Author: Virtual Scott
Title: Lloyd's Angel
Part: 1 of 18
Summary: Lloyd discovers he has the ability to influence others with his mind;
can he think with his head instead of his cock as he struggles to control
his gift and come to terms with its ethical implications?
Keywords: MF mc

Author's Note

I'm a fan of novels and personally prefer longer form works. This story
was composed and is intended to be read as single integrated narrative.
However, I've split it into parts as a convenience for readers who may
prefer to approach it in shorter chunks. The chronology jumps around, but
you are meant to read the parts in posting order (and not strict
chronological order).

As readers of my previous work probably know, the story sometimes has a
tendency to take on a life of its own and I often indulge it. Readers
looking for a quick succession of stroke scenes will want to look elsewhere.
(The smut is in there; I just prefer to hang it on a coherent narrative.)
I hope more patient readers ;-) will become engaged in the story and find
Lloyd's journey engaging in its own right.

I have not written forewords for my other stories but, there as here, all
people and places not mentioned in passing are figments of my imagination
and do not represent reality. Illegal or immoral activity, outside the bounds
of fiction, is not condoned.

My thanks go out to the writers and readers of the EMCA community. Your
works, whether published stories or notes of appreciation, are inspiring.

Lloyd's Angel: Night and Day

October 2010

It was shaping up to be another busy day. The remote vibrated discreetly
in my pocket and I headed for the mall entrance. "On it," my partner's
voice sounded in my earbud. Angela was there before me, courteously but
firmly blocking the progress of a very flustered-looking middle-aged
woman. I got there just at the end of the usual speech -- "do you mind if
we make a quick search of your bag?" We all knew the request was for
form's sake only.

The lady was looking distinctly ashen under her cosmetics when Angela
produced the necklace from the bottom of her bag. Unboxed, and unadorned
by any of the layers of carefully folded tissue that normally surrounded
purchases, it sported only the small RFID tag that had triggered the door
sensors. "I have no idea how that got there!" she stammered.

Angela looked frankly disbelieving, but she was always a hard audience. My
read of the situation was that she probably was telling the truth. "I'm
sure it was an honest mistake," I told her in my most comforting
gentlemanly voice. "Vanessa is always leaving things on the counter, and
it probably got caught when she was wrapping your purchases."

My partner looked briefly rebellious but followed my lead. "Thank you for
your cooperation, Ma'am. We truly value your patronage; please visit us
again soon."

Her brilliant smile startled the woman, who mumbled something
unintelligible and hurried to put the incident, and us, behind her as
quickly as possible. As we walked the necklace back to its rightful place,
our minor disturbance was already forgotten by the other shoppers, just
like the management preferred.

"Loss Prevention" was management's buzzword for it, and we were the
store's best team, and a study in contrasts. Angela was young and dynamic
and shit-hot; she wore her security uniform in a way that was 100%
professional but put those fake-cop strippers to shame. I was forgettably
(and intentionally) plain-clothes and old enough to be her grandfather.

We had good chemistry, but what management cared about was that our loss
rate was less than half of anybody else's. When you were the flagship,
most exclusive department store at the area's most upscale mall, that
translated into serious dollars. The only knock against us was that we
didn't like working with anybody else and only worked days. Angela was
taking classes at night to earn her degree. I could have (and had) retired
years ago, and took the job to avoid boredom; I saw no reason to screw up
my nights.

The store manager didn't have any leverage, but probably consoled himself
with the thought that our target demographic was rich enough that many of
them didn't work, so we were busier during the days than most of the rest
of the mall. Unfortunately, that traffic included the usual proportion of
people who preferred to avoid paying for their merchandise.

Angela clearly suspected the lady was one of that demographic. "How do you
know she wasn't lying to us, Lloyd?" she asked me again after we returned
the necklace to one of the jewelry counters.

"I don't," I replied with a shrug, "but she struck me as genuinely
surprised and upset -- and not about getting caught. I've had practice
reading people since before you were born. Besides..." We recited the
tired refrain together, she with an air of resignation, "...the customer
always gets the benefit of the doubt."

It wasn't surprising Angela had pressed me on it; you didn't get far in
this business without learning to play a hunch, and she suspected I had
some trick I wasn't sharing. However, the fact that she was right didn't
change matters. It wasn't something I could teach, and I wasn't entirely
sure I understood it myself.

It was something I could do with my mind, although I didn't have a neat
name for it. The best description is that I could sort of "push" at
another person, and influence them. It wasn't a "your wish is my command"
sort of thing; there was an odd, well, "twist" involved. Several, I
suspected. Struggling with its application, and with the murky ethics of
it all, had occupied me for several decades. Even if it seemed
appropriate, it worked best at a simple emotional level; intellectual
things usually required coming at the desired result sideways.

More detailed work was possible, but it was inordinately tricky and prone
to outright failure, especially if I wasn't familiar with the other mind.
They looked (or felt?) like fuzzy balls of static, and delicate work
required teasing through them like a ball of tangled string.

The immediate point was that, although I couldn't read minds, I could
sense the level of resistance I was getting when I pushed a person. When
I'd thought *I hate shoplifting* at the lady with the necklace, it had
been like missing a step on a staircase -- I was as sure as I could be
that she'd already believed it and hadn't stolen the necklace.

Reminding Vanessa *I feel good when I return jewelry to the display cases
immediately* was like pushing a finger through a sheet of tissue paper --
while holding it with the same hand. I usually tried to avoid messing
about with people who didn't need it, but this wasn't the first time she'd
forgotten, and some folks just couldn't resist an opportunity if they saw
one. It was good if we got them at the entrance, better if we could
intercept shoplifters still inside the store, but best if they never got
an opportunity in the first place.

If only the shoplifters were our only problem. We headed to men's
furnishings, in response to a report of a customer causing a disturbance.
As I feared, it was the young asshole who'd been yanking our chains on and
off for a month or so. Even without cheating I could see he wasn't serious
about lifting anything, and he only turned up on our shift. My take was
that Angela had a fan who'd seen that stupid toilet commercial too many
times -- the one where the guy stuffs everything he can down the bowl in
an attempt to score a service visit from the foxy plumber next door.

That plumber had nothing on my partner, even with the exasperated frown
marring Angela's expression. The idiot had something, probably a pack of
socks, stuffed down the front of his pants; Tim, the sales associate,
clearly wanted to belt him but was playing by the rules that said, "Hands
off and call security."

"I ain't got nothin'," smirked the slimeball when we got within earshot,
"frisk me if you don't believe me."

I obligingly took a step forward.

"Not you, old dude!" he warned. "I'm not gonna let some random guy handle
my junk unless you want a lawsuit. If the store wants to search me, I want
a uniformed officer." All of us were perfectly aware that I was as fully
accredited by the store as Angela, and that she was the only security
uniform in the store at the moment.

Some people had it coming. "Fine," I growled. "If you'll accompany us to
the security office?" Angela knew something was up, because his last few
visits had ended with an escort to the door and a suggestion not to return
that day. She silently led off, followed by the jerk and myself.

"I'd love to tap that," he confided, as we both watched her tight ass in
the form-fitting uniform slacks.

She stiffened, still in hearing range. "Don't push your luck, punk," I
warned him, but he was feeling invulnerable and in control.

That feeling faded a bit when we both accompanied him into our Spartan
detention room. "It's for your protection," I sarcastically informed him.
"You've waved your right to be frisked by a member of the same sex, but
store policy requires an observer be present to ensure the inspecting
officer does not behave improperly. You also have the right to have this
inspection recorded," I concluded with a nod at the camera in the corner.

I could see him working the angles in his head, trying to decide if it was
a trick question. I honestly didn't care, but he deserved to squirm. He
finally decided to have it taped, which probably was smart if he thought
we were going to beat the crap out of him.

I stepped out of the room and started the recorder, verifying it looked
good and that the red light on the camera was illuminated. I also used the
opportunity to give Angela a quick heads-up via the comm while he couldn't
hear me. "Give him the works." She twitched. "Be nice, but be thorough --
at least five minutes."

Angela growled inarticulately in response but gave me a barely perceptible
nod as I reentered the room. "Please stand with your legs spread and your
arms out, sir," she told him, biting off the honorific as if it were an
epithet.

"Don't try anything funny," I warned him, "she's a combat vet." Besides
being true, I hoped it would keep him quiet and avoid unnecessary
distractions. I leaned against the wall by the corner, where she wouldn't
be blocking my view, and gave Angela a thumbs-up.

She moved in close and began running her hands slowly and carefully along
one arm. She didn't touch him with anything except the palms of her hands,
but Angela was nearly in his face, looked like a wet dream, and had good
taste in perfume. I waited until the inevitable stiffening became visible,
and then I started pushing.

This was a complicated one because I was trying to juggle several things
at once. I knew he must be feeling arousal, and Angela's hands
methodically working their way across his body. I left a space for those,
and then wove around them desire and the sort of visceral sensations all
men had -- the pungent musk of perspiration after hard exercise, the feel
of stubble beneath your fingers just before you shaved, the feel of hard
cock in your hand; who hasn't masturbated?

I pushed all of it to him, hard, and kept pushing. It was a lot of effort,
and it was difficult to maintain the pressure and keep a physical eye on
things at the same time. I knew I was getting to him when I felt the
pressure start to fade and he started watching me instead of Angela, but I
kept pushing anyway. Fucking slimebag.

Finally, Angela stepped back. "Don't move!" she told him, before speaking
for the camera. "My inspection is completed. A foreign object appears to
be concealed near the subject's genital area." She looked distastefully at
his tenting crotch. "Lloyd?"

I had to let up on the pressure to talk, but I'd already worked out what I
was going to say, which made things easier. "Sir, our policies strictly
prohibit invasive searches by members of the opposite sex. Therefore, I am
going to remove the object you have concealed in your pants."

I walked over to him, a little unsteadily, then brusquely pulled out his
waistband with one hand, reached in to grab the plastic packaging with the
other, and *pushed* as I withdrew it. I didn't quite have the socks clear
before the punk exploded all over the inside of his pants. He jerked like
I'd sucker-punched him, but the recording would make it clear neither of
us had done anything of the kind.

"Angela, can you escort this gentleman off the premises?" I needed to
catch my breath.

"Certainly," she replied with crisp enthusiasm. "Further, as an attempted
shoplifter" -- the bag looked like it might not be suitable for returning
to inventory -- "you are no longer welcome in this establishment. Please
do not return." She marched him out while he was still poking
ineffectually at his pants.



"Lloyd, what the hell was that?" Angela asked when she returned a few
minutes later.

By then I was up to having a conversation, or at least avoiding one. "I
guess you're just too hot to handle, Angela! Hell, if I were his age, I'd
probably have that problem too. No offense intended, of course."

"None taken, of course," she rejoined, looking unsatisfied. "Should I feel
offended that towards the end I think he was paying more attention to you
than me?"

"Probably just worrying that I'd clock him if he got frisky," I quipped.

"Now I *am* offended," Angela said with a smile. "You think I can't take
care of myself? You looked like you were getting winded just holding up
the wall, Grandpa; everything all right?"

"Oh, fine; just not a spry as I used to be." I pushed myself back to my
feet. "Let's get back to making the world safe for retail therapy, shall
we?"

With luck, we'd never see sock-boy again. If I'd done the job right, he'd
be too interested in getting felt up by other men to bother coming around
here. I told myself it was good for the store, and good for Angela, and
tried to put it all behind me.

The activity made it easy to do; maybe the official holiday shopping
season hadn't started yet, but the decorations and holiday displays were
up, and foot traffic was heavier than usual. We circulated randomly, and I
dispensed a few light *I hate shoplifting* pushes at people that looked
problematic.

I hadn't done a big push like that in a while, and I guess my adrenaline
was still going, because I was a little wild that afternoon. Angela got a
line on a girl we suspected of being a serial shoplifter; clever enough to
never get caught, but always seeming to come out of the changing rooms
with less than she went in carrying. While Angela was conducting an
on-the-spot search, I pressed my back to the other side of the partition,
located the static of the unfamiliar mind, and pushed *it makes me hot to
leave my clothing in dressing rooms*.

Angela subsequently reported she hadn't found anything incriminating, but
that the girl "was weird" without providing any details. I kicked myself,
wondering why I'd passed on the usual reinforcement and wondering if the
girl would actually stop stealing or just start trading outfits. Well,
spilt milk.

The most exciting moment, for bystanders, came mid-afternoon. A guy at the
watch counter tried a snatch and dash, with Angela in hot pursuit. In the
open, she probably would have caught him; in the store, the gawkers
stirred up by his passage got in her way and she was losing ground.

He was at the limit of my range when I pushed a frantic *I love to taunt
people* but couldn't feel if it had any effect. Whether it was me or
karma, he turned to look back at Angela and ran right into a
newly-emplaced Christmas tree inside the store entrance. A gun I hadn't
realized he had went skidding away, and my heart missed a beat -- what if
he'd shot her?

Angela was on top of him before he could regain his footing, and it was
all over after that. She had him on the ground and cuffed before I could
even get there. My contribution was to collect the watch and gun before
somebody else could. The onlookers applauded as she jerked him to his feet
and we marched him back to our holding room to wait for the real cops to
take him off our hands.

I tried to apologize, although I wasn't sure for what exactly, but Angela
cut me off and told me she knew I wouldn't let her get hurt. It felt nice,
if unrealistic. I'd already hurt her worse than she'd ever know.



Dinner was reassuringly normal. I gulped a couple aspirin for my headache,
and flipped through another chapter of "Advanced Topics in Supply Chain
Management" while I waited for the microwave to heat one of those
allegedly healthy freezer meals, and then absent-mindedly consumed it.

After that, I sacked out in my recliner and listened to the classical
station for half an hour or so while I just let my mind drift. Then it was
time to get dressed for my night job. Ironically, although the
surroundings were seedier than my day job, the dress code was much
classier. The commute was better, too; I walked downstairs and the car was
waiting as usual.

It whisked me, with only desultory conversation, to an uninhabited alley.
I let myself in the back door, nodded to the staff in sight, and headed up
to my office. If I'd gone in the front door, I would have had to navigate
velvet ropes and bouncers to pass under a sign reading "HOME RUN -- Home
of the Grand Slam Girls."

My office door boasted a small sign that read, "LP." It amused Danny, the
owner, to use the same term the store did -- "loss prevention" -- even if
the merchandise was different. I was already getting hard in anticipation
as I opened the door and walked into the office, closing it again behind
me.

"Boss," she greeted me, rising from the expensive chair. "Angel," I
replied. The body was the same, and the perfume, but nothing else. She was
my greatest creation, my worst failure, the fairest fruit of my gift, and
a stark warning of its corrosive effect, all rolled into one sultry
package.

Like a modern-day Jekyll and Hyde, two personalities inhabited the body
before me, each ignorant of the other. Angela had a body built for sex;
Angel frankly invited it. Angela was my partner; Angel my depraved toy.
She stalked across the office to me, displaying herself for my enjoyment.

There was a lot to enjoy. Dark hair cascaded across one shoulder to fall
just short of her breasts. As I watched she brushed it back with one hand
to present herself, parting lips painted a deep ruby red to reveal a flash
of white teeth and pink tongue. Her breasts, high, firm and beautifully
shaped, rode exposed atop the ribbed bustier she'd chosen to wear this
evening. The nipples capping them were rigidly erect and dark with rouge.

Angel's hands drifted to her hips and plucked the ties of her string
bikini, letting it fall to the floor. It revealed a bare sex swollen and
dripping with desire. She swayed close to me, limbs covered with opera
gloves and dark lace stockings, balancing gracefully on the five-inch
heels that enhanced her blood-boiling gait.

"Fuck me," she breathed in a husky voice that couldn't be mistaken for her
alter ego's business-like soprano. I unzipped my fly, but she batted my
hands aside and finished unfastening my trousers. Squatting gracefully,
she inhaled my rigid organ until her nose was nestled in my wiry hair.

My balls churned and I shuddered with need, but she knew my body nearly as
well as I did. She rose again and pulled me toward the desk, which not
coincidentally was cleared. She leaned back against it, and the slight
spreading of her legs and the molten urgency in her dark eyes was all the
invitation I needed. I sheathed myself in her welcoming depths, both of us
gasping with the intensity of the sensation.

I hissed, "Fucking slut," through my teeth as I withdrew slightly and
forced myself into her again.

"I'll always be your slut," she sighed, her eyelids heavy with desire. I
knew I'd go to Hell for what I'd done to her, but at the moment there was
nothing the Devil could tempt me with that would outdo my Angel. I shot my
load inside her, and she climaxed too, as she always did. She milked my
rapidly deflating organ with her muscles, and then pushed me away so she
could kneel and clean me with her kitten tongue.

While she worked, I stroked her hair gently and carefully laid my latest
reading assignment into the baroque tangle of sparks that was her mind.
Angela would wake with memories of another lecture. I actually was
qualified to teach this subject, and most of the others Angela had "taken"
over the past two years; it was the least I could do for her.

Our mutual tasks accomplished, we dressed ourselves. Angel didn't bother
to clean herself before tying on her panties and checking her garters and
stockings were straight. Call me petty, but it was another unexpected
twist to our strange arrangement.

A hint to other seventy-plus-year-old would-be perverts: do not acquire
companions whose sex drives significantly exceed your own capabilities. I
could play a few games with my own mind, but my body just was not
physically up to the challenge of orgasming more than once a night. Angel
lived for sex and needed multiple climaxes a night to be happy;
unfortunately my conceit of tying her orgasms to her partner's necessarily
meant she was a party girl.

She fit right in at Home Run. A natural Grand Slam Girl -- "you get all
the way to home base, and so do your friends!" -- Danny usually had her
booked well in advance. I wasn't the jealous type, mostly, as long as I
made sure all the other guys got sloppy seconds. I kept an eye on her, and
knowing she was taking all those other loads solely because I wanted her
to pandered to my baser instincts.

After a surprisingly chaste kiss and a final grab of that sweet ass, we
went our separate ways and I settled down to business. The concept was the
same, but "Loss Prevention" had some unique twists when it applied to
workers at a thinly disguised brothel when prostitution was illegal. There
was a lot more proactive work, for one thing. Danny didn't understand
exactly what I did, but he understood I was doing something that netted
him a lot of profit and he took care to keep me happy.

For my part, I sometimes regretted our pact but I felt owed it to the
girls to make sure they were treated semi-decently. And, honestly, it
provided a place where I could do the least damage when I hit one of my
backsliding phases. I'd had a lot of them over the years.