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!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!! If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.

In the First Year of the Return of Our Lord, there was a little angel who wouldn't fly. Not that he didn't have wings, nor were they damaged in any way. He just wouldn't fly. And this was a mystery to all the other angels who did, and looked below and saw the little angel like a mite moving across the brown and green face of Urth.

I must regress here for a moment, for my story comes from the future, addressed to you who are, indeed, one of the angels in my tale--as we all will be in a time very close to your own. (Indeed, most of you will not shed your present forms before witnessing the Evolutionary Rapture; but will, instead, regenerate your deoxyribonucleic acids to form new, and youthful, bodies.)

Anyway, from time to time a curious brother or sister from above would pay this little angel a brief visit, to walk beside him and ask the obvious question:

"Little angel, why don't you ever fly?"

And a shadow would cross the brow of the little angel as he puffed up his chest and replied: "In memory of Man before he earned his wings, I walk the earth for all eternity."

Then he'd pause, and a certain weariness would shake his frame as he lowered his head: "And because...because I am waiting."

The visiting angel would then lean closer and ask, quite dumfounded, "Waiting for what, little angel? There is nothing left to wait for."

The little angel would then raise his head and look straight into the visitor's eyes: "I am waiting for a tall, handsome angel to take me in his arms and fly away with me."

After the little angel gave this two-part reply (which was always the same), the visiting angel would shrug its wings and take flight.

One day, while the little angel was window shopping, a pair of wings on a rack at J.C. Penny's caught his eye. He came in and caressed it, admiring the downy texture and soft, opal hues. Best of all, it would not shrink and was machine washable. (The little angel hated doing laundry, which was only second on his shit list to a visit to Purgatory.)

"May I help you?" A salesman courteously addressed the little angel who gasped at this breathing creation of bronze, muscled flesh and jet black hair. His green eyes flashed as the little angel admired those tight, full buttocks from which extended a sinewy tail that promised of anal delights beyond the little angel's wildest dreams. A lump swelled in the salesman's crotch and began to burst the seams of his fly. "He's a real devil," thought the little angel. He almost caressed the salesman's thighs, but withdrew his hand and sighed. "I was admiring this pair of wings," said the little angel. "May I try them on?"

"Certainly," said the salesman, "there's an empty booth over there." As the little angel walked away, the salesman's heart melted. "A son like him would make me the proudest father in Galactic Sector 357. How sad that he is not yet loved."

The little angel emerged from the dressing booth with the new pair of wings inserted into the slots between his shoulder blades. He tossed his old wings into the moleculizer.

"They're on backwards," said the salesman. "Here, let me help you." The little angel shuddered in ecstasy as the salesman's warm hands touched his shoulders with a gentle caress, and lingered. He felt some fingers slip into the rear pocket of his pants, inserting a piece of paper with a televideo number. He almost threw himself into the salesman's arms.

"Oh, how I could love this man. He would be a wonderful father," thought the little angel; and in the telepathic union of their two minds, he pictured himself in the naked embrace of the salesman, tail wrapped around the little angel and beginning to enter his anus with increasingly eager prods.

"But he's not the one. Who is the one?" The little angel put a stop to these delicious thoughts, paid for the wings, and walked out.

The sun was intense as the little angel crossed the mall to enter the Santa Cruz Bookstore. As he thought a cloud across the sky to shield his eyes, a centaur almost ran over him. "Oh, excuse me, little guy," said the centaur, "I should have been watching where I was going."

The little angel admired the centaur's muscular torso as he reared back and stamped his hooves with delight. "Say, you're a cute little fellow. How about a ride?"

The little angel tried to climb up, but kept slipping. "Say, aren't you used to those wings yet? Here, let me help you up." And the centaur tenderly lifted him in his arms to set the little angel on his back. The summer breeze tingled the little angel's face as they raced down Pacific Avenue to the ocean, where they sat and talked a spell.

Seals cavorted in the backwater beneath the piers, and pelicans gathered around the centaur and the little angel as if in serious contemplation of their conversation.

The little angel removed his shirt and dazzled the centaur with the physical perfection of a sixteen-year-old boy. His tiny nipples stood erect in the ocean mist, and a halo of light played around his auburn hair. His eyes sparkled like cracked ice in champagne, and the muscles on his ribs and arms were only beginning to bud.

The little angel smiled: the centaur suddenly bowed his head and covered his eyes, and the pelicans averted their glance for a moment.

"Is the sun in your eyes?" asked the little angel, who sat closer to the centaur in order to block the intense rays.

The centaur looked up and gently kissed the little angel.

They sat for a while in silence. The waves crashed on the hot sand, and the sea foam hissed. Each was in his own thoughts, yet their eyes did not leave each other, and thus many thoughts were shared.