In the previous chapter, Aziraphale had found a new sort of mojo with some new clothes (including teasing Huling the cheese shop owner just a bit). It was basically orchestrated by Crowley as a form of foreplay, and Aziraphale came to realise that it had all been leading somewhere. He had sent Crowley home to pick up their favourite sex toy, and said they would meet at the shop.

In this chapter, well, we see where it was all headed. Aziraphale takes the lead. NSFW goes without saying, I should think!

This came about, in part, because I really felt that our boys needed a quality sex scene on the sofa in the bookshop. A story this long that ignores the sofa is not worth its salt! Enjoy!

A STURDY FAUX-ANTIQUE

Aziraphale walked the two blocks from Huling's fromagerie, and entered his own shop feeling like a new man. He knew the feeling was superficial, a bit artificial, and temporary, but it didn't matter. He was going to seize the moment, as a Man of the World might do.

He locked the door, pulled down all of the shades in the shop against prying eyes, and turned on the lights only in the area just to the left of the entrance, where he had a small alcove with a roll-top desk, a sofa, and coffee table.

He spent a bit of time surveying this little corner of existence where he had spent the better part of two centuries sitting. Observing. Reading. Learning. Fretting. Wondering. Desiring. Planning. Drinking. He had had to replace the desk chair twice since opening the shop – in 1882, and 1951. At those points in time, he had already done several small miracles to keep the piece of furniture together. He'd given up when there were more miracled joints than those held together with screws, and/or when the reclining spring had snapped for the second time.

Tonight, he reckoned the chair's next replacement was coming due any day now. It had been almost seventy years, and he didn't have the ability to miracle anything anymore.

The sofa's upholstery had been replaced once, in 1909, when the original 1831 brocade had finally worn down so that the white linen cushion was showing through, and the goose feathers were poking out. And he had purchased an entirely new sofa in 1968 when one of the arms broke on the original. At that time, Aziraphale decided to put in its place a faux-antique, rather than try to find the genuine article. And then, around 1990, he had ordered a large Victorian-style Paisley throw from a local company that produced old-fashioned textiles, and tossed it over the sofa, to cover up the rapidly deteriorating faux-brocade seat. He'd taken these shortcuts because for one thing, he was immortal, and if he kept trying to find original Victorian items, eventually, they would all turn to dust. For another thing, Crowley spent a lot of time with his lovely arse parked on that sofa, and it was bound to suffer some wear and tear – best not drop a fortune on it.

On a night like this, he was glad he'd made that decision. It would be a shame to rattle loose the joints of a true antique.

The coffee table and desk, however, were original. He'd had both of them built by a fine woodworker in Central London in 1835, and they seemed to be indestructible – the result of extremely solid craftsmanship. And of course, tiny miracles to keep the roll-top moving smoothly and to hide small nicks. The coffee table, especially, was astonishing. Thousands of glasses and bottles of wine had been plunked down on it and moved about, not to mention tens of thousands of cups of coffee, tea, and cocoa. Probably hundreds of tumblers of Scotch, containers of take-out food, and Crowley's computer. It was showing wear, of course, but it was a reliable piece, aged beyond what one would think just by looking… just like Aziraphale and Crowley themselves.

He heard a key slide into the lock, heard it twist open, then heard the bell.

Crowley didn't say anything, he simply appeared from behind a bookshelf with a small opaque plastic bag from Tesco. He set it down on the well-used coffee table with a 'thunk.'

"What, you had a hankering for some Jammie Dodgers?" Aziraphale asked, with a cocked eyebrow.

"No, I found the Tesco bag in a kitchen drawer. Couldn't see myself walking over from the carpark with a sex toy and a bottle of lube in my hand for all the world to see. Just seemed unnecessarily audacious, even for me."

"I'm finding that, at the moment, I don't care what anyone thinks. But I also know that in a little while, that feeling will have passed. So, you're probably quite right."

Crowley smirked, and sauntered up close. "You're drunk on power. I could smell it on you at Huling's place." And he leaned over to the right and planted a tiny kiss just below his lover's ear. And then another just below that, and another just below that.

Heat rushed over Aziraphale, as well as relief. It had been a trying day for his libido and self-control, and after all these hours, he didn't have to say "stop."

"I finally understand what that phrase means," Aziraphale commented. "'Drunk on power.' Even though you know those inhibitions are down for a very specific, somewhat ephemeral reason, it doesn't stop you, and…"

His discourse was cut off by a human tongue, that was nevertheless quite snake-like, licking behind his ear.

"Quite right. It shouldn't stop you," Crowley agreed between tastes of Aziraphale's flesh.

"Glad to hear you say that," Aziraphale said. "Because I want you out of your clothes."

Crowley was taken aback by this, and he stopped licking, to ask, "What?"

"You heard me. Get your kit off and sit down on that sofa."

Without another word, and without breaking eye-contact, Crowley crossed his arms and grasped at the hem of his tee-shirt, pulling it up over his head in one stroke. "What about you?" he asked kicking off his shoes, and unbuckling his belt.

"I'll keep mine on, for the time being," Aziraphale answered, shoving his hands coolly in his pockets, watching, and enjoying, Crowley's stripping. "I think that will provide an impetus for us both."

And once again, they were off to the races. It was to be another explosive shag after a long day of holding back.

Down to his bulging black boxer-briefs, Crowley asked, "Should I take these off too?"

"Of course," Aziraphale answered, moving toward his desk chair. He turned it to face the sofa, and sat.

Crowley, with every stitch of his clothing now spread out over the bookshop floor, sat down, as asked, upon the divan where he had spent so many a philosophic evening, and faced his angelic partner.

Aziraphale leaned forward and picked up the Tesco bag, and removed the bottle of lubricant and set it on the table. Then, he removed the Icicles box, and opened it up, looking at the spade-shaped, glass anal plug inside. He shivered when he saw it, and a surge of excitement rattled within his veins.

"How long's it been since you've had one of these inside you, Crowley?" he asked. "I'm making the assumption that you have."

Crowley leaned back on the sofa in his usual position, leaning back, arms out to the sides over the back, legs spread. It was a tableau Aziraphale had viewed thousands of times, but the addition of Crowley's stiff cock jutting up from his lap, and his lovely, tight bollocks hanging down between his legs, made the scene so very much more outrageous and enjoyable to the former angel's eye.

He had the sudden urge to throw himself over the coffee table to kneel on the carpet between those perfectly-formed legs, and sheath that long, eager dick until his lips touched abdomen, but he refrained. He had other plans.

Crowley had leaned his head back to think. Then he said, "With another person, or on my own?"

Aziraphale smiled rather wickedly. "Both. Tell me both."

"Well… okay, I know you didn't ask, but the first time was with Dr. Young himself, the inventor of the Rectal Dilator, 1895," Crowley said. "Although that wasn't his real name, and believe me, his primary intent was NOT to create a medical instrument, but I digress. My last time with a real person was… well, sometime around 1930. California, during the Pansy Craze – it was a young performer named Gene Malin. And his boyfriend. Little did I know he couldn't be tempted into anything because he did whatever the Hell he wanted, without my help."

"Such as?"

"You really have to ask? Anal plug, boyfriend, 1930… plus, well, me?"

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly, then asked, "And alone?"

"Mm, well, alone is a much different story," Crowley lilted, beginning to lightly stroke his cock with two fingers along the underside. "I'm going to guess that it was 2013 or 14."

"Crowley! We were both living in the Dowlings' home at that time!"

"I know. Why do you think I always sat up so straight?"

Aziraphale's jaw dropped, and his breath quickened. "Are you serious?"

"No, not really. Would've been weird to stick a thing up my arse, and then be around the kid all day. I was a demon, not a pervert."

"Thank goodness."

"But I had a big red rubber plug that I used once in a while in my private room," Crowley reported, his voice dropping low and becoming breathy and sensual, never stopping his teasing strokes along his own stiff cock. "Mm, it was nice… especially after a long dip in that posh soaking tub. Or during. But I was almost caught with it one evening, and… well, circumstances were such that I had to toss it out the window into a bush."

"Oh! Oh dear God!"

"What?"

Aziraphale sat forward in his chair, and just for a moment, the classic, fretful Aziraphale was back in the driver's seat. "There were chunks of red rubber all over the garden! The dog had got hold of something and tore it up, strewing pieces everywhere – we had no idea what it was, or where he'd got it! I was cleaning it up for a week!"

Crowley laughed. "Oh shit! I'm sorry!"

Aziraphale sat back in the chair and put back on his mild, sardonic smile, took the glass spade from the box, and said, "Well, you can apologise by showing me what you used to do with it. At least for a start. I'll let you know when to deviate."

"You, Aziraphale, are going to tell ME when to… deviate?"

"Yes. I'll get you going."

With that, he licked the glass plug from bottom to top, and whirled his tongue around the head.

Crowley threw his head back with an exasperated moan, consciously taking his hand away from his oozing dick.

Aziraphale set the spade down on the coffee table near Crowley, and motioned with his eyes.

"You want me to put on a show?" Crowley asked, with his trademark smirk.

"Yes. Problem with that?"

"Oh come on, don't you know me but at all?"

Crowley reached forward and picked up the spade, and then, keeping eye-contact, expanded on what Aziraphale had done – licked it several times slowly, then inserted as much as he could into his mouth, moaning hungrily, moving it back and forth a few times, before removing it with a wet smack.

Aziraphale, for his part, sat coolly back in his chair, white-knuckling the armrests, his new trousers bulging like mad. The way his leather jacket hung at the moment seemed to display his groin, and highlight his newfound potency.

Crowley held the spade in his left hand and worked it over with his lips and tongue, while his right hand stroked his pulsating shaft, played with his balls, lazily stimulating him… and his partner.

Then he slumped down on the sofa, bringing his arse to the edge of the cushion. He used the spade to nonchalantly dip down below his bollocks, and lightly probe at the slit there. He moved it up and down gently, grazing his sensitive skin, closing his eyes, biting his lower lip, savouring the tease.

This went on for a minute or so, and he alternated between keeping his eyes shut, and using them to penetrate those of Aziraphale.

"You can practically feel that yourself, can't you, angel?" he growled.

"I can," Aziraphale said, steadily. "I'd like to see you spread, as you say, a bit of slippery over it. Do it slowly."

Smiling slightly, but roguishly, Crowley leaned forward and took up the bottle of lube in his hand. He deposited an amount into his right palm that proved to be perfect, as though he knew exactly how much was needed, so as not to be excessively wet, or insufficiently so.

He held the base with his left hand, and stroked the spade, and its short shaft, slowly, as requested, with his right. He heard Aziraphale's chair creaking under him, as his whole body shifted and tightened, and noticed his fingernails digging into the armrests even harder than before. His trousers seemed to be about to burst

"Like this?" Crowley asked, as much with his eyes as with his voice.

"Like that," Aziraphale responded, swallowing hard, watching his lover's hand slip steadily back and forth over the phallic object, and practically salivating with anticipation. With the skill he was displaying, it crossed Aziraphale's mind that perhaps Crowley could make even the glass toy ejaculate…

That thought pushed a low groan through Aziraphale's defences, and Crowley said, "I hear you, angel. It's all right if you'd like to have a little stroke of your own. No-one would think less of you."

The head of the spade was sliding through Crowley's fist with rhythmic pulses, and Aziraphale's eyes were locked on it. "Perhaps I will, in a bit."

"Look at my hand, nice and slick, gripping that thing, up and down and over and over… don't you wish that was you?"

"Of course I do," Aziraphale said evenly. "And soon enough, it will be. But for now, Crowley… put your feet on the coffee table and show me that exquisite, rosy hole of yours."

Crowley grabbed a throw pillow and put it behind his back in order to protect his neck from bending unnaturally, as he slid down even further. He did as he was instructed and placed the heels of his feet on the edge of the coffee table between them. His knees fell far to the sides, and he caught Aziraphale wetting his lips as his puckered rosebud came into view.

"Thinking of licking it?" he asked, mindlessly fondling his balls.

"Clearly, I am," responded his partner. "I'm holding back from getting to my knees and burying my face in it."

"What's stopping you?"

"The fact that just now, I would rather see it stuffed with that spade. I want to watch you take it all the way in – slowly."

"Mm, angel," Crowley moaned. "Your filthy wish is my command."

And he reached down with his lubed-up right hand and played for a few moments at his own backdoor with his greasy fingers.

Just this was nearly enough to cause Aziraphale to lose himself…

And then, Crowley took up the spade again, aimed the head at himself, and pressed it against his opening. It felt divinely smooth and cold, and he took a deep breath, then relaxed into the exhale as he pushed it inside of himself, and the head popped past the ring.

"Slowly," Aziraphale reminded him.

"There is no 'slowly.' It's already in me."

"Then try again until you've got it slow."

Crowley removed the spade and tried again, pressing more gently, relaxing more languidly, enveloping the thing with his muscles, the way a snake devours a rodent…

"Try again," Aziraphale ordered.

And so he did. And when his lovely, powerful angel requested it a third time, he did it again. And then a fourth.

"Now speed up," said Aziraphale, eyes narrowing, glazing over with lust.

"Speed up? Like this?"

And Crowley began to move the spade in and out at a steady rate, fucking himself rather smoothly, like slow engine pistons.

"Yes. Isn't that what you've been wanting to do?" Aziraphale asked him.

"Fuck, yes," Crowley moaned, his eyes sliding shut, mouth going slack. "Oh angel, this feels… ugh…"

It was now just Crowley's wrist moving up and down, filling his arse with hard, smooth pleasure, then removing it again, only to slide it back inside… over and over. Aziraphale watched for just a few moments, musing, admiring his lover's perfect, sinewy body and how skilfully he took this pleasure. Crowley didn't flinch at being penetrated, nor spreading his legs and putting on a show, nor at taking direction, as it turned out. He seemed to be rather enjoying it, as a matter of fact.

"And you call me a slut," Aziraphale muttered, drooling at the sight, listening to the fantastic groans and filthy expletives tumbling from his partner's talented mouth. He fantasised about his own dick being that spade, and how much deeper into Crowley he could get… but he had other plans for himself. It was his turn now.

Crowley was so blinded with Aziraphale's dirty command, and got so lost that he hadn't noticed Aziraphale standing up and removing his clothes.

The next thing he knew, he heard, "Get ready to stop, Crowley," coming from above him. His eyes flew open, and his very potent partner was standing within arm's reach, having already shed his nylon tee-shirt and shoes, and now unbuckling his new calfskin belt. He pushed his trousers down to his knees, and a swollen, rock-hard cock jumped out of its clothing, oozing precome, and seemingly ready to burst.

"Tell me when," Crowley said, softly, now making eye contact as he sheathed and unsheathed the glass toy within his stretched arsehole.

"That'll do, then," Aziraphale said, stepping out of the last of his clothing. "Leave it in. Now tend to me with your fingers, if you please."

He knelt on the floor and bent the top half of his body over the coffee table, placing his bum in the air, available for the taking. Crowley only had to lean forward for the lube and drizzle a bit over Aziraphale's own "exquisite, rosy hole" and reach out to his right to press his fingers inside. Aziraphale let out a sharp exhale when he felt two of his lover's digits cross over the ring, and bury themselves as deeply as they could go.

"Good? Or painful?" Crowley wondered.

"Good. Now stretch me . And not slowly this time."

Crowley did his best to make quick work of readying Aziraphale for whatever he had in mind – which Crowley hoped was a hard, loud, dissolute arse-pounding that would break the furniture…

But equally delightful was when, after giving him a four-finger fucking for several minutes, and listening to those incredibly lovely, slutty groans, Crowley heard him say, "All right, enough. On your back, you old demon."

Crowley didn't have to be told twice. He turned sideways, and laid out as flat as he could on the faux-antique sofa. He had to bend his knees a bit, in order to fit.

But Aziraphale gently guided his feet to the floor, and crawled over him like a lion claiming its prey. He straddled his speechless lover, then reached back, and grasped Crowley's impatient dick with one hand, steadied himself by holding onto the back of the sofa with the other, and guided the bulbous purple head to his stretched-out hole. He eased himself down with a series of obscene moans, filling himself completely. He allowed his weight to rest fully on Crowley's pelvis, thus pushing more of the pulsating shaft into his tight passage. Both of them groaned, cursed, and felt prickles all over.

And then Aziraphale began to ride it. Slowly at first. Up and down, using his considerable thigh muscles, and bracing against the sofa back. He stared into his lover's brown eyes, and milked his cock, grinding down on it, then rising up again…

Crowley moaned, "Oh, fuck yeah, angel. Pump it… you can pump it dry with that tight little arse, do you know that?"

Aziraphale reached back with his free hand and began to toy with the base of the spade, currently lodged in Crowley's back passage. Just a little tug, a little nudge just so, the right sort of pressing against THAT spot, seemed to send sparks flying. Crowley's back arched and his voice penetrated the space like fabric ripping. Still flying high on power, Aziraphale did it again, only wiggled the base of the spade and vibrated it against the swollen prostate, Crowley's eyes rolled back in his head. His body sparked and flooded with fire, he blasphemed, and pumped his hips up into Aziraphale's bum.

"Ooh, it appears you like that little manipulation, my love," Aziraphale sang.

"Y…yeah… erm… I…" Crowley slurred.

"If I continue to play with it, you'll be a good boy and fill up my arse with your come, won't you?"

Crowley's senses seemed to blur and he spat, "Fuck, angel!"

"Won't you?"

"Yes, for fuck's sake, yes!"

There, they found a rhythm. Crowley became incredibly impatient. Aziraphale became hungry for more of this power, though the way he felt right now, he knew it couldn't last much longer…

Aziraphale rode harder, faster. Crowley thrusted up and down. Their bodies slapped against each other, eyes locked together, and their groans of obscene words and commands, and each other's names, entwined in the space like music.

Aziraphale kept one hand engaged in teasing Crowley's arsehole with a glass phallus, and Crowley thought his entire lower half might collapse from the pressure.

Crowley engaged one hand in wanking the stiff, suffering cock that had been bobbing against his belly delightfully, hoping now to make it burst, give him a spectacular show, and a terrible, milky mess across his chest.

"Come on, angel, don't hold back," Crowley panted. "Ride that cock as hard as you can, then shoot all over me. Do it!"

"I will… it's going to be soon… soon…"

"I'll give you mine if you give me yours. Come for me, angel!"

And that's when Aziraphale's voice began to ramp up high, with cries of "Ah! Ah!" growing in pitch until his body did what it was supposed to, and spurted thick white cream onto Crowley's chin and neck, and finished by spilling onto his stomach and fist. At the same time, he heard Crowley groan again and again. He bore down hard and felt his lover's long shaft pulsing hard as it pumped jet after jet of warm, milky satisfaction into his gripping, waiting arse.

The moments of orgasm seemed to stop time.

The high-strung, electric sensations almost felt, in those ten-or-so seconds, like they would never die down, to allow the lovers to return to normal.

But of course, they did. Aziraphale leaned forward, and the pair shared a passionate kiss that would have, on any other night, been the prelude to their tryst, not the postlude. But there they were, lips and tongues tangoing, loving, searching…

Aziraphale pulled away after a minute or two, and held himself up on one arm.

"That was…" Crowley breathed.

"It was, wasn't it?"

Crowley began to laugh, as he often did in the afterglow. "Holy shit, Aziraphale!"

"Drunk on power, you said. Goodness, I hate to see what the hangover will be like."

They were careful when they stood up, not to cause their usual messy problems, and produce more dry-cleaning.

Aziraphale marvelled as he picked up his clothes, "I was right: that's one Hell of a sturdy sofa. I must say, I've had my money's worth on that piece of furniture."

"You've got a good eye. The table in the back of the shop held up, and now this. Bravo. I suppose that means you should choose the dining set, once we move."

"Move?"

"Yeah. Well, not right this second, but we did talk about it…" Crowley said, now collecting his own tee-shirt and jeans from the floor.

They used the washroom in the flat upstairs to clean themselves up, but deemed the place too cold and dusty to spend the night. So they cleaned the spade and returned it to its box, put it back in the bag with the lubricant, got dressed, and went home.

"Do you know what I'd like?" Aziraphale asked, pulling the car door shut, and fastening his seatbelt.

"Oh, I always love these moments," Crowley said, pulling out of the parking space. "What would you like, angel?"

"I'd like to do that again. Only, I'd like to… well, switch roles, as it were."

"You'll show me how you did it? How you put in the spade for me before that filthy ravioli dinner you ate in front of me?"

"If you'd desire it, yes. But more to the point, erm…" He paused, and folded his hands primly in his lap.

Crowley laughed. "Angel, you never cease to befuddle me! Once again, you have just orchestrated for me a mind-blowing sexual encounter, and now it's an hour and a half later, and you're going to be a Princess about saying the naughty words?"

"I'm sorry, I appear to have retreated into my former mode."

"And yet, you're still thinking about the next time we get naked and sweaty together."

"A man can have fantasies, can he not?"

"He can. All right, fair enough. I'll let you know when I'm in the mood to watch you bury that spade in your bum, then ride you like a pony. A slutty pony."

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Good. Then, it's settled."

Okay, so, since I've got you here, thinking about smut, I've got a question:

I have been posting this story here, as well as on another forum. From the other forum, I've received a number of indicators that readers might like to see a THREESOME with our boys, and probably the cheese shop owner. Part of me would really love to write it, but part of me feels it might taint their relationship (or this version of their relationship) if they allowed someone else into it.

I have re-outlined the story to accommodate it, and I think I've found a way to wrap things up in the next 5-or-so chapters, that is meaningful for us, the readers, as well as for Aziraphale, Crowley, and even Huling.

When you review (hint hint), please let me know whether you'd be game for such a thing. I'm giving you the opportunity to "Choose Your Own Adventure," as it were... what say you?

Thank you for reading!