"Alan," she said -- *Alan* and not *Asshole* or *Abel* -- "I could use
some help."
He stepped cautiously into the living room and saw there, in the
curtained twilight, Mimi. She was topless, heavy breasts marked red with
the outline of her bra straps and wires. They hung weightily, swaying,
and stopped him in the doorway. She had her arms lifted over her head,
tugging her round belly up, stretching her navel into a cat-eye
slit. The T-shirt he'd given her was tangled in her arms and in her
wings.
Her magnificent wings.
They were four feet long each, and they stretched, one through the neck
hole and the other through the hole he'd cut in the T-shirt's back. They
were leathery as he remembered, covered in a downy fur that glowed where
it was kissed by the few shafts of light piercing the gap in the
drapes. He reached for the questing, almost prehensile tip of the one
that was caught in the neck hole. It was muscular, like a strong finger,
curling against his palm like a Masonic handshake.
When he touched her wing, she gasped and shivered, indeterminately
between erotic and outraged. They were as he imagined them, these wings,
strong and primal and dark and spicy-smelling like an armpit after sex.
He gently guided the tip down toward the neck hole and marveled at the
intricate way that it folded in on itself, at the play of mysterious
muscle and cartilage, the rustle of bristling hair, and the motility of
the skin.
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