Author: Virtual Scott
Title: Lloyd's Angel
Part: 3 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

Lloyd's Angel: Defusing a Problem

November 2010

I was nursing a drink downstairs in the lounge, watching the crowd, when
the detective came in. The lounge provided space for the bar, and a small
dance floor. It looked like a typical (and law-abiding) club offering
adult entertainment, if you didn't stop to wonder how much of the building
it *didn't* occupy. It catered to heavy drinkers, those too clueless or
too timid to make it to the suites upstairs, and to our friends in the law
enforcement community.

I'd been grinning over my beer at the dazed expressions on the frat boys
coming down the stairs; by my watch, these would be Angel's first party.
The change in the eddy of the crowd by the door caught my attention. I
don't know what it was about the police types; no matter what they wore,
they seemed to exude a buzz-kill aura that tipped off even those much less
observant than myself.

What I *should* have done, and *had* done countless times before, was have
the hostess bring the guy over, spot him a drink and a seat for the floor
show, and leave him positively convinced that nothing illegal was
happening here, even if the place was littered with Danny's stupidly
clever allusions to the contrary.

But, like I mentioned, I was in a bad place. What I *did* do was buzz the
hostess on the comm, tell her to stall the cop for ten minutes, and bring
him up to the red suite. Then I ghosted up the back stairs to find Angel.
She was alone in the gold suite, which reeked of sex, but looking
remarkably composed as she combed out her lustrous hair. Her panties were
gone and her swollen slit was oozing cum, but with a little lipstick she'd
be as presentable as she had been at the beginning of the night. What a
slut; my cock gave an involuntary twitch at the thought.

"Hey, Boss," she said, noticing me. "What's up?"

"Change of plan," I told her. "We have a visitor downstairs, probably a
cop. How'd you like to drop by the red suite and pretend to be Danny for a
while?"

"I can do that," she answered, her face so intent that she reminded me of
Angela and my conscience twinged again. "How do you want me to play him?"

"Find out why he's here. Compromise him, if you can; just be sure he makes
the first move." The red suite was right next to my office and outfitted
with video and audio pickups -- perfect for catching people red-handed,
and thus the name. I shrugged. "Go with your instincts."

The little vixen grinned widely. "I love a challenge! How long do I have?"

"About five minutes now," I replied, looking at my watch.

"I'll be ready!" she rose and swept out of the room, moving quickly
without looking like she was working at it.

I sauntered back to my office, riffed through a set of placards until I
found one reading, "Staff Supervisor," and another labeled, "Ms. Jones."
Stepping back outside, I popped the "Red Suite" sign off the magnetic
mount on the door and positioned the two replacements in its place. I
pushed open the door and took a quick look at the room, confirming it was
presentable and could reasonably pass for an ostentatious, but not
extravagant, office.

Angel brushed past me, making sure I felt the curve of a breast through
our clothing. She'd put up her hair in a quick twist, traded in her slut
shoes for more modest three-inch pumps, and exchanged the gloves for a
corporate grey pinstripe skirt and blazer. I doubted she looked very
modest beneath it, but that wasn't the point. After a quick look in the
wall mirror (which incidentally concealed the main camera) she wiped away
the remains of her lipstick with a tissue and quickly but neatly retouched
her lips with a more muted shade.

We traded thumbs-up, and I closed the door behind me before returning to
my own office. Once there, I started the video and confirmed I had a good
image; Angel was seated behind "her" desk typing at the PC there. I buzzed
the host station with a go-ahead, and sat back to finish organizing my
thoughts.

A knock sounded through the speaker a moment later. "Ms. Jones? There's a
Detective Snowden here to see you." Angel nodded and beckoned.

With a grimace, I noticed she was surfing a pornography site. The face of
the display wasn't visible from the visitor chair in front of the desk,
but I hoped we wouldn't need that secondary view later.

An obviously disgruntled middle-aged man entered the picture and stared at
Angel for a long moment before settling into the chair. I heard the door
close behind him.

"*You're* the manager of this place?" he asked in evident disbelief. Is
this your idea of a joke? Where's Sullivan?" That was Danny.

Angel arched one delicate eyebrow. "Yes, I'm the manager. No, I am not
joking. Mr. Sullivan has better things to do with his time than fill out
personnel reports and cater to unannounced visits from sexist
troglodytes." She considered, and added, "Not that it's your business, but
the girls prefer a manager who can sympathize with their viewpoint."

"*This* makes it my business," he snarled, slamming his badge on the desk.
Yep, there was a lot of anger there. "And we both know 'your girls' spend
far more time on their backs in these rooms than they do on that sham of a
stage you have downstairs!"

"I beg to differ," Angel responded calmly. "What we both know is that we
provide changing rooms for the comfort and convenience of our featured
entertainers, and that multiple previous investigations -- *official* ones
-- have uncovered no evidence that would substantiate your wild, and
frankly slanderous, accusations."

What an earful. Maybe it was somehow bleeding over, but it sure sounded
like Angel was making good use of Angela's unorthodox MBA coursework.

"Perhaps you would care to explain this?" Snowden asked, suddenly ice
cool, as he flicked a small trinket onto the desk with apparent
indifference.

"A lapel pin, it appears," she commented, not impressed. "Your point?"

It took me a moment longer to recognize it; the video quality was good but
not great. I wanted to beat my head against my desk. Danny couldn't resist
being clever, especially when he thought he had me to bail him out. It
looked like I was going to be doing some bailing tonight.

"A lapel pin I confiscated from my son," the detective grated. Just great;
I just shook my head. "You will please not insult my intelligence by
pretending it is a coincidence that it is shaped like your 'Home Run'
logo, or that by coincidence that same logo appears on the plaque at the
head of the stairs, which by further striking coincidence bears my son's
name, among others."

I was already pulling up the roster on the computer; there was a Darren
Snowden added in the spring. That explained the detective's interest, and
suggested this was an off-the-books probe, but why the intensity?

"Yes," Angel admitted blandly, "we do award the Home Run pin to some of
our best customers."

"My son is 16 years old!" he erupted.

Snowden and the office computer had a critically important five-year
difference of opinion regarding Darren's age. If, as seemed likely, the
elder Snowden had a heart attack next door, I couldn't decide if I would
be happy or sad.

Angel managed a nicely calibrated expression of pained surprise and
sympathy. "I assure you, Detective Snowden, we do not knowingly admit
minors to this establishment and we are extremely vigilant about checking
identification. I am profoundly sorry this situation has arisen, but you
cannot reasonably hold us accountable for it."

He waved her off, "oh I know, of course he has fake identification! But
*you* are the peddlers of smut that actively encourage this moral decay!
Peddling sex -- no, women -- like they were pieces of meat. *A Home Run
pin -- to my son!*"

The cop was literally pounding on the edge of her desk. I knew what was
coming, but what remained to be seen was how Angel would respond.

"Best customers!" he shouted. "You know how you *get* a Home Run pin?" It
was obviously a rhetorical question, and Snowden raced on as soon as he
drew a ragged breath. "You tit-fuck one of your 'performers' -- and then
she blows you, and then you fuck her, and then you're not done, oh no, you
sodomize her. *Then* you give him a fucking *pin* so he can boast to his
friends and corrupt *them* too!"

Technically, the guy had to ejaculate all four times. Originally, the only
restriction was that they had to occur on the same visit, but some high
rollers weren't beyond forking out to engage a girl all night; now, Danny
had a one-hour limit on it. Pin holders had their names engraved on the
wall of fame and received preferential booking and discounts on their
future visits. There was no doubt Snowden had the basics down; it was one
of Danny's wildly idiotic brainstorms that had proven to be wildly
successful. If you ignored fallout like this.

"You must be very proud of your son," Angel told him.

The detective was literally shocked silent, and I might have thought he'd
suffered that promised heart attack if it weren't for the continued
sparkle of his consciousness.

"What?" he choked out, apparently unable to believe his ears. I couldn't
blame him.

"It sounds like your son is a real man," Angel purred. "Think about it.
Imagine trapping your cock between a woman's breasts, and spraying your
essence on her body." She leaned forward intently, bracing her forearms on
the desk.

I didn't for a second think the way her upper arms compressed her breasts,
exposing more of them and emphasizing her cleavage, was accidental.
Nodding with appreciation, I focused on Snowden and pushed. *Lust*.
*Envy*. It was surprising how little resistance I found.

"Teasing her with his scent," she continued, "until she just *has* to
taste him." Perfect lips formed an open "O" as she paused to reflect a
moment.

Snowden stirred but said nothing.

"If he's still hard, why, what woman wouldn't want a tool like that inside
her?" Angel jerked minutely, and both of us realized her hands were no
longer resting on the desk.

"Slut!" Snowden screamed, standing. His erection was obvious, at least on
the secondary camera; I had a feeling we wouldn't need it after another
minute or two. Two long strides took him around the desk. "Fucking slut!
Is this what you want? Is it?"

He slapped her and Angel went over backwards. I wouldn't have put it past
her to have taken a pratfall; the blow hadn't really looked that hard. The
detective's eyes bulged as he took in the view I had on the overhead
camera; somehow Angel's jacket had come unbuttoned and fallen open,
exposing a bustier and her heaving tits. With one of her long legs still
propped on the fallen chair, the front of her skirt had ridden up to her
waist, providing a classic beaver shot of her creaming gash framed between
the tops of her stockings.

Best of all, none of it showed on the main video, which didn't extend down
to the floor. All I could see was the one calf and a foot atop the
overturned chair, and a man who, after a moment of stunned inaction, began
frantically unfastening his trousers.

Pay dirt. We wouldn't have to worry about Detective Snowden again.

I took a deep breath, and stood up to go back downstairs; Angel could take
care of herself now. On reflection, I double-checked to make sure the time
of day was visible in the corner of the monitor. If I knew my Angel,
Snowden was going to join his son in the Home Run club tonight or die
trying.