Angels love BDSM, too
“Why can’t an angel from the top of the tree have Christmas wishes too?”
The mournful whisper came from the decoration at the top of an artificial tree standing on a windowsill at the back of the club, a very different club.
The angel sighed deeply as she stared at the object of her lust.
“If I did have a wish I would wish for him.”
‘Him’ was the six foot four, dark haired hunk who owned the BDSM club in whose front room she was precariously perched. Every year for the past five years since she had been purchased she had stood on the top of that prickly beast and observed the action that took place within, while the man she desperately wanted chatted to other women. Beautiful women, but more importantly, live women.
She groaned as she watched him wrap an arm, a strong muscly arm, around the waist of his latest chosen woman and take her off to one of the private rooms, the dungeons.
They returned later with a satisfied look on both their faces and the angel on top of the tree cried, “Damn him. Damn them. Why can’t it be me?”
Suddenly a voice said, “And what would you do if you had a wish?”
“Who’s that?” she tried to wrench her head around forgetting she could not move, her limbs were rigid, legs splayed with the tree shoved under her dress itching her backside in the process, her arms raised, a wand in one hand.
“Answer me. If I give you a Christmas wish what would you do with it?”
She wanted to frown so badly. The voice seemed to come from inside her head, not from behind her. “Are you offering me a wish?”
A deep sigh followed her question. “Well, if you don’t want your wish….”
“No.” She gasped. “I—I do want it. I want to be mortal.”
Another sigh came, deeper and more irritated than before. “Why do all you toys and fantasy creatures wish for mortality? Okay, okay, so I’ll give you what you want.”
If she could jump and up and for joy she would be doing it, instead she just shouted, at least, within her head since she was unable to speak. “Yippee!”
“But….” The interruption was abrupt and loud.
Shit, what now?
“You can only be mortal for eight hours.”
“Eight!”
“That is my condition. Make the most of it, little Angel.”
And in a flash she was lying on the floor. “Ouch.” She lifted a hand to rub her hip where she had landed, and then she waved it. It moved! She smiled and touched her hand to her face, astounded by the feelings of touch she was experiencing.
“Wow, my skin feels so soft,” she whispered softly, and then gasped at the sound of her own voice. She always envisaged her voice as loud and strident when, in fact, it was soft and husky.
“Are you all right?”
She jumped to her feet and twirled and gulped back another gasp. In front of her stood him, Morgan Garrett, the owner of Club Surrender. How I would like to surrender to this man.
Hope you enjoyed that! Come back next Monday to read more!!
Jen
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