The fog-clammy park’s solely functioning streetlamp lit her wings from behind. Lavender veined some soft organic color, a living beige, a gently undulating ivory. With her head turned and eyes nearly closed, she looked demurely down, past the end of her elegantly bent arm. Her flesh appeared gold, the color probably, though not necessarily, borrowed from that lone electric light. Her hair looked becomingly ragged, short, a true gold, like cherished aging jewelry.
She brushed a brittle autumn leaf up her taut right leg, concerned, seemingly, with nothing else -- and not really concerned with this, merely occupying this particular tiny moment in the night with the modest action.
Kriz Jhink, a native of the city of St. Francis, had halted a moment ago and remained stock-still on the bedewed grass, off the park’s serpentine pathways. His shoulders bunched at the top of a slender body, hands jammed into the depths of an old, roughed-up black leather jacket. His pale face must have caught some of that lamp’s glow as well, even framed as it was by disheveled ink-dark hair. Kriz’s features appeared as narrow and tightened as his body.
He’d come to the city park searching for a postmidnight suck-off from some anonymous mouth, and anticipation had already jangled his nerves and overwound his senses.
She was a Bleeder.
She was superb
But a Bleeder, irrefutably. She hunkered in the uncropped grass, but not squatted in an ungainly or functional way, not like a gorilla-thighed catcher at the plate or a tired ditchdigger taking a half-minute breather. She posed without having posed, without the concept -- Kriz felt quite sure -- of posing ever having entered her head. Limbs had merely come to rest this way. She’d picked up the dry, pocked leaf out of guileless curiosity. She must feel its sere edges wisping up her bare leg.
And bare she was, despite the ground’s tufting greenery that rose and covered the opened joining of those two gracefully molded legs. She had breasts and a navel, a hint of ribs beneath the gold-colored flesh. She looked youthfully trim or ancient and svelte. Who knew with a Bleeder? Her breasts, sizable but as firm as her subtle musculature, lacked nipples. Or at least the light soaking through her wings made no interrupting shadow of a nipple on her right breast, which Kriz could see more clearly than the other. He was some ten yards distant.
A plain bracelet firmly encircled her right wrist, her left forearm unadorned.
Kriz Jhink’s cock squirmed inside his frayed and grayed jeans, a growing length seeking release. He’d been nurturing a half-mast hard-on from the moment his sneakered feet left the park’s gravelly pathways, trading the crunch-scrunch
for the wet whispers of the grass. Out among the trees and piney darkness lurked the hoped-for receptacles, the nameless queer mouths. He’d wanted only to pour a week’s accumulation of frustrated lust into one of those eagerly sucking males. At his office job, where he scurried like an underling, there were women, some very attractive ones, but he’d never had real talent for flirtation and pursuit. Men made for easier prey, especially the ones who haunted this park. They demanded no negotiations, offered no protests. He didn’t even need to reciprocate if he didn’t want to, though sometimes of course he did just that, blowing some shadow-shape under the protective umbrella of low-hanging branches.
This tapestry of remembered encounters, stitched with blazing thread across his mind, only worsened his excitation. She was so lovely, so luscious…
Somewhere beyond the park’s trees, a tram’s bell jingled. The city of St. Francis lay seemingly far away from here, from this lone patch of garden illumed by a domed, stubborn streetlamp. Even the secretive activities that dominated this zone with the commencement of the night’s small hours felt distant. All seemed away
. For Kriz, there was only himself. And the Bleeder.
The autumnal leaf rose now, twirled by a thumb and forefinger. The golden-haired head followed, and the eyes in that head, below startling red brows and separated by a tapering nose, moved as well. They slipped over the intervening meadow. Kriz imagined -- surely imagined
-- that everywhere her gaze fell, the grass stirred. It might be a wind, like the breezes that had earlier cleared the night fog from the ground. Whatever; stiff fronds rattled a looping way toward where he still stood, stunned.
Her eyes struck, as if the seeing were a pressure. His arousal intensified abruptly, like something yanked with physical insistence up from his deepest carnal reaches. He didn’t need the urging, though; he already felt fantastically stimulated, more so than any of his expectations for a fast, messy blowjob could have provoked from him. Even knowing nothing about this winged female, no minutiae about her strange kind whatsoever, he felt certain that with her he could experience a sexual culmination beyond anything he’d yet managed in these first twenty-four years of life.
“The man is juicy red.” Her lips moved, and she made music of the odd words, and they carried across the ten yards.
I am the man
, Kriz thought with an unaccountable elation. I am juicy red
With those phrases in his head, he finally moved. He followed the course of disturbed grass, the same curving trail, which brought him nearer and nearer to her. Now he could distinguish further enchanting details: lavender shadowed her eyes; sloping cheekbones underpinned her face, subtly drawing it into a narrow configuration, not wholly unlike Kriz’s own; and her ears were pointed.
She rose from her crouch as he approached. Her body flowed
in almost breathtaking fashion, a fluidity of which no being should be capable, at least not one subject to the crudities of gravity and other physical laws. Standing, she revealed the fleecy triangle marking the junction of her legs. Gold curls glistened, perhaps dampened by the grass.
Kriz was in a torment of desire. He’d grown fully, brutally, magnificently hard inside his jeans. His hands remained sunk in his jacket pockets, every muscle of his lean body tensed, locked.
He heard the slow exhale of her breath in the nighttime. The air felt cool and sticky. St. Francis’s climate was frequently paradoxical. As a native, he’d long since gotten used to it. What must this female, this visitor from another world, this Bleeder, think of the weather? Would she find pink lightning bolts zigzagging from a purple sky more familiar?
Her wings, in four parts like a butterfly’s, trembled slightly. The expression on her face looked fearless, though not brazen. Her gaze pored into Kriz’s, liquid and yellow, a trusting look.
When she lifted the leaf and grazed it along his stubbly jawline, he opened his mouth to speak but could wring out no coherent words. Passion flared through Kriz, melting his body’s tightness. He finally drew his hands from his pockets.
Suddenly her mouth hurtled toward his. Her lips crushed themselves on him, slim and moist and alive with urgency. Her naked form pressed on his clothed one, and his freed hands caught her hips as his own mouth responded. Lips parted, her tongue long and extremely agile. It swirled and swam against his. Her flesh felt fabulously smooth, and his hands helplessly roved it. She was trim and vibrant in his hold. He felt the straight ridge of her backbone, the upslope of her midriff as it led to her succulently rounded breasts. He indeed found the curvatures uninterrupted, neither tipped with a nipple. Kriz, squeezing one and then the other, thought this exotic, fascinating, and stimulating.
“See the juicy,” she said, breaking the deep kiss. Her hands tugged on his clothing, protesting it. She seemed to have no clue as to how to make the articles vanish. Kriz assisted. He shucked the black leather jacket; it made a hump on the ground. He removed his old T-shirt, emblazoned with the Gigantes logo, in the baseball team’s colors of orange and white. Her hands roamed his torso before he’d pulled the shirt off over his head, further disarraying his dark, careless locks.
She quickly discovered his nipples, ringed by a scant few nettles of black hair. Her fingers squeezed, pinched; then she let loose soft scales of laughter that felt like a caress all over his skin. He tore at his belt buckle, at a brass button slotted through denim. Her hands moved hastily to help but didn’t help at all, instead just complicated the desperate pulls on the zipper that would finally free his cock. Four hands scrabbled and scrambled, and at last, the zipper’s teeth parted with a fast metal rasp. The park knew this sound, and maybe ears secluded under the surrounding trees perked up at it.
Smooth feminine hands dove into his jeans and seized his shank. The contact shook out a growl of desire from him. Her raggedy-haired head dipped suddenly out of sight, and his dark eyes narrowed against the fully revealed electric light’s shine standing a short distance off. It brightened a segment of gravel pathway on which no walkers moved in this night.
Moist warmth closed over Kriz’s cockhead. He looked down, with delirium pumping in his veins, as her lips sealed around him, distending as her mouth slid lower. Pleasure went white within him. Her cheeks hollowed, and her eyes closed. Again she looked demure, a beautiful sight.
Kriz’s gray jeans slipped down his legs. The winged female held his balls in one hand. The wet ring of her lips lifted and dropped now, slicking his veiny length, making him want to grab hold of her blonde hair and pump all his passion into her skillful mouth. But he would only treat some anonymous and barely seen male in that manner, during a quick come-and-run. No
. She qualified for better treatment. She was a Bleeder, yes, and she didn’t belong in this world, but nothing could be done now to send her back. Kriz Jhink would welcome her here and make that welcome memorable for both of them.
Somehow he disengaged himself, stooping to rake at his sneakers’ laces and kick free his jeans. He stood naked before her, painted in the electric yellow of the lamp, slim but not quite scrawny, with his ribs visible under an adolescent tautness that his body hadn’t yet shed. His cock glistened with spit.
He took her again in his arms, making their kiss deep and lingering, tasting the tantalizing hint of his own carnal flavor now on her tongue. He squeezed her perfect form against himself. Her wings rustled. He saw the fine pulse of the lavender veins. He hesitated, wondering about the possible fragility of the wings.
Again she moved
in that impossibly supple way. Kriz abruptly found himself sitting in the damp grass amid his scattered clothes. She pushed on him again, coaxing a cooperation from his limbs that seemed to entirely bypass his bodily control. He was on his back, his legs pointed outward in a V. She stepped astride him, then lowered her winged golden body, catching his cock in her hand and slotting it into her deliciously slippery furrow. He raised his dark-haired head, grunting, to see his hardness disappear up into the fantastically lovely creature.
He cried out again as her trim, firm backside settled briefly against his balls. She held there, wriggled slightly, accommodating his evidently welcome intrusion. Then she started the determined riding rhythm atop him, an undulating that moved through her, flexing muscles, jouncing her breasts. Neat white teeth caught her lower lip. Her eyes closed again, revealing the lavender on the lids which would have meant eye shadow on any other woman he’d ever known, but which on her might indicate some sort of natural pigment.
“Juicy red,” she murmured, shortening breath cutting off the last word sharply. Yes, she too felt excitement, maybe as intensely as he did. It was a wondrous thought.
Remotely, he realized that at this moment the two of them were likely being observed. Luckily none of the cruising men would go racing off to report the Bleeder to the handiest police officer. Those males wanted as little association with authority as possible. This park, with its unmaintained grounds, served as a lawless tract, though the crimes committed here didn’t involve violence, just the carnal derby of sexual belligerence and faceless orgasms.
Still, the thought of being watched teased along the fringes of Kriz’s already overwrought excitation, adding a few extra sparkles of arousal. Go ahead and watch, cocksuckers!
he thought with some heat as the winged female continued to plunge herself over and over onto his rigid shaft. She had planted both bare feet flat and rose and lowered with increasing speed. Kriz’s hair had gotten dewy from the grass. Sweat chilled on his chest. Her grip felt tight on him, squeezing inexorable pleasure from him. His balls clenched. There came a pulling, a pulling, a pulling
, followed fast by the final elastic snap; and then he sprayed up into her. Every wicked jet wrenched through him, plucking at sinew and flesh, tingling new beads of sweat from him. She shuddered atop him, straining joyously around his cock. His eyes fluttered wide to see her wings suddenly outspread to their fullest extensions.
He thought, once she’d uncoupled from him, that she would spread her smooth, nimble body over his. Instead, she came gliding up over his chest, and without warning, her dripping, slickened pussy smeared his chin, his lips. He opened his mouth, tasting the pungency of cum and vaginal juice. He jammed his tongue deep into her to slather out as much of that sweet tang as he could. She remained hunkered over his face, grinding her slippery crotch on him. Pubic curls, now pasty, tickled his nose.
She shuddered anew, perhaps even harder this time. Viscous warmth drenched the lower half of Kriz’s face.
Eventually she did lie down with him, and he held her as if they lay privately in a bed. That indifferent streetlamp continued to burn, without a flicker. He very much liked the feel of her as their two bodies slowly cooled.
“Do those wings of yours retract in some way? We’ll need to do a hiding job.”
Eric Del Carlo