by Anthology
“Wow,” Hubert said. The sunset, the ocean, Bartholomew—it was all breathtaking, and Hubert saw no point in parsing his admiration; let the angel hear what he wanted to hear.
“Right?” Without really looking away from the horizon, Bartholomew opened his arms in invitation. Hubert stepped into them. Words failed Hubert as they watched the sun paint the sky, although commentary on the swirling tableau scarcely seemed necessary. A gash of orange bled rose, then ruby, and the clouds added quick dabs, here of peach, there of pink, while purple crept across the canvas as if the Creator had kicked a bucket of it over. To doubt love in this moment seemed to Hubert downright rude.
“Bartholomew?”
“Yes, Hubert?”
Hubert turned within Bartholomew’s embrace to look into his eyes, which reflected the riotous sky. “You know how when I first got here you kept trying to... you know... be sexy?”
“I don’t have to try to be sexy, Hubert,” Bartholomew insisted with a wink. “It pretty much just happens.”
Hubert smiled. Surprised Bartholomew when he said, “I know. What I mean, I guess... why ain’t you tried nothing since? You know... come on to me?”
Bartholomew turned the whole of his attention from the sky to Hubert’s earnest face. “This is your heaven, Hubert. I made myself... let’s say ‘available’ to you at first because I thought it was what you wanted. I mean, I kind of assumed....” They chuckled together, and the angel went on. “You didn’t, so I dropped it.” He waited for Hubert to respond—he could see the wheels turning in Hubert’s head—but when he didn’t, he asked him, “Why?”
Hubert shrugged. “I don’t know....” he hedged. “I guess it’s just... you know, now....” Hubert’s gaze fell away from Bartholomew’s, he barely whispered. “I might not mind it so much.”
Bartholomew put a finger under Hubert’s chin, lifted it to guide Hubert’s eyes back to his. “Really?”
Hubert nodded. It might have been the first thing Bartholomew had ever seen him do without hesitation. Then Hubert smiled. Sure Bartholomew had wings, but even without them they would have flown back to the house.
WHEN HUBERT awoke, he felt as luminous as the rays of sunshine that danced around the room, whose curtains there had certainly been no time to close. The glamorous bed was now a thousand shades of purple, the sheets a shimmering satin, the pillows a playground of patterns and polka dots.
Hubert was spent, but he was no longer sleepy. He wriggled to sit up, and Bartholomew adjusted his wing to keep Hubert covered and snug. Hubert had never slept in the altogether before. Come to that, he’d never been naked that he could remember that he wasn’t stepping into or out of the tub. Certainly never in bed, and with someone else! He waited for shame to shoot through him, tested his heart for revulsion, his conscience for recrimination. Finding none, he laughed. He peeked under Bartholomew’s protective wing, saw the same old Hubert as always. Same knobby knees, same pencil thighs and pokey hip bones, same sunken chest with the same little nipples no bigger than the mother-of-pearl snaps on his favorite shirt. Gazing down at the golden angel snuggled against him, slack-jawed and snoring, nothing but muscles and that meatball butt, scraggly little Hubert, with his morning breath and his hair sticking up every which way, felt beautiful for the first time. He laughed again. Bartholomew had been right. Just before they’d fallen into bed together, Hubert had asked him, “You know how before, you told me it’s only temptation if I resist it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, what do they call it if I give in?”
Bartholomew smiled. Put his arms around the wisp of Hubert’s waist and pulled him close. Dipped his head and tasted Hubert’s lips ever-so-gently. Put his forehead against Hubert’s and looked through his eyes into his soul and said with a smile, “That, Hubert, is what they call heaven.”
MICHAEL P. THOMAS is a flight attendant whose writing is continually inspired by his work with the flying public, who flatly refuse to be boring. The author of three novel-length gay romances and a number of romantic and erotic shorts, he writes gay fiction because when he was coming out he sure was glad to have it to read. After misspending his youth in San Francisco, he now lives in his native Colorado with his husband.
Michael P. Thomas can be found at:
Website: http://misterstewardess.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/GoReadMichaelPThomas
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MrStewardess
I DON’T remember when the tattoo gun’s buzz first failed to unnerve me. How long before I adjusted to the kiss of the needle as it drew lines across my skin? The cool touch of Ozzie’s latex-covered hands spread my skin as he followed the outline. The pinpoint ranged from a tickling burn over denser muscle to a knife’s edge on more tender flesh. Once I would have regarded the experience as horrific torture, instead of the sensation it brought me now.
Clad only in a pair of briefs, it was impossible to hide the hardening length snaking toward my hip. Pausing for a moment, Ozzie chewed and wet his lips when he became aware of my state of arousal.
“You’ve become a little bit of a pain slut, Jacob.” The nervous chuckle, and the flush in Ozzie’s cheeks, gave away his discomfort. Wearing so little facilitated this job—there was a great deal to do—but he’d spent the last few hours trying to maintain his professionalism.
It was ironic, given the amount of physical contact he needed with his clients—Ozzie virtually ignored personal boundaries with his profession—that my state of undress was affecting him. I was far from shy. And since his constant touching was partly the cause of my condition, he could suffer too.
“Shut up, Ozzie. I’m perfectly capable of giving it as well as taking it.” I reached forward, pinching his nipple, twisting the piercing under his shirt. “As you well know.”
A sharp intake of breath heralded a fierce shudder as his eyes lidded, getting lost in the memories like he always did when I treated him this way. Adjusting himself, he swore quietly as his faded jeans became a bit more constricting. Poor bastard, he was so easy to arouse. Others would likely see it as unfair, the way I exploited Ozzie’s weakness, but it never seemed to bother me. It was almost crueler when I let him go and leaned back in the chair, forcing him back to reality.
“You’re not finished yet.”
Ozzie cleared his throat and started the gun’s motor. Despite being a hole in the wall, the tattoo parlor was well equipped and clean. I sat in an antique dentist chair from the 50s, made of industrial steel that could probably survive the fall of civilization. Sample drawings of skulls, flames, and other clichéd icons papered the walls. Ozzie was the sole proprietor, and more talented than most realized. His shop did well, but was no trendy salon filled with college students and hipsters. Those kind of people rarely set foot in this corner of the city.
His sturdy arms were a patchwork of images that disappeared under the sleeves of his T-shirt; the chaos fascinated me, keeping my full attention. With deft precision, he traced the lines he’d transferred onto my right arm with the same skill as the graphics on my legs and back. He drew a line, paused to wipe away the excess ink that pooled, and then continued. It was a slow process, but I trusted no one else to do it properly. One by one, he added runes around my body, scribing letters that held a power I couldn’t deny. They were from a dark language the world had long since forgotten, save for a few damned souls.
He paused to reload the needle from a jelly jar filled with black liquid. “Why do you bring your own ink for these?”
“They won’t work if they’re not constructed properly.”
I had no intention of explaining how many hours went into finding the ingredients for the pigment. Some were rare; some were profane. As long as he continued to draw on me, I was content to keep it to myself.
“You never say what these characters are. Or what they mean.”
“It’s better that you don’t know. It’s dangerous for you to be able to read them.”
Ozzie snorted. “If th
ey’re so dangerous, why would you know them?”
“I came across them a long time ago when I was translating documents.”
“What, for work?”
I nodded, my mind drifting to ancient memories. “I used to work in Italy for the Vatican, as a language expert.”
“Next you’ll be telling me you were a priest.”
“Once upon a time, yes.” The thought was sad and sobering. I couldn’t help but regard the rosary wrapped around my left wrist. A simple crucifix dangled off the end, its black paint scuffed raw in so many places. The wooden beads crisscrossed one another, binding themselves as a memory I’d never escape. How did this relic survive so long after I lost my faith?
“When was that?”
“I’ve almost forgotten. It was somewhere around the turn of the nineteenth to the twentieth century.”
Ozzie stopped, looking up at me with his dark eyes in utter disbelief. “Bullshit. You’re not more than thirty-five.”
“I assure you, I’m much, much older than that.”
“Oh really? What’s your secret? And can you pass it over to me?”
I leaned forward and met his gaze, allowing a hint of the forces I could channel to seep into the room. The light dimmed, and the temperature dropped a few degrees.
“It requires a great deal of blood.” I paused, dropping my voice to little more than a whisper. “And the will to use it.”
The serious tone of my voice must have convinced Ozzie, because his charming grin faded and he focused on the tattoos. I settled back and relished the burn of the fresh ink. Hours had passed, but I ignored the clock. I had booked Ozzie for the day, and we’d be done long before it became too late.
In the years we’d worked together, he’d marked me in so many areas I was running out of blank canvas that could stay discreetly hidden. In none of our sessions had I ever revealed anything significant about myself. The sting of his work had never blurred my thoughts before. Why now was I engaging in this crude version of confession? I was hardly going to be absolved of my sins.
Maybe I was tired of the constant struggle. Maybe I was lonely.
When he finished, I struggled to stand. So many new runes were applied to me, I couldn’t focus on where the fire began and ended. My arms, legs, and back were all victims of the session, making me unsteady. Lines of text and icons decorated me; I was a living tome of forbidden knowledge. Ozzie bandaged me with care, while he tried not to stare at the erection that had yet to flag.
When had my desires become so hopelessly twisted with suffering, whether mine or someone else’s? Had the power I dealt in polluted me so far outside the realm of normal? Didn’t I know any other form of pleasure?
After he helped me with my shirt and jeans, I handed Ozzie ten slips of paper with a mark of greed inscribed on them. Anyone who looked upon them, including him, would see hundred dollar bills. I wasn’t fond of using them, but regular employment would leave me vulnerable, and I’d spent too many years looking over my shoulder to stop now.
“Now that makes me feel like a whore.”
Ozzie’s words and tone were meant to be a joke; I could hear it. Despite that, my wrath surged forward, no doubt influenced by pain, mixed with my unfulfilled lust. I wasn’t about to stay that way, and I snatched a handful of his hair.
“You are a whore.” His eyes went wide, but he didn’t fight me as I yanked his head back. “Do you need me to show you?”
When I was deciding to employ Ozzie, I researched his habits for days, even going so far as to follow him and his friends into a local bar one night. Women flirted shamelessly with him, hoping for free ink, but he drank his beer, smiled, and brushed them aside. In the end, it didn’t take much work to convince him to bite down on the leather of my belt to keep him quiet as I made him my bitch in the back men’s-room stall.
Ozzie was a sturdy man who catered to a rough crowd. I’d seen the bikers, punks, and thugs that made up his clientele. They were loud, made crass jokes about gays, and saw enduring the pain of tattooing as a mark of masculinity. Ozzie’s livelihood was tied into being what his customers required him to be—a sadist who innately needed to be the opposite. I understood the concept of suppressed desires, my early life of prayer and abstinence was built around it, and his kindred need drew my darker impulses. Secret wishes to be abused and used by another man were kept buried. Before I arrived, he’d never given in to any of them in all of his forty-three years.
“Don’t move,” I growled.
When I released my handful of his shoulder-length hair, he stood ramrod straight. The clench and release of his fists echoed the quickening of his breath. Fearful tension threaded through every inch of his body. It was how I preferred him.
I jerked his belt free and ripped open his jeans with one hand, silently approving of the tan skin, shorn pubic area, and lack of underwear, barely shoving the denim down enough to free his cock. It stood, unwavering, turgid, and veined, pleading for attention. Ignoring the shaft, I roughly squeezed his balls, making him grunt. A sheen burst across his forehead as he paled, but his erection didn’t wane. In fact, it hardened, and a trickle of clear fluid wept out, leaving a glossy line in its wake.
Ozzie was ready to detonate, and I was in no better condition. I opened my jeans and fished out my own aching member, ignoring the searing in my arm as I fisted it furiously. Having spent too long in exquisite torment, my endurance was limited. I almost screamed when the orgasm crashed through me, heightened by the fresh runes on my skin. I aimed every streak of my release over his rigid tool, leaving his groin wet and dripping.
Without waiting, I leaned against his body and wrapped my right hand around his slippery cock, stroking him with a forceful cadence. His breathing hitched as he arched into my grip. When I snaked my left hand around his hip and between his buttocks, burying two fingers deep, he mewled. There was nothing sensual and loving about the way we interacted. It was harsh and vigorous. Our encounters were all about indulging in deviance. The scent of his arousal spiked as he began to whimper. He quaked and sweated in a plague-less fever. In a beautiful show of compliance, he kept his hands to his sides, allowing me to punish his body. Ozzie floated on the edge without falling over because he was missing that final nudge.
I leaned across and bit his neck, hard enough to draw blood.
Ozzie shouted as he spilled into my hand. Each surge of his dick was punctuated by a cry that bled into sobs. He grieved his innocence yet again; it was impossible to give himself permission. I could grant it, because while our kinks were perverse, I owned mine with authority.
I licked my hand clean, the salty fluid charging the dark, foreign whispers already falling from my lips. A series of older runes on my arm became warm as an unnatural energy built inside me. I held him still, gripping his hair, and covered his mouth with my own. In all the ways I’d debased him over the years, I’d never kissed him; it was too intimate. But I found myself affected by his tears enough to grant him this small comfort. Taken aback, Ozzie hesitated, until I demanded access, making sure he tasted himself on my tongue. Ozzie’s needy, submissive whimpers sparked a fresh rush of arousal in me, bringing my erection back to life.
As I dominated his mouth, I released the power, layering and renewing the charm I cast upon him every time we met. Ozzie would only know or remember me when in my presence. Once I was gone, he couldn’t speak about the work he’d done for me, or the deviant sessions that followed. Our encounters would merely fuel fantasies that would tease him in his dreams. I used to feel guilty for this—Ozzie deserved better—but my survival depended on his inability to spread information.
I told myself it was for the best. Ozzie had been put at enough risk as it was. My logic, however, failed to erase the lingering taste of his lust and fear from my lips.
THE ROAR of the crowded subway did little to distract me. I tried to focus on the white noise, but it did nothing to quell the lingering sexual heat from the tattoo parlor. Stepping away from Ozzie had been diff
icult. My orgasm hadn’t been enough to calm me. He looked so inviting after he came, all flushed and broken. It made me want to violate every orifice on the man multiple times, and I’d nearly done just that.
While I had an affinity for the cardinal sins, they didn’t have to rule me.
If I couldn’t sate my physical need, I could at least distract myself by watching the people around me. After spending years as a priest, ministering to other’s sins and vices without partaking of my own, I was quite adept at doing so.
A homeless man slept, curled up on a bench across from me. The train was choked with passengers, yet they kept their distance, drawing an invisible circle around him no one dared pass. A man in a business suit drummed his fingers on his briefcase, pausing only long enough to check his watch. An adorable toddler sat in her mother’s lap, making small talk to the weathered, stuffed animal in her hands.
But today, the ordinary menagerie of people didn’t hold much interest. I was distracted by something I couldn’t center my senses on. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. Something was coming.
I felt the static charge that raised the small hairs on my neck, even as all movement inside and outside of the subway came to a halt. Passengers were frozen mid-conversation, the lights outside the window were blurred yet stationery. Even the pretty girl flipping her hair was in pause, her golden locks held aloft without a breeze.
The homeless man sat upright, a pure light bursting from his eyes and mouth. A fleeting mirage of shimmering wings splayed out from his back, falling in and out of my vision. He drifted in the air, his feet hanging inches off the filthy floor. I’d seen this trick before. We were caught between slivers of time, unable to dance from one tick of the clock and the next. Angels didn’t like to speak in public, when they condescended to speak to you at all.
