Friday evening. Crowley has zoomed out of London, anxious to relax with Aziraphale in the back room of the bookshop. Parks in front of the shop, vaults out of the Bentley. He's carrying a stout shopping bag in which three bottles of cognac have been carefully wrapped. Snaps his fingers to magic the locked door open and then shut as he walks briskly in. Enters the back room.
The shopping bag drops to the carpet as his hand forgets to hold onto it, his eyes riveted upon Aziraphale. The angel is sprawled atop the big puffy pillows they keep handy on the settee, doing a superb imitation of Francois Boucher's painting of Marie O'Murphy. Crowley opens his mouth, but finds his voice has failed him.
Do you like it? I tried transforming, and this is what I got.
Crowley takes in the angel's halo of silky palest gold curls, backside like a delicious bun, creamy thighs wide spread as she lies on her stomach on the pillows. She is so willing and very ready.
With a finger snap Crowley's clothing vanishes. Feeling almost molten with lust, he springs over to the settee, shoves a pillow out of the way, kneels between the angel's plump thighs, hands atop her satiny buttocks. But then he pauses. Crowley has never actually penetrated anyone – woman or man – before. But it was done to him plenty of times, and it was always agonizing as Hell. Until Aziraphale came along. Would he feel as good to the angel as he did to him, or would he hurt her . . .?
Sensing his hesitation and guessing the reason why, the angel raises her hips, reaches one hand back between her legs and gently grasps the demon's penis, directing its tip against her cool wet labia. Rocks back and pushes against him a bit as he slowly enters her.
Harder Crowley. Push hard.
She rocks back and forth and wriggles her hips in counterpoint to his thrusts.
Ohhhhhhhhh. . .
Aziraphale feels Crowley deep inside her as she sprawls atop his thighs, then moans as Divine Ecstasy sweeps over her, rhythmic contractions milking the demon's wonderfully tight fit. Crowley succumbs a millisecond later, hands clutching the angel's delicious backside as he leans back against the big pillow on the arm of the settee. For several hours they form a tableau vivant of bliss, stilled on the surface, but a lot going on beneath.
. . .
Midnight.
Oof. My knees have stiffened up.
Crowley swings his legs over the edge of the settee and gets up to walk around a bit. The two then rearrange the giant pillows against the base of Aziraphale's armchair, and settle on the thick Persian carpet in a favorite comfort position, holding hands while sitting alongside one another against the pillows. Crowley examines the angel's face. Not at all girlish. A handsome woman. Same earnest dark gray eyes, masculine bowed eyebrows . . . finer bone structure and nose, bit more pout to pinker lips, piquant chin. Palest gold hair more like silk than wool. Then his eyes drop downward, scanning the angel's lovely devon cream body. Soft shoulders, high virginal breasts topped by nipples like pie cherries, rounded belly gently curving into a luxuriant palest blonde bush. Satiny, plump thighs and calves.
Crowley can't stand another second of mere looking. Lurches forward, grasps the angel's ankles and gently pulls her prone. Pushes her legs apart and plunges his face onto her vulva, nostrils buried in her bush, supple tongue and lips licking and massaging her labia and clitoris. He then glides upward and supports himself lightly astride her hips, leaning forward so his erection lies rigid against her belly cushion. Thrusts his hands through her silky curls and plants a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against her mouth and nostrils.
Tell me what you smell like.
Oh! . . . Vanilla? (Sigh. It would be vanilla . . .)
And brown sugar.
Yes! (That's better!)
Crowley moves downward and kisses one of her nipples.
Topped with whipped cream and cherries. One . . . (kisses her second nipple) Two . . . (goes down and licks her plump clitoris) . . . Three.
So I'm one great rum baba, am I?
I wouldn't know about that. Never been much into pastries. But whatever you are, you're delicious.
Aziraphale laughs as Crowley makes wolfish growling and smacking noises, the demon's fingers buried deeply in the soft flesh of her hips, his auburn hair spilling across her thigh. But soon she begins to gently pant.
Crowley, I need to feel you inside me again. Please.
The demon doesn't need an engraved invitation. Once he's as tight inside her as he can go, he falls atop her breasts and plunges his hands into her silky curls, his face buried atop her shoulder. Soft arms embrace him, cool creamy thighs and calves envelop his flanks and back.
The angel cries out as her muscular pulses rocket them both into Divine Ecstasy. Then delicious silent bliss for hours and hours.
. . .
Morning.
Madame Tracy's Saturday breakfast? I could go for some pain au chocolat and cocoa.
I could go for a lovely delicious creampuff right here, no need to leave the room.
Sausages? She does good ones, and I know you like them.
I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the tempting, Angel. My actual job? Life's mission? Perhaps you've heard?
Perhaps I've made too many trips to Edinburgh. Nice crisp rashers of local bacon, scrambled eggs . . . cappuccino . . .
Oh all right. Let's get dressed.
Some minutes later, both now male again and casually dressed, ready to hop across the street for breakfast. Aziraphale looks bothered about something and pauses, looking down at himself.
Crowley, do you think this is the real me? Or that, deep down inside, I'm actually a woman?
I think you just have a flip side that you haven't discovered until now.
Do you like the flip side better?
Crowley is thoughtful.
Your womanly form seems to trigger lust such as I've never experienced. Makes me feel as if I'm about to ignite. But I think that's just because it's you, Aziraphale. I love you. Human women, female angels - never had that kind of reaction to them. Ever.
He puts his arms around Aziraphale and hugs him, clasping the angel's head atop his shoulder, one hand running fingers through and stroking his lambswool hair.
All that said, what I do desire, most of all, is the upholstered granite body that I've been longing to get closer to for 6,000 years.
Aziraphale flicks his fingers, and their clothing vanishes. He nuzzles Crowley's neck, strokes his back. Crowley murmurs,
Move that chest rug of yours against me.
The angel obliges, and soon their mutual nipples are hard as pebbles. The demon's penis does its slow tight spiral around the angel's erection.
The two sink onto the carpet, Crowley atop a blissful Aziraphale, legs entwined as they slip into a long, comfortable Divine Ecstasy.
. . .
Tea time.
I suppose you're ravenous now, Angel.
Well, I'm never actually hungry. I simply enjoy food. Although, I must say, some salmon and cucumber sandwiches would definitely hit the spot. With Lapsang Souchong.
And frosted vanilla cream cakes.
Aziraphale gives Crowley a look. Crowley mimics ravenously cramming a whole cake into his mouth.
Really, my dear. (But he smiles.)
They stroll hand in hand across the street to Madame Tracy's Tea Shop.
