Message-ID: <17157eli$9811120531@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: perigryn.removethis@earthlink.net (Rosemerry) Subject: Fear & Desire Pt 2 (M/F, sci fi, virgin) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: The lights came back on suddenly, the night light in the bathroom being the only one she had turned on while sleeping. There was the hum of the air conditioning picking up and the digital clock on the bedhead began flashing insistently midnight. Cassie blinked to adjust her eyes and then turned on the overhead dimmer very softly so as not to frighten her guest. Colors stole back into the room, the dim burgundy of the bedspread, the darker reds of pillows and towels. The angel looked at the globe of white light shimmering overhead and then lowered his eyes again to hers. "Okay?" she said, smiling. "Light will help me do a good job... great." She opened the box and went to examine the wing. When she took hold of it again, the great gray pinions shivered. The angel caught his breath. "I know," she said soothingly. "I know." She examined the torn flesh. "No glass," she said to herself. "And I don't think you broke any bones, though God knows what kind of little bones you do have in your wings." Then she bit her lip and looked up, afraid the angel had caught the blasphemy. He had managed to roll over halfway, his manhood flopping down on the sheet, and support himself with his elbow. He gazed at her as if there were nothing whatever unusual about his nakedness. Her cheeks hot, she took out the antiseptic spray and coated the wounds. The angel hissed a little between his teeth but the wing in her hand never moved. He kept it still all through her ministrations, and when she was done he sat up. His other wing trailing over the edge of the bed down to the floor, he examined the bandages carefully. Apparently approving, he twitched the wing to his back, where it still didn't fold all the way, and held out a hand to her, fastening the intensity of his gaze on hers again. "Well, I... well it was nothing," she said, looking at the hand in confusion. It was long and thin, a piano player's hand, fine as porcelain. He was built like an Arabian horse, all compact lightness, tendons and muscles crafted toward the singleminded purpose of flight. She looked up, at the androgynous planes of his ivory face. The hair falling in lank wet trails down his shoulders was gray as ash, though his face was younger than hers and his unlined skin was pale. He gave the hand an impatient little twitch, and Cassie took it with hers. It was warm, hot; she worried about a fever. While she was thinking this, she let herself be drawn to sit down beside him. "I should take your temperature," she said weakly. The angel looked down at her, frighteningly close, the chiseled line of his jaw and cheekbone angling up to the enormous clear eyes. His mouth opened, and he seemed to be saying all right... but there was no voice. His almost invisible eyebrows came together. "All right?" she said. "Try again." She reached a hand up to feel his forehead; it too was burning, almost startlingly hot. He wrapped his own slender hand around her wrist and pulled her hand down, resting it on the protruding line of his collarbone. Cassie gulped, her stomach tightening. She had so many questions, and they all seemed to be dissolving in some kind of hypnotism brought about by his sheer beauty and closeness. The angel did not appear to be thinking along those lines, however; to him touch and nakedness appeared to be perfectly ordinary. She wondered if he were puzzled by her robe, and for a moment dizziness overwhelmed her as she thought it would be polite to remove it. She shook her head. "Try again," she repeated. He looked at her, his pale lips opening, and again she could read the words there: try again, he was saying after her, try again. Almost, this time, in a whisper. She blinked, leaning forward as if the sheer pull of her will could bring words from him. "Again," she breathed, instinctively lowering her voice to approximate her request. "Just whisper... try again." The elbows of the wings standing over his shoulders flexed, and the wings rose, feathers brushing the wall on two sides. "Try again," he whispered, "speak to her, my rescuer." The wings gave a slow, delighted beat, and he grinned quite brilliantly. "There!" she said. "You did it." She was grinning too, less beautifully, she suspected. "Vocal," he breathed, "communicative." He reached out to stroke her cheek with his long, burning hand. "Lovely," he said, and this time there was a hint of his voice. She blushed and dropped her eyes; not a good move strategically, as her gaze landed upon his masculinity. Quickly she looked up again, and returned his gesture. The flat planes of his cheek felt like stone, like living marble; softness cloaking an endless immobility. "Lovelier," she said embarassedly. He smiled, showing white, even teeth behind his pale thin lips. Unexpectedly she relaxed a little; the sight of those even flat teeth gave her a reassurance she hadn't known she was seeking. No fangs. "Wings," she said, reaching also to touch the arch of feathers over his shoulder. This move gave her a waft of his dry, spicy scent. She was also close enough to hear his intake of breath and see the widening of his pupils, midnight swallowing the granite. For a moment, drawing her hand back away from the taut feathery muscle of his wing, she thought she had hurt him. But he did not seem to be in pain, and he smiled at her as she sat back. "Yes, wings," he said breathily, "pinions of the messenger, gifts for the child of heaven." "Child of Heaven?" His colorless eyes peered into hers as if he looked there for his answer. "Seraphim, messenger, angel," he replied in the softest tenor tones. His voice was like his face, spare, planed, carven in marble by a loving hand. "Angel," she said in wonder. Then he was shaking his head, little whips of ashy hair threshing his jawbones. "Seeker after winds," he said, "child of the sky; messenger." She groped after the hints of meaning she found in this apparent correction, but failed. "Well, whatever you are," she said, "you probably need to eat. Right?" He greeted this question with a nod. She thought, roughly half an hour later, that seeing him eat was the most surreal experience of her life. He sat at her kitchen table, taking his ease with his elbows planted on the tiled surface, naked as dawn, rarely taking his water-colored eyes from hers. He consumed a sandwich matter- of-factly, just as anyone else would have done, and got a milk moustache. Meanwhile she had to keep stepping over the trailing soft edges of his wings to get to the refrigerator and the sink. "Do you have a name?" she asked him, awkwardly, once she could find nothing further to potter with. She took the chair opposite him. Her apartment kitchen had an alcove big enough for a table and four chairs, and so that was what it had. No one had ever sat in any of the chairs; she usually carried her food to bed and vaccuumed the crumbs daily. He cocked his head, birdlike, drawing a giggle from her as a strip of lettuce vanished into his mouth. He swallowed and gave her a non-answer: "Not for me, no name, identifier of boundary, limitation." "Well, I suppose so," she said. Her eyes dropped to regard her fingers twisting anxiously over the beige tiles of the tabletop. "I guess a name limits you. If you're John, you're not George, are you?" He watched her think it through. She gathered quick glimpses of him through the honey fringe of her bangs. "If you're an angel," she said slowly, cautiously, "I suppose you could be George and John both if you liked. But sometimes limitations are important. I mean... if you're me, you're not anybody else. It's hard enough just to be me. For me, anyway." Cassie looked up in mute apology for the poor sense content, only to meet warm understanding. How could gray eyes be so warm? she wondered obliquely. "Cassie," he said. It was like a call to arms. She couldn't imagine anyone ever saying her name that way. It was as if it were her name for the first time. She couldn't think of anything to say, and so she handed him a napkin and showed him how to use it. The angel managed the trick well enough, and then sat in contentment on the chair, apparently thinking of nothing but his desire to look at her. Cassie, lost in the confusion of trying to relate to someone who hadn't the same social programming, fidgeted under his mercilessly tender gaze. Finally, seeing that he was done, she took his plate and glass to the sink. It would be rude to wash them with him right there... not that he would notice it was rude.. but she'd know. At this point in her troubled thoughts, she realized he'd half turned in the chair to watch her at the sink. If he'd only stop looking at me! she thought. She turned, her confusion turning momentarily to anger, but the look on his face stopped her. She'd fed him and warmed him and bandaged his hurt, actions of care and providence that she'd never performed for anyone before. The angel's new comfort and contentment were like miracles on his face, marvels of human compassion that were as new to him as to Cassie. "Beauty of your gifts," he said softly. "You're welcome." Cassie leaned against the counter, looking at him as he continued to gaze at her. He didn't let her merely look for long, reaching out and taking both her hands. The heat of his skin was a shock again. His face was too pale to be fever-flushed, and his eyes were bright; but she didn't know how he usually looked, to tell if he were ill. Anyone, she thought, after being storm-blown onto a thirty-second floor balcony, would be a little feverish. "Better get you back to bed," she said. He nodded meekly and rose to his feet, the rustling of his feathers against the floor a soft hushing sound. She marveled again, walking him back to her bedroom, at the rightness of the join between human back and bird's wing. It was like, yet unlike the pictures of angels she'd seen all her life. They had always seemed awkward, in the pictures. This being looked born for the sky. Seeker after winds, he had named himself. It shone in every line of him. He rested once again on his chest, and she drew the coverlet up over the curves of his back. He turned his head, soberly regarding the bandaged wing for a moment, and then swept both of them up and down once. The breeze of this motion dusted her hair off her forehead and sounded in her ears, but she didn't miss the wince of pain that crossed his face. "It's all right," she said. "You'll get better. You'll be able to fly again soon." "Yes," he answered in his light voice. "Seeking the wind before long." She nodded, caught and surprised by a sudden pang of nameless emotion. So many things she was unused to feeling had happened to her over the last few hours. Cassie wished only for sleep. Troubled again by the sense of rudeness, she didn't know whether to stay until he slept, for his reassurance, or if he needed privacy and she should retire to the couch. This problem he solved for her, reaching for her hand again. She gave it to him with a sense of helplessness, and sat down beside his broad shoulders. The undamaged wing shifted out of her way, and she saw the muscles in his back flex. The tiny feathers that shaded to skin where the wings began made her want to touch them. He let his head fall to the pillow, his hair dry now and flourishing outward richly from his narrow face. He rested her hand on his shoulder, looking as if he'd rather tuck it under her cheek but was, like her, afraid of offending. Cassie watched his eyes close, their brightness subsumed in sleep. Her thoughts tumbled over one another like water. Messenger, he'd called himself. What was the message? How could this possibly have happened, and why was it happening to her? At last her thoughts turned back to the way she'd walked out onto the balcony... even rested her back against that deadly barrier, nothing but indifferently mass-produced wooden balcony between her and the endless Down. The sense of triumph came back, and she smiled into the dimness of the room, her hand absently moving on the hot, smooth skin of the winged man's shoulder. She woke in the morning with an unclear sense of things alarmingly left undone. Memory came back to her in bits and pieces; first she remembered that she was on the couch because someone else was in her bed, then she recalled that she'd forgotten to set the alarm for work this morning. The part about the wings came back nearly last, and the pleasant sting of realizing that she'd gone out on the balcony last night was what brought her all the way awake. Eager to test this new fearlessness, she rolled off the couch, recognized her nakedness, and grabbed up the sheet before turning to the balcony. Her angel was already there, standing outside on the concrete. The glass door was shredded all around him, but he was as blithely naked as he had been last night, and turned to hear her footsteps stop and start. It wasn't the balcony that stopped her, but the flash and glitter of thousands of glass shards, a sea of them between her and the outside. The gray feathers tucked against himself, avoiding the wind that tugged playfully at their tips, he extended his hand to her. With a mental sigh, she turned back to her couch and grabbed a blanket. In the chilly breeze from the outside, she laid this over most of the glass and walked carefully. The threshold clung to her, but only for a moment. The next moment her hand was in his, the startling heat of his fingers distracting her as she took the one step, then the other and laid her free hand on the balcony, feeling her heart trying to hammer its way out of her chest. It was a long way down, but she wasn't falling. Feathers tickled her cheek on the other side, and she looked around to realize he had extended his unharmed wing around her shoulders, cradling her in gray feathers and cutting off the worst of the wind's bite. She was holding his hand far too tightly, she sensed vaguely, as she rested more of her weight on the hand on the cold balcony rail. She leaned over, oh, only fractionally, and glimpsed the street, far below. Cassie understood something then, something terrible, a grim exchange for the freedom she'd been given. What she realized was that her fear, her implacable terror of Down, had been only the natural consequence of desire. Nothing drew her like that sweet and fatal swoop of gravity, of plummeting. She pulled back from the edge, without panic, only with regret and understanding. She pushed the feathers aside easily and walked back over the crunching blanket into her bedroom. He followed her, the nameless angel. Ducking his wings through the doorway, he stepped unconcernedly along the shimmering pathway of glass. Cassie curled up on her bed, wondering if she should call in to work today. Her co-workers would be expecting her. She didn't really think anyone would take time to call and find out if she were all right, but she could probably lose the job if she didn't come in. It seemed frighteningly less important than it would have yesterday. The winged man settled his light weight on the bed beside her. Feathers curling behind him, he reached for her hand again. She took it away automatically. "I'm sorry," she said at once and gave it back. "I just... I'm so overwhelmed by all this. But it's hardly your fault." She sighed. "It's clear I'm not going to work today, anyhow." The idea of leaving a broken-winged angel in her room and spending the day not telling anyone while she sold perfumes to strangers was inconceivable. The angel's lips were like dry silk on her knuckles. Cassie smiled slightly, thinking about work, hardly noticing the rustling of his wings as he curled himself around her. The heat of his skin against her sheet-wound body recalled her to herself, and just as she realized his interest in touching her was becoming more aggressive, it was too late because he had drawn her down to rest against his chest. "Wait," she said, "I don't..." The angel shook his ash-colored hair. "Fear nothing," he said. If his tone had been reassuring, Cassie wouldn't have believed him, being raised to automatically distrust men and their wiles. But his matter-of-factness sabotaged her programming. In so many ways he was different from everything she knew: the wings were the least of it. She settled her cheek against his shoulder and simply closed her eyes, without worry or anxiety. The sense of burdens lifted was amazing, a thing she hadn't known existed. How much she'd been carrying, all unawares. Still, when his hand slid warmly up her arm, his elbow cupping her back, she opened her eyes and stiffened up. It occurred to her to wish she could enjoy his caresses without worrying about what would happen next, but it was beyond her. She didn't know much about men, and whatever else he was, he was surely male. When would she need to stop him, before his desires became too much and he did something terrible to her? Or maybe it wouldn't be terrible. The things she didn't know crowded in her mind and crippled her. But the angel didn't try anything, as her stiffly made up mother probably would have put it. He merely held her, warming her from head to foot with his presence, the shifting canopy of his feathers speaking in whispers to one another overhead. Cassie's thoughts had been turned inexorably from her own difficulties to his presence, his nearness and his beauty. Embarassment kept her still for a long time; it was as if her self-consciousness extended to the room, the hush of balmy morning wind through the smashed window, the scent of uneasy sleep upon her breath, the carelessly heaped pillows that had fallen from the bed. But something else grew on her mind, something that made the stillness brittle. She wanted to touch him. If he would not take the decision from her hands, the wish to break her silence, her motionlessness, grew. The phone rang in the kitchen, and she leapt from the circle of his arm. The stalemate shattered, her heart pounding, she scurried away without looking. "Hello?" "You're home!" It was David, her boss. "Hey, blue eyes, are you okay?" "I'm sorry, David," she said, nerves making her stammer the words. "I don't feel very good. I was going to call you... really I was... I'm so sorry...." "Stop now," he said reassuringly. "I've already called Lisa in. Is it the flu?" "Oh no," she said. Her hand was knotted at her throat. Determined to make the crime of lying to David a minimal one, she said, "It's only a little stomach thing. I'll be all right. I'll come in tomorrow, no problem." "You're off tomorrow," he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. Generous David had raised two children her age. For a moment she wondered if he saw through her, but he sounded warm enough that it didn't matter either way. "You stay home, come in Friday, dear. Feel better." "Thanks, David." She still felt uncomfortable calling him by his first name, but he had insisted from the first. She stood in the silent kitchen for a minute after the call. Even now she couldn't properly exercise her hesitation without wondering what the angel was thinking in the bedroom. Her attempt to think it through went wildly astray, unable to get past the confusion in her head. Her mind had divided again, into the practical part and the meek and mild part her parents would have recognized. The practical part told her she had an opportunity here... she had read it in the angel's eyes, in his indrawn breath when she touched him. Only a fool would pass it up. The meek part was incoherent with fear, producing transparent arguments like static. He didn't desire her, he was here to take advantage of her, the wings were a clever special effect, she was dealing with a madman and an intruder. Practical said she had conquered the balcony. Now look: another fear had shown up. Meek had been wrong about the heights, which weren't out to get her. What were the chances it was right now? Meek quoted disease and violent crime statistics, took on the voices of her parents and lectured, ladled guilt about skipping work on top of that, and stirred well. "Shut up!" she whispered to herself fiercely. "Shut up and let me think!" You're cracking up, girl, Meek advised before dissolving. Practical only smiled. Then they were both gone. Cassie leaned her forehead against the cool tiles of the kitchen wall. That was when she heard the muted cry from the bedroom, and the sudden rattle of pained feathers. She dashed down the brief hall and turned into her bedroom doorway. Still seated on her bed, the angel had removed the dressing she'd put on his wing, the great swoop of its arch stretched out before him awkwardly so he could reach its elbow. "Oh, don't do that," she hastened in, climbing onto the bed on the other side of the gray wall of his wing. "You'll make it worse." She chided him, frowning at his unrepentant headshake. The wound had closed, as far as she could tell through the feathers. She'd washed it well; no blood crusted the contraption of light down and wire-tendons. The angel soberly bent the joint, wincing only slightly, and she saw it tremble. "Please," she said. "Just bind it up again. It'll be better sooner if you leave it alone!" "Where is the wind?" he asked, but resignedly. "As you say, graceful maiden." "Hah," she said, without thinking, as she wound the bandages most carefully, having to slip the length of the white fabric up between the same two pinions on every turn. He laughed, a silvery light chuckle that shivered his feathers, so that the sound seemed to run down them like water and vanish off the ends. She didn't hesitate at all, only followed these elusive ripples of laughter with her fingertips, thinking vaguely that she might catch them if she was quick enough. The feathers bent just slightly, elastically, under her touch. The angel's eyes ignited, the pale gray of them sparkling as his head lifted to look into her face over the quivering barrier of his wing. He closed it, lifting it over his head with the other, reaching out to her with both hands. She took them, her head a whirl of awareness, knowing that nothing now was between them but the cool material of the sheet. Her resolve certainly had no power to stop things now, if it ever had. Holding her fear and her desire like burning swords in both hands, she moved awkwardly on her knees closer to him, unable to look down at his body without dying of embarassment. The colors his eyes had picked up from the burgundy bedspread, the light rose walls, were gone, burned away before the assured fire shining there now. The angel's hands tightened on hers, balancing her as she wobbled toward him. "I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what she was apologizing for, not liking the changed sound of her voice. He shook his head, a trail of his hair falling over his eyes. Cassie nobly resisted the temptation to put it back. "Fear nothing," he said softly again. "Gift of beauty, earth's daughter, hands of the healer." "I'm sure you mean someone else," she said with a shaky laugh. "You know, I think it must be a problem with your English. Strictly phrases, and no... no sense at all." As she said this, he was enfolding her in his arms. She settled against the heat of his chest, feeling quite clearly how her body fit against his. She was aware of places she hardly ever thought about pressing against skin of his she hadn't dared dream of. Around her the gray softness of his wings closed, shutting out the rest of the world. Cradled in that feathery embrace, Cassie tried to calm her heart. "I'm afraid," she said, so softly she could barely hear herself, fighting her dry throat. "I'm a v-- I'm a virgin." She felt him nod, his chin pressing against her forehead, but the sense of his compassion and desire never faltered. His arms never lessened their tender crush, and she was growing used to leaning herself against him. Cassie thought that after today she couldn't use that word anymore, and a quiver of fear ran through her. It was the last, she decided immediately afterward. Meek and Mild might not realize it, but she'd made her decision. She wasn't going to push anything on him, but whatever he wanted of her, he could have. She trusted the angel. As if he felt her reach this conclusion through her skin, he waited no longer. The dusty velvet curtain of his wings parted as he straightened, rising to his knees against her. She felt the shifting firmness of his groin slipping into place at her hip. The angel's hands stroked down her back, taking the sheet with them, so that it tugged at her breasts, trying to slide away from between them. Cassie drew a deep breath and edged back, against the warm angle of his arm, and the sheet fell away. The angel settled his hands on her shoulders and looked gravely into her face. His eyes followed their natural course, down the slopes of her breasts and her abdomen, to the fluff of hair that curled between her legs like a sleeping animal. When his water- colored gaze met hers again it was alight. Cassie lifted her hand to his cheekbone, feeling there the unusual heat sinking into her bones. She had some idea from the movies that this was supposed to start with a kiss, and so she leaned forward and kissed him-- quailing at the last moment and pressing her lips to his cheek. This chaste motion nevertheless brought her nakedness and his into contact, and she twitched back, her breath quick and sharp. "Cassie," the angel said suddenly. The word came out harsh, not in tone but in timbre. It had cost him effort to say it. She looked at him helplessly. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just I'm so afraid." I'm ruining this, she thought. A flicker of annoyance went through her. If he'd only take her, without all this care... stop wondering if she were all right and take what he wanted. She'd find it much easier. Knowing it was a lunatic thought, she lowered her head lest he read it in her eyes. The rustle of his wings made her raise her glance. He was extending the hurt one again, without looking away from her, the faint shadows of pain crossing his marble face. It flicked smoothly back into position, with almost the same birdlike speed as the healthy wing. "Come," he said, letting his leg extend off the bed, then standing up. He kept her shoulders in his hands, drawing her after him. She followed him meekly, thinking that she owed him something after messing things up. If only her parents would shut up in her head, she could think. Propriety was a garotte, and with loving hands they had tied it around her neck. That thought collided with the one about fear and desire being like swords she held, swords of fire that burned her hands, yet saved her life. If she could use the one somehow to cut the other.... Cassie's thoughts were interrupted by the slice of glass into the ball of her foot as the angel led her toward the broken window. She hissed and stopped, his hand drifting off her shoulder, and balanced on the other foot to pull the sliver from her skin. A bead of blood followed, but it didn't look too serious. Picking her way more carefully, she stepped onto the blanket and followed the gray-winged angel onto her balcony. The wind tossed her hair about cheerfully, blonde streamers passing her eyes and tickling her nose. She was cheered simply by being out here, by letting the wind touch her and knowing it had no power to pick her up and fling her off. Her nipples hardened immediately in its relative chill, and she thought how silly it was to be out here naked. Why wasn't she screaming and running indoors for some clothing? The angel had gotten her used to nakedness, her mind answered. Besides, Practical quipped, surfacing momentarily, there's a naked man with huge gray wings standing next to you. Who's going to look at YOU? She laughed into the wind. The angel turned to her, his ashy hair blowing around his face just as hers did. His face was serenely amused, as if he'd heard Practical's joke. Cassie shook her head and leaned her elbows on the balcony. If the view down to the street made her slightly dizzy, it was a natural reaction. Fear and desire balanced evenly, tugging in different directions. She wasn't falling. The angel's hands slid over her shoulders again, and he pressed against her from behind, wrapping her in his arms. His wings extended toward her, cutting off much of the wind with their ship's-rigging creak and ripple. He leaned over her, resting his chin against her ear, holding her with the heat of his body. She closed her eyes, the wind and his touch blending together. His hands cupped her breasts suddenly, touching where nobody had ever touched. Her nipples, tight with cold, burned against his palms. She had made some sound, not knowing what it was. His touch drew away a little, his hands moving to her shoulders, his arms still wrapped warmly around hers. She leaned back against him, wanting only comfort. But he was going, pulling back from her, making her stand on his own and letting the cool wind back against her skin. She turned to look at him. The angel leapt catlike, balanced his feet for one instant on the rails of the balcony, and flung himself off into the air. Cassie shouted incoherently, grabbing after him, her heart instantly turning into a sickened pounding thing in her chest. Suicide! But the angel had changed utterly. No longer a grounded thing with incongruous feathers, he had become a bird that looked like a man. His wings had opened into a sweetly natural position, carrying him already far off into the wind, horizontal. He wasn't falling either. The white patch of bandage showed on his wing joint as he curved his flight, swooping upward, over her head. She heard his delighted silvery laughter from far away, brought to her by the wind. Then he was gone behind the building. Alone, Cassie suddenly felt her nakedness. She crossed her arms over her breasts, but couldn't bear to go back inside, not yet, and admit that her bird had flown. Surely he would come back...? ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Rosemerry perigryn@earthlink.net Each star now knows your name I've wished upon them all Each answer is the same: "Not 'til the heavens fall." http://home.earthlink.net/~perigryn/ -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----