Wayward Angel

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Caught In The Act Of Lust

The summer after graduation, I waitressed at Chico’s, a tiny Mexican dive with the best enchiladas in Back Streets. It was either that or Carlos Cantina, and Papa said he’d throw me out if I worked there. Truth was, when I wasn’t sweating between Chico’s kitchen and my customers, I was sweating at the Cantina, sitting in the back of the bar drinking beer, as long as there were no cops around.

The uniform police carried their weight around and great big clubs. Sort of made me shiver seeing all that official hardware on their belts. The creaking leather in their boots ran shivers up my spine, and when Officer Santos stared us down, the look was lethal, threatening enough to make Sonia, Jess and I look way too guilty for things we hadn’t even done.

“You girls behaving yourselves?”

“Yes, sir,” we politely answered.

“Good. Just sent a little tart from up the street to Brody Hall last night.” He was threatening us. “Keep your noses clean, or your asses will pay. I don’t think you want the discipline Brody dishes out.”

No one would ever say exactly what that ‘discipline’ was. Sonia knew, but discussions about her sentence at Latham were off limits. Even so, everyone knew that Latham was kindergarten compared with the Reformatory—and that reformatory was just another word for prison.

I thought I could survive Back Streets without a major skirmish. I even had a plan—after I earned a few hundred bucks at Chico’s. I was moving north, another city, a fresh new place to breathe, and no Back Streets to drag me down. In my clearer thinking moments, it was a sane idea. But then I got sideswiped by that certain something I couldn’t explain.

I’d been pushing the crude stuff in my head away for months, deciding that my body should give up the hots for getting spanked and settle on normal s*x and normal thoughts. Cousin Juno, Trenton, the hot rush of desire grabbing at my crotch when I got paddled—it made no sense. Getting spanked should have nothing to do with s*x at all; and it wouldn’t anymore, if I could help it.

Jimmy Slater and I were dating, spending most of our time rubbing thighs together and kissing in public until we suddenly found ourselves in some back alley, with Jimmy’s c**k ramming my turned-up behind like a jack hammer. My warmth slid around the pistoning head, sheathing it in the creamy juices running out of my cunt. He’d squeeze my back cheeks as though he’d tear them off, while I’d hush my voice, saying raunchy stuff like, “yessss, baby, hurt me, yes.” Jimmy got my drift, but all it meant to him was f**k me harder.

He was good, but not good enough. That certain magic never happened, there were no wild shooting spasms though my crotch. I’d c*m, a sort of dim suggestion of what could happen if I had what I needed. But then, too, I’d never had the grinding, heart palpitating, gut wrenching, c*m-soaked, body screaming dance with danger I imagined climax should be. It teased me, as though it were hanging out at the fringes laughing, and with its fat, greasy smile begging me to follow somewhere else.

Jimmy was good, real good for a first hot f**k… and a second, third, and an everyday sort of p***y pleasing ride. He was cute, real cute. Sandy hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and a hell of a body. To see All-American features in my Latin Back Streets world was odd; and at eighteen, anything out of the ordinary turned me on. Maybe Back Streets was responsible for my skewed sense of s*x, and Jimmy was my Great White Hope.

We might have f****d forever. We might have gotten married and had six kids, and even moved out of the neighborhood. It wasn’t part of my plan to settle down, but I could see it happening. At least until the Saturday night in May that changed everything.

Maybe it was me, Angel Santana, revolting against Jimmy’s picket-fence mentality. Maybe it was deciding that life could never be that easy for a Back Streets slut. Maybe it was getting my head on straight for once, realizing that Jimmy Slater had only half my dreams in his pockets, and the rest, he could never understand.

That Saturday was one of the best nights of my life—it was also the worst. Even for the education I gained, I’d never pay the price again. There’d have to be easier ways.

Jimmy was out of town, looking into a construction job up north that would take us out of this barrio into that better life. I’d spend the evening at Carlos’ bar and have my head on my pillow by midnight…

But then midnight turned into one a.m. and I was still there, drinking coke and rum with Sonia and Jess. No mistaking the facts, I was drunk and very happy, sleazing my way around the bar with my hands on several male groins. With a black tight skirt, tiny tee-shirt top, bare legs and high-heeled sandals, I looked sweetly whorish.

“Angel,” Carlos moved his burly Mexican body behind me, close enough so I could feel his breath on my neck. I breathed his heat, and felt him rub his hand against my ass. “You need to ease up,” he told me.

“Why now?”

“This time of night we get visitors.”

“Oh, they’re used to me here.”

“And Santos just as soon arrest you.”

I whipped around, “Never! He’s just waiting until I’m twenty-one. Then he’s gonna make a move, you just wait.”

“Angel, darling, if you want to play around, get in the back room.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

He’d never invited me there before, and I only heard the rumors. “So, it’s real?”

“For you, babe, I’ll make it real. But you gotta stay cool out here.”

“Sure, sweetheart,” I gave him a kiss and let him lead me into the back hallway. He knocked twice on an unmarked door, and gave me over to his private party.

“You want out, tell Sam, he’ll open the door.”

The drink in my veins was so overpowering, I was swimming into the sea of bodies thinking I’d found heaven. All this time Carlos had been holding out on me… maybe twenty five were crowded into his tiny lounge where a fast salsa played the air, and the strong smell of smoke and booze were enough to make you drunk. There were six women by my count, and me, dressed like sluts and ready for what sluts do in back rooms on Saturday night.

I recognized Cotille from school, though I’m not sure how I could tell. She was lying back against a table, her skirt up to her waist, and the wet curls of her black p***y getting turned on by two guys’ slithery hands. My own cunt clenched, but I didn’t see more. A second later, I was shoved on top of a table and told to dance. All that salsa music in my hips, what could I do but smile and keep them happy with my tease? Groveling at my legs, their hands turned all the tricks toward the s*x my glad body needed—except one. I thought they’d f**k me right there, until someone swept me off the table and pushed me into a chair, my skirt still riding to my waist. My good-looking rescuer had his hand inside my shirt, plucking a n****e with his fingers. My body began to incinerate. There wasn’t a breath of air in the room, no open windows, too many people, and too much smoke.

“You want s*x?” he asked directly.

“Seems like that’s what this place is about,” I said looking around. Someone had put a drink in front of me, so I took a sip, letting the Scotch burn my throat on its way down.

He played with a hundred-dollar bill under his fingers, making it clear that he was planning to pay.

My thinking, being rather fuzzy, the idea sounded cool.

“Where?” I asked.

“Right here.”

“Here?” I looked around again a little surprised.

With my bare cunt sitting squarely on the seat of my chair, I was starting to squirm, like I was hoping to forget the f**k and get off without it. Then I stared at his hands, not just the hundred dollar bill, but the hands themselves, and got mesmerized by his masculinity: his long firm fingers, the tense muscle, the potential power and potential smack.

“And you’d spank my ass?” I asked, surprising even me. The words just jumped right through the barriers in my head.

“Spank your ass?” he grinned amused, and stared me in the eye, seeing the picture in his mind. “Is that what naughty girls get when they’re bad?”

“Is it worth an extra twenty?” I asked.

“Might be worth more than that,” he suggested, but he didn’t tell me what that meant.

Instead, he started playing with my breasts with one hand, then scooting closer, his other met my snatch. I never thought getting screwed in the back of a bar would be easy, but this was almost natural, even with a crowd of half-crazed drunks around us. Most weren’t even looking, since there were other chicks to f**k. What was Carlos thinking, letting me back here? Didn’t matter though, I was sliding into the s*x with promised rewards as fast as the hundred and twenty slid into my purse.

Fingering my honey-coated slit, my handsome john put me on the edge of pleasure quick. Then he pulled me to my feet and bent me over the table. Our drinks disappeared, while the tiny pools of water on the table made my tee shirt wet. Without much to cling to, I gripped the far end of the small table with my sticky hands and held on, as the guy grabbed and hung on tight. He gave the surface a few sharp whacks—which sent me into instantaneous spasms—but then he quit so he could shove his d**k down the throat of my cunt.

“Oooo, spank me more,” I heard my voice fill with the need. He wanted my cunt, but I wasn’t ready yet. There was no sensuous warmth, no fire-hot sting, just a few empty disappearing leftovers from his last smacks, and lots of expectation. “Please, my ass,” I begged, waving my fanny at his hand. Yet, just when I thought he’d start again, there was something happening behind me. Everything got crazy, and the whole scene ended as fast as waking up from a vanishing dream.

The finish was a nightmare. A dozen cops with grim scowls squeezed their way into the small back room, strong-arming suspects and hauling us out. My john was history, somewhere miles beyond my sight as I waited for my turn. When the room cleared, I was left with Officer Santos swaggering my way with an official look that told me I was in trouble.

“Angel Santana.”

“You know my name,” I sassed lightly. I couldn’t stop the bite in my voice, no matter how humiliated I was.

“Bad night to be turning tricks.”

“Suppose so,” I quietly agreed—which probably wasn’t a good thing to say since I was later told that these breezy comments could be evidence against me.

Still, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d confessed the whole thing to Santos. They had me booked and arraigned on so many charges that I could see the long life ahead of me draining away year by year by year.

***

“Indecent exposure, lewd and lascivious behavior, solicitation, prostitution.” He read them off in his dreary voice. I’d never felt so naughty, guilty or ashamed. Never been in a courtroom either. At least not the kind with paneled walls, and a black-robed judge sitting on a mountaintop of fancy polished wood. He read my sentence in the next breath, and all the triumph of my high school survival disappeared. “Your age remands you to the reformatory at Brody Hall for six months.” He turned to a man standing by a door at the side of the room, “Mr. Casals.” I turned, prepared to see some hulking, grim-faced officer of the court; and instead, stared into a pair of the most dangerously sexy eyes I’d ever seen. I almost did a double take, sure my eyes were fooling me.

Tony Casals was too handsome and too well dressed for social work. I couldn’t believe my good fortune—like he was some guardian angel in his fancy suit and tie, sweeping me into his wings with this beautifully stern made-up look on his face. I could have kissed him for being the one bright spot in this miserable mess. When he took my arm and led me away—as every one else had done in the last two days—my crotch began to come alive. I wanted to run my fingers through his dark, wavy hair, my hands along the muscles in his chest. I wanted to stare into his gleaming eyes and feel his hands on me. I had one second of glory, thinking all was not lost.

As Tony led me into his courthouse office for my induction interview, I let my hard edge soften, expecting that made-for-the-judge look of scorn to readily disappear from his face. He’d be the kind to go by the book, strike the right pose of authority in front of an audience, and in private turn colors like a chameleon, becoming just a nice average guy with a great grin, good teeth and lots of charm. As he shuffled through the papers on his desk, I figured my nightmare was almost over. Even if I had to do some time at Brody, it couldn’t be all that bad if Tony Casals was handling my case.

***

I’ll never forgive Tony for that first interview. Died and gone to heaven turned into the interview from hell in twenty seconds flat. Actually, the moment he opened his mouth, I knew my excitement was all a stupid fantasy. The attitude behind his cool, stifled charm was as pompous and judgmental as every friggin’ officer who lectured me during that forty-eight hours.

“Indecent exposure, lewd and lascivious behavior, solicitation, prostitution.” He repeated exactly what the judge said. “Not too pretty a picture, Miss Santana.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“That’s a common excuse.” He was patronizing me, which made me want to smack him. “But… the judge has been lenient. Six months at Brody Hall won’t be a picnic, but it will be a lot better than a year and a half in prison.”

“I thought Brody was prison.”

“Brody’s a reformatory.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they say.” Figuring where this conversation would lead, I was back to my old flip self. Better than having some silly illusions about this gorgeous hunk. “I can’t leave, right?”

“No.”

“And the windows are barred?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no liquor, no cigarettes, no guys to screw… they tell me what to do and I do it, or else? Right?”

“Exactly.”

“So, then, tell me, what’s the difference between Brody Hall and prison?”

“There’s a good deal of difference, Miss Santana…”

“Hey, knock off the ‘Miss Santana,’ call me Angel, please.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll be a whole lot nicer.”

“Okay, Angel.” He didn’t even smile with that one. Goddam, he was hard as nails. “There’s a big difference between Brody and the facility upstate. Brody’s a reformatory, an opportunity to learn the discipline you’re lacking, the moral values, and a decent work ethic. Upstate, you might rot before anyone spends the time to reform your behavior. The Brody program is focused on your leaving the system for good. And, it works amazingly well.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Oh?”

“The ones that go to Latham don’t go back.”

“Latham? That’s the high school age facility?”

Oh, my. He wasn’t from around Back Streets. If he were, he’d know Latham—or the guys’ reform home, Halsey.

“Yes, Latham.”

“Your records show you were never enrolled there.”

“I wasn’t. But I had friends that were.”

“I see.” He sighed—even that looked indecently gorgeous, but I couldn’t pay attention to the way he might arouse me. Like Cousin Juno, he was off limits, now and forever. “Too bad you couldn’t have taken advice from your friends. I’m sure they would have steered you away from this sort of end.”

“Actually, Mr. Casals, if you want to know, I wasn’t steering myself anywhere Saturday night. It just happened. One of those fluky things that you’d never believe in a million years. My boyfriend’s out of town, I’m just killing time with Sonia and Jess—Sonia was the one at Latham—and all of a sudden I’m ready to get screwed—royally screwed in Carlos’ backroom. Hell, I didn’t even know that room was there, or that Back Streets tarts used it as a meeting place. If I hadn’t been so drunk, I would have split. And that’s the truth.” I’d tried to tell this story to the judge and a half-dozen officers, but it didn’t seem to faze them any more than it fazed Casals.

“First thing to get very clear, Miss Santana—Angel…” Nice that he corrected himself. “Profanity is not tolerated at Brody Hall or in this office.”

I’d said hell and screwed, and he thinks that profanity!

“Ooo my, aren’t you Old World.”

“It’s manners, Angel. And self-control, and thinking before you act. That’s what Brody and your next six months are about. Get used to thinking that way, and it will be a whole lot easier. Lack of manners, self-control and not using your head put you in Carlos Gomez’ backroom two nights ago. We’re going to see if we can change that.”

“We?”

“The system.”

I nodded, looking bored.

Tony Casals shuffled through a bunch of papers in my file. “I see you were written up eight times by your high school principal, August Trenton. Various schemes, bad language, cigarette smoking and other acts of insubordination. Trenton chose corporal punishment to right your offenses.”

“Because Trenton was a lecherous old fart,” I immediately snapped.

He grimaced. “Let’s add disrespect,” he added to my list of crimes using sarcasm to bite right back at me. “Your attitude has to change, or for the next ten years you’ll be in and out of Brody, or any other institution the state deems suitable. You will get one thing straight right now…” his sexy eyes didn’t look too sexy, but they were sure inviting as he focused all that dark emotion my way, “you won’t be turning your anger on me because I will make your world hell if you do. I didn’t cause your current problems and I won’t take your sassy attitude. I’d just as soon throw you out of the program as keep you in it, should you get snotty with me. Got that?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” I tried pouting just for effect, and it might have worked because he eased off with the eyes. He fiddled with his papers again and then looked up. “Your induction into Brody will begin with corporal punishment commensurate with your crimes. Since you’re already familiar with that routine, that shouldn’t pose too much problem for you. After the initial session, there will be a regular routine of paddling your first month. If you obey the rules, and do the work assigned you, the corporal punishment is then waived. It’s very possible that you’ll spend the remainder of your sentence in a structured, but not at all unpleasant environment.”

“And who decides if I’ve been good enough?”

“The staff makes its recommendations. I make the decision.”

Good God! My fate was in this guy’s hands. I wasn’t sure I liked that. But the more I sat in front of him, the more that certain something in my gut began to stir, that on-edge feeling of arousal. All from mentioning punishment. The hot, tight, spanked-ass feelings stared me in the face—what had I done?

That was the first time I connected my bad behavior with that insane desire. I’d have a lot more to deal with at Brody Hall than I first thought. Though I sure wasn’t going to tell Tony Casals my discovery. “So, I guess I work at being good for a change,” I tried instead.

“If you follow the rules, Angel—which is something I’m sure you’ve never really done—you’ll do just fine.” He was easing off. I bet he would have smiled if he were anywhere but in this office, pretending to be official. I couldn’t get it out of my head that this guy was in the wrong business. The feeling just sort of stuck out all over his personality. “If you don’t follow the rules, however,” he started down that hard-nosed road again, “there are more extreme disciplinary methods administered at Brody which will ensure your submission. It’s at this point where Brody gets tough, where the tests turn into nightmares and its reputation begins. What happens there is sanctioned by the state, and only employed for specific needs, but you can be certain that the advanced disciplinary regimen is one you want to avoid.”

He stopped talking. I stared. The physical exhilaration in me was climbing. Why would this kind of talk turn me on? I didn’t even want to think why because all the explanations were pretty stupid. God wouldn’t have wanted me like this. My parents didn’t do strange things to make me feel this way. It had to be random chance. It certainly didn’t make any sense to a rebellious nineteen-year old with an overactive and obviously perverted s*x drive.

“So, I guess I behave myself.”

“I guess you will,” he agreed. “If you don’t, you’ll not only take your licks from the Brody masters, you’ll answer to me. I take a personal interest in all the girls who come through this office, and if I see that you need more time to get the lessons of Brody firmly implanted in your brain, I have the authority to extend your time to as long as your original court sentence.”

“What! You could keep me in there for a year and a half?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Boy! Wasn’t that choice! He had all the cards in his hand and was playing a royal flush right in front of my eyes.

“You’ll remain in jail here tonight and be transferred to Brody in the morning. I’d suggest you spend a quiet night reflecting.” He reached down, drawing out his bottom desk drawer, and then slapped a thick pamphlet in front of me. “You might want to start reading this. You’ll be expected to memorize the rules, line by line, before your first week is over.”

I stared at the Brody Hall manual for a good minute before I could pick it up. While I was getting up my courage, Casals was on the phone to the matron. A few minutes later she picked me up, cuffed my hands, and took me back to my cell.