Fall of an Angel

Word count: 5,250

My first effort at a story written from scratch, though it was inspired by a snapshot I captured in SL. There's not actually a lot of sex in this story until near the end, but I hope the build-up makes up for it. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, bashing will be directed to /dev/null.

Fall of an Angel

(c) 2011 GingerM

The battle between the forces of good and evil, the host of Heaven and Hell's armada, is never-ending. The struggle has lasted through eternity, and will continue even past the end of Time; the war is waged at every level. Sometimes that conflict spills over onto the earthly plane, and we glimpse faces of that titanic, endless war...

The demoness looked around. The alley was filthy; it stank of rotting garbage, stale fear, sweat and base lusts. Shielded from the Polite World by a chance dogleg of wall, the denizens of the alley indulged their sordid appetites. Pushers sold their wares, prostitutes and gigolos tiredly offered themselves for rent. Some of those rentals were conducted right here in this alley. Over by a barrel, a jaded blonde girl knelt submissively, passively accepting the pathetic cock being rammed into her mouth by one of those members of the Polite World who had taken a brief side-step off the path of propriety, prosperity and success. A pimp counted his roll while two other girls paraded listlessly, their clothes grubby and in ill repair, tarted up with cheap mascara, lipstick and hastily applied perfume. She smiled. Life was good.

Ethereal, unseen, she strode among the dregs of humanity as they fought, fucked, shot up, and otherwise cheapened themselves until they were ripe for the plucking. A glow from the public washroom attracted her attention. What was causing that? She wondered. Curious, she paced over to the filthy room.

Cracked white tile adorned the walls to a height of four feet, then cheaply installed drywall. It had been painted – once – in an off-white, many years ago. Now, however, it was a dingy grey, liberally covered with graffiti, dirt and stains. The floor was also tile – what remained of it, anyway. Under the tile was concrete, now pitted and cracked. A drain in the corner had long since backed up, and a standing pool of liquid – it was very unlikely to be water – covered it, noisome and rank. A urinal was mounted on one wall, a smashed and broken condom vendor on another. In the corner were two stalls, the doors torn off. The toilet in one was a smashed pile of porcelain, and in the divider it shared with the other stall, a hole had been crudely cut at about crotch height. The other stall's toilet was intact, but currently doing duty as a chair, on which a young man sat, covered with tattoos. His oversized jeans were bunched around his ankles; sitting on him, facing him, was a whor