amber (bentley) wrote in blytonslash,
amber
bentley
blytonslash

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Wings

Wings (Dedicated to Katie and Sam, with a "told you so")

It was… unusual.

Peter and Molly never guessed, of course. They were only children, after all. So he left them to their daily lives; whether boarding school, tea with their Mother and Father, errands, parties, or just something else that left Chinky and the Chair in their own company. Just a pixie and a chair with wings.

Those red wings. Oh those red wings.

The children seem to think he is sad, when he is left to be his solitary self in the playroom. Quite the contrary; this gives Chinky some free time. Molly, always the sensitive one, had seemed guilty about leaving Chinky behind. She had appointed him as the guardian of the chair; as such, he must stay in the playroom with it at all times, and if it grows its wings (its deliciously red wings) he must not, no matter what, allow it to fly off.

This was fine by Chinky.

There was that one time, however, when Peter had almost walked in on him. On them. He had, apparently, been coming back to the playroom for something he had left behind, and all parties involved had been quite surprised when he burst through the door. Chinky had placated him easily enough; protesting that the Chair had grown its wings and, quite mischievously, tried to fly off with him. Peter, innocence incarnate in his school things, had nodded amiably and agreed.

From then on, Chinky and the Chair swore to each other they couldn’t let the children know about what they did together. About the nights in the playroom when everyone was tucked safely into their beds, and Chinky and the Chair were free to explore each other. About his times alone at his mother’s house – with a bed, no less, not that it did any good what with the chair and all – when those cherry red wings had fluttered over Chinky’s naked body in an entirely provocative manner.

If the Chair had been a woman, Chinky liked to think the wings would have been transformed into luscious red lips, lips to kiss with, lips to lick with, lips to suck with. Of course, the Chair wasn’t even a person, it was a chair; and Chinky suspected it was male, anyway. But even without red lips, the Chair could still make him groan in frustration and pleasure.

It was playful, for a Chair. Molly had said so once, although she was rather annoyed with it at the time; it had just got itself stuck in a chimney, after all. When Chinky said it, he meant it in an entirely different way. He meant the way the Chair rubbed against him until he screamed. He meant the way the fragile wings crushed against his arse as the legs drove into him. He meant the way it flew up into the air, as though it, too, was capable of those orgasmic heights Chinky reached when they were together; raised itself up in the air as he rubbed himself with tiny, strong hands and dangled listlessly over the armrests.

Sometimes he fell, like he had once before. He was beginning to like the pain; he no longer bothered with such tricks as turning himself into a snowflake. Instead he would fall to the floor, groaning, and the Chair would land on him and in a seemingly never-ending cycle it would begin again.

No-one knew. No-one knew about the heights he could reach, even when out on an ordinary adventure with Molly and Peter. Sometimes, when he and the chair were together…

Sometimes he felt that he, too, had wings.
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