Dirty Angel and the Sugar Momma: A Chronicle of the Post-Rapture

Caput Unus

Chass got home from a long day at the cafe, tired and ready to sleep. As she climbed out of the aging, barely-running Datsun, somewhere one of the wind turbines creaked and a possum just inside the nearest storm drain was chittering in the language of the demons. The light was gold colored and came at a sharp angle... it was nearly eight, but it was nearly the longest day of the year, and the sun was just now setting.

Miss Theresa met her in the little yard in front of their shared building. Theresa claimed to be the last human on Earth--many people claimed that, though not all of them were angels whose wings had been severed for cowardice. She was a thin old woman with mean, pursed, reticent lips, but nevertheless Chass relied on her, and one might say they were a kind of friends. Both of them eked out a rough existence in the city of Betha Om, what had once been a ruined human city on the east coast of North America, but Theresa was more resourceful and one had to know someone like her.

She never discussed it, but Chass knew she took money, sometimes a lot of money, to have sex with demons and maybe even other angels as well. Any number of angels had turned whore after Heaven was destroyed, with plenty of demon sisters to teach them how, but Theresa had her own niche in the flesh market: she pretended to be human, the one thing that no angel or demon could have now. Still, it didn't take much to see that she glowed faintly with inner light, the last and least of angels but still no human.

In ill-fitting jeans and a tank top with a sawed-off shotgun on her hip, Theresa was a grim figure. But it was always a joy for Chass to see her come out into the yard. This happened every night. Theresa would come and unlace the fabric feather-guards over Chass's wings, then undo the cords that bound them close to her back, and for a moment of glorious relief and almost triumphant defiance, she would spread her wings and take a brief flight, as much as her strength could bear. Tonight she hovered for a moment, six feet above Theresa's head, and then came back down, exhausted.

Chass worked according to the eight-day "Demonic week," six days on and two days off, because she needed the money, though most of her coworkers, angel and demon alike, were paid and employed on the "Angelic" five day week. It had been fully six days since she'd had two full hours to herself, but now the weekend was here at last, and she promised herself, before heading inside, that she would fly more tomorrow.

The building that they shared with four others was an old angel war machine, a towering thirty-foot suit of armor that would have been inhabited by the spirits of a full battalion of angels. Demon engineering had been ingenious in converting the ones that still stood upright or lay down roughly level into cheap housing, but most of the rooms inside were cramped, oddly-shaped, and windowless. Chass paid over a thousand a month for just the left leg, in which there was a single room of about thirty-six square feet, accessible only by a ladder down from the torso, and, down another ladder from that, a tiny bathroom that doubled, in its entirety, as a shower stall--and a bathtub, if you could afford the water to flood it.

Tonight, Chass had steam to blow off. Last week she had undergone her second Falling, struck by a stray bullet when a fight had erupted outside the cafe. Her body must have died in minutes and turned to ash on the spot, an accident to be swept up by a bored-looking coworker. She appeared again in the ruins of the afterlife, what must have taken hours or no measurable time or perhaps quite a lot of time--it felt like a lot of time, and time runs differently there--and had the same queer vision as before, the same feeling of putting on a body like one puts on armor--she had served in the War in the rank of First Bugler, far from the front, and never Fell in the line of duty, but armor she had put on, taken off, cleaned, polished, mended and so on--that was about what it felt like to reform: hands, arms, legs, wings, all of it felt strapped together over the true hands, the true arms, the true legs and wings, an outer thing that could be cast off, though the power to do this voluntarily was now lost. Finally she woke up in an alley three blocks from home with a splitting headache and much the same body she'd ever known, though with neither the dye job nor the shaved bush she'd had before.

And instead of being granted leave to deal with this experience, she had had to work the next day, deal with the same pesky customers, uptight winged cunts that had been Thrones and Powers in the army of the man, the fat, horned devils with their bizarre orders and shabby manners.

It stood in such contrast. Once, her manager, who had been lower in the celestial army but who had taken to this post-Rapture world with speed and cunning and carved out a niche for himself... he had decided that his current body could use some rejuvenation. Now, every angel comes back the same time and time again, but perhaps there was some truth to the idea that with a few thousand years, some signs of age and wear might be showing themselves around the joints. So, as some of the rich angels would sometimes do, he called his friends together, served them wine and beer and a roast hellpig, sang and danced with them all night, played on his violin and sang "MacPherson's Rant," before ceremoniously offing himself right there in his living room, on a big painter's drop cloth to catch all the ashes. He had left strict orders to all his guests to keep partying until he returned in his new body, and in the end they were there most of the next day waiting. Then he took the rest of the month off.

Well, this week had been hectic, and she had still not really processed what it felt like to die for only the second time.

She had taken a very hot shower sitting on the toilet seat, hair all wet in her face, and finally, when she felt she could spare no more water, she turned it off, went up the ladder precariously and laid on a towel on her little cot, so much like the ones in the old military camps. From a footlocker she got out a little jar and a big dildo, made to look like a demon's cock, or at least, what the popular imagination said a demon's cock looks like. She regarded the jar... this was fun stuff but it was expensive and she had only come by this amount by finding it abandoned in the bathroom at the cafe. "Beelzebub's Patent Stretching Powder," it said.

She took a pinch of the faintly glowing powder and sprinkled it around the lips of her cunt. Rubbing it in felt good and made the inner light that could be seen faintly through her skin come through a little brighter. The skin changed textures where it touched, became more elastic and a little rubbery, though to stretch it too much was still painful. By the time she had worked in as much as she felt she could spare, she could have stretched her lips three, four times the normal amount. She took just a little dab of the excess powder that had gone between inner and outer lips, pinched it and took it inside her cunt, where she worked it around with a finger. Once she was able to fist herself comfortably, she took the dildo.

It was big, red, and ribbed, about as big around as her fist at the tip, which was somewhat egg-shaped, with a shaft that got slightly wider towards the base. In reality she knew very well that a demon's cock was no different than that of the male angel or the male human, but in her mind it still excited her, this rubber monstrosity bigger around than her forearm and almost as long. She laid back and imagined a tall, swaggering demon lady, with a big cock -- it was whispered that women demons could have cocks -- with big, hanging breasts and a fearsome expression, pushing her legs apart (she spread her legs with a thrill, her wings shivering beneath her with the ecstasy of anticipation), and leveling a massive cock at her little cunt. "Oh, please, please no," she muttered to herself, imagining now the bulb of the demon's cock beginning to part her lips. With a growl, she imagined the demon forcing it in, too deep and too fast, painfully, painfully, and almost automatically she began thrusting the dildo inside her supernaturally stretchy cunt, again and again, much too forcefully but enjoying the pain, reaching almost to the base.

In her head, she pictured the demon bending forwards while fucking her--she took the demon's horns in her hands and used them to rock back and forth, while the demon in turn put one of her massive hands on each of Chass's wings at the tender part where it met the shoulderblade and pulled herself up relative to Chass, so that her big, ribbed cock was rubbing Chass' clit with each pounding thrust. She imagined a dark, husky voice speaking in her ear--her name, "Chastity." She moaned, perhaps too loud, where Theresa or one of the others might hear.

Soon the towel was even more wet, and after a moment, the stretching powder slowly lost its effectiveness and she had some trouble getting the dildo out of her. With one last gentle moan, she pulled the tip of it out just in time to avoid it getting stuck.

She felt a little ashamed, an angel masturbating herself and thinking of a hermaphrodite demon, but she told herself that the ones who would condemn her were long dead or vanished in the War. The healthy thing to do would be to find a nice lady--it had to be a lady--with a strapon or some skilled fingers, settle down with her and be a wife of sorts to her. But in her mind she had other plans.

She wanted to find a she-demon with a big cock and live her fantasy in real life.

Soon she nodded off to sleep, happy but yearning a little.