Diary of a Fallen Angel

Diary Of A Fallen Angel

Introduction

Mariel, a fallen angel mentioned in the Quran, is a creature that has walked the Earth for quite some time. He was put to the test against the temptations that haunted human beings and he failed, his grace stripped from him, his flesh cursed with the compulsion to obey all commands issued to him. There are so many ways to describe him, but perhaps the best is through verse:

This creature stands upright like man

Features human, yet finer than.

What most can boast of beauty fair,

Complete with raven, gleaming hair.

Slightly more than two yards tall

Limbs quite slender - arms, legs, and all.

Fingers made for weft and weave

Pleasant voice meant to deceive.

Irises tan like amber jewels

Smiling lips to punish fools.

Angelic in grace and origins

Cast from heaven for his sins.

A tale that some may think they know;

But do they? Perhaps it isn't so.

For Mariel, once His purest soul

Temptation out from heaven stole.

With skin as fair as honeyed cream

Its softness is the stuff of dreams.

Beautiful in his lanky frame;

Flesh caging a core of flame.

Chapter 1

Trying to find shelter and safety in the red-light district is like trying to find the same in shark infested waters - you're safe from all other predators but one.

Mariel pulls his stolen leather vest a little tighter around his skinny chest, the stolen T-shirt beneath it barely warm enough against the spring evening's chill. His jeans are dirty, only recently come into his possession, as are the worn sneakers on his feet. The fallen angel feels grimy and underfed, but this is the closest he's been to being free in several weeks, and he's not about to ruin that. He can tolerate filth and hunger - death doesn't mean all that much to him. It's only a minor inconvenience. But having money helps with things, including renting a room with a lock to help him maintain this new lifestyle.

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.

He was told to dress this way, though. Who would set him up like that?

Finally they arrive at a salon, where a fireplace far across the room provides the only light. Within sits a pair of angels, both in elegant armchairs to either side of the hearth. Reflective eyes turn towards his entrance, and he takes a nervous drag as he's announced to the others. The servant passes by, just a little too close, before closing the door, locking Mariel in with his client.

Or clients, as it happens.

The fallen creature sighs and walks forward, approaching the fireplace. The cigarette's flicked into the flames, and the man rolls his shoulders. Behind him, upon the walls around the door he'd entered through, are the shadows of his wings, spreading, stretching, before tucking back in against his back as he turns towards his audience. And he knew it'd be them the moment he stepped into the room.

Gabriel and Michael.

Mariel swallows, pulling off his glasses. His tan eyes take in both of them, the creatures still beyond beautiful even after all these ages. He hadn't remembered them being gendered, but they seem to be now. Perhaps it's a quirk of fate, or maybe it's a spell. Either way, both archangels, male now, gaze upon him, Gabriel as femme and elegant as Michael is lantern-jawed and stalwart. Both are dressed in beautiful robes, Gabriel in white silk and white and tan wings, and Michael in gray linen with dark brown pinions. Their wings emerge from slits in the back, tucked along the slender backs of the arm chairs as they regard their rental with critical eyes.

"He hasn't suffered too badly for falling, has he?" Michael muses, talking about the whore as if he weren't there. The larger archangel's short, brown hair is slicked back neatly, like an eagle's plumage.

Gabriel smiles meanly, his golden curls bunching at his shoulders as they shrug. "He was so average before. Just like his brother..."

That line cuts like a knife, and Mariel turns towards Gabriel hatefully. "Don't you fucking talk about him like that!" he hisses, his anger only growing hotter as the smaller archangel grins, delighted.

"Look at him! He's so indignant!" Gabriel cries, clapping his elegant, slender hands with delight.

"This is bullshit," the whore spits out in anger and shame, and he marches towards the salon door...

...Right up until Michael calmly says, "Mariel, stop."

The fallen creature grits his teeth, coming to a sudden stop, unable to take another step.

Gabriel leans forward, fascinated. "The curse is still in effect..." he breathes, rising from his chair. He looks to Michael before coming to stand before Mariel, looking up at the tall slave's rigid, cursed bondage. "Mariel, strike yourself in the face."

The fallen creature lifts his hand, glancing at it warily, hating that he has to obey. And then his palm cracks across his own cheek, leaving a welt, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Strike yourself again!" Gabriel breathes, pressing his hands against Mariel's chest.

Once more the whore strikes himself, gasping at the sting and ache of it.

Michael lifts from his chair, chuckling. The archangel's larger hand slides over Mariel's shoulder from behind, his touch trailing down the whore's right arm to that duffel bag. It's taken and sifted through, Mariel looking over at him nervously from the corner of his eyes. Gabriel, meanwhile, begins to tug Mariel's belt from its buckle, unfastening it and pulling it free from the loops in his jeans. "Bare your body above the waist, Mariel," the smaller archangel purrs, pulling the sides of the belt taut, snapping them together.

The whore swallows even as he pulls off the T-shirt, chains, and jacket, easing his wings out of the slits and tossing the ball of clothing and jewelry to the floor. The command to bare his torso is understood by the compulsion to mean his wings as well, so he holds his breath, feeling those large, feathered pinions shrink and pull back into his body to form a large, black tattoo upon his back, spanning from shoulders to the backs of his thighs. Their disappearance leaves the fallen angel standing half naked, his torso lean and thin, his crest of hair like a cockerel's, half draped over his brow.

"Lift your arms over your head, Mariel," Gabriel whispers.

Upon the whore's obedient lift of his long, slender limbs above his head, the smaller archangel pulls back and then cracks the folded belt across the taller man's chest. The sound is a snap of fire, leaving Mariel to double over and cry out in pain, a red welt lifting up on his flesh.

"Stand upright, Mariel!" Gabriel barks, grabbing the crest of black hair and tugging the whore's head up, forcing him to do as commanded... as if the compulsion wasn't enough. The whore grits his teeth, his chest heaving at the ache, and he shivers, his eyes wet. The smaller arch angel unleashes the belt ten more times, each strike crisscrossing the last, interweaving misery upon agony.

"Enough," Michael says at last, and Gabriel hisses but, thankfully, lowers the belt and moves over to join Michael. Mariel shudders, sniffling already, unable to wipe his nose - his arms are still lifted above his head, trapped there. To the whore, the taller archangel gruffs, "Lower your arms, Mariel."

The fallen creature lets his limbs drop, and he hugs his chest, fingers touching gingerly at the throbbing marks. It makes him hiss with pain, but even so he can feel his cock stir within his pants. Looking self-consciously over his shoulder at the other two angels, he reaches down to adjust himself, flushing with embarrassment.

He's given a few moments to recover, until Michael intones, "Mariel, take off the rest of your clothes."

Clenching his teeth, the whore does as commanded, unzipping his fly and peeling his jeans down. The boots are unzipped and pulled off, and the pants go with them, leaving the leggy, slender fallen creature completely unclothed, his smooth, half-stiff organ on display. As he turns, Michael is standing before him, sliding his hand up his fallen kin's chest, fingers dimpling over the flesh, sliding cruelly over the pinking welts. It makes Mariel shiver and whimper, his cock hardening fully.