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“Well, hello there, my dear.”
The angel’s eyebrows are in his hairline as he avidly observes the demon seating himself on the Chesterfield. Rather than his usual ungainly sprawl, Crowley is sitting primly with his ankles crossed. He’s wearing a black jumper with a tight, charcoal-gray skirt made of what is certainly a very fine wool. Aziraphale recognizes it, instantly.
“Feeling like a little bit of dress-up today, are we?”
“Feeling like a good deal more than that, Angel,” Crowley purrs in response.
Aziraphale swallows the butterflies in his stomach. That’s Nanny Ashtoreth’s skirt. He can’t say he’s surprised that Crowley has kept the ensemble all these years. He wore it frightfully well; Aziraphale is sure he knew at the time how devastatingly attractive he was in the form-fitting suits and dresses. They gave lovely shape to Crowley’s long, lean body. Who is he kidding? The skirts in particular made his arse look incredible. Aziraphale was ashamed for noticing, at first. Now? Now, he’s about to demand that Crowley stand up and take a turn.
He opens his mouth to make the demand, then closes it without making a sound. There's an uncommon glint of challenge in Crowley's eyes, and a shiver of anticipation crawls down Aziraphale’s spine.
Back then, in the hierarchy of staff, Nanny had been far higher than a gardener and Crowley had commanded the respect the position demanded. At the time, Aziraphale's thoughts on the matter had focused on the impact on Warlock and how best to counteract the influence. Now though, now his mind races with possibilities of what Crowley has in mind for them.
“Anything I can be of assistance with?” he offers. “I find myself at rather a loose end, and I'm happy to be of service.”
The glint in Crowley’s eye has him feeling much more conciliatory, all of a sudden. To be at Nanny’s mercy for an afternoon seemed to him like a delightful change of pace.
The change happened right before his eyes and yet so quickly. Crowley’s hair grew out into pretty auburn waves that framed his face. The stubble on his jawline receded into his face leaving smooth, pale skin. With a click of her fingers, Nanny Ashtoreth produced a tube of purple lipstick which she carefully applied to her thin lips. She stood, hands folded neatly in front of her, and looked at Aziraphale with a stern expression.
“I want you to strip,” she replied in her soft Scottish accent.
“Here?” he clarifies, throat suddenly dry.
“Here.” The eyebrow that twitches upwards adds a silent “Now.” With a snap of her fingers, one of his valet stands appears by his side.
Removing his jacket he hangs it up. Her eyes follow his fingers as he unties his bow tie, the fabric slipping out from under his collar.
“Give it to me,” she says as he moves to place it on the stand.
Wordlessly, he hands it over before returning to his task. The waistcoat next, fingers trailing down his body on their path to the next button. When it's hung neatly he raises one arm, removing his cuff link and putting it in its place on the stand, before repeating on the other side. He tilts his chin up farther than he needs to get to the top button of his shirt, well aware of how Crowley likes to feel the rasp of his barely there stubble against his lips. Eyeing the softer, smoother skin of Nanny Ashtoreth he imagines how the rough contact would show on her fine skin. It takes a gentle, pointed cough to nudge him on. The small buttons are swiftly dealt with, shirt quickly joining his other clothes on the stand. Opening the button on his trousers, he pulls his undershirt free, crosses his arms and slowly pulls it up. As he exposes himself he can feel Nanny's eyes on his skin, and forces himself to take his time. Pulling it over his head he takes the time to stretch, before putting it with the rest of his clothes.
Nanny is shamelessly ogling him, with one arched eyebrow and the tip of her tongue between her painted lips.
“May I continue?” he asks.
She takes three slow steps towards him, her heels clicking on the cottage’s wood floor, and then just as slowly walks a circle around his half-naked form. He shivers as a fingernail lightly scrapes across the backs of his shoulders. She comes around to stand in front of him, smirking.
“Continue.”
Aziraphale drops his gaze and focuses on undoing the flies of his trousers. They are generously cut and fall straight down over his hips and legs to land in an undignified heap at his feet. He steps his shoes out of them, leans down to pick them and shake them before folding them over the bar on the valet stand. He is now just in his boxers, socks and sock garters, and Balmoral boots. Nanny gestures for him to keep going.
Taking a seat, he unties his boots, glancing up at Nanny through his lashes. He hears her breathing alter slightly as his fingers go to the sock garters, and he takes his time removing them. Finally he stands, and pushes his boxers down over his hips to fall to the floor. Taking his time, he puts them with the rest of his clothes, before turning to Nanny.
“Very nice.” Her gaze is almost tangible as she looks over his bared flesh and her lip twitches at the evidence of his interest in their game. “Close your eyes,” she says, and he does, instantly.
He feels her finger trail down his chest, deliberately lighter over that soft, ticklish part of his stomach, and along his hardening length.
“There's something I'd like you to do for me.”
“Anything!” As the teasing touch retreats, he means it.
Something slips over his head and her fingers trail over his waist as she moves behind him. The sensations are familiar, but confusing. Warm breath flirts with his ear as she leans into him, prim buttons pressing against bare skin. The scratch of her skirt tantalising against his arse.
As she purrs her request in his ear he frowns in confusion.
“Bake me a cake.”
“I’m sorry?” The reaction leaves his mouth before he can stop it.
Nanny’s long fingernails dig into the back of his hair. She tightens her grip and he gasps.
“Bake me a cake,” she hisses. “Now.”
Aziraphale whimpers in response. With a final tug, she releases his hair. He stumbles into the kitchen, suddenly entirely unsure of himself. This is not a game they’ve played before. Is he really supposed to just…bake? In the nude?
“Nanny, may I wear an apron while I prepare your cake?”
She has come to the kitchen and is leaning provocatively on the island. Hands at shoulder width, her back arched, breasts and arse accentuated in a most distracting way.
“You may,” she replies, “to keep my toy nice and clean.”
“Yes, Nanny. Thank you.”
Aziraphale finds his favorite apron, the one with pretty white frills on it, puts it over his head and ties it around his waist. With his arse hanging out at the back, he almost feels more naked than he did before it was on but he knows better than to complain when Nanny has allowed his comfort.
“I said bake, Angel, not stand and stare at the kitchen floor.”
“Yes, Nanny.”
He jumps into action, rifling through cabinets and drawers to find all his baking supplies. A basic cake needs flour, butter, milk, sugar, eggs.
“Is there any flavor you’d prefer, Nanny?”
“Vanilla.”
He quickly adds the vanilla extract to the supplies accumulating on the island. When he has everything, he starts to follow the recipe he’s kept in his head since the age of Queen Victoria. It’s simple enough. Deceptively simple, he thinks. He keeps looking back at Nanny to see if she’s disapproving, to see if perhaps he missed the joke somewhere, but she is only watching him with an unblinking gaze. This, apparently, is what he is actually supposed to be doing: baking a cake in the nude on a Sunday afternoon.
The recipe comes easily to him and soon the batter is poured and the pan is in the oven. He begins to clean up after himself when he hears a hiss from behind him. He turns.
“Is there something else, Nanny?”
“Take off the apron. You’re done baking. I want you to clean the entire kitchen in nothing at all.”
A frisson of humiliation runs through him: it’s shamefully thrilling. He obeys, untying the apron and lifting it over his head. His cock is already at half-mast with the knowledge that Nanny will be watching him do this menial work while he’s fully exposed. Aziraphale takes a breath to get his racing heart under control. He knows he has to do this work exactly right or risk Nanny’s disapproval. He starts again.
Methodically, he moves all his equipment to the sink and wipes down the counter, careful not to drop anything on the floor, before turning on the tap. He feels ridiculous as he reaches for his rubber gloves, their bright colour feeling garish while so exposed. Then he hears the way Nanny's breath catches as he flexes his fingers. Interesting, he thinks, before filling the sink with soapy suds.
As he washes, he feels Nanny slip up behind him.
“You're doing ever so well,” she purrs in his ear. “Keep going.” The warning “or else” is clear in her tone and a touch of nervousness washes over him, even before her hand snakes in front of him and teases a path down from his pebbled nipples to grab between his legs. With a groan, he drops the bowl back into the sink, the water splashing over the sides. The disappointed tut is loud in his ear before her teeth give his ear a sharp nip before she pulls away. “So sloppy. You're getting distracted.”
“Can't imagine why,” he mutters as he wipes up the splashes.
“We can end this right now,” she says sharply and he turns to look at her. Peering over the top of her glasses her eyes bely the concern her voice hadn't, and Aziraphale knows he needs only say the word and she'll stop.
“No, thank you, I'd like to continue.” He's rewarded with a brief smile, before Nanny's lips form a tight line, and she gestures impatiently for him to continue.
He continues to wash the dishes, anticipation tensing his muscles, waiting for the touch he knows is inevitable, the mystery in where and when. He manages not to flinch when fingertips touch the back of his knee, holding his breath as they trail up his thigh, contains the groan of frustration as those fingers slip away and the anticipation begins to build again. Next time it's his shoulder, stroking down his spine, drifting away just shy of his arse.
Everything washed, he checks the oven and, satisfied the cake is looking good, he begins to dry, moving around the kitchen and putting things away as he goes. The touches continue, teasing, becoming more intimate. As he reaches up to return the glass bowl, Nanny is right there, her hand suddenly on his fully erect penis, as he barely falters with the bowl.
“Well done,” she purrs. “Such good work deserves a reward. What would make a good prize?”
Aziraphale's mind races with all that he wants to do, and have done to him. In the end, he swallows them all down and forces words out. “I’m thankful for whatever you decide I deserve, mistress.”
“Oh very good. Put your other apron on, then come sit at the table.”
When he turns back to the table he's in time to see her shimmy out of her skirt and stops to watch as her pale freckled thighs emerge, encased in lace topped stockings, held up by a black lacy garter belt and matching knickers. He licks his lips in anticipation as she hops up onto the table, pointedly tapping the chair between her legs with one black heel.
“Sit,” she orders sternly.
Aziraphale obeys in an instant. He’s wearing the frilly apron again but his naked arse is planted on the chair. There is no hiding his stiff cock under the thin cotton draped over his lap. He’s careful not to touch himself, keeping his hands still on his thighs as he waits for her next instruction.
Nanny purrs as she looks him over with one arched eyebrow. “You’ve been a good boy, mostly. For your reward, you get to watch.” Her face breaks into a wicked grin. “You cannot move or speak. If I see you touch yourself, or even try to touch yourself, the whole game is over. Understood?”
He squirms. “Yes, Nanny.”
“Mmmm, then let’s begin.”
She pops open the first button on her form-fitting black blouse, then another, and another. Finally, the silken garment falls from her shoulders, revealing her petite breasts cradled by a lacy black corset. Aziraphale has to stifle a groan. Without breaking eye contact with him, Nanny runs a single finger suggestively down between her breasts all the way to the front of her knickers. She pauses there for a moment, then dips the finger down between her thighs. With a moan, she presses in, rubbing the finger lewdly against her barely clothed sex. Aziraphale can smell her arousal and it takes all his willpower not to reach out and touch her. He manages to keep his hands still; there is nothing he can do about his straining, leaking erection.
A sly grin breaks across Nanny’s face as she thumbs the delicate strings that hold her knickers on her hips. Slowly, she works them down her thighs, then lets them slip over her heels and onto the floor at Aziraphale’s feet. Impossibly, it is an even more erotic sight, her bare sex exposed between her spread thighs still wrapped in black silk stockings. She is merciless, plunging three fingers into her cunt and pleasuring herself with abandon as Aziraphale watches helplessly. The smell of her, the wanton sounds spilling from her red lips, the glistening slick on the intimate skin of her inner thighs. It’s pure torture and he is utterly unable to look away. Nothing else in the world exists except Nanny and her sinful corporation. His cock is aching, he’s trembling with the effort to not seek relief. All he can do is watch as she brings herself closer to her climax. Hopeful that, perhaps, she will allow him his release if he’s very good.
And that’s when he smells the smoke.
From the corner of his eye, he can see black smoke billowing out of the oven. Nanny follows his gaze, arches an eyebrow, and then goes back to her ministrations. She will get an orgasm out of this, it seems, but he will not. He lets out a frustrated groan as he jumps up from his seat.
Despite the smoke he's hopeful, or perhaps delusional. Still in his apron, he throws on oven mitts, turns off the oven, and opens it to try and retrieve what’s left of his cake. The flames that rise as the oxygen rushes in burns up all the hope he has left, though only slightly lessening the awkwardly still eager appendage between his legs. Nanny's continued moans do nothing to help either situation. The flames dance across the surface and he discards the gloves in defeat. They're useless at this point and there’s no point ruining a decent pair. Resigned, he grabs some water and douses the cake. As smoke pours into the kitchen and Aziraphale looks despondently at his ruined confection, Nanny lets out an ecstatic cry as she climaxes.
He hears a chuckle, and the sound of someone licking their fingers. “Tough luck, Angel. Better start again.”
