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Message-ID: <38295asstr$1031659806@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Simon" <Simon@jazzandjava.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Mary (Mf reluc rough supernatural)
Date: Tue, 10 Sep 2002 08:10:06 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Mary
by Simon (simon@jazzandjava.com)

My name as you know it is Gabriel.  I do the Lord's work.  
Occasionally the work has its rewards -- and Mary was one 
such.  I first saw her in the flesh at the fountain in 
Nazareth, drawing water.  Like her ancestor David, like 
Adam who was fashioned of clay and mud, she was ruddy: 
dark-complected, auburn-haired, with bright green eyes.  
As a boy, David had killed Goliath, the last Nephil, the 
last scion of angel and man.  I wondered how coincidental 
this was, in the scheme of the Lord.

She was young, no more than 16, and she knew me for who I 
was the instant my feet touched down on base earth and I 
permitted myself to be seen. I approached her, ignoring 
the murmurs in the Galilean crowd at the appearance of 
what they took for a naked man in their midst.  Mary was 
the only one I was concerned with, the rest would be dust 
and legend before anything mattered.  I'd sent her the 
dreams since she was a child.  She knew her place in this 
thing.

But she ran.  Like a human, like a mortal, like a woman, 
she ran.  I moved the earth beneath my bare feet, beat my 
unseen wings against dry air, bringing myself to her home 
before she arrived.  Silly little mudthings.  They never 
make it easy on themselves.  Sarai was the same way.

I would have to remember not to break her.  The Lord 
needed this one.

"Go away," she murmured, her eyes on her hands on the jug 
of water, the contents of which she'd splashed every which 
way in her running.  "I'm betrothed."

"You know why I'm here, Mary.  You've heard the dreams.  
You've known today would come."  I let my wings show, 
filling the one-room home, feathers brushing against the 
ceiling, flame filling the interstices and smoke darkening 
my pupils.  "I am Gabriel, the Power of the Lord your God.  
The breath of my trumpet will sound the end of your world.  
I did not come to this place to be denied, child."

She clutched the jug to her.  "But I have a betrothed!"

"And before him, you had a father.  And before your 
father, you have the Lord.  Your duty supersedes whatever 
ties you may devise in this world."

"But I don't ... want to."

I sighed.  She didn't want to.  What possessed her to 
think I gave a damn?  Smoke filled the house, and when it 
cleared, time had slowed beyond the wall of black 
tendrils.  The scheme required that she choose.

It did not require me to tell her so.

My wings unfurled and filled the sky as I shifted the 
Earth once more, bringing her wrists to my hands.  The 
wings were simply for show: touching a mortal without 
killing her required reducing myself to my basest form, 
barely more than clay, no further above a human than a 
human was above an ass.  It disgusted me -- but only for a 
moment.  It thrilled me as well, feeling a heart beat in 
my chest, feeling air cycle through my lungs, the dust of 
the smoke cling to my feathers.  Deep inside, in a place 
which was within me and yet not of me -- a place all men 
have but of which mortals remain largely unaware except 
when they speak of "impulse" and "instinct," "whimsy" and 
"lust" -- I felt a stirring.  The creative urge.  The 
essence, the becoming, the *I AM* of God.

Her eyes drifted downwards -- not from pure modesty this 
time, but glancing over my form.  She was unaccustomed to 
seeing unclothed men, and my awareness of the God-seed 
within me had made me hard.  It intimidated her, which was 
pleasant.  I could taste the fear and anticipation 
surrounding her the way mist surrounds the River Jordan on 
a warm morning.  Palpable.  Musky.  Sweet.

"You know the service required of you, Mary."

She tried to pull her wrists from my hands, and I 
tightened the circle my fingers formed.  I could feel bone 
and tendon through skin, prepared to give way under my 
grasp; I relented enough to preserve her pain but keep her 
hands intact.  She might arguably find need of them.  "I -
- have never known a man," she said.  "If I go to my 
betrothed after ... you ... he will reject me.  I will be 
shamed.  He will not have me."

So that was the excuse she had chosen.  "These things will 
not happen.  Joseph will be addressed.  I assure you he 
will have no difficulty acquiescing to the will of the 
Power of the Lord your God.  You will have no shame 
because I do not wish you to.  You will not be rejected 
because I will not permit it.  All will be as I say."

My cock was tired of my mouth explaining.

I located the mattress she used for sleeping and thrust 
her towards it.  Her shoulder struck the wall of the 
domicile, and would have fractured at the joint had I not 
stiffened the air around her, deflecting enough of the 
impact.  I had forgotten how complicated sex was: like 
hammering a nail through an egg.

She scurried to her knees and against the wall, like 
trapped vermin, and I pulled her away by the ankle, taking 
care to leave it attached to her leg.  "If you enjoy this 
clothing, you should remove it."

Mary blinked at me, and nodded violently, her hands 
fumbling at her clothes and pulling them off, pushing them 
far away from her as though she were afraid of bleeding on 
them.  She was beautiful, in the manner mortals manage: 
the sort of woman Solomon had written of in his song when 
I'd known him, the sort of woman Cain had dreamt of while 
spending his nights in the arms of his wife.  Wide hips 
sufficient for childbearing.  Large, rounded breasts much 
lighter than the skin of her face and hands, as smooth as 
her well-turned thighs.  Her green eyes widened as she 
watched me look at her.  What disturbed her, I realized -- 
because deep inside her I sensed that she had long since 
resigned herself to this task and was only now having 
second thoughts -- was the enjoyment I clearly found in 
this.

Her disturbance furthered that enjoyment.  I could taste 
it again, rising off of her in waves, the mixture of fear 
and dread which had drenched the Earth in the first days 
of the Deluge, the cloud of anticipation which was a 
smaller cousin of the one which had been All That Was 
before the Lord drew essence from the formless and empty.  
Fear, dread, anticipation, anxiety: these were the media 
upon which creation was conducted.  This was the darkness 
out of which light would shine.  These were the legs, long 
and sinewy, quivering like startled fawns, between which 
the world would be reborn.

The music began.

Drumbeats in my pulse pounding against hers, the 
ineffability of my palm pressed to the flesh of her leg 
and moving upwards.  Jittering stringed notes in her 
quavers as she babbled something which formed neither 
words no sense, as I tested her resilience, finding that 
balance between force and resistance, that perfect touch, 
that sweet spot of a note.  The steady thrum of my wings 
beating back the air, beating back time and the world, 
enveloping us in my desire and will.

The music began and the impulse conducted us.

I drew my thumbnails along her inner thighs, writing the 
simple letters Enoch had taught us, giving names to things 
which had lacked them.  The naming was as important to the 
act as the pain: name provided the form for shape to take, 
the mold into which substance was poured.  Her skin 
buckled under my hands, becoming slick with red as she 
strained against the stinging of my language on her flesh, 
and I held her still with hands and air.

Mary whimpered, bound by firm air holding her down like a 
great weighted blanket through which only I could pass 
unhindered.  I left only enough give to permit her breath: 
and only so much breath as I deemed necessary.  I could 
hear her lungs working faster, taking short sharp breaths 
where they were denied the languid ones she had accustomed 
them to.  Her fingers twisted, seeking something to grasp 
or push away, and I ignored them, letting them grip my 
hair as they found it and scratch at my impenetrable scalp 
as they wished, bending down to lick the blood clean from 
her legs.

The blood was important.  The blood would be remembered.  
This thing we did, it would begin and end with the blood, 
and in between was little more than shadow and suggestion.

She tasted clean and sweet and coppery-bright, the way the 
dark side of a mountain tastes as sunrise hits its other 
end.  In the blacks and greens of her fear there were the 
reds and oranges of desire and pain now, mingling 
together, the contrast brightening it all.  My tongue 
cleaned my writing methodically, ignoring the impatience 
stiffened between my legs as I drew her closer and raised 
my head again, watching her as I nestled my crotch between 
her thighs.

This was the moment, the choice I did not see fit to 
inform her of: doom the world or do thy duty.

Her large green eyes knew nothing of choice and her voice 
formed nothing like words.  She moved against me when I 
wished her to, and God-given instinct at last won out over 
her own will and pride.  When I entered her, she was as 
wet as I was hard, as hot and mortal as I was cool in the 
shelter of my wings.  Her hands slid down over the back of 
my head to clutch at my neck, as if to pull herself out 
from the blanket I'd laid over her.

I pushed down hard, letting weight and instinct do what 
force would have done too well: shove me inside her, deep 
inside her.  My cock was troubled by no maidenly 
resistance because the Power of the Lord did not wish it.  
She had known no man, but she knew she was a woman: her 
legs spread for me, likely as she had seen some prostitute 
do, and her hips lifted from the mattress to meet my 
thrusts.

Her breaths were still hot and shallow, and I withdrew the 
invisible blanket of air -- but kept that pressure along 
her throat and chest, because I liked the way she sounded, 
the way she looked, the way she felt when she struggled to 
breathe.  The reds and oranges became brighter, the greens 
deeper, as we fucked in a hollow of time, my hands 
pressing her wrists down above her head for no reason 
other than that she was more afraid of me when I did so.

Her hair twisted against the mattress as she tossed her 
head, still struggling, still acting as though she were 
unwilling despite having made her choice.  I 
counterpointed every note of struggle with a drumbeat of 
hips against thighs; every whimper and protest was met 
with a fierce lash of flesh against flesh.  I made it last 
longer than I had to, because I could.  I took more from 
her than I needed, because I wanted to.  I fucked her for 
pleasure because I am the Power of the Lord God and I have 
earned my few rewards.

And again there was blood.  Not the blood of her 
maidenhood: I had told her I would preserve her against 
shame, and I was by nature incapable of breaking my word.  
The blood of her wrists twisting against my palms, of my 
teeth on her neck and collarbone, the blood of abrasions 
on her thighs where I had pushed, shoved, ground too 
forcefully, where in the thrill of the *I AM* I had 
forgotten how frail she was.  She screamed with what 
breath I gave her, and when I began to pull away to tend 
to her she pushed back up at me: neither of us, in that 
moment, knew if she was trying to push me away or wanting 
more.

I gave her more.

I held her hair close by the scalp as I slapped her face 
hard enough to quiet her, and her hands alternately beat 
against my back and clutched motheringly in my hair as I 
suckled at her breasts, enjoying the power of turning flat 
discs of skin into hard dappled points with my tongue and 
lips and teeth.  I drew blood again, unable to stop myself 
from doing so, and her moan of anguish was weak, drawn out 
by admirable will.  

The impulse could no longer be put off.  I held myself 
tightly against her and came, spilling the God-seed into 
her, feeling her muscles tense against me as it found what 
it needed deep within her.  She cried -- wept -- 
shuddered, all but unaware of me still against her, 
waiting for these base urges to fade, waiting to stop 
wanting the taste of her salt on my tongue and the 
resilience of her skin between my teeth.

I left her, crying and shaking and clutching for something 
to cover her, as my wings beat back the daylight, the 
smoke dissipated, and I took flight.


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