Anthony Angelo aka Angel Dust
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 5
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The studio lights blazed like judgment day, bathing the sprawling set in a golden haze that made every sweat-slicked body glisten. Angel Dust—main star, undisputed king—reclined in the center of the chaos like a bored god on a throne of flesh. Around him lay a dozen beautiful young men and women, their chests heaving, limbs limp, faces flushed with the aftershocks of ecstasy. They had tried to keep up. They had failed spectacularly.
Angel’s long, lithe legs were spread wide, white hair fanned out like a halo of chaos. His cyan eyes glittered with smug satisfaction as the last of the performers—a trembling young man—gave one final, desperate thrust before collapsing face-first onto the mattress, spent and shuddering. The others had already fallen away one by one, each reduced to quivering puddles after attempting to please him. Angel had orchestrated every move, every gasp, every plea. They existed only to serve his pleasure, and he had milked them dry.
The crew stood frozen, pants uncomfortably tight, breaths shallow. Valentino, the director, perched on his high chair like a vulture. His gold chain glinted under his open shirt, nipples pierced and linked. His dark eyes were locked on Angel’s naked form, pupils blown wide, a visible bulge straining against his tailored trousers. He licked his lips, fingers twitching.
Angel felt every stare and reveled in it. Slowly, deliberately, he arched his back, letting out a low, theatrical moan. The final performer—Valentino’s hand-picked starlet—gave everything left, mouth working desperately between Angel’s thighs. Angel’s hand tangled in her hair, guiding her with lazy cruelty.
“That’s it, doll,” he purred. “Work for it. Make Daddy proud.”
She whimpered, then shattered—back arching, body convulsing in one last helpless orgasm before slumping sideways, unconscious.
Silence fell. Only Angel remained upright, pristine.
Valentino’s voice cracked. “Cut! We’re done. That’s a wrap.”
Angel rose like a cat stretching after a nap—slow, elegant, unbothered. He extended one long arm; a production assistant nearly tripped presenting the thin pink silk robe. “Angel Dust” was embroidered in flowing gold across the back. Angel slipped it on, letting the fabric whisper against his skin. Around him, actors groaned, some needing help to sit up, others carried off on stretchers. Angel didn’t glance their way. Nose tilted in aristocratic disdain, he sauntered off set, hips swaying.
In his dressing room, pink champagne chilled beside imported chocolates. Angel poured a flute, sipped, then hurled the glass against the wall because the temperature was “half a degree off.” Assistants scurried.
“You call this chilled?” he snapped. “I said crisp, not lukewarm piss. Fix it.”
The door slammed open. Valentino stormed in, barking “Fuera! Todos!” The room emptied.
Valentino’s eyes devoured Angel. “Mi estrella… you were magnificent.”
Angel leaned against the vanity, robe slipping off one shoulder to reveal the pink heart tattoo. He let Valentino close the distance. Their mouths met—hard, hungry. Valentino’s tongue pushed in with desperate need. Angel kissed back lazily at first, then deeper, hands roaming: sliding down Valentino’s chest, fingers hooking the gold chain between pierced nipples and tugging sharply. Valentino groaned, hips grinding forward, bulge pressing against Angel’s thigh. Angel’s hand slipped lower, palming Valentino through his trousers, squeezing just enough to make him buck.
Valentino’s hands fumbled with the robe’s tie, sliding inside to grip Angel’s waist, thumbs brushing the base of his cock. Angel allowed it—let the older man stroke him slowly, reverently—while his own fingers teased Valentino’s length, thumb circling the head through fabric.
Then Angel pulled back, lips swollen, eyes cold. “You think this makes you special, papi?”
Valentino’s face darkened. “Don’t play games tonight, Ángel.”
Angel laughed—sharp, cruel. “You’ve drooled. You’ve begged. And I’ve let you watch. That’s all you get.”
The slap came fast. Angel didn’t flinch. He smiled wider.
The fight erupted. Shouts in English and Spanish, accusations flying. Crew members witnessed the spectacle: Valentino roaring about betrayal, Angel mocking his desperation, both shoving, snarling. Angel had started it deliberately—pushing every button, twisting every word—to create the perfect excuse. Ill-advised investments under some of his personas—risky crypto schemes and shell-company deals—could draw scrutiny if traced. A public blowout would make his disappearance look like a dramatic exit, not a calculated escape.
It ended with Angel storming out, robe billowing. He climbed into his sleek black Lamborghini and peeled out, tires screeching.
Half an hour later, at a deserted gas station, Angel stripped the robe, dressed in nondescript black, and transferred to a hidden plain sedan. Clean exit.
The drive to Havenridge—a coastal city he had never visited—was long and monotonous. Eight hours of highway stretched ahead: the glittering sprawl of New York faded into dark countryside, then endless flatlands, and finally the sharp scent of salt air as the ocean came into view. He drove through the night, windows down, white hair whipping in the wind, mind turning over plans. Havenridge was far enough from the industry’s reach—quiet enough to disappear, academic enough to bore anyone looking for him. Perfect.
Evening fog rolled off the ocean when he pulled up to Cherri’s large apartment building. Scarlett Wilde—known as Cherri Bomb—was the one person who still belonged to him completely, even after everything. They had grown up next door in the same suburban hell outside New York. At six, she’d arrived from Australia—lonely, uprooted, easy prey. Angel had taken her under his wing, then under his heel. He molded her into his shadow: taught her cruelty, hedonism, amorality. He took her virginity, shaped her desires, instilled absolute obedience. She worshipped him as brother, master, god.
After high school she’d won a physics scholarship to Havenridge University and—miraculously—rebelled. She left. His revenge had been slow, psychological: silence, sabotage, orchestrated loneliness until she cracked and crawled back begging forgiveness. He accepted her return, but kept her at arm’s length—cold, withholding, making her chase approval like a starved dog. She still adored him. She always would.
Angel knocked—three sharp raps, nonchalant.
Cherri opened the door. Her eyes widened, strawberry-blonde hair a wild halo, freckles stark. “Angel?”
He stepped inside without invitation. “Don’t look so shocked, Sugar Tits. I need a place to crash.”
Cherri’s face lit up—hope, desperation, adoration. “Of course! Stay as long as you want. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been trying to make things right—”
Angel cut her off, eyes scanning the room with disdain: scattered textbooks, half-finished explosive prototypes. “Spare me. I’m not here for groveling. Yet.”
He sauntered toward the balcony hot tub, steam rising. “You’re lucky I’m even considering this dump. Do you know how many people would kill for me to grace their couch? And here you are, still playing student while I run empires. Pathetic. I’m doing you a favor, baby—letting my star power rub off on your boring little life.”
Cherri hurried after him. “I know, Angel. I’m sorry—for leaving, for the fight, for everything. Let me make it up to you. I can cook, clean, whatever—”
Angel paused at the tub’s edge. Slowly, deliberately, he let the black clothes slide off—jacket first, then shirt, rolling his shoulders so the pink heart tattoo caught the light. He hooked thumbs into his waistband, shimmying the pants down his endless legs with exaggerated hip rolls, turning the undressing into a private striptease meant to torment. Naked, he stepped into the steaming water, sighing theatrically as bubbles swallowed him to the chest.
Cherri hovered, biting her lip. “You’re right. I owe you everything. Whatever trouble you’re in, I’ve got your back. No one will find you here. I swear.”
Angel leaned back, arms draped along the edge. “Trouble? Oh, honey. You have no idea what kind of heat I’m bringing. But that’s cute—you thinking you can shield me. Just don’t disturb Mommy while she soaks. Run along.”
Cherri backed away—still smiling, still hoping, still owned.
Angel closed his eyes, a slow smile curling his lips.
He was safe. He was adored. And he was in complete, utter control.
How he become powerful?
Angel’s long, lithe legs were spread wide, white hair fanned out like a halo of chaos. His cyan eyes glittered with smug satisfaction as the last of the performers—a trembling young man—gave one final, desperate thrust before collapsing face-first onto the mattress, spent and shuddering. The others had already fallen away one by one, each reduced to quivering puddles after attempting to please him. Angel had orchestrated every move, every gasp, every plea. They existed only to serve his pleasure, and he had milked them dry.
The crew stood frozen, pants uncomfortably tight, breaths shallow. Valentino, the director, perched on his high chair like a vulture. His gold chain glinted under his open shirt, nipples pierced and linked. His dark eyes were locked on Angel’s naked form, pupils blown wide, a visible bulge straining against his tailored trousers. He licked his lips, fingers twitching.
Angel felt every stare and reveled in it. Slowly, deliberately, he arched his back, letting out a low, theatrical moan. The final performer—Valentino’s hand-picked starlet—gave everything left, mouth working desperately between Angel’s thighs. Angel’s hand tangled in her hair, guiding her with lazy cruelty.
“That’s it, doll,” he purred. “Work for it. Make Daddy proud.”
She whimpered, then shattered—back arching, body convulsing in one last helpless orgasm before slumping sideways, unconscious.
Silence fell. Only Angel remained upright, pristine.
Valentino’s voice cracked. “Cut! We’re done. That’s a wrap.”
Angel rose like a cat stretching after a nap—slow, elegant, unbothered. He extended one long arm; a production assistant nearly tripped presenting the thin pink silk robe. “Angel Dust” was embroidered in flowing gold across the back. Angel slipped it on, letting the fabric whisper against his skin. Around him, actors groaned, some needing help to sit up, others carried off on stretchers. Angel didn’t glance their way. Nose tilted in aristocratic disdain, he sauntered off set, hips swaying.
In his dressing room, pink champagne chilled beside imported chocolates. Angel poured a flute, sipped, then hurled the glass against the wall because the temperature was “half a degree off.” Assistants scurried.
“You call this chilled?” he snapped. “I said crisp, not lukewarm piss. Fix it.”
The door slammed open. Valentino stormed in, barking “Fuera! Todos!” The room emptied.
Valentino’s eyes devoured Angel. “Mi estrella… you were magnificent.”
Angel leaned against the vanity, robe slipping off one shoulder to reveal the pink heart tattoo. He let Valentino close the distance. Their mouths met—hard, hungry. Valentino’s tongue pushed in with desperate need. Angel kissed back lazily at first, then deeper, hands roaming: sliding down Valentino’s chest, fingers hooking the gold chain between pierced nipples and tugging sharply. Valentino groaned, hips grinding forward, bulge pressing against Angel’s thigh. Angel’s hand slipped lower, palming Valentino through his trousers, squeezing just enough to make him buck.
Valentino’s hands fumbled with the robe’s tie, sliding inside to grip Angel’s waist, thumbs brushing the base of his cock. Angel allowed it—let the older man stroke him slowly, reverently—while his own fingers teased Valentino’s length, thumb circling the head through fabric.
Then Angel pulled back, lips swollen, eyes cold. “You think this makes you special, papi?”
Valentino’s face darkened. “Don’t play games tonight, Ángel.”
Angel laughed—sharp, cruel. “You’ve drooled. You’ve begged. And I’ve let you watch. That’s all you get.”
The slap came fast. Angel didn’t flinch. He smiled wider.
The fight erupted. Shouts in English and Spanish, accusations flying. Crew members witnessed the spectacle: Valentino roaring about betrayal, Angel mocking his desperation, both shoving, snarling. Angel had started it deliberately—pushing every button, twisting every word—to create the perfect excuse. Ill-advised investments under some of his personas—risky crypto schemes and shell-company deals—could draw scrutiny if traced. A public blowout would make his disappearance look like a dramatic exit, not a calculated escape.
It ended with Angel storming out, robe billowing. He climbed into his sleek black Lamborghini and peeled out, tires screeching.
Half an hour later, at a deserted gas station, Angel stripped the robe, dressed in nondescript black, and transferred to a hidden plain sedan. Clean exit.
The drive to Havenridge—a coastal city he had never visited—was long and monotonous. Eight hours of highway stretched ahead: the glittering sprawl of New York faded into dark countryside, then endless flatlands, and finally the sharp scent of salt air as the ocean came into view. He drove through the night, windows down, white hair whipping in the wind, mind turning over plans. Havenridge was far enough from the industry’s reach—quiet enough to disappear, academic enough to bore anyone looking for him. Perfect.
Evening fog rolled off the ocean when he pulled up to Cherri’s large apartment building. Scarlett Wilde—known as Cherri Bomb—was the one person who still belonged to him completely, even after everything. They had grown up next door in the same suburban hell outside New York. At six, she’d arrived from Australia—lonely, uprooted, easy prey. Angel had taken her under his wing, then under his heel. He molded her into his shadow: taught her cruelty, hedonism, amorality. He took her virginity, shaped her desires, instilled absolute obedience. She worshipped him as brother, master, god.
After high school she’d won a physics scholarship to Havenridge University and—miraculously—rebelled. She left. His revenge had been slow, psychological: silence, sabotage, orchestrated loneliness until she cracked and crawled back begging forgiveness. He accepted her return, but kept her at arm’s length—cold, withholding, making her chase approval like a starved dog. She still adored him. She always would.
Angel knocked—three sharp raps, nonchalant.
Cherri opened the door. Her eyes widened, strawberry-blonde hair a wild halo, freckles stark. “Angel?”
He stepped inside without invitation. “Don’t look so shocked, Sugar Tits. I need a place to crash.”
Cherri’s face lit up—hope, desperation, adoration. “Of course! Stay as long as you want. I’ve missed you so much. I’ve been trying to make things right—”
Angel cut her off, eyes scanning the room with disdain: scattered textbooks, half-finished explosive prototypes. “Spare me. I’m not here for groveling. Yet.”
He sauntered toward the balcony hot tub, steam rising. “You’re lucky I’m even considering this dump. Do you know how many people would kill for me to grace their couch? And here you are, still playing student while I run empires. Pathetic. I’m doing you a favor, baby—letting my star power rub off on your boring little life.”
Cherri hurried after him. “I know, Angel. I’m sorry—for leaving, for the fight, for everything. Let me make it up to you. I can cook, clean, whatever—”
Angel paused at the tub’s edge. Slowly, deliberately, he let the black clothes slide off—jacket first, then shirt, rolling his shoulders so the pink heart tattoo caught the light. He hooked thumbs into his waistband, shimmying the pants down his endless legs with exaggerated hip rolls, turning the undressing into a private striptease meant to torment. Naked, he stepped into the steaming water, sighing theatrically as bubbles swallowed him to the chest.
Cherri hovered, biting her lip. “You’re right. I owe you everything. Whatever trouble you’re in, I’ve got your back. No one will find you here. I swear.”
Angel leaned back, arms draped along the edge. “Trouble? Oh, honey. You have no idea what kind of heat I’m bringing. But that’s cute—you thinking you can shield me. Just don’t disturb Mommy while she soaks. Run along.”
Cherri backed away—still smiling, still hoping, still owned.
Angel closed his eyes, a slow smile curling his lips.
He was safe. He was adored. And he was in complete, utter control.
How he become powerful?
28 views
·
June 13
Log in to comment