A gay story: Diary of a Fallen Angel Diary Of A Fallen Angel
Introduction
Mariel, a fallen angel mentioned in the Quran, is a creature that has walked the Earth for quite some time. He was put to the test against the temptations that haunted human beings and he failed, his grace stripped from him, his flesh cursed with the compulsion to obey all commands issued to him. There are so many ways to describe him, but perhaps the best is through verse:
This creature stands upright like man
Features human, yet finer than.
What most can boast of beauty fair,
Complete with raven, gleaming hair.
Slightly more than two yards tall
Limbs quite slender – arms, legs, and all.
Fingers made for weft and weave
Pleasant voice meant to deceive.
Irises tan like amber jewels
Smiling lips to punish fools.
Angelic in grace and origins
Cast from heaven for his sins.
A tale that some may think they know;
But do they? Perhaps it isn’t so.
For Mariel, once His purest soul
Temptation out from heaven stole.
With skin as fair as honeyed cream
Its softness is the stuff of dreams.
Beautiful in his lanky frame;
Flesh caging a core of flame.
Chapter 1
Trying to find shelter and safety in the red-light district is like trying to find the same in shark infested waters – you’re safe from all other predators but one.
Mariel pulls his stolen leather vest a little tighter around his skinny chest, the stolen T-shirt beneath it barely warm enough against the spring evening’s chill. His jeans are dirty, only recently come into his possession, as are the worn sneakers on his feet. The fallen angel feels grimy and underfed, but this is the closest he’s been to being free in several weeks, and he’s not about to ruin that. He can tolerate filth and hunger – death doesn’t mean all that much to him. It’s only a minor inconvenience. But having money helps with things, including renting a room with a lock to help him maintain this new lifestyle.
His hands slide into his jeans pockets, the costume jewelry he pilfered still shiny enough to look like the real thing in the garish blood-red lights along this strip. Puddles shine the ground, and as he walks, he notices the stretch of a shadow behind him keeping pace with him. He swallows and glances over his shoulder, the corner of his eye noting a shadowy figure some thirty feet back. It’s getting late and colder, goosebumps lifting up on his arms as he dips his head and trudges on to the particular building he’s been calling home. It’s an abandoned store front, and he’s managed in the last few days to jimmy the lock on the chain keeping it shuttered, a little squatter’s den nicely arranged.
If only he can get to it.
The angel’s so busy thinking about getting in there, behind the door, that he doesn’t notice how the shadow looms larger and larger, harder footsteps striking the pavement in time with his own. The bad news only comes when he turns down the alley, turning just in time to see a taller man grip him by the vest and shove him up against the sweating brick. He grits his teeth and feels all the air huff harshly from his lungs in a pained whine, his own slender hands pressing against his assailant’s chest. Mariel’s head turns to the side, giving him barely enough time to register that the man is in his late thirties, sports a five o’clock shadow, jeans, black T-shirt, and the smell of vodka on his breath. By then, the man presses his lips against the fallen creature’s slender throat, suckling hard, the hand not clutching the vest sliding down the slave’s skinny torso possessively.
“How much?” he growls, teeth scraping skin.
“Uh…” Mariel tries desperately to think, gasping as that wandering hand moves to cup at his crotch, which is already starting to react against his better judgment. Black-lined eyes close, then squeeze shut as he spits out, “five to suck, ten to fuck.” His jaw clenches as he feels that man press harder against him, breathing hotly against his skin.
With the spoken contract understood, the man grabs Mariel’s right hand and pulls it down to his fly, the demand clear. Despite the desperately hungry crush of the other man’s body, he tilts his head back to get some distance from that mouth as he tugs at the button fly, opening it and the zipper in a few quick efforts. Already the john is hard, the angel’s black-nailed fingers finding a stiff, hard cock protruding out from a pair of rumpled boxers. The velvety flesh feels hot to his chilled palm, and the man grunts, moaning against his neck and jaw, the bristles of that shadow beard scraping the fallen angel’s smooth skin.
Mariel works his tongue, creating a bolus of saliva, which is then spat into his free hand. The hot spittle is worked onto the john’s cock quickly, making him as slick as possible. Not drinking enough water makes him dehydrated, his saliva thicker than normal, palm sliding tightly over the man’s thick shaft. Hot drips of precum adds to the slickness, grinds of the man’s hips working his cock into the angel’s nervous hand, though it doesn’t persist.
Without warning, the slender angel is spun around, chest shoved against the brick. The costume jewelry clinks and presses painfully in through the fabric of the T to poke him in the skin, his hot cheek and temple resting against the wet brick. If his shirt weren’t on he might manifest his wings and push this stranger away. He desperately wants to say no, to beg the man to stop, but he needs the money more than he needs his dignity or his comfort. When the man clumsily tugs those jeans down, Mariel shivers, reaching back to try and push that hand away. “Please…” he starts, shivering, but the man grabs him by the hair, grinding his elbow in between the angel’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the wall in a painful arch.
The chilly night air washes over Mariel’s bared ass and upper thighs, the soft hairs standing on end, skin prickling there too with goosebumps. His hand still tries to push the other man away, bracing on a muscular waist, pushing ineffectually as he feels the man grind up behind him, wet cock grinding in between his ass cheeks. The john’s booze-soaked breath washes over Mariel’s ear and cheek, grunting faster now as his excitement swells. “I’m paying good money and you’ll fucking take this…” he snarls, that free hand guiding his cockhead to press against the whore’s nervous star.
A steady, hard pressure leaves the inevitable only up to time, and Mariel’s body finally relents with a shudder, the man shoving within unexpectedly by a good few inches. It’s tight, far too tight, and hurts, aches so much that the angel cries out, gripping at the brick with his hands. He pants, scraping at the litter-strewn pavement with his worn sneakers to no avail, biting his lip to keep himself from whimpering.
Behind him, the man pulses, groaning, staving off as hard as he can. To the angel’s despair he manages not to cum, cooling off enough to start thrusting, deep and slow. By then, Mariel’s body is more accepting, admitting the man further and further with every attempt, the stretch painful but not unbearable. The angel’s struggles lessen, his nails biting into the brick and chipping, eyes heavy-lidded as he’s taken. His john isn’t a small man in the least; a good eight, thick inches uses him, right up to the hilt quickly enough. Every rutting thrust pushes his hips against the wall, the angel’s own cock, previously flaccid with nerves, now semi-hard with arousal in spite of his own disgust.
It’s the banality of being fucked like this that makes Mariel hate this and himself the most, the wet, sharp claps of flesh on flesh, ignored by everyone else that might pass by. The sound of bars thudding music down the street, of couples walking and laughing a mere block away, not knowing how he’s being used so shamefully. No one is coming to help him. No one is coming to save him. All he can do is accept it, trying to relax, trying desperately to be a good fuck in spite of himself, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll earn those ten crowns he asked for.
“Jerk off,” the john demands in his ear, sliding his tongue roughly along the shell.
The angel’s eyes open slowly, his thoughts pulled back viciously to the present. Unable to disobey, he grits his teeth, his right hand leaving the wall to slip in front of his hips. His cock stiffens in his grip and, in a bizarrely detached sensation, he feels himself work at it quickly, chafing, dry skin on clammy palm, until enough drops of precum slicken it enough for truly rapid movements. Mariel’s chest, crushed against the wall, heaves anyway, his mouth open as he sucks in air with every sharp breath.
He can’t help how his eyes are dilated, how the world takes on an indistinct haze to every edge. He can’t help how his back dips, angling his hips for even deeper rutting. He can’t help how his heart pounds and leaps when the man behind him groans harshly, roughly fucking him, making his knuckles hurt against the brick, as well as his cheek and temple and chest. The deep grind works unavoidably over the angel’s prostate, shards of electric perfection slicing up his spine, until at last he utters a choked cry and grips his cock tight, feeling it pulse and jet against the filthy brick, smearing his own knuckles and nails.
“Slut, you fucking… slut…” the john huffs, getting closer and closer until, at last, he crushes his hips to the angel’s. Within that tight, clenching grip, the man’s thick cock pulses, filling that already tight space even more, making the angel whimper in dazed and tired discomfort.
Moments pass and they remain interlocked, a thrust or two churning the seed deposited, disrupting the seal. A small trickle of milky spunk slides down the juncture of their bodies, over Mariel’s tight, hairless ball sack. More moments pass, and eventually the man softens, slipping out of the angel’s tight embrace with a gasp. While the john tucks himself back into his pants and fastens up, Mariel clenches his ass as much as he can, not wanting to leak over the only pair of jeans he has. With shaking, clumsy hands, he pulls the denim back up, the cum on his fingers forgotten, allowed to smear on the black material.
Swallowing, the angel leans his shoulder against the brick, gripping at his T-shirt with his cleaner hand. “T… ten crowns…” he prompts, looking nervously at the other man. A sharp SMACK echoes through the alley as he’s slapped across the face, hard. It makes him close his eyes and curl up a little, especially when the coins are dropped on the filthy ground by his sneakers. “Fucking twink,” scoffs the other man, wandering back out of the alley way. Mariel listens to him leave, then crouches gingerly, hissing at the discomfort of it even as he plucks up the coins in his tingling fingers.
It’s enough money to last a little while. That’s all that really matters.
Chapter 2
A house call. Mariel’s used to house calls, really. Half of his business is delivering himself, like a kid might deliver a pizza. He’s hot, expensive, and bad for your health, so the comparison’s pretty solid.
This time, however, the house looks a little unorthodox. It’s a large, intimidating estate set into the hills. Out of the way, just the sort of place where horror movies would be filmed… or just plain old occur. Mariel swallows and checks the address for the twentieth time since he’d set out from the center of town. Yeah, this is the place. But why does it have to be this place?
The fallen creature sighs, taking a moment to make sure his outfit’s lying correctly and everything’s as he wants it. His client had requested something trashy, so he’d made a point to scratch that itch. A pair of skinny black jeans tucked into half-zipped mid-calf boots, a white t-shirt, and a black hooded jacket are the main look, accented with mirrored shades, a cross on a slender gold chain, and a small black duffel bag with whatever supplies might be needed. Through slits in the jacket, his black-feathered wings are manifested and present tonight, folded up against his back neatly. The man pulls out a carton of cigarettes and plucks one out, taking the lighter out of the carton and flicking it on with his thumb. A drag, and he tucks the carton and lighter in his pocket again, feeling ready to approach the door as he takes a drag from between his black-nailed fingers.
His free hands raps knuckles against the front door, and he waits, anxious, flicking ash as he’s made to stand there on the porch for almost two full minutes. He’s just starting to feel a little bit catty and a lot bitchy when the lock finally clunks open, and the door’s opened by a servant.
A servant. Great. He’s been rented by the aristocracy.
Mariel’s led inside, keeping his head down and his hood up, taking infrequent pulls on the cigarette. His escort (oh the irony), takes him through a grand antechamber, a reading room, and down a hallway. Already the fallen angel feels horrendously out of place, his delight in fashion punishing him now as he notes all of the fine, exquisite touches and compares them to his own outfit.
He was told to dress this way, though. Who would set him up like that?
Finally they arrive at a salon, where a fireplace far across the room provides the only light. Within sits a pair of angels, both in elegant armchairs to either side of the hearth. Reflective eyes turn towards his entrance, and he takes a nervous drag as he’s announced to the others. The servant passes by, just a little too close, before closing the door, locking Mariel in with his client.
Or clients, as it happens.
The fallen creature sighs and walks forward, approaching the fireplace. The cigarette’s flicked into the flames, and the man rolls his shoulders. Behind him, upon the walls around the door he’d entered through, are the shadows of his wings, spreading, stretching, before tucking back in against his back as he turns towards his audience. And he knew it’d be them the moment he stepped into the room.
Gabriel and Michael.
Mariel swallows, pulling off his glasses. His tan eyes take in both of them, the creatures still beyond beautiful even after all these ages. He hadn’t remembered them being gendered, but they seem to be now. Perhaps it’s a quirk of fate, or maybe it’s a spell. Either way, both archangels, male now, gaze upon him, Gabriel as femme and elegant as Michael is lantern-jawed and stalwart. Both are dressed in beautiful robes, Gabriel in white silk and white and tan wings, and Michael in gray linen with dark brown pinions. Their wings emerge from slits in the back, tucked along the slender backs of the arm chairs as they regard their rental with critical eyes.
“He hasn’t suffered too badly for falling, has he?” Michael muses, talking about the whore as if he weren’t there. The larger archangel’s short, brown hair is slicked back neatly, like an eagle’s plumage.
Gabriel smiles meanly, his golden curls bunching at his shoulders as they shrug. “He was so average before. Just like his brother…”
That line cuts like a knife, and Mariel turns towards Gabriel hatefully. “Don’t you fucking talk about him like that!” he hisses, his anger only growing hotter as the smaller archangel grins, delighted.
“Look at him! He’s so indignant!” Gabriel cries, clapping his elegant, slender hands with delight.
“This is bullshit,” the whore spits out in anger and shame, and he marches towards the salon door…
…Right up until Michael calmly says, “Mariel, stop.”
The fallen creature grits his teeth, coming to a sudden stop, unable to take another step.
Gabriel leans forward, fascinated. “The curse is still in effect…” he breathes, rising from his chair. He looks to Michael before coming to stand before Mariel, looking up at the tall slave’s rigid, cursed bondage. “Mariel, strike yourself in the face.”
The fallen creature lifts his hand, glancing at it warily, hating that he has to obey. And then his palm cracks across his own cheek, leaving a welt, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Strike yourself again!” Gabriel breathes, pressing his hands against Mariel’s chest.
Once more the whore strikes himself, gasping at the sting and ache of it.
Michael lifts from his chair, chuckling. The archangel’s larger hand slides over Mariel’s shoulder from behind, his touch trailing down the whore’s right arm to that duffel bag. It’s taken and sifted through, Mariel looking over at him nervously from the corner of his eyes. Gabriel, meanwhile, begins to tug Mariel’s belt from its buckle, unfastening it and pulling it free from the loops in his jeans. “Bare your body above the waist, Mariel,” the smaller archangel purrs, pulling the sides of the belt taut, snapping them together.
The whore swallows even as he pulls off the T-shirt, chains, and jacket, easing his wings out of the slits and tossing the ball of clothing and jewelry to the floor. The command to bare his torso is understood by the compulsion to mean his wings as well, so he holds his breath, feeling those large, feathered pinions shrink and pull back into his body to form a large, black tattoo upon his back, spanning from shoulders to the backs of his thighs. Their disappearance leaves the fallen angel standing half naked, his torso lean and thin, his crest of hair like a cockerel’s, half draped over his brow.
“Lift your arms over your head, Mariel,” Gabriel whispers.
Upon the whore’s obedient lift of his long, slender limbs above his head, the smaller archangel pulls back and then cracks the folded belt across the taller man’s chest. The sound is a snap of fire, leaving Mariel to double over and cry out in pain, a red welt lifting up on his flesh.
“Stand upright, Mariel!” Gabriel barks, grabbing the crest of black hair and tugging the whore’s head up, forcing him to do as commanded… as if the compulsion wasn’t enough. The whore grits his teeth, his chest heaving at the ache, and he shivers, his eyes wet. The smaller arch angel unleashes the belt ten more times, each strike crisscrossing the last, interweaving misery upon agony.
“Enough,” Michael says at last, and Gabriel hisses but, thankfully, lowers the belt and moves over to join Michael. Mariel shudders, sniffling already, unable to wipe his nose – his arms are still lifted above his head, trapped there. To the whore, the taller archangel gruffs, “Lower your arms, Mariel.”
The fallen creature lets his limbs drop, and he hugs his chest, fingers touching gingerly at the throbbing marks. It makes him hiss with pain, but even so he can feel his cock stir within his pants. Looking self-consciously over his shoulder at the other two angels, he reaches down to adjust himself, flushing with embarrassment.
He’s given a few moments to recover, until Michael intones, “Mariel, take off the rest of your clothes.”
Clenching his teeth, the whore does as commanded, unzipping his fly and peeling his jeans down. The boots are unzipped and pulled off, and the pants go with them, leaving the leggy, slender fallen creature completely unclothed, his smooth, half-stiff organ on display. As he turns, Michael is standing before him, sliding his hand up his fallen kin’s chest, fingers dimpling over the flesh, sliding cruelly over the pinking welts. It makes Mariel shiver and whimper, his cock hardening fully.
That sliding hand cups over the whore’s throat, then lifts, forcing the man’s head to lift, his breathing squeezed just a little by the grip. “We’re going to have you, Mariel. That’s what your purpose is now. Well…” he smiles, dark eyes narrowing. “It’s what your purpose has always been. To be used and thrown away.”
That hurts. Mariel flushes, his eyes watering. These two were the best of the best, the most high, most favored… and even they have no sympathy for him. His tan eyes close, not wanting to be witness to their scorn if he can help it. The hand at his throat squeezes, then slowly pulls him down to kneel, the fallen creature bracing his trembling hands on Michael’s fit, masculine body, palms coming to rest on the archangel’s muscular thighs.
Fabric rustles, and Michael’s hand moves to cup the whore’s chin, forcing his mouth to open with the tip of a finger hooking on his teeth. The whore whimpers, tensing and flinching, and then there’s a pair of slender hands on the back of his shoulders, holding him still, trapped. Mariel sucks in a breath through his nose in surprise, eyes still squeezed shut as his jaw is guided to open wide. The leaking, salty head of Michael’s cock is pushed over his tongue, scraping over that bed of muscle as it slides towards the whore’s throat.
Mariel cries out in surprise, Gabriel’s hand pressing to the back of his skull. The smaller archangel is shockingly strong for his size, his palm as sturdy as a brick wall. Reluctantly, the fallen creature’s throat relaxes, forced to do so as Michael keeps pushing himself deeper. At a certain point Mariel tenses, hands grasping at the man’s thighs desperately as he gags. The cock is withdrawn a little, giving the whore a moment’s respite… and then Michael’s hands both cup the back of the fallen creature’s skull.
Mariel’s experienced this before. He knows what’s coming. The fallen one tries to relax his jaw and throat, gripping at the robes Michael wears, sucking in a deep breath. And then he’s used, brutally, quickly, hard. It’s a blur of pain and tightness, of wet quick sounds, of smells, of numb lips, aching jaw, and raw throat.
Something is said softly, inaudible to the fallen creature getting throat fucked, but almost immediately the abuse ends. Mariel is pushed over onto the floor, on all fours. Gabriel grabs him by the hair, taking a seat, robes pulled open to reveal his slender, twinkish, hairless dick. The fallen creature is pulled forward slowly, his mouth directed to that much smaller organ to suck on it and pleasure it. Taking it all is an easy prospect, the whore swallowing at the femme’s crown without trouble.
From behind, he feels the caress of hands and the brush of robes. Michael’s thick, gleaming cock slides in between bared cheeks, the whore’s body tensing nervously, then tensing more as that crown is pressed against that star mercilessly. Mariel groans, gripping Gabriel’s robes tightly, bracing firmly on his hands and knees, until his ring relents and admits the man behind him. It’s a tight, aching fit, and the larger archangel doesn’t bother to wait until the whore acclimates.
Gabriel gasps as the rutting shoves Mariel’s mouth hard against his own cock, a gripping hand guiding the whore’s head. The smaller archangel’s bare, hairless legs part, one hand bracing back on the floor to steady himself. “Fuck…” he breathes, gritting his teeth, leaking already as he’s hungrily sucked off.
The fallen creature whimpers and groans against the flesh in his mouth, eyes squeezed shut as he’s rutted from behind. Michael’s fingers curl against his hips, digging in, bruising, cutting with his nails, scraping welts. Mariel’s toes curl, his back dipping, hips tilting to the perfect angle to let the larger man behind him plunge in as deeply as he can. The archangel’s heavy sack crashes against Mariel’s tight, hairless one, punishing it, delighting it, the fallen creature rock hard this entire time.
A gleaming line, lit by the firelight, drools from the fallen angel’s cockslit, the spill growing thicker and thicker. Without warning, he tenses and jerks, hips curling a little as his cock shoots its load, the unwanted seed splattering on the floor beneath his chest. That climax tightens him around Michael, the archangel gasping, caught by surprise at the clench. One last grind, burying himself, and the larger man groans, emptying himself slowly, pulse by pulse, into his kin’s body.
Mariel’s whimpered, pained pleasure around the smaller archangel’s cock is too much. Gabriel shudders and pushes the whore’s head down fully on his cock as the smaller angel erupts, splashing the back of the fallen creature’s throat in a series of quick, desperate spurts.
\
Twenty minutes later, Mariel’s walking out the front door of the estate. Dressed, shades back on, cigarette between his fingers, he pauses some steps outside the front door as it closes and locks behind him. The flame from the lighter illuminates his face, flushed still, but calmed. He pulls on the cigarette and breathes out a lungful of blue smoke, wincing a little as he begins to make the long journey back to the coast, slinging his duffel bag more securely over his shoulder.
And the small fortune he’s earned this night pleasantly weighs him down the entire way.
Chapter 3: Shadow
The business card for Derelict’s Modeling Agency is crisp and off-white, caressed over the fallen angel’s hand as he mulls over a few things up in the upper level of the Diablo Night Club. In this shadowy balcony area, he looks down at the brighter floor below, watching the crowd surge and writhe to the pulsing music. His own head nods to the beat, his tan eyes not focusing on anything, save for his thoughts.
He’s so distracted, in point of fact, that the black fingernail that lightly traces over his right cheekbone catches him by surprise, eyes widening before they abruptly half-lid. His head barely moves a fraction, dipping just a little in respect as he murmurs, “I thought you weren’t coming.”
The nail trails along his temple and behind his ear slowly, moving down over nape. It makes him swallow and shiver, his eyes closing just in time for a pair of smiling black lips to murmur by his ear, “You think so little of me, Pretty Boy.” The nail and its finger hooks into the collar of his gray coat, drawing him away from the rail.
Mariel’s smile grows as he lets himself get drawn back. A long, slender arm slides in around his chest, shifting his collection of necklaces and chains and making him hiss. The healing wounds in his chest are nearly gone, but the flesh there is still tender beneath the other man’s possessive touch, his caress making the angel press back against that other, as if he might escape the examination. The new arrival is as tall as Mariel himself is, his body slender and welcoming. It would give him a comfortable backrest if the man’s assets weren’t so snugly bound in leather armor – a strange thing to wear to a club, but this client has always been a touch unusual.
The man presses his hips against Mariel’s ass, the other hand moving down to cup at his crotch, keeping the angel in place, a puzzle piece fitted in against his body. The reflected lights from the dance floor below gleam on his teeth, revealed within his growing smile, and he nuzzles his cheek against his captive’s flushing counterpart. His clutch upon Mariel’s hidden genitals, hidden beneath the loose material of his slacks, reveals the man’s effect on the angel already, and a sadistic, slow, firm squeeze makes the whore tense and whine… and stiffen further.
“Come along,” he purrs, kissing Mariel’s cheek before he summarily moves away from him, the angel’s compulsion forcing him to catch his breath and follow along. The back corner of the balcony seems more obscured by shadows than normal, and the tall man, dressed all in black leather himself beneath a billowing black cloak, blends in… then more than blends. He walks into it, disappearing into the murk, just as the angel does soon after.
\
When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted by a large living room with a fire pit at the center. A ring of stone keeps the burning coals in place, and a circle of stone seating, softened by leather-upholstered cushions, rings the light. Upon the walls are tapestries of impossibly fine weave, the threads in part metallic and providing illusions of glistening water or snow.
Mariel swallows, looking around for the man who brought him here. His client. One of his first in this new city, as it happens. He only knows the man as Shadow – fitting, given his mode of travel and style of magic. A sense of movement enters his awareness on the right, and he sees the flap of a black cloak just pass into a hallway leading further into this large, dark apartment suite.
He steps cautiously down the passage, the firelight only reaching so far. Stone walls are smoothly carved, as if the apartment had been carved from the bones of the earth. Or, well, wherever they are now. Doors to the left and right loom up, each with a symbol at eye height. But it’s the door at the very end that stands open, inviting him in.
The angel shrugs out of his coat, turning his head, trying to let his eyes adjust to the low light at the entrance to what seems to be a bedroom. He just drapes his coat over a chair by the door when a hand seizes his chains and necklaces, using them to draw him forward… towards his host.
Before him stands a man of obviously fae heritage – his knifelike ears slender and elegant through the fall of straight, long black hair, and his features just as wild and beautiful. The man’s silver eyes reflect the light like a wolf’s might, his black-lipped smile growing as he draws his prize forward slowly, slipping his other hand down to grip his belt buckle. “You were so much easier to undress as chattel,” he muses, tugging the belt free of its fastening and leaving it to hang open. “But then, you were far easier to find. It’s great fun to track you, Pretty Boy. Such great fun – your blood is in the oddest places.”
Mariel swallows. “I was shot. There was an accident…” The angel gets into the oddest situations, even without the help of fae admirers.
Shadow hardly cares, twisting the hand holding the chains, choking them about his throat. The fallen creature grits his teeth, feeling his airway nearly pinched shut, and he grips at the sidhe’s wrist nervously. His fly is pulled open next, but it’s the hem of the shirt Shadow’s after, lifting it up to reveal a myriad smattering of healed over bullet holes. The man tilts his head, then lifts a brow and looks judgmentally into Mariel’s eyes. “You’re so careless, Pretty Boy.” The angel’s chains are released, the sidhe’s hands moving away from him, until…
CRACK!
Mariel gasps as he stumbles to the side, his head thrown that way first by the hard slap gifted to his right cheek. Already the welt throbs on his skin, the whore’s hand lifting to cover it, then caress it. His jaw stretches as he groans with pain and arousal both, looking up at the tall sidhe who merely watches him. Shadow’s eyes slide down and then stop, the fae’s black lips pulling into a grin. When Mariel looks down he can see his erection tenting in his pants, which themselves have nearly fallen down from all the stumbling.
A pregnant silence, and then he gasps, lifting his arms to fend the sidhe off as he approaches. Mariel’s hands grip at his client’s shoulders, but the john’s far stronger than he is. Shadow’s clutch grips directly at Mariel’s throat with a clap that makes him cough. It’s easy to guide the angel back to the four-poster bed that waits in the murk, the backs of Mariel’s legs pressing against it, fighting to stay upright for a brief second before the heels of his shoes lose their grip and he’s pushed back onto the mattress.
The fallen creature looks up at Shadow’s silhouette – it’s all he can see of him now, and it scares him. Unthinkingly he tries to turn away from the sidhe and crawl to safety deeper on the bed, that slap clearly having addled his thinking. The bed itself is large – very large. Large enough for several people of his own height to share it comfortably.
Or for one to be used on it.
A metallic rattle sneaks out from the darkness, a cool sensation coiling around the angel’s neck. The chain’s links are cold against his skin as it leashes him, holding fast as he changes tack and tugs back against it. “What?!” His knees brace on the bed and he leans back, rearing up, hands gripping the chain and pulling, doing nothing but grinding the links into the nape of his neck.
In the periphery of his senses, he can vaguely hear the sound of things being dropped on the floor. Of zippers being unfastened, of laces being pulled with a whine through eyelets. Mariel’s heart beats faster, his teeth grit as he shivers, eyes closed. A hand slides along his tensed wingless back, the touch tracing down the divot of his spine over the wing tattoos. Down and down, the fingers slip into the back of his pants, tugging them until they bunch at his knees. When Mariel’s hands reach back, flailing and slapping that touch away, more of those obedient chains grip his wrists and pull them up, until he’s forced to kneel, arms tautly upraised and palms facing the ceiling.
“Mmmm,” Shadow purrs, caressing the angel’s bare ass and giving it a harsh SMACK. “You seem made for abuse, Pretty Boy.” His warm palm slides over Mariel’s other cheek, gripping it, and then SMACK! That one’s left stinging, too.
The touches and strikes make the fallen angel tense and grit his teeth, his stomach and back tight with nerves even as his cock is hard with desire. “Please, Master Shadow…” he begs, his head dipping, toes curling in the shoes he’s still wearing.
“Please what?” the sidhe asks with a chuckle, moving around to take a seat on the side of the bed, in the angel’s view this time. There’s just enough light to see the man’s body, slender, tall, and regal… even if his expression is amused and cruel. Perhaps because it is. “I can hardly help you if you don’t tell me what you want.”
Mariel flushes and frowns at his captor, pulling back against the chain leashing his neck with a whine. “Why do you have to…” he begins to spit out…
…until Shadow interrupts him to say, “Tell me exactly what you want, Mariel.”
The command makes the angel gasp, his throat clenching around the words he was going to say, killing them just behind his tongue. He swallows them down, the ghost of his tantrum, and he shudders. “I want you to hurt me,” he says in a soft, flat voice, his lips, tongue, and throat moving beyond his control. He takes in a deep breath, recoiling at the admission, gripping at the chains above his head. Such tension leaves his slim, tall, bound form beautifully vulnerable and taut.
With his eyes closed, Mariel isn’t prepared for the SLAP that lands right on his tender chest, the bruised muscles and healing tissues punished by the strike. It makes him cry out and flinch, pulling to the end of the chain leash with a thrumming pressure. “No, no please…” he begs, quite in contradiction to his compelled admission.
The fallen creature’s eyes, wet, look into the silvers of his captor, client, and tormentor – begging Shadow to keep going, to ignore his pleas, his pain, his fear. To push him.
The sidhe knows. Shadow wouldn’t have hunted him down again if he didn’t know.
Another strike hits the angel in his tender chest again, and he screams, his agony unheard beyond the enchanted walls of this strange living space. It’s like the darkness eats his sounds, relishing it, seething and roiling with excitement the louder he gets. The sidhe moves, shifting to rest on his knees beside him, pressing against him, obviously hard and ready. The man’s lips suckle on Mariel’s wailing throat as he strikes the angel again, and again, and again. Despite his shaking, despite his cries, Mariel leans against the sidhe, wanting him, wanting more of his pain.
When Shadow turns the angel’s head, the whore doesn’t resist, devouring the sidhe as he kisses him. He moans into his mouth as Shadow draws his nails over the angel’s stomach, leaving the fallen creature trembling, cock leaking, oh so ready. With a gesture from the sidhe’s hand, the chains release their prize. The moment Mariel’s freed, he cups his client’s cheeks, curling bodily into the kiss, leaning against the other man, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, cock to cock.
Wanting him desperately. Needing him. Aching for him.
Shadow leans back, bracing on the mattress with his free hand as he draws the angel down by the chains he wears. Mariel moves as he’s bid, soon laying on top of the other man, his hips naturally gravitating in between the sidhe’s slender thighs. The sidhe must have lubed himself in the dark already, because he’s already slick against the underside of Mariel’s shaft as he grinds in between taut, elven ass cheeks. The angel’s face is practically feverish, his tongue curling with his john’s. Shadow’s hands move to his back, caressing along the healing exit wounds, tracing along each one, dipping into each furrow indulgently.
The fallen angel parts the kiss, dipping his head down to worship the sidhe’s slender neck and throat, a hand sliding down between them to guide himself right. Shadow hooks a leg over the angel’s hip, encouraging him, the whore’s crown sliding over the other man’s ready star, as slick as could be. Mariel presses his teeth to Shadow’s skin as his hips dip and roll forward, urging him inward, past the initial clench to delve into tense, needy heat.
The sidhe groans, back arching as Mariel begins to fill him, the angel’s hands caressing down the sidhe’s sides, needing to touch his client everywhere. Against that scarred chest the Shadow’s nipples are hard, scraping against healing marks as he writhes, the sidhe’s head tilted back. The angel’s teeth clutch harder, making Shadow wince, the bridge of his nose wrinkling, the softest of whines escaping his long throat. “Pretty Boy, yes…” he breathes hotly, clutching at the angel’s ass with his hands, black nailed like the whore’s.
Mariel surges like a sea, his sinuous movements slow and deliberate as he fucks the other man, unable to do anything else but give in. The angel’s not compelled – he’s been seduced, his baser needs and passions courted to devastating effect. A sharp strike to his ass makes him ease his bite, a low, rumbling growl buzzing Shadow’s flesh in its place.
The sidhe gasps, then closes his eyes. Chains snake out, wrapping around Mariel’s neck once more, pulling him away. The angel howls in frustration, his cock pulled from its molten sheathe, left wet and wanting, aching with need. Onto his back the angel’s moved and bound, hands chained by the headboard, ankles wrapped together by the foot of the bed. And upon him the sidhe climbs, straddling him and sinking back down onto his prick.
Before the whore can moan, Shadow’s hand clutches his prize’s throat, squeezing it nearly shut. Mariel grits his teeth, writhing in his bondage, eyes closed as he’s ridden and used. Every once in a while he’s struck in the chest, slapped hard, making him jerk and arch. His heels dig into the mattress, body struggling to both get away and get closer, until at last Shadow sheathes him fully, grinding with slow rolls of his hips, cock neglected but leaking and ready to burst in spite of that. The sidhe gasps and tenses mere moments later, stilling as his body clenches around the fallen creature’s cock. Cum, hot and plentiful, jets in hot, thick arcs to splash onto the angel’s abused, hurting chest and stomach.
The sidhe’s quivering clutch milks that last moment from the angel beyond his control or choice. Mariel’s climax is nearly silent, a soft hiss beneath the press of his captor’s hand. Within, his cock pulses, doses of hot spunk offered to make the fit that much tighter, balls oh so painfully tight. Slowly, very slowly, Shadow’s hand moves away from Mariel’s throat, and the angel gasps, his burning lungs filling with air. It’s only now that he feels wetness on his cheeks, his eyes watering, makeup surely running by now. The angel’s left to lay there, panting for a few moments as the chains release him completely this time, his arms slowly pulling back down, fingers sliding over his cheeks, then down over his throat and chest. Leaving trails of black to mix with the white.
Shadow dips his head, his long, black hair slipping over his shoulder to curtain the side of his head. The tips just tickle over Mariel’s arm, and the angel smiles tiredly, lifting his fingers to slide through the other man’s silken tresses.
With an indulgent, pleased chuckle, Shadow dips his head to kiss those fingertips. “There. Isn’t it so much better when you tell me what you want?” he chides, curling his tongue around the tip of the angel’s middle finger briefly before moving off of his cock.
Mariel gasps, then grunts as he’s uncovered and left to the air. The fallen creature swallows and reaches down to try and pull up his pants, but his hands are slapped away, his body pulled up against the sidhe’s to rest. “I should get back,” the angel whispers, not making the slightest movement away from his comfortable arrangement. Shadow’s shoulder makes such a good pillow. It always has.
“They can spare you, Pretty Boy” the sidhe’s black lips murmurs against the angel’s forehead. With a smirk, he adds, “If they couldn’t, you’d still be in a cage.”