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.
