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  Copyright@2015 by Celia Styles

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  Taken by Two Firefighters

  By Celia Styles

  Bart was under the impression that there were painters hired to take care of the upstairs hallway, but that was just because his wife wanted him to be. The moment he left for work that Sunday, Angela changed into an old pair of shorts and a tank top and went to the gardener’s shed to retrieve the supplies she bought the day before. It took her a few trips, but the gallons of paint, tarps, rolls of tape, brushes, and pans finally found their places in the hallway. After taping off the walls, she set to the fun part of the job and dipped a brush into the paint.

  In college she majored in art, and after earning her undergraduate degree in three years she left to gain “worldly experience” in order to make herself a better artist. She didn’t get very far, but she learned what it truly meant to be a starving artist. Working in New York City as a waitress, she met Bartholomew Cromwell III, and his charm was enough to sweep her off her feet in two short months of dating. A year later they were married, and her dreams of being an artist were left in the dust.

  As she ran the paint brush over the wall she wondered why. Why would she ignore such a big part of herself all this time? She knew the answer, but she didn’t want to go down that road at the moment. Instead she focused on the paint clinging to the wall, the light blue dominating the pewter grey of old. She was excited to add some color to the neutral pallet of the house, something she tried to convince Bart of since the day he brought her home after the honeymoon. Now, four years after their wedding, he suggested robin egg blue and told her to call a company to take care of it. She wondered what made him change his mind.

  But who was she to question it? She was finally getting what she wanted, a bright renewal of their home that was more than welcome after the last dark patch that Bart brought into their lives. She felt that the color could be a new start, a sign that Bart wanted to try harder to respect her wishes. What else could it be after the drawn out fight that was produced from his last show of infidelity? He promised he would change, he would do better. It was not the first time he made this promise, and Angela knew she should have left a long time ago, but when he cried and begged for her forgiveness she sees a part of the man she fell in love with. The part that loved her back.

  She still held on to the hope that their marriage would one day fall into place, and that she would live her Cinderella story the way it was meant to be with her Prince Charming in their castle full of bright colors and happiness. And look at her, finally putting the first bright color into their castle! What happiness.

  After a good three hours of painting, Angela’s cell phone vibrated with a call. She wiped her hands on her shorts before she picked up it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello Mrs. Cromwell, Mr. Cromwell wishes that you know he will not be home until dinner time, and he will be bringing guests. He requests that a meal be prepared by the time they arrive.”

  Angela sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, “And what time would that be?”

  “Approximately seven-thirty, Mrs. Cromwell.”

  “Is Bart there? Can I speak with him?”

  “Mr. Cromwell is currently indisposed.”

  “Oh, well alright then.” Angela’s heart throbbed for a moment.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Cromwell.” The line went dead before she could say anything more, and she stood with the phone at her ear for a long breath before slowly lowering it and looking at the time. She still had enough time to finish the hallway, but she knew she would never be able to prepare a meal up to the standards of her husband’s pallet. She tried in the past and failed miserably, resulting in him eating out and telling her to simply throw away what she did not eat. The food tasted fine to her.

  Before she went back to painting, she called their chef and begged her to come and make a meal. Marisol was not happy about working on her day off, but the woman pitied Angela, and the worst part was that Angela knew it. She knew that Marisol saw every woman Bart brought home while she was out, and she also knew that Marisol and Bart had a sexual relationship before the wedding. He hurt Marisol when he married Angela, and that is why Angela never complained about the woman working so close to her husband. She may not trust Bart, but she did trust Marisol.

  Angela knew that Marisol thought her to be weak, holding on to a man who would never offer her the same respect, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to let go. She never saw herself as the woman who would let go and allow a divorce. She still felt that she could fix her marriage if she tried hard enough; if she did everything right.

  She was putting away the last of the paint supplies, sad that her relaxing day of painting was tainted with the stress of an impromptu dinner, when Marisol pulled into the back driveway where the help was supposed to park. Angela met her at the back door and smiled at the other woman.

  “Thank you so much. I am so sorry about this; I would cook myself but…”

  Marisol sighed and placed her purse on the counter once in the kitchen, “You have got to stand up for yourself, Angela. If you insist on staying with this man, you need to stop letting him walk all over you.”

  “All it does is start fights, Marisol. I’m sick of fighting. And I really think that it’s different this time. I think he is going to try harder.”

  Marisol rolled her eyes, “Alright then. I am only going to say one more thing to you before I let it go for good. You have stood there and told me the same thing every time another affair comes out, and not once has it been true. A few months later, there is always another woman in his bed, and you are made a mockery of yet again. You are the woman he cheated on me with, and I am telling you that you are worth more than this life. If you should listen to anyone, it should be me because I have no reason to be nice to you. I should hate you.” Marisol turned to the stove and flipped on the burner, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get this done so I can get back to my sick Abuela and make her dinner.”

  With so much shame, Angela left the kitchen and rushed up to her bedroom to get ready for dinner. How could she explain to Marisol how she thought this time was different? How could she tell her that the color in the hallway made this situation different than all the others? There was a part of her that agreed with Marisol, but the bigger part of her was too afraid to take the first steps. She didn’t know how to be alone anymore.

  She slipped out of her work clothes and switched on the shower, leaving the water to heat up to the pre-set temperature specific to her. As the water warmed, she examined herself in the mirror. Dark hair and eyes, naturally caramel skin tone, large breasts, medium sized waist that bloomed into wide, shapely hips, she was curvy from head to toe. One of the things that she loved the most about herself was her curves. Her large dress size never bothered her, as long as the DD breasts and spank-worthy ass stayed the way they were. She truly loved her body, extra flesh packed on or not; in a world where curves were admired, she had them in excess.

  The timer on the shower beeped, and she knew the water was ready for her. Under the spray of the waterfall showerhead, Angela relaxed for the first ti
me since her husband’s assistant called her. She hummed her enjoyment as the water washed away the stiffness in her muscles from painting all day, and began to lather her body with her favorite white tea and jasmine scented soap.

  Like every other time she stepped into the shower, she felt her libido begin to spike. Something else that she left behind when she met Bart was her sex life. She was always the wild and adventurous one, the one who wanted to try everything under the sun. Bart was exciting at first, bending her into positions that made her toes curl, but eventually their sex life dwindled to nothing. Now, Angela’s only release came by her own hand. The shower was one of her favorite places to let herself get carried away.

  As always, she started with her mind. The mind is a woman’s most powerful sexual organ. If a woman’s mind is not in the moment, she is not properly stimulated, and Angela knew this very well. She let her thoughts wander to the naughtier recesses of her mind and allowed it to take control of her body.

  Her fantasy was a memory. She was tied straddling a chair, her breasts squeezing between the spokes of the back of the chair, making her nipples red, puffy, and extra sensitive from the excess blood flow. She was blindfolded and panting, more than ready to get started.

  She heard footsteps behind her, more than one set, though she couldn’t be sure how many there were. After long painful moments of silence, she felt a sharp sting on her backside, and cried out, throwing her head back. The crop found her backside again and she moaned, biting her lip hard to keep from begging for him to touch her. She knew if she did he would only hold off longer.

  “You like that, don’t you, Angela?” She smiled when she recognized his voice, and nodded her head, taking in a deep breath of anticipation when she felt the crop sliding down her spine from neck to ass. “I brought some of my friends to share you with, Angela. Would you like that?” She was slapped again with the crop, causing her to squeak in surprise. He chuckled, “That was cute, baby.”

  She smiled again and leaned her face on the back of the chair, panting with excitement. Her nipples were so sensitive that she felt the air shift when one of the other men reached forward to squeeze and twist them. She cried out from the pain, enjoying the way it zinged through her body, straight to her clit.

  “This is a very special girl to me, men.” Her boyfriend said, talking to the men around her, “I think it’s time we give her what she wants, don’t you?” And then the crop found her ass again before she felt more hands on her. She gave up trying to count them because they moved so much she couldn’t be sure, but she thought there were at least three others besides Nate, her boyfriend at the time.

  She was touched everywhere, fingers made their way into her mouth, her pussy, her ass. She cried out over and over again, releasing her pleasure onto the chair in wet excess. She opened her mouth wide to cry out when she felt a tongue probe at her asshole, only for it to be shoved full of hard cock. She hungrily sucked at it, slurping and gagging, moaning around the girth as hands continued to torture her body into feeling. The sensory overload was almost too much, and she felt herself begin to shake.

  Back in the present, Angela threw her head back and moaned into the falling water. Her hand worked furiously on her pussy, stroking and abusing it into submission, making her legs shake from the effort of keeping herself standing under the warm spray of water. As she remembered the stretch of the first cock entering her pussy, she mirrored the memory with her own fingers. Sliding to the floor of the shower, she leaned back and worked her G-spot until her back arched and she found her climax. She felt her pussy clench around her fingers, and her body quivered as she milked herself of every moment of orgasm she could achieve.

  With a final gasp, she rode out the final stretch of her orgasm and went limp on the shower floor. After a moment of recovery, she stood and, pushing aside her craving for more, finished her shower. She had a dinner to be ready for.

  It was at eight O’clock that Bart finally got home. Angela heard the garage door open and close behind his car, and stood from the couch to meet him at the door. When the door opened she froze. She heard female laughter, and when she rounded the corner her heart dropped. There Bart stood, his arm around the waist of a tall, thin, blonde woman, grinning at her as she laughed and placed her hand on his chest.

  Bart noticed Angela and turned his smile to her, “This is Olivia, my newest secretary. Olivia, my wife.” Olivia glanced at Angela and winked, a sly smirk on her face as Bart lead her into the house. Angela was left alone as she listened to the woman’s continued laughter echoing around her house.

  Her heart hurt. She felt sick. She had literal pain in her chest as she felt her last piece of hope wither and die within her soul. The only way he changed was by bringing his latest affair home to rub in her face. He didn’t care about her, he only wanted to feel in control. If he cared about her feelings, he would at least make an effort to shield them.

  She was startled when the door opened yet again, and another woman came through the threshold. This one was older, shorter, and very familiar.

  “Please take my bag, and if I find anything missing I will have your job.” She said, thrusting her bag toward Angela and scowling when she didn’t take it, “What did I- Oh, Angela. I always mistake you for the help.” She gave Angela a disgusted once-over before pulling a compact mirror from her bag and checking her eyes, “Have you met Olivia? She is such a wonderful girl. Takes good care of herself, and has done a marvelous job at taking care of Bartholomew around the office as well.”

  Angela gritted her teeth, “Yeah. I met her.”

  Pricilla Cromwell, Angela’s mother-in-law, scowled at her, “Don’t you speak to me that way, Angela. It is unbecoming.” She placed the mirror back in her bag and continued into the house, followed closely by Angela. When they reached the dining room, Angela caught a glimpse of her husband leaning towards Olivia- who was sat in Angela’s usual seat at his side- and whispering into her ear. Angela stopped by her husband’s seat and cleared her throat to gain his attention. When he looked up at her, it was with a charming smile on his face, and he completely ignored her glare.

  “You don’t mind sitting beside mother tonight do you? Olivia and I have quite a bit to talk about.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned back to Olivia and continued saying God knows what to her. Angela felt an uncharacteristic surge of anger towards her husband, and placed a hand on his shoulder with false gentility. When he turned to her his eyes widened in surprise at the fury in her own; she did not speak until she was sure she had his attention.

  “I am going into the kitchen to get the food. She will be out of my seat when I get back.” She did not make a threat; she let her eyes do that for her. Bart raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, but Angela turned and entered the kitchen before he could get the words out.

  In the kitchen, she seethed, slamming her hands on the counter by the stacked ovens. How dare he? How dare he treat her with such disrespect in their own home? She looked passed the affairs before, but none of them where waved under her nose in this way.

  Getting control of herself, she reached for the door to the oven and pulled out the two platters set there to warm. She placed the salad bowl in the crook of her elbow and the bread bowl in the crook of the other, then made her way into the dining room. To her satisfaction, her seat was empty, and Olivia was sat across from Bart, next to his mother. She didn’t fool herself into thinking everything would be okay after that, but at least she had her rightful place at her husband’s side.

  Once she sat in her chair, Pricilla opened her mouth, “Olivia is very offended by your earlier treatment of her, Angela, as am I. I think she deserves an apology.”

  Angela looked up at Olivia, whose eyes were wide and looking between the three others at the table. Angela noted how overwhelmed she looked, but felt no sympathy for the woman. What did she expect to happen?

  “I will not apologize to my husband’s latest mistress for standing my ground in my own home.” An
gela responded as she scooped a portion of food onto her plate.

  Bart reached over and squeezed her knee. Hard. He was not happy with her emboldened statement. “Angela, that is a terrible thing to accuse someone of,” he told her, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

  “It is not an accusation. Accusations suggest a possibility of innocence.” She told him, greatly unaffected by his treatment of her, “Now release my knee. You are leaving bruises.”

  He released her and looked over at Olivia with a fabricated expression of compassion and apology, “I am so sorry for my wife’s unfounded jealousy, Olivia.”

  Olivia’s mouth was open, her eyes bugging out as she looked from Bart to Angela. Her eyes rested on Angela, and Angela could swear she saw tears around those blue orbs before she closed her mouth and blinked rapidly. She did not speak.

  “You have to excuse Angela, she has no tact. She was born in poverty and seduced my son at a young age.” Pricilla explained, patting Olivia on the knee before glaring at Angela.

  Olivia still did not say a word.

  “It would be foolish for her not to envy you, Olivia. After all, you are beautiful. Angela has never cared to take care of herself, though, so do not feel bad. She would be a decent looking woman if she simply lost a few pounds. Of course Bart giving you any form of attention would make her feel insecure. But it is no excuse to put you down, my dear.” Pricilla’s words did not hurt Angela. She was used to them after four years. The woman was the definition of a wasp, and she hated that Bart married Angela and not the woman she had set up for him.

  Angela simply continued to eat, seeing that Olivia looked truly disturbed. She did not miss the movement under the table when the woman jerked her foot away from where Bart let his rest on hers. She wore a neutral mask throughout the dinner, picking at her food without really tasting it, as Pricilla and Bart continued to speak. Angela sat at her place, head held high and back straight. She may have been made a fool of by her husband, but she would not make a fool of herself any further.