Welcome to the very first day of the 2015 Superotica Advent Calendar. Between now and the 24th, I’ve lined up a stellar selection of writers each of whom has contributed a fabulous story. I hope you’ll come back day after day to read them, because they’re all by masters of their craft. A few of the stories are Christmas stories but most of them aren’t – there’s plenty of variety and an awful lot of hot sex coming your way!
For most people, Christmas is a wonderful time of year – a time for getting together with family and friends for the ritual over-indulgence on mulled wine, mince pies and sentiment. But for some people it’s the worst time of year. Imagine being homeless at Christmas. The city becomes quiet, a ghost town almost, until it’s just you, the biting cold and a few shredded memories of when times were better. Luckily, there are some excellent charities out there who make a point of helping homeless people at this difficult time of year. Each day, at the end of the story, I’m going to put links to three of these charities’ giving pages – Crisis, which supports single homeless people in the UK, The Albert Kennedy Trust, which supports UK LGBT homeless 16-25 year olds, and Coalition for the Homeless, supporting homeless men, women and children in the US . If you enjoy reading the advent calendar, could I please ask you to click through one time and make a small donation to one or other of them? I thank you in advance and hope that you don’t mind my asking this.
Now, let’s get to the first story of the 2015 Superotica Advent Calendar. It’s my calendar, so yes, I’ve snagged the first spot…
There are no Christmas lights under the flyover and the snowflakes glinting in the arcs of the streetlights are frozen daggers that scour his skin. He doesn’t dare think of other Christmases. Of times when he was warm and when his clothes didn’t stink. Before his nails and skin were black with the grit and grime of the city’s underbelly.
He picks up a newspaper that’s blown against one of the concrete pillars, looking round shiftily. He folds it hastily and tucks it inside his coat. Insulation, for what good it might do.
All of the sheltered spots are taken. He knows these men. He’s seen them here often. Older men who have tobacco and cans of lager. He won’t go near them. They’ll want to take his warmth from him and more. Things he’s not willing to give. There was a boy, a while ago, that he used to share a step with. But the boy disappeared and someone said he’d died. Probably. No one can live like this.
His feet burn with the cold. His soles are worn through and his last pair of socks disintegrated weeks ago. During the day he walks to keep warm, burning calories he can ill afford.
It’s time to rest, if he can get to sleep. And if he manages to drift out of consciousness, what’s the incentive to wake up? All that awaits are numb fingers and feet, and another eighteen hours of freezing fear. Hell, basking in the glow of Christmas fairy lights.
Sleep, however, is his refuge. In dreams, he’s warm. He can forget the intrusion of the wind into his bone marrow. The way fingers of damp claw through his clothes, wrapping him in the bitter-tasting pain of cold. His blood is slow in his veins, stiff muscles making movement labored. He finds a pillar no one else has chosen and works out which side is in the lee of the weather. He spreads tattered newspaper on the ground, selfishly guarding it against the grasping wind. He presses himself to the concrete in a fetal position, pulling his coat over his head to keep the warmth of his breath inside his own cocoon. He closes his eyes to endure the long wait for sleep…
A downdraft of cold air on his face wakes him, accompanied by a sound he doesn’t recognize. A thrumming, heavy beat that makes the air vibrate. He can smell snow, though he’s not cold. He opens his eyes but he’s dazzled by white light. Blinking, he sees sharp white dagger points coming closer. The thrum gives way to creaks and clicks, a waxy quality to the sounds.
He finds himself cradled in hard, unyielding wings. He imagines he’s being raped by a swan but these wings are far bigger and—he senses—benign in their touch. He’s lifted away from the bite of cold paving and he realizes he’s naked. Naked and clean. Not cold. Not hurting. No grinding hunger. No knife-cut of fear.
“Am I dead?” It wouldn’t be bad.
He turns towards the voice. A woman’s voice, deep and guttural, accented.
Now he understands. He’s being held by an angel. With a face so beautiful, so perfect in its symmetry, he can only squint and look again.
“You should be dead,” she says, “but I’ve fallen for you.”
He doesn’t gather up the implication of her words and, anyway, rational thought is swept aside when he feels her run a finger along his jaw. He raises a hand to grab at her wrist, to see if she’s real. Her skin is cold to the touch and lustrous to look at. She’s as pale as her snowy wings. Pearlescent and naked. There’s nothing but black sky all around them but she’s illuminated. Bleached by light washing over her.
“What’s your name?”
“Azria. But you won’t remember me, Joe.”
He would never forget her.
Her body is hard and boyish, her limbs long and muscular. Her small tight breasts are dusky pink at the tips. He lets his eyes traverse the flat planes of her torso to the sweet, soft gutter between her legs. Her eyes follow his and she grins. He’s never really thought that angels might grin, but he’s never imagined being seduced by one either.
Together, they tumble through the universe and the angel catches him with her arms so she can unfurl her wings. The wings creak as they stretch to their full span and then hang still in the vacuum that surrounds them. As he watches their terrible majesty extend, Joe thinks his eyes will burst at their beauty. Azria holds him tight and his cock presses up hard against her stomach.
“Take me,” she whispers.
There’s frost on her lashes and brows, and her mouth tastes of snow.
With the strength of a thousand eagles, her wings push down and they tumble no more. Now they’re flying and, without knowing how it happens, Joe realizes he’s inside her. Her heat sears him as they move in unison to the rhythm of her wing beats. Joe clings to her tightly as a warm wind rushes past him and when he looks down over her shoulder, he can see the blue planet twining far beneath them.
He hopes this is death rather than a dream.
When he comes, everything turns white. Light and sound. Sensation. Bleached by the glare of the angel’s orgasm…
“Are you there, Joe?”
He opens his eyes. A man he knows is bending over him. The flyover looms above.
“I thought you was dead for a minute.”
Joe shakes his head. He was dreaming of something but he can’t remember.
“Are you coming? The Christmas shelter opens today. Hot food, a shower, a haircut… They might find work for you.”
Joe struggles to his feet, but he’s not as stiff as usual. He picks up his precious newspapers. Underneath he finds a long white feather, far larger than a swan’s. He doesn’t say anything to the man but tucks it inside his coat.
The air smells of snow. But Joe’s not cold. Not today.
To be continued…