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When he’s horny, he finds it easier to think about her. Not so sad. Thoughts often turn to things that he likes.
Elliot likes Angela. He likes that she has a deep voice. He likes that she’s slightly taller than him, especially when she’s wearing heels. Likes to think of them locking around his hips while he fucks her. Ripping the buttons off a crisp suit, all so he can get at her tits. Likes to think of Evil Corp’s PR manager eating him out, grinding against her face, smearing her lipstick, maybe forcing his cock in her mouth. How he wishes he could really fuck her face, knows she likes it; he’s watched every video they made of her and Ollie, often multiple times. His little secret. The sound of her swallowing Ollie’s cum seems to play on repeat.
Elliot often finds himself a little bit reluctant to receive - reticent about having things inside him - but he doesn’t mind if it’s Angela. She can jam her tongue up his ass for all he fucking cares, as long as she’s touching him. It’s always been that way.
He imagines a date, to pretend they can still do things differently. To pretend they still have time. He forces himself into a shirt with a tie. He hates these, but he likes imagining her choking him with it. Face going blue as she yanks it from across a fancy dinner table. He does so every time he wears one.
She wears a shirt, plain black trousers and high heels. Mr Robot prefers her in a low-cut dress - one that would get her called a whore, if she ever wore it to work. Elliot doesn’t listen. Aside from the shoes, he prefers her to be in something comfortable. So she’s not trying to impress.
If thinking about that didn’t make him so angry, it would just turn him on. Too many times spent hearing about men who offered her a prime position if only they could stick their cock down her throat - so many, like it’s practically still the seventies - to not think about it. He hates that he likes it, pictures her lightly sucking on Tyrell Wellick’s balls whenever he can’t think about anything else. He really hopes she’d slap him for it.
They’re at a table. She orders Caesar salad with fries. He orders nothing, more fascinated by watching her eat. She laughs when he makes a joke. He’s not very hungry, but he is normal.
“You look different,” she says. Eyes take him in, trailing up his body. He really likes the way she seems to appreciate the change, how she evaluates him. Noticing the shape of his arms, his face, his shirt. He shouldn’t try to cover it up so much. He’s a man. She likes that. “Better.”
She’s talking about the past. When they were girls together, except he was never very good at pretending to be one. Definitely never like Darlene, back where they were almost like sisters. Elliot thinks maybe she’s just confused about how to think about him now. He was never really like a brother to her, either. Something else. They’re just putting a name to it now.
Maybe she means he looks happier, which is technically true. Maybe she means he’s attractive. At the moment, he favours the latter.
Later, when they’re gone, he thinks she possibly had too much to drink. The kind of drunk that makes her handsy and forceful and perverted. He encouraged it. Knows she gets like this and wants to end the night with her saliva-covered fingers as deep inside him as she can manage.
“You like that, baby?” She asks Ollie, on the tape. One of the longer ones. “You want my fingers?”
Elliot swears he hears Ollie say ‘yes, mommy’ under his breath. Replays it once or twice. Takes a mental note of the filename and timestamp and comes back to it later. Angela smiles at him, adding another. It sounds wet.
She gets him in an alleyway. Partially because he lets her, pinning him up against the wall with her body. Her thighs are slim but firm, feeling muscle press against his hips. He thinks it’s probably all the ballet. He also likes that she’s heavier than him, never noticed it, even if it’s only imaginary and he’s never really had a chance to feel the weight of her on top of him.
“Elliot,” she says. He stands to attention, motionless, like a deer caught in the headlights. Even more so when fingers trace over his jawbone. “Do you like me?”
Her hand slips lower, over his chest, under his waistband. Finds his cock and gropes him hard. Eyes widen. She wasn’t expecting it to be that big. A fingertip slides over the length, fascinated. Bites her lip when his breath hitches and it jumps slightly. You’ve changed.
“Yes,” he nods, gasps, frantically. He really likes her. But if he wastes time fumbling for a strap-on, he won’t get to fuck her now. Palms at her chest. Her body collapsing further above him, mouth so close to his. Difficult to breathe.
They kiss. Better than on the subway, deeper. He pulls her hair. She groans, opening her mouth for him to slip inside. He picks up one of her legs, holding it up by his hip. Both of her hands hold on to his shoulders while he grabs her ass, bucking into her like he’s actually inside. Rapid and uncoordinated movements that rub harshly against her clit. Her heel digs into his calf. It hurts, makes him wince and thrust harder.
He pulls back, moving the hand on her leg over to her mouth. Her tongue pushes flat against his fingers, rolls around them. Eyes roll back. He imagines Tyrell again, pushing his cock all the way to the back of her throat. How it tightens around him, how enjoyable it is when he imagines someone who isn’t himself. Voyeuristic glee.
Angela taps his fingers, so he’ll pull out. But she doesn’t gag. Then, he imagines roughly grabbing her jaw and spitting in her mouth. Or Tyrell. Mostly just him, so he can really picture the look on her face when she swallows it anyway.
“Can I blow you?”
She squats, doesn’t wait for an answer. It was never going to be anything else. The mental image of her heels and splayed-out legs almost makes him finish then and there. Pulling down his underwear, taking his dick in her mouth. Her cheeks hollow as she stares up at him with half-lidded eyes. She has lube - because it’s his fantasy, of course she fucking does - because she already knows where he wants it. He wails when he helps her guide a finger lower, to his asshole, pumping it inside at a fast pace. His thighs clench tightly around her head as she sucks him. She tries to pull away. He holds her there at first, fist tight in her scalp as he thrusts his hips against her face. Then he lets her go, doesn’t want to finish yet. A little bit of saliva on her bottom lip shines in the neon light of the alleyway, resting her head against his leg. His cock bobs just below her open mouth.
It doesn’t last long. Angela shoves her fingers in her mouth, getting them nice and wet, before she starts jerking him off. She gives the head a kiss, running her thumb over the sensitive tip.
He’s gone. Elliot shouts, thrusting his hips forward. Even if he can’t cum down her throat, he can still go again. He picks her up, angles her against the wall, and moves his hand frantically over her panties. Until she shakes and moans against his mouth.
There’s not enough time, both too much and too little; if he had it, he would have made her cum over and over again.
He tries to tell himself that it’ll all be different when they see each other next time, but he knows that’s not true.