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WARNING: This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes, MM anal sex, domination, and graphic language, which may be considered offensive by some readers.
All sexually active characters in this work are at least 18 years of age.
This book is copyright © Shabbu 2010
Second Edition published by BarbarianSpy, at Smashwords, in 2010.
Cover design by S Bush © 2010
Cover Photos: Tithe barn view © Photowitch | Dreamstime.com, Sad Angel © Deklofenak | Dreamstime.com
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All characters in this book are the product of the author’s imagination and no resemblance to real people, or implication of events occurring in actual places, is intended.
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BOOKS BY SHABBU
Cigars!
Angel in the Barn
Gayly Complicated
Despoiling David
Tree of Idleness
Rough Road to Happiness
I Met a Man
The Interview
BOOKS BY SABB
She is He
Wrong Man
Loyal to his King
Barbarian Tales - Book One - Traveller’s Tales
Barbarian Tales - Book Two - Journeys Begin
Barbarian Tales - Book Three - The Inheritance
Barbarian Tales - Book Four - Road to Persepolis
BOOKS BY HABU
Cairo Surrender
Fetish Galore!
Angel in the Barn
by Shabbu
CONTENTS
Finding Heaven by Sabb
Helpful Hiker by habu
Imagination is a marvelous gift, one that is a blessing to both writer and reader in the measure it can be exercised. Take the inventiveness and playfulness—and respect for the trade of fiction writing—of two different writers, Sabb on the East Coast of Australia, and habu on the East Coast of the United States. Drop between them the unlikely image of an angel appearing in the window of a barn, with the phrase, “I came at it from the rear, seeing the high window lit with the full afternoon sun, and I saw him there caught in the sun, naked and golden, like some lost angel. Perched up there on the windowsill with his arms spread wide hanging on to the frame. He is the reason I remember the barn so well.” Then toss in the bomb that the story has to deal with an unsuccessful suicide attempt—and can have the ending of the author’s choice—and, of course, must drip with hot male-male sex. Send the dueling writers to their separate corners with the assignment to turn up the next day with a fully developed story. Do all of this and Angels in the Barn is one version of what you get. As you read, Shabbu invites you to conjure up your own story from these ingredients.
by Sabb
I will always remember the barn. How could I ever forget it? It was a big, corrugated iron one, dull with age and with no windows on the lower level and just one at each end, up in the gable. Tall narrow windows that let light into the loft, while below the barn was dark and silent, cluttered and filled with dust. But I didn’t know that when I first saw it.
I came upon it slowly as I emerged onto the top of the mountain, after a steep climb from the bay below, which had taken me through the untouched forest of the national park. And I came at it from the rear, seeing the high window lit with the full afternoon sun, and I saw him there caught in the sun, naked and golden, like some lost angel. Perched up there on the windowsill with his arms spread wide hanging on to the frame. He is the reason I remember the barn so well.
I stopped there, breathing hard, recovering from the climb, and staring, fascinated by the erotic image before me. I was half expecting him to disappear, to be some trick of my mind. I wasn’t as young or as fit as I once was, and a dizzy spell had caught me out the day before and left me unsteady for a while.
But no, the golden angel didn’t vanish; instead, I now saw that he was looking toward me, and I waved at him. I waited, but he didn’t waved back; he just stood poised on his perch, ignoring me and apparently unconcerned that I was staring at his nakedness. Yes. I was staring at him, drinking him in, and letting his beauty soak into me and send a warm rush though my body. And as my breathing returned to normal, I became increasingly aroused.
Then suddenly I realized that he was falling. His arms were still spread out, and he appeared to be standing, but as I watched, he slowly began to fall forward. And he didn’t make any sound, or any gesture to save himself.
I was frozen and part of me was saying, “It isn’t real; this isn’t happening.” And part of me was screaming, “Nooooooooooo.” A long drawn-out cry of rage was rising up in me at what he had done as I watched. At what he was doing to himself, and to me.
He continued to fall silently, performing a perfect swan dive, as I stood there frozen, my mouth opening in a silent helplessness, but part of me still saying, “No, it can’t be real.” It seemed like forever that he fell, but it must have been only moments before he silently disappeared. Then there was a puff of dust and the spell was broken.
I dropped my heavy pack and ran towards the rear of the barn where he had fallen, thinking, “Have I got my mobile? Who will I ring? How do you treat a broken neck? Shit, it’s twenty years since I did first aid, shit, shit. Why? Why would he do it? Why to me?”
The grass had only been ankle high where I had been hiking past, but as I ran closer to where he had fallen, it got longer, and thicker. I was imagining broken bones poking out of skin and almost vomited just thinking of it. Then I got within a dozen feet of where I imagined he was and found myself slowed down and almost wading through thick thigh-high grass.