions, surprising them. Jack just sits quietly and watches and listens without speaking much.
Once the sun finally sets, Angie starts telling her audiences to leave, but Jack seems inclined to stay. She tells him that she'd be happy to accommodate him and that he looks tired and has nowhere to be. He wonders if she is offering more than that, and she gets nervous, almost wanting to make it seem like a joke.
Jack surprises her by bringing her hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss on her fingers.
Angie feels relieved and has tears well up in her eyes. She takes him upstairs to her room, a dark and quiet place. There's a sinking feeling in her chest, like guilt, and she tries to repress it for later. There will be time to cry and ask forgiveness from whoever for her selfish actions.
She brings him down on the bed and makes her desires known. She burns inside, it hurts, because it's a strong need she has to satisfy. She sits on him, straddling his hips like a rider on a horse. She takes off his clothes, eager to touch his skin and kisses him. He attempts to undo her dress' top button, but she pushes his hands away, embarrassed.
"Don't," she says, her voice weak and hushed. "Let me be in control of this." She clears her throat softly and tries again, sounding like herself this time. "I want to be the one to lead this dance, if you're willing to follow." He expresses his willingness, showing a little disbelief that she's willing to take charge.
"Would you be willing to?" she asks.
He's relieved that he doesn't have to lead, and his hands fall to his side. His chest heaves with a sigh and he shivers under her touch. She takes off the pieces of cloth and leather holding her back from him.
"Take control now, and guide me," he murmurs, which ignites the passion deep within her. She fiercely reclaims his lips with heightened energy, and he grunts as she lowers his trousers, rapidly loosening the lace to uncover his erect penis. Already moist and primed for her, his groans become even more strained as she encircles his member with her hand, gliding her fingers along its length.
"How amazingly delicate your hands are," he groans. "Like petals from flowers."
"No flowers compare to me," she responds and presses her lips to his cheek, nipping it with her teeth and causing him to gasp when she leaves a trail of tiny bites along the side of his neck.
"Harder, please," he pleads, pulling his head to the side in an attempt to make himself more susceptible to her teeth. She complies, attacking his skin with more purpose, and he moans, struggling to keep his hips from rocking over the intensity of her bites. She rips her grip from his penis and raises her skirts, positioning her slick, aching pussy directly over his cock.
"Oh my, you're so scorching hot!" he groans in dismay, his hands automatically reaching for her hips. She allows him this minimal control, fueling her desire with his urgency. She lowers herself onto him slightly, only inserting the head of his penis, and then holds his hands, preventing his hips from forcing himself further into her.
"Why, why?" he questions impatiently.
"Because you need to prove your worth," she declares powerfully.
"How might I do that?" he inquires desperate and longing for her.
"Beg," she orders, her voice growing deeper and threatening.
"Please, please," he immediately replies, clutching her hips and finding no purchase on her flesh. "I desperately crave you," he admits, straining against her. "Please, I promise I will do anything you desire."
"What will you do?" she prompts, keen to hear his pleas.
"For all the holy, I will bend to your every wish and serve you faithfully," he promises abjectly.
Slowly, she settles onto him, engulfing his cock within her before releasing her grip on his hands and pressing his lower body down onto the bed.
"I'm ridiculously affected by you," he mutters breathlessly, automatically seeking her embrace when she lets go of his hips. She permits this closeness and squirmed on him, her clit rubbing against him and causing her to quiver with pleasure. With each thrust, she feels his cock slamming into her, his groans mingling with her moans, full of urgency. She moves one hand to his throat and slowly tightens her grip, making him shudder beneath her.
"Oh yes, yes," she moans, her eyes rolling in her head as the crescendo of their intertwined moans pushes her to greater heights of ecstasy. She has never experienced anything as heavenly as this; greater than whiskey or exquisite cuisine, more magnificent than confessionals, more rewarding than festivities or solutions or companionship.
This was a gift from the heavens.
His heart was undulating underneath her hand as they intertwined then separated and meshed inventively once more, his pronounced gasps and entreaties filling her ears. She squeezes his neck harder, causing him to shudder, but then relaxes her grip, easing him back to tranquility.
"This is sacred beauty, the most sublime moment in my life," he moans, tears choking his voice, and she kisses them away, tasting the salt existing on his skin as she pressed her lips to his once more.
His climax is imminent, pulsing inside her, and she lifts her upper body away, arching her back to offer him her throat. Then, she lowers herself onto him, receiving his whole entire length. He begins to roll his hips and kisses her passionately as she shakes with sensuality before kissing him, his throat quivering as his vocalization is no longer controllable and he shoots his semen inside her, panting from exertion.
Her head settles on his chest, and his arms encircle her form protectively.
"Thank you," she whispers, truly appreciative, entangling her fingers in his hair as she gently coaxes his heart and breathing to an even cadence.
And this was her most cherished part of the reunion: when he isn't spouting out hurful truths or seductive lies, he is there, shielding her as she mattered.
For that one brief second, she mattered.
She pulls her arm loose from his hair, feeling peaceful as she gently nudges him, and he releases her.
And that is the finest thing about The Broken Men: giving her the feeling of being cherished and important.
With her head resting on his chest, she falls asleep.
Read also:
- My Close Friend, a Female, Fondled Me
- Slim, Youthful, and Well-Endowed in Part 2
- Botez Gambit: A Strategic Chess Move
- Chapter 12: Transition from Husband to Houseboy
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