Erotic short. An angel has his wings groomed.
590 words, rated E. M/M. Bondage, wing grooming kink, overstimulation, crying.
Giorgos’ wrists are cuffed neatly together with a strip of brown leather, his ankles cuffed too, and he’s been tipped forward on a piece of board they normally lean against the wall on the far side of the grove so that the olives hit it and fall into the netting with the rest rather than falling through the gaps or over the brick. It smells of the dust of olive trees, smells faintly of unprocessed oil, and the wood is cool underneath his cheek. He’s glad it’s a hard surface that he’s pressed against: his cock, hard in his loose working trousers, strains.
There’s no warning as Dimos’ hands alight on his back, pressing down hard either side of his spine and making his wings reflexively spread wide. Crying out, Giorgos presses against the board, presses his cheek to the wood, presses his chest and thighs against it. He needs the fucking resistance to try to concentrate some of his awareness away from the incredible tension in his back, buried in the powerful muscles that support his wings, anticipating what’s about to come – the pleasure, the sensation, all of it.
Being tied up is meant to help, is meant to stop him from automatically scrambling away from how incredibly intense it is, but he already feels as if he’s about to start sobbing, his wrists and ankles bound as they are and preventing any escape. Dimos uses his palms to smoothly press on the muscles over the sprout of his wings, and he groans as he feels the pressure do something warm inside him, feels the muscles forcibly untangled from one another and laid flat, feels the heat of the other man’s fingers. His cock aches, it’s so incredibly hard, and that’s before Dimos’ thumbs slide right against the sprout of his wings and put pressure on his oil glands.
As he feels uncomfortable pressure abruptly release on each side, the frankincense-cum-citrus scent bursting into the air and mingling with the scent of the olives, Giorgos whines from low in his throat. It feels good, feels utterly exquisite, and he can’t help but squirm, because the pleasure is simply too much, too excruciatingly severe and intense, and yet there’s nowhere for him to run to, nowhere for him to go. Dimos is merciless as he smooths his fingers and thumbs through the golden spurt of oil and begins to roughly comb through the feathers of Giorgos’ right wing.
“Ah ah,” Dimos says cleanly as Giorgos automatically tries to fold it back in – gripping it under the pinion and putting pressure on the muscle for Giorgos to extend it again. Giorgos groans at the rub and press against more of the muscles, and Dimos just keeps working, keeps casually forcing Giorgos’ wing to extend again whenever reflex has him curl it in. It almost hurts, it feels so white-hot and constant and unignorable and inescapable: his toes are curling, his eyes are watering, his fingers are flexing, his wings are both quivering.
Dimos isn’t even trying to play with him yet, is just combing through his feathers and casually pulling out bent and broken quills, is scratching the caked dust and oil from between them, is laying them out smooth. Why should this feel like so much, like he’s being struck with lightning a thousand times at once?
There are tears on his cheeks and his cock is weeping, a patch of slick uncomfortably damp at the crotch of his trousers, long before Dimos says, “Okay, let’s do the other side.”
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