by J. M. Keep
His face was a match for the rest of his body: beautiful but strong, with a clean, sharply angled jawline. Dark eyes stared out at her from beneath a curl of black hair that seemed waiting for someone to reach down and brush it back. His lips were full and almost as dusky-red as the coals in the brazier, and already quirked in a wry sort of smile.
"Well," said the Fallen, "I never was blonde like you. A bit of black in the feathers goes with my hair, don't you think?" He flicked the tips of his wings, and Pyriah had to bite back a laugh. The man's voice was a mild baritone, good-humored; both lighter and more pleasant than Pyriah had expected. She'd anticipated the savage growl of the hellspawn she'd fought in the field, or else something dark and oily. He sounded like any other male angel, which made a pleasant change from the higher-pitched chatter of Pyriah's company.
Heavenly cohorts segregated by gender in the field, following an age-old tradition that Pyriah hadn't thought about for years. The man's presence was an abrupt and unexpected reminder that it had something to do with distraction. Angelic bodies were, after all, inherently and perfectly beautiful. They couldn't help stirring feelings of admiration, and that could turn to something dangerously akin to lust. Pyriah blinked, awkwardly aware of an unfamiliar flutter in her lower belly.
Her naked captive stretched his wings for a moment, as far as the tent would allow, and leaned back until the rope tied around his manacles pulled taut. His bare chest gleamed in the ruddy light. He seemed to be sweating slightly; Pyriah supposed he had to be feeling the punishing heat of Hell, with none of the longing for Heaven that chilled her body.
Biting the inside of her lip, Pyriah schooled her face to dispassionate calm. She allowed herself a smile, but made it as cool and calculating as she could, giving no outward sign of the turmoil rising inside her. For a moment, she contemplated ducking back out of the tent and calling for help. She could think of nothing specific for Slephia and Lailah to do, and the tent was crowded enough with just two, but their presence would be reassuring.
The Fallen was certainly no threat to her physically, even if he somehow worked free of his bonds; Pyriah was one of the best fighters in the Heavenly Host's forward deployment. But his naked grace unsettled her on a deeper level that made her uncertain of her purpose and her plan. She had, perhaps foolishly, rushed to confront him without putting a great deal of thought into either one. It left her with very little guidance as she ran her eyes up and down the man's naked body.
You are an angel of the Lord, she reminded herself sternly. Stop admiring his chest and take charge.
Tapping the captured whip that she still held in her hands against one palm, Pyriah gave her captive a short nod. "I am Pyriah," she said, "Third of her Name. That 'bit of black' in your wings marks you as my enemy, and as a servant of the Enemy. Who are you? How did you come here?"
The Fallen raised his chin in a sharp jerk. Pyriah almost flinched, but caught herself before it could turn into more than a slight rustle at the tips of her wings. She stifled the urge to scowl, which would only tell the man that he'd already succeeded in startling her.
Fortunately, he seemed not to have noticed. "I am Haniel," the dark-winged angel announced grandly, "First of his Name in Lucifer's Hell, and I am not your enemy. If you are mine, it is of your own choosing. I bear you no ill will." He jerked his chin toward the roof of the tent. "And I came here from a very long way up, with an abrupt stop at the end." A crooked grin flashed across his dark features. "Rather like you did, I expect, but through a lot more thunder and brimstone. The Almighty gives us a rough tumble when He catches us snooping too close to Heaven."
Pyriah circled her captive as she took his speech in. His story was, unfortunately, both plausible and impossible to verify without a lengthy trip back to Heaven. Invading rebels certainly did get thrown down from time to time, repeating their original Fall through fire and darkness. It made as much sense as anything else, though Pyriah disliked the coincidence of his landing directly outside her camp. Still, if the Almighty had meant her to find him...
She flexed the captured whip in both her hands. Folded over on itself, it made a taut bundle of leather about the length of her forearm. Haniel watched it with a wary eye. It gave Pyriah a seductive feeling of power; of being in charge, which helped to steady her as she tried to decide what to do with her prize.
Silence lengthened in the hot tent as they watched each other. Finally, the Fallen cleared his throat and said, "What now, O Angel of Hosts?" He shifted on his knees as he spoke, and Pyriah paused in her circling to admire the movement of his buttocks. Smooth and sensuous, they were a masculine echo of her own sculpted backside: narrower, tighter, and just a touch more defined, yet still soft enough to yield beneath a firm squeeze. (If, hypothetically, one were to squeeze it, of course. Which would be completely permissible, and not a sin of lust at all, as they were all one angelic flesh, and really it would be no different from touching herself...)
Pyriah flushed, coughed, and let one end of the bundled whip swing free to smack lightly against Haniel's rump. The brisk slapping sound helped bring her thoughts back from their increasingly irrelevant tangent.
"Now," she said, keeping the whip against his skin and moving the folded leather in a slow circle, "we punish you for your transgressions, of course, and urge you to return to the light of Heaven. Peacefully. And obediently." Chuckling, she drew the folded whip back and smacked his ass on the other cheek, nice and hard. It made a loud slap that cracked against the canvas walls of the tent.
Haniel flinched, twitched the twin arches of his wings together for a moment, and then barked a short laugh. He bent his head and shoulders forward, spreading the tips of his wings to bare his bottom completely. He seemed to be flaunting it for her, and Pyriah, irritated, rewarded him with another hard swat.
"And what," asked Haniel, flinching a little at the blow but smiling over his shoulder, "do you think an angel of the Lord is going to do to me that could be worse than living in Hell?" He fixed Pyriah with a penetrating gaze. The dark eyes were deep and knowing. She looked down instinctively at the whip, and stole a glance at the brazier of burning coals as well; Haniel followed her eyes and sighed. "Trust me," he said, "whatever torture you are contemplating, it has been done here before, and much, much worse. Pain is...not really unusual in Hell." His feathers rustled against his smooth skin in a crooked shrug.
Pyriah paused at that, the whip dangling in one hand. Absently, she let it uncoil until she was only holding the handle, and twitched the tip about on the dusty ground. She laid a hand cautiously on Haniel's shoulder, just inside his wings – the first she had touched his skin since entering the tent. A mad, daring idea was beginning to form in her mind. Very lightly, she trailed her fingertips downward, one on either side of the Fallen's well-formed spine. He shivered beneath her hand, and she smiled in satisfaction.
Bending forward, Pyriah fitted herself between Haniel's soot-dusted wings. She laid her breasts against his back and pressed herself to the curve of his spine. Their skins were warm in the coal-heated tent, and she drew heat from his gratefully, still dimly aware of the cold, deep longing for Heaven hidden inside of her.
Wrapping her arms around the Fallen, Pyriah stroked Haniel's chest with an open palm. She still held the whip in her other hand, and she ran its handle slowly along one side of his ribcage. Bending in close, she whispered in his ear: "And what about pleasure? Is that unusual here?"
With a soft chuckle, Pyriah closed a thumb and forefinger delicately around one of Haniel's nipples; pinched the rosy bud and rolled it from side to side. He rewarded her with a jerk and a startled gasp. Pyriah grinned and eased her grip slightly. She stroked the tip of the nipple playfully with a fingertip and let her lips brush Haniel's ear.
"I've been in Hell a long time," she whispered. "I know how strong the longing for Heaven gets. The golden city...the choirs...the angelic bodies all around you..."
As she spoke, her whip hand drifted lower, until the leather handle
was rubbing up and down the outside of Haniel's thigh. Pyriah let her fingertips stroke his soft skin, savoring the sweat-slicked warmth.
Haniel shivered softly. "Angelic bodies," the Fallen repeated. "Ah, yes." He turned his head to meet Pyriah's gaze, and his soft lips smirked knowingly. "I remember these holy cohorts from before the Fall, you know. Sex-segregated, weren't they?" His eyes mocked her, dark and sparkling. "To prevent angels, ah, 'distracting' one another with the perfection of their bodies. Have you been in these godforsaken hills long, Captain, with nothing but a troop of women to keep you company?"
Leaning backward against her, Haniel spread his knees, baring his torso all the way to his crotch. The curls between his thighs were soft and downy, and the member beneath them was as smooth and sculpted as the rest of his body. Pyriah's eyes lit upon it before she could think to turn away. She licked dry lips, trying to ignore his mockery – and his manhood.
"We are above such things," she said loftily, pulling away from his body. The warm flesh was too distracting; too enticingly strong and male after so long in the company of women. Haniel's suggestion was much closer to the mark than she dared admit. She snuck another glance at the soft flesh dangling from his crotch. "The...the touch of the divine is evident in all our flesh. Male and female alike."
"You say it like a prayer: routine and boring," Haniel said. His mild drawl was irritatingly insolent. He craned his neck to stare at the roof of the tent and pulled on his bonds. The manacles clinked, but the rope and stake held firm, and he sighed. "Why not say what you're thinking? No one will hear it but me, and I'm already damned." He chuckled. "Say 'the touch of the divine is evident in our wet pussies,' maybe. 'The touch of the divine is evident in our throbbing cocks. The touch of the – ' ouch!" He broke off with a yelp as Pyriah cracked the whip firmly across his buttocks. The tent lacked the space for a full-armed blow, saving Haniel from serious injury, but she managed to leave a bright pink line on his tanned skin, which gave her some satisfaction.
"Mind your tongue!" she snapped. Amusement at his shameless humor warred with anger inside her – and with an odd, churning desire that had nothing to do with her long-delayed return to Heaven. Pyriah shivered. He was at least speaking to her, angel to angel, without the overwrought dramatics that tended to characterize meetings between powerful Fallen and their holy counterparts. No one was challenging anyone to duels with flaming swords yet. That told her that her more playful, seductive approach had merit, but she needed to reassert control of the situation!
Striding around to stand in front of the Fallen, Pyriah reached out and took a firm grip on his curly hair. He grunted, and she tugged, tilting his face and chin upward. "Mind your tongue," she repeated, her tone warning, "or I'll mind it for you." She stepped very close, nearly thrusting her crotch into his face. A thrill ran through her as she spread her legs wider. His dark gaze flicked to the cleft of her legs and back up again; she arched her eyebrows, challenging him. "Or don't you know how to do anything with it but make smart remarks?" she asked. "Even the greenest girls in my troop know – ahh!"
Pyriah broke off with a gasp as Haniel lunged forward and thrust his face up between her thighs. His hair tangled around her fingers and pulled taut, but he pressed his lips to her all the same, laying a hot, lingering kiss on the soft folds. Pyriah rose up onto the balls of her feet, trembling, as a tongue lashed her eager sex. In a breathless moment, her lust surged to the forefront of her thoughts, overwhelming all her other plans for her captive. She cupped her hand atop his head and stroked him with her fingertips.
"Better," she whispered, still nearly on tiptoe. His lips pressed against her folds, kissing softly. The tip of his tongue slid back and forth. It traced the outline of her slit with a light, almost ticklish touch. Pyriah stroked the Fallen's hair; kneaded his scalp. "You do know how to use your tongue," she said, chuckling, "at least a little bit. Now...show me you're as good as my troops, and make me cum!"
Her grip tightened again, stern and demanding, and she heard a muffled grunt as she shoved her hips forward into Haniel's face. She gripped his head between her strong thighs and held him there, rubbing her pussy against his lips. Sweet-smelling wetness dripped from it, testifying to her arousal, and Pyriah breathed the scent in greedily. Love-making was certainly not uncommon in the ranks of the Heavenly Host, but elder angels tended to view it as an indulgence better left to the lesser Names, and Pyriah herself had been without for far too long during her endless deployment in the realm of the damned. She pressed her body to Haniel's with a ferocity that surprised even her, and smiled with delight at his muffled grunts and groans.
"Yes," she whispered eagerly, "lick that slit. Touch my heavenly flesh. Ahhh, that's good!" She threw her head back, gasping. Whether out of fear, lust, or simply his own perverse wickedness, her captive was putting his tongue to enthusiastic use, circling her folds and then plunging in deep between them until she could feel the strong muscle slide along her inner walls. Then back out it flicked to lash up and down her clit, driving her passion higher until she was ready to howl with frustration. A tiny push, a little touch in the right place, that was all she needed...
"More!" Pyriah screamed, heedless of her guards just a few feet and a scrap of canvas away. "Earn your forgiveness! Ah, God, suck my cunt!" She shuddered all over as she screamed the last. Arousal surged toward its inevitable peak inside her. The thrill of the taboo shivered down her spine and straight into the melting heat between her legs, physical sensation mixing with wicked thoughts in a heady, erotic churn.
It wasn't as if she were breaking any rules, technically speaking. They were angels, not mere mortals – crafted by the hand of the divine itself, and free from imperfection or sin. It was, theoretically, impossible for an angel to do any wrong, and so most did as they pleased, and trusted in their Creator's benevolence to steer them right.
And yet, there between her thighs was dark-winged proof that an angel could sin, and could fall through endless fire for it. Pyriah clutched at the long bones of Haniel's wings as she teetered on the brink of climax, blinded by lust and by the scope of her actions. He was Fallen, and he was tonguing her pussy.
With a wail, Pyriah jerked and came, her body clenching in pleasure and grinding hard against the captive angel's face. Haniel licked and sucked with wild abandon. The front of his teeth bumped Pyriah's cunt as his tongue dove in and out. It sought her clit, found it; danced back and forth with impossible swiftness as Pyriah's passions came to their peak. She gave one last shriek and slumped against him, feeling the strength rush out of her body with her climax. Sensations became too strong, and she tried to pull her hips away and turn her trembling folds aside; almost at once, the Fallen's touch gentled and grew still. His tongue slid back behind his lips, which laid a line of gentle kisses slowly down her dripping slit. Pyriah shuddered in bliss.
"Oh," she gasped, "oh yes." She flexed her aching right hand, and then – belatedly realizing that it had clenched to pull hard on Haniel's hair again – let go with an apologetic jerk. Her fingers were slick with sweat, whether hers or his she had no idea, and her legs felt trembling and week. She sank rather abruptly back down onto her heels and took a wobbly half-step back, looking around the small tent with dazed eyes.
The Fallen still knelt before her, his face upraised. There was an ironic twist at the corner of his lips, and more than a hint of satisfaction in his dark eyes. His face gleamed wet and red in the light of the coals. He stank of sex and musky, feminine arousal. Pyriah swallowed as her eyes trailed lower and found his cock stiff and upright between his legs. Sometime during his performance it had swollen from its graceful softness to a thick, throbbing length of imposing size. Her legs clasped together automatically at the sight of it.
Uncertain of herself, Pyriah laid a hand across her breasts. Leather slapped her skin, and she looked down in surprise, startled to find that she still held the whip. She gripped it tight for comfort. Haniel's eyes were unsettlingly piercing; she felt more conscious of
her nakedness than she had in years. For that matter, she felt more conscious of her body than she had in years. Had her senses really grown that dull in the absence of lovemaking? She seemed aware of every rustle from the tent's walls, every rise and fall of their panting chests; every thud of her heart behind her ribs. Her pussy tingled with a warm, spreading afterglow. She reached down and touched it, and found sticky wetness and a pair of warm, willing cuntlips that spread for her fingertip. A soft moan escaped the startled angel's lips. It would be so easy, she realized, and it would feel so good, to slip her finger in deeper and stroke her inner walls. Her body was ready. And all the while Haniel watched, his dark eyes knowing...
"What now?" he asked in his soft baritone, "O Angel of Hosts?" He grinned a sticky grin, and Pyriah felt herself actually blushing beneath a face already heated from exertion. "Have I earned my way back into Heaven already?"
The mockery was plain in his voice, and Pyriah scowled. She flexed the whip in her hand – a potent reminder of who was in charge here! Just to be sure he was reminded, too, she cracked the tip of it against the ground near the Fallen's thighs, and was rewarded with a very satisfying flinch. His cock bobbed, naked and vulnerable-looking, and Pyriah resisted the temptation to snap the whip even closer to it. An error there would be very, very painful for her captive, and she was not quite that irritated with him. Yet.
"You have not," she growled. She circled behind him, as much to escape those penetrating eyes as anything. His taut buttocks gleamed enticingly, offering an easy target. Pyriah doubled the whip over in her hands and smacked the naked flesh, hard, making Haniel jerk forward and duck his head. His wings twitched in a pained flinch. Pyriah spanked him again, just as he was straightening back up, and grabbed the back of his neck with her free hand. Shoving his head back down, she doubled the whip over a second time and began switching the bundled leather briskly back and forth over rapidly-reddening butt cheeks as Haniel squirmed beneath her.