Lie Much in (my) Life

CAUTION: This is a completely unbelievable, profane, fantasy fulfilling sex romp. All characters are unfortunately fictional, as are all the events. If you are insulted by any of the above feel free to not read the story. To all others: Have fun!

1

Like much in my life, my excitement was inspired by the non physical, in other words despite the fascination my life had for me; for most people I would be classified as a looser. What can I say, it wasn't really my fault, it was intrinsic in me. From an early age instead of playing doctor with the local twerps, pardon my French, I preferred spending time with my heroes. The fact that most of them where already dead did not deter my passion. Shakespeare, Marlow, Chaucer, Dante and other very dead people stared in my book of the Very Ultimately Cool. In fact the closest I came to modern, where the only partially decomposed, such as Fred Astaire.

In fact Astaire was probably at the top of my drool category and stared in many of my fantasies. No I am not blind or even deranged, just shall we say, a little eccentric for the under 25 category. On this night, much like any other, this lead to my bodily distribution encompassing a sprawled torso over my desk during prime time (10' on a Friday night), my hair a mess, my clothing definitely relegated to Cinderella floor cleaning, chewing on a raged looking pencil while perusing, with a dastardly grin on my face, the intricate complexities of medieval manuscript illumination. What can I say, I was feeling more illuminated by the minute, despite my blind disregard of my less than attractive getup.

My only defense was the fact that I was alone and not expecting company, so I dressed for my expectations, and was mildly put out when life failed to perform to my defined standard. Any fashion, boy and sex fan would have proclaimed that any girl in any situation should always be ready for the unexpected appearance of a delicious male. Having been endowed with a down to earth attitude, a disbelief in any kind of miraculous event, a strong belief in the powers of Photoshop and a disdain for luck; I was unprepared for anything other than my own, obviously fascinating, company. I still think I had the right of it, I lived on the fifth floor, had a severely padlocked door and no balconies or other romantic implements attached to the exterior of my rather shabby building.

Unsurprisingly I was rather surprised when a loud sharp thud proclaimed the arrival of an unscheduled delivery on my bedroom floor. It took me a rather long time to react, about 30 seconds, before I scrambled up and turned. Irritation being my first reaction, at the audacity of whatever calamity wished to intrude on my study time, I was not prepared for any sane reaction to the bloody pulp that now occupied my carpeted floor. My first thought was "Holy fuck! How am I going to get the stain out of that!" Then I looked at the now motionless form on my floor. He was rather big, in fact huge, very bloody, with his enormous black wings hanging limply in naked profusion. Somebody or something had torn out huge chunks of feather and flesh from them and the remaining fluff was stained with his blood. His clothes were ragged and torn, slashes running down from neck to waist, marking his body in blood and gore. So I did the only thing possible in such a situation. I ran to the window, reached through the broken pane and closed the shutters. Whatever had done such to him would not, I deduced, be a polite visitor.

Privacy and safety now secured, I did the other important thing, I walked up to the body and slapped him full in the face.

"Wake up Romeo. WAKE UP!"

2

Five minutes of an eternity latter, I had Mr. Mess rearranged on my bathroom floor. I wasn't sure how I managed it. I mean, I sort of slapped him into semi-consciousness and between us we managed to drag, scrap and limp along from one floor to the other. Only now I too was covered in blood, he was completely zonked and the smell of all that blood was definitely making me feel queasy.

"Why the fuck couldn't you choose a doctor's apartment, huh? What the fuck am I going to do with you now... Come on Alice, come on," I slapped myself hard, didn't clear the fog completely but it helped. "First Aid, First Aid," I dived into the bathroom cabinet and dragged ancient supplies of varying kinds from dark and dusty corners, all the while chanting little bits of advice to myself "Stop the blood, stop the blood, come on Alice bleeding like that is not good... How the fuck am I going to bandage his wings? A genie veterinarian would be so useful round about now... Ok, ok, antiseptic antiseptic antiseptic .... AH! Antiseptic...mumble mumble mumble."

It took forever to bath the blood off of him and then I found that the wings were not my biggest problem. His wounds were so deep that even I could see he needed stitches. At this point, my sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a bloody sponge in one hand, blood from my nose down my elbows to my t-shirt, I considered calling the cops, taking him to a hospital or phoning a doctor. Then I got my emergency sewing kit. After all, who takes a huge bird man to the local authorities? Well, someone braver and more foolhardy than me. I figured that burying him under the floorboards would be easier than explaining to, whichever authority the X-files were under, that I did not have my own pair of wings stashed in the attic. It took me three hours to stitch him up, I used silk thread which I bathed in alcohol, hopping against hope that I was not going to kill off my first mythical creature. This was not how children's stories went, the heroine did not meet the lion and badly bandage him to death, that's what the bad guys did. Plus I had a severe shortage of floor boards as my floor was all thinly carpeted concrete.

Having served my Florence Nightingale time, I then faced another tremendous hiccup. I couldn't leave a critically damaged and rather bent bird on a cold floor. He was bound to get the flue, well a deathly variant of it or whatever, and besides I needed a shower. So I tried slapping him again. Then I tried shouting. Then I did both of them together. I think I managed to bruise his face a bit, but other than that, sleeping beauty slept on, or maybe he was just comatose. In the end I wound up dragging my three fluffies, yes it was that kind of flat, all my blankets and sheets to the bathroom, where by stint of pushing shoving and rolling I managed to surround him in bedding. Then my adrenaline not yet spent, I dragged myself into the kitchen were I made in rapid succession five hot water bottles, yes it was that kind of flat, which I buried in the mound that occupied my bathroom. I made copious quantities of instant packet soup which I poured into two thermos flasks, put them with a straw and spoon on the toilet and proceeded to have a shower.

Trust me, if you had been as covered in blood as me, you would have showered too. Besides I had argued while stripping that "Well, it will heat the room up right? And besides" I prodded the shapeless lump "you're not exactly in any shape to notice the view huh?" And no, I did not get him wet, my shower was one of those so-narrow-and-small-you-suffocate-from-the-steam-boxes that grace flats with the word 'practical' in the add. Then being tired annoyed and of the unromantic practical sort, I slept in the fluffies with the lump in the bathroom.

3

That night was an eventful one. At my most deeply asleep moments Mr. Feathered Lump would twist and turn and shiver. In these instances quick interpretation was essential. At some points it meant he was having a nightmare in which case I slapped him, at other times he was too hot so I had to uncover him and sponge him down till he got too cold again; or else he would be semi-conscious and dying (probably literarily) for a drink, so I would spoon some of the then partially warm soup down him. It made me wonder in those aggravating moments, how anybody would ever consent to becoming a nurse, doctor or mother. The sick and helpless encouraged in me a natural tendency to be selfish and let them rot. The winged egit being an exception, as I couldn't shove him out of my apartment, he was too heavy. The day following the first night went in much the same fashion. Being dead tired I tried to get some sleep, which again was interrupted by my now mumbling with fever patient, so I spent most of the time nursing a man-bird so large I wondered how his heart could pump the quantity of blood he must require.

By the second night, the patient showed signs of recovery, he mumbled in sentences for one and he sweated less while consuming vast quantities of soup. I on the other hand, did not fare quite so well. My back was killing me, from bending over and shifting the bird's vast lump of a body, my eyes had reached the stage where obviously the Sahara desert was rooming with them and I suspected I was about to develop arthritis in all my sore extremities. To be quite clear, I was tired, hungry, uncomfortable and pissed off. Indeed I was in the process of proclaiming to the world that "Fuck it! If I have to see and clean the underneath of another gory bandage I will off you myself, chop you up and have bird soup!" when he must have taken my word for it, for my previously restless bird dropped off into a quiet peaceful sleep. Always having prided myself on being sensible I did the only sensible thing. I panicked. I thought he must be dying, so I prodded and poked him, all while whispering a constant flow of prayers "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck..." After all, I rationalized latter, my panic was the natural reaction of one not wishing all that effort to go to waste.

Night number three saw me slumbering in a sitting position with my upper half sprawled on top of my patient. We both slept more easily, I because his wounds seemed to be healing miraculously fast and he, I supposed, for the same reason. I had tentatively hoped that that night would not see me awake till dawn but once more I was to be disappointed, for while it was still pitch black I was forced awake by my apparent suffocation.

After I had fought my way free of layer upon layer of bedding, I found my feathered man completely uncovered, it appeared that he had tossed all his covers on top of me hence the suffocation. Bleary eyed and foggy I scrambled over the mountainous pile to reach him and take his temperature. As I had expected his body was overly warm, but it was not sweating. Instead it exuded a dry comfy heat that made me curl up at his side with one arm over his chest and drift off back to sleep.

4

This time instead of black enveloping my world I dreamed a dream. To my knowledge I had never had such a dream before, so I was rather taken aback but in a good way, for I dreamed of large soothing hands running heavily down my back, unraveling the tension in my stressed and knotted muscles. The motion never changed pace but it did shift from merely smoothing, to rubbing and at times kneading. Those large hands made me shift and murmur in encouragement as I gently arched myself into them. I made a blurry mental note to have this dream more often. It was sublime.

As each caress took place I felt the heat of those hands send little electric shivers down my spine, penetrating down my ass, to pool in the heat of my sex. I could feel my cheeks flush and my pulse start to pound as I moaned biting my lip gently. I knew where I wanted those hands, and it was not on my back. As the fingers traveled back up, making my skin shiver in delight and bringing new and lustful moans to my lips, my hips started to rock, tilting my ass further into the air. The flesh of my rounded globes was aching, aching for those large powerful hands to travel further down my spine to grab fistfuls of my ass. But my need remained unfulfilled as his touch encircled my shoulder blades in hot stimulating strokes. My pulse pounded, my lips parted on a lustful gasp and my hips started to rotate in short, abrupt, needy circles. My centre throbbed, my flesh quivered, I could feel the wet heat of me start to seep down my thighs wetting my hot flesh.

Finally I could stand no more of that sweet caress, I tossed my head back arching my body, my breasts straining proudly into the air with my hard tingling nipples tenting my shirt, my cunt grinding down into the flesh of his belly. My fingers dug into his strong chest as my body wiggled and strained in silent demand for his hands on my quivering, shivering, ass cheeks. My brain fogged over as I felt his light tingling touch down the centre of my back, his hands spreading wide before grasping my buttocks strongly. My eyes flew open as I cried out my lust, taking in his impossibly broad chest and shoulders, a thick powerful neck and a face so beautiful it made my cunt squeeze and throb. I wanted to touch that face, caress his dark beautiful wings as his hands pressed hard into my flesh driving my hips to grind harder against him.

I cried out, this time in protest, as my brain took in what my eyes were telling me. My bird, no my fallen angel, his eyes closed, his head tilted back and his body straining towards mine was making me cream; my little pussy spasaming in need against him. My fingers clutched him tighter as I tried to rain in my rampant lust; but despite my mind's protests my body's desire whispered to me, clouding my mind. All I wanted was to lick the beads of sweat from his throat, nibble on his chin, suck on one of those oh so shapely lips, dip my tongue into his mouth and taste of him. My mind reeling from the images running rampant before my eyes, my head tilted back as I tried to find the will power to stop. He was wounded, I was reaping the benefits of that, it wasn't right, but oh God did it feel good.

Then all I could do was cry out in ecstasy as I felt his hands dig into my pajama bottoms, part my ass and sweetly nudge the rosebud between. My whole body jerked and I fell forward, my mouth honing in on the sweetness of his neck, sucking on his succulent skin; marking him as mine. My hardened nipples dug into his hard chest sending tingles down to pool in my already drenched core as my ass danced under his palms trying to get his fingers to play more firmly with my bud. My mouth traveled down, licking, sucking, and nibbling on every available inch of sweet flesh; my own body going crazy with lust as his fingers started a policy of double penetration that had me almost screaming.

His two digits thrusting in me, one deep in my ass, the other in my hungry puss, had me delirious with pleasure, my body starting to spasm in anticipation of a climax as his fingers thrust their way into the very heart of me. Rubbing on either side of me, making my flesh quiver and tingle and throb, till I was unaware of anything except him in my deepest heat. When his fingers abandoned me at the very cusp I screamed in denial, whimpered in need, wanting desperately to be filled to the brim with him. I barely felt it as the cloth was ripped from my body, only shuddering in reaction to the tip of his cock as it flirted with my tender slit.

I whimpered and begged and clawed at him, trying to get his cock to plunge into my depths and bring me to the ecstasy that was only just beyond my reach. My body was aching and trembling in need for him, my juices now flowing directly onto his engorged head, my throbbing clit making contact with each caressing stroke he made through my folds. He was so hot and big I thought I would go out of my mind, and I did, when he plunged into me in one hard, mind blowing thrust; cleaving his way into my tight little virgin cunt, triggering an orgasm that merely fed on the pain of my hymen tearing over his throbbing shaft.

His hands and body were relentless as they pushed and pulled me onto his cock, pounding into me in deep, hard thrusts that had me cumming every few heat filled minutes. I cried and screamed and begged for him to go faster, thrust harder, to bury himself deep, to cum and spurt his seed deep into my belly. I stroked his face with my hands, and kissed his chest with my lips as I squeezed and rippled on his cock; and as another orgasm hit me hard, sending my mind reeling, I felt him tense and thrust one final time before erupting.

It was glorious, and in the contented aftermath of my first and most wondrous fucking, I thanked the Gods and providence that had made him crash in through my window. I nuzzled his neck and reached up to kiss his earlobe and felt his lips kiss the side of my head tenderly as he sighed "Ohhhhhhh, Rosalia... my love."

5

Needless to say I was still fuming somewhat half an hour latter, as I sat on the farthest side of my small bathroom, cursing him uphill and down dale for meaning the fucking of my life for somebody else. I tried to tell myself that it was alright, that I felt nothing for him and that as he had not woken up even during climax, that he would recall nothing of it. If he did, he would think it only a dream of her, Rosalia. I snarled, my lip curling. I could kill the little bird brain, how dare he screw me witless, believing me to be another woman!

I tried to fume in dignity, but my eyes kept straying to his now contented and peaceful face, half of me proud I had pleasured him; the other half wanting to stab him several thousand times over. It was a confusing and frustrating night, but most of all it was sleepless, so yet again when dawn came around I was shattered; which did not lighten my already violent mood.

That day I left my visitor alone as I went out, mumbling things to cheer myself up such as: "I hope you die while I'm out, you undiscerning bastard!" and "Bastard! Fucking bastard, fuck, fuck, fuck, mumble, mumble, mutter, curse." Ect. It did not lighten my mood and when I came back with groceries to feed an army, all frozen, pre-cooked or zap-able, I was feeling even less charitable than I had before. For it had occurred to me, oh the horrors of a logical mind, that the whole incident was technically not his fault, if anyone was to blame...well, that person was me.

It is perhaps unsurprising then that when I was greeted with an awake, active and clothed guest who smiled softly, offered his hand and said "Hello, pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm Ray." What I did was scowl ferociously, stomp into my kitchen and slam the groceries down onto the table.

"You're better?" I asked, as I thrust my groceries away, wishing death, the plague, anything really, to come and deliver me from tall gorgeous winged men who liked women other than me.

"Yes, thanks to you. May I know you're name?"

I tried not to notice how deep and husky his voice was, or how incredibly appealing he looked with that unsure expression on his face, or how beautiful his eyes were. They smoldered at me, in an intense molten black that had my sex throbbing in yearning. It was exasperating the hold the man had on me, I was exasperated, totally fed up, impossibly piqued and totally infatuated; which only made things worse.

"No. Now, if you would please bugger off as swiftly as possible, I shall pretend I'm an amnesiac and that I never had a large bird-man in my flat."

I didn't want him to go, but I wasn't going to admit that to myself, let alone to him. It infuriated me that in a few short days, while bleeding copiously, staining my carpet, hogging my bathroom and saying nothing, he had managed somehow to worm his way firmly and irrevocably into my heart. It probably had a lot to do with the way my body just loved his, but that was only the cynic in me grumbling, my romantic side was warbling on about love at first sight.

"I'm afraid," he rumbled, that sexy voice sending thrills up my traitorous spine, "that is going to be impossible."

"Look," I snapped, my fury boiling close to the surface "I don't make a habit of entertaining bleeding, bewinged guests and I'm going to keep it that way." At that point I made the mistake of looking at him and was totally mesmerized by the full effect of his massive frame as he came closer.