Erotic short. Jean-Pierre makes an unwise decision, and gets caught amongst the wrong crowd.
Rated E, 3.9k, trans M angel gangbanged by Greek gods, mostly by Hermes (Aetos Talaria). Doros is also here — Doros and Jean-Pierre both being characters in Powder and Feathers.
Dubious to non consent here after some pure hubris, with a gangbang, large insertions, come inflation, deepthroating, spitroasting, predicament bondage with Jean-Pierre stuck in a wall, humiliation, degradation, dirty talk, masochism, stomach bulges.
Like so many of Jean-Pierre’s worst decisions, it began as a bet.
He had been teasing back and forth with Doros in recent weeks about his affection for Aetos Talaria, who since his Fall, Jean-Pierre had heard, he had been devoted to.
Doros was a handsome creature, slim but muscular, with dark, shining skin the colour of bronze, and like Jean-Pierre, he was a winged angel. He had two great, dark yellow wings upon his back, but he had more feathers than that, Jean-Pierre had heard — there were stories of Doros growing feathers all over his body, morphing his face into that of a beak, that he might become an eagle, though Jean-Pierre had never witnessed this himself.
“You think yourself very stealthy, I take it?” Doros had asked, his dark, cherry-coloured lips curved in a small smile.
“I am,” Jean-Pierre had replied, scooping seeds from the pomegranate in front of him. “I walk on light feet, Doros, and go undetected, when I do not wish to be.”
“You have never been caught?”
“Hasn’t everyone?” Jean-Pierre asked. As he brought his fingers to his mouth, he parted his lips and sucked the pink seeds where they clung, wet with juice, to the skin, and he feigned innocence of the way Doros watched him suck it from his fingers. His mouth made a wet, popping sound as he sucked his fingers clean, and drew them free.
“What would you say to a wager?”
“A wager?”
“You think we angels superior to the Immortals?”
“We are,” Jean-Pierre said.
“I will write an address for you,” Doros murmured, taking up an orange segment. Between his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed it slightly, so that, so plump with juice as it was, the flesh was slightly rended, and shone as it slid down his palm. Jean-Pierre’s cunt throbbed in sympathy. “If you can sneak amidst the number at this feast, and sneak away with something from the table, I shall give you the penalty of your choice.”
“Whatever I choose?” asked Jean-Pierre, watching as Doros dragged his tongue over his palm, cleaning away the orange juice clinging to the flesh, and Doros met his gaze, and smirked.
“Whatever you choose,” he said softly, and Jean-Pierre pressed his thighs together beneath the table.
—
The party was on top of a mountain, which scarcely meant anything to a man with wings.
Jean-Pierre flew silently upward, using the cloud cover to hide himself, and he saw the marquee on a wide, flower-covered lawn on one plateau: he caught sight of the long table, laden down with dozens upon dozens of plates and dishes, and the various men gathered around it, a good half dozen of them, laughing among themselves.
He recognised Aetos by the feathers in his hair, gifts from Doros, and although he didn’t recognise the others, he knew Zeus by sight, for he was far larger than the others at the table, easily seven and a half feet tall.
The Immortals were funny — every one of them had a dozen names, depending on what their worshipers had called them, or what they called one another, but Zeus always seemed to be known by that name more than others.
The marquee had some lounging areas to one half of it, three of them separated by frames of wood and wine-coloured curtains, and he as he slowly descended to a silent landing, he considered the map he had made of the marquee in his head, creeping slowly across the grass.
He wore a blouse he had long-since woven with a few hundred enchantments, his favourite of them being its ability to hide the wearer from view, and he knew already it worked upon the eyes of Immortals, for wearing it some years ago he had stolen through the vineyards of Mr Zagre, and though he had given chase, he had failed to lay eyes on Jean-Pierre himself.
The light was fading now, for the sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon, and on quiet feet he slowly, very slowly, circled the marquee.
Although it had no roof, its walls went all the way around, no doubt to protect those within from the heavy breeze that whistled over the edge of the peak, and Jean-Pierre examined them with curiosity. There was an enchantment in them, he could feel, but there were no spells woven in its fabric for the sake of security, only for warmth and solidity, and to heavily muffle the voices of those inside, that one could not eavesdrop at its edge.
Besides the grand archway, far too wide to creep through unfelt by the gods laughing just over its threshold, and he set himself to the idea of scaling the wall — which was twelve or so feet high — and dropping himself down again, until he saw that one of the wood panels had not been correctly laid to the rest.
Each panel was somewhat less than a foot across,but they were not square. Sliding his fingers under the edge of the loose panel, he felt for its fastening on the other side, pulling free the pin that kept it there. These panels were waist-height, and intended to be loosened, he expected, to allow in a breeze, but once the pin was loose it came free easily, and Jean-Pierre was able to take out the panel entirely, dropping it upon the grass with nary a sound.
He could see the bodies bustling back and forth in the lounge area, and even when he slid himself through this gap, he would be hidden by the great feasting table and the high-backed chairs around it, with the rare possibility his enchantment failed him.
Athletic and quite slim, Jean-Pierre slid easily through the gap, and he kept close to the floor as he slipped slowly forward, sliding his back against one of the high-backed chairs to keep out of sight he slid his hand toward the table, feeling for one of the golden platters and dragging it toward the edge.
Now over the threshold, he could hear the gods talking to one another.
“The wine is good,” said a hoarse, dry voice. “But not so good as it has been.”
“Dio has been distracted this year,” was the snide response from Aetos, who had a sly, snide voice. “It never bodes well for his brewing.”
“The grapes change year by year regardless,” said another voice. “It is as simple as that — you can’t blame poor Dio for everything, Aetos.”
“Can’t I?” Aetos asked, and as they descended into laughter, Jean-Pierre pulled the platter loose, careful not to drop any of the crumbs on it to the ground as he went back to the panel he’d opened, tossing the plate forward before following after it.
He realised, even as he squeezed his shoulders through the gap, that it felt tighter, but he didn’t realise quite how tight until he tried to slide his hips through and found himself stuck. His blood rushed abruptly in his ears, and silently, he inhaled, pressing his palms against the panel beneath him and trying to push himself forward. He didn’t have an especially plump arse, and a moment ago, he’d had no difficulty at all sliding through this gap, but now the edges of the gap were tight against his lower back and his hip bones, and even when he tried to tilt himself at an angle, he couldn’t draw himself free.
“Merde,” he breathed out, and he drew a symbol on the wood trapping him, trying to push an enchantment through it, to force it to warp, but it wouldn’t give under his push of magic, not when enchantments were already in place upon it.
He slid his phone out from the pack at the small of his back, rapidly getting off a text to Asmodeus to come set him free, but just before he could press send, it was snatched from his hand.
“Jean-Pierre, isn’t it?” asked Aetos. He was smirking down at Jean-Pierre, and Jean-Pierre stared as he slid Jean-Pierre’s phone into his pocket. That was not a good sign. “Doros has mentioned you… Stuck?”
“Ouais,” Jean-Pierre said, and gave the other man his most winning smile.
Aetos was handsome, in a bland sort of way: he was quite aggressively unremarkable to look at, and it seemed to Jean-Pierre, having laid eyes on him some half-a-dozen times in his own lifetime, that he regularly changed the precise dimensions of his face, and certain shapes in it, as though he bored of one face quickly.
“Won’t you help me, Kyrios Talaria?” he asked softly, flirtatiously, his head tilting to the side as he pushed out his breast, subtly trying to pull himself free again, kicking his legs, this time, on the other side of the wall. “I am at your mercy, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” said Aetos, and stroked two of his fingers up the length of Jean-Pierre’s throat, pressing on the soft flesh at the underside of his jaw. His fingers were very warm. “But you’re a thief.”
“Aren’t you the patron of thieves?” Jean-Pierre asked, pouting out his lips, widening his eyes. “Haven’t you a sympathy, Kyrios, for mischief?”
“I suppose I do,” Aetos murmured. “What will you give me to release you?”
He tried to push himself as hard as he could, but all it did was make the wood bite into his flesh, the shorts he was wearing catching and threatening to tear, and Jean-Pierre set his jaw before making himself come over all smiles again.
“Why?” he asked, in a coquettish voice. “What would you have me give you, Kyrios?”
The Immortal — as they did, when amongst themselves, wore a loose robe, cropped above his knee and tied at the waist with a cord of gold rope, and he fisted his hand in the skirt, drawing it up his waist.
Jean-Pierre looked at Aetos’ cock, which was as average as the rest of him, a decent-sized cock, comfortably thick, and even despite the situation, Jean-Pierre felt himself give a slight squirm, watching. Aetos’ cock was already half-hard, and as he gave himself two cursory strokes, it became harder in his hand.
Jean-Pierre wet his lower lip with his tongue.
“I do this, and you set me free?” he asked, and Aetos grinned at him.
“The shirt comes off, first,” he said lowly, and tugged at the shirt, drawing it and the little leather bag from Jean-Pierre’s shoulders and dropping them aside, on top of his pilfered plate.
He didn’t let Jean-Pierre take his cock directly into his mouth at first: he touched its wet head against Jean-Pierre’s cheeks, his chin, tapped it against his lips. It was more than teasing. It was humiliating, left a burn of embarrassment in his cheeks, and yet blood still rushed downward, and he felt a twinge of arousal despite himself at the casual ease of the debasement.
He opened his mouth, and when Aetos slid forward, he fisted his hand in Jean-Pierre’s hair, dragging his hair tie out of place so that it fell loose around his shoulders, and gave him a better hold to fist his hand in. His cock tasted of salt and flesh, and Jean-Pierre grunted as he straightened himself out, spreading his knees slightly and bracing them against the other side of the wall to keep himself steady.
“Doros said you were pretty,” Aetos murmured, and then trailed off into a low, pleased hum as Jean-Pierre dragged his tongue around his rolled-back foreskin, pressing his tongue then to the bundle of nerves at the base of his cock, feeling the way pre-come spurted over his tongue when he put pressure on the sensitive spot. “Didn’t realise you’d jump to suck cock at the drop of a hat.”
Jean-Pierre ignored this, sucking at the other man’s cock, and as he did so he reached out, curling one hand around one of Aetos’ muscular thighs, sliding the other one around the base of his cock, playing his thumb over the tight sac of his balls.
Aetos groaned lowly, his head tipping back, and Jean-Pierre saw his throat bob as he swallowed, pushing his hips flush against Jean-Pierre’s face, encouraging him to take him to the root. It wasn’t hard, and Aetos’ cock was slim enough that it wouldn’t even put too much pressure on his jaw as he swallowed around him, playing patterns over the base of his shaft, one of his hands tugging at and rolling his balls in his fingers.
He was wet now.
He could feel himself flush with arousal, his clit jumping against the denim of his shorts (Jean-Pierre did not wear underwear) and rubbing tantalisingly against it, although he only wished they could be tighter. As soon as he was away from here, he would attend to himself, would lie down in an olive grove and fuck himself on his fingers until he found relief, but in the meantime, the denial was a delight in its way.
Aetos’ hips were speeding slightly, thrusting into him now, and Jean-Pierre let his eyes close, let himself relax slightly as he let the Immortal fuck his throat: on the other side of the wall, his knees braced, he tried to thrust his hips with what incremental movements he could against the air, feeling his hard clit twinge and jump with every clench of his cunt.
He sucked at Aetos’ cock, humming, tried to wriggle, to shift forward enough that he could get more pressure on his clit, but it wasn’t enough, he couldn’t get himself free, couldn’t even touch himself, and it was infuriating.
Aetos was going to come, he knew, could feel the Immortal’s sac tightening under his fingers, and he could feel himself grow more tense in anticipation, eager to taste the orgasm on his tongue, to hear whatever low, delicious sound the Immortal released, feel the hand in his hair grow tighter, rougher, fuck him harder —
It happened in three strokes.
An impossibly sharp blade sliding up against his right thigh, then his left.
The cock — gargantuanly huge, easily as thick as Jean-Pierre’s arm, and painfully long — was slammed into his open cunt before his shorts had even hit the floor.
Aetos laughed at him as Jean-Pierre howled around his cock, choking on it, sobbing as he was split painfully wide by the fat, hard length shoved too-fast inside him, and tears gathered in his eyes and fell down his cheeks as Aetos fucked his face, hard and fast, in rhythm with the obscene cock pounding him from behind.
He had surely bled from it, because every shove of the giant cock within him felt as wide and unyielding as a fist, and as it shoved itself to the hilt, each punch of it winded him, and he felt his stomach distort strangely, felt the cock almost catch on the wooden edge of the gap holding him in place.
“You stupid little slut,” Aetos said affectionately, smacking the side of his cheek before fucking his face harder, hitting the back of his throat and making him ache, even as the cock behind him bruised him from the inside. “You really thought it would be that easy?”
Jean-Pierre tried to drag himself back, to shove Aetos away from him, but Aetos shoved himself to the hilt against his hips, and Jean-Pierre whimpered as he felt Aetos come, felt the pulse of the cock in his mouth, even as the one buried in his cunt continued its punishing rhythm.
Aetos had Jean-Pierre’s hands bound behind his back before he could do a thing to hurt him, his arms crossed over one another and bound with a thrumming, golden twine, and Jean-Pierre felt unbalanced, trapped, as the monstrous prick pierced him and forced him to rock in the trap he’d been stuck in.
Aetos pulled back, laughing at him, and Jean-Pierre coughed, felt Aetos’ come dribble down his chin and hated the indignity of it, even as he whined at the fat length shoved within him.
“Arrogant little bitch,” Aetos said softly, crouching in front of him and looking him in the eye, and Jean-Pierre couldn’t concentrate enough to spit at him, unable to think of anything but how widely he was stretched, how the cock shoved in him felt like it was rearranging him from within. Glancing down, he could see the unholy bulge show and then disappear in his belly.
There were tears on his cheeks.
“You really thought it’d be that simple,” Aetos murmured, reaching out and patting Jean-Pierre’s cheek. “You wanted to steal from us — now we’re stealing from you. And you aren’t going anywhere until everybody’s had a piece.”
“My brother — ”
Aetos shoved an apple in his mouth, and at a particularly vicious thrust within him, Jean-Pierre bit down on it without meaning to: his teeth pierced the crisp, red skin and the soft flesh beneath, and try as he might, he couldn’t spit it out.
“Your brothers aren’t coming for you, slut,” Aetos murmured, and the heathen behind him chose that moment to come. “But we are.”
It wasn’t just the cock that was prodigious.
Jean-Pierre sobbed around the fruit in his mouth as he felt the come pump out of its head, washing thick and heavy against his insides. It was too much, so much he felt he would be coughing it onto the ground were it buried in his arse instead of his cunt, but as it stood, it had nowhere to go but in. Jean-Pierre whined as he felt the hot spray fill him to the brim, and then felt his belly further bulge, the weight of it forcing his flesh to stretch around his swelling womb.
He heaved in choked gasps through his nose, the apple making it impossible to breathe in through his mouth, and he tried to kick, to do something, but he was trapped, and could only watch powerlessly as his belly was filled like a balloon, hanging down from his body and catching uncomfortably on the window he was already tightly fitted in.
The second cock was larger than the first, large enough that between his swollen belly and the edge of the wall, his clit was crushed and dragged at with every thrust, and it made him sob — the pain was impossibly good, brought him to agonising ecstasy, and when he came, he watched Aetos laugh at him.
“You like that, do you?” he asked and as he reached up, shoving and pressing at the hanging flesh of his swollen belly, sloshing audibly with thick, heavy come, the hands on the other side of the wall grabbed and massaged at his arse cheeks, until a thumb pressed dry against his hole.
He whimpered at the impossible thrill of every sensation, the stretch of his full belly, the dry drag of the thumb at his arsehole, the fat shove of the too-big cock spreading his cunt lips wide, and worst of all — best of all — the way Aetos’ hand was pressing up to where Jean-Pierre was stuck in the wall, forcing his fingers into the gap.
“Mmm, mmm — ” Jean-Pierre wailed around the apple as he felt his belly forced upward by the press of the heel of Aetos’ hand, and felt Aetos’ fingers press hard against the hood of his clit. He was oversensitive, barely off the cusp of his last orgasm, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he felt the god behind him keep spearing him open.
Something in the moment blurred.
He was coming again, but it was painful, impossibly so, and he felt dizzy as he stared helplessly down at his own swelling belly.
He was huge, he thought distantly. Too big, too heavy, and it was too good — would he come again? He didn’t know: it didn’t matter. It just mattered that there was more cock, more come, more.
A third cock fucked him, and a fourth, and a fifth.
His belly was so fat and heavy that it was caught on the edge of the wall — how would we ever be able to get free now, with how heavy he was, how fucked full, when he was more come, now, than angel?
He was swaying in his place, hazy and unable to concentrate on anything but the next cock shoving inside him, and he had come again — he would keep coming, would keep orgasming. Perhaps he would die like this, of this.
When the cock inside his cunt was replaced with something thick and heavy and cold, Jean-Pierre whined for the loss of it. It was a cork or something, a seal to keep him plugged up: two hands grabbed at his hips on the other side of the wall, and pulled.
Jean-Pierre screamed around the apple as he was dragged with impossible strength back against the wall, but he was too fat with come, too pregnant with it: not in a million years could he be forced back through that gap, and as he screamed again at another hard tug, he was aware of laughter all around him — men laughing at him, fucked stupid and fat.
The huge hands behind him readjusted themselves, one flat against his arse cheek, and the other shoved its thumb dry into his arse, made him whimper at the sudden shove of painful stimulation that made his cunt clench and his clit jump. Pressing against his buttocks, the hands shoved him forward, and perhaps it was the weight of his belly that helped him through.
He didn’t hit the floor, but was caught by waiting hands and set upon his feet: his belly was so huge and full of heavy, inhuman spend that it hung down almost to his knees, and they buckled under the weight.
“Fat little bird,” said a voice, patting the huge balloon he made, slapping the impossible surface of his skin.
“Let’s see him flap those little wings now,” agreed another voice and dragged the apple free.
He coughed, spat out the flesh that had been stuck in his mouth, and the voices jeered.
“Rude little angel,” said a laughing, rich voice. Jean-Pierre’s eyes were open, but he saw nothing except himself, full of come, full of godly essence, and made too heavy by it, so that he’d never move again. How could he? He would be immobilised by it forever. “Spitting out what’s given to you.”
“Doros,” he heard Aetos say.
“Ah, there my brother is,” said Doros, and Jean-Pierre stared up at him, dumb and stupid, with no brains left in his head — they’d been fucked out of him, he thought, and he could think of nothing to say. Doros smiled down at him, and Jean-Pierre stared, helpless, as he turned to Aetos. “Did you enjoy him?”
“We did,” said Aetos. “Now take the stupid slattern home.”
Doros half-carried him forward, and Jean-Pierre could scarcely support himself with the weight packed into him.
“Walk on stealthy feet, do you?” Doros asked, amused, and Jean-Pierre was silent as he was escorted to the shame waiting for him when Asmodeus saw the state he was in.
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