Thanks for this one go out to three people in particular:
· C (alwaysjbj), beta extraordinaire, who was there to give me a kick in the butt and encouragement when the muse tried to play recalcitrant, and who always helps me to make sure that my words are in line with what I’m trying to say.
· Stephi (slinkypsychokit), who helped me brainstorm, gave me musical inspiration, and reassured me that my intentions were shining through on paper.
· And last but most definitely not least, Jennifer (bunnyluv_pet), who made the gorgeous banner that started it all, who got the plot bunny nibbling and encouraged me when it grew to a full-fledged rabbit, and who graciously customized her fanart for this story. This one’s all yours, Jen!
So hugs, thanks, and much love; couldn’t have done it without you all.
Rating is OHSOVERY NC-17, with warnings for bloodplay and BDSM (It's based on a banner called "Punk Bondage" by Jen and named for a quote from the Marquis de Sade, so yeah, BDSM). Pairing is where it gets complicated: the structure of the story is 3 vignettes bookended by framing paragraphs, so for pairing, 2 of the 3 vignettes are Spike/Dru, the 3rd is Spike/Buffy, and the overall frame is Spike/Buffy. Spoilers (little teeny baby ones) for Fool for Love and Dead Things.
**Archivists: Please ask before posting.
By Way of Pain
Lying on the cold stone ground by Buffy’s side, chest heaving with needless breath in time with hers as his body still quivered with the aftershocks of release, Spike was somehow startled at the feel of cold metal against his hand as he stretched the tension from his muscles. His hand closed around the object as though of its own free will, and he was instantly transported as his fingers traced the deceptively fragile links in the chain binding the cuffs together. Lost in the memories, he took in Buffy’s pleasure-glazed stare and knew he could afford only a few moments of musing; despite the time constraints, however, the lure of the past was strong, and he found himself yielding.
He could still clearly recall the very first time that he'd experienced it, the exquisite torture of restraint during pleasure, the cold teasing bite of manacles against soft flesh.
Spike had still been William then, newly-turned and aching to become both more and less than what he had been--more of a warrior and a lover, less of a meek gentle man with courtly ideals of love that even that soon after turning had made him cringe at the remembrance. He had still wanted all the passion and the love that had eluded him in life, but the demon in him had screamed for physical satisfaction as well, had craved a fulfillment that would have left the poet nearly catatonic with mortification.
*******
William remained still, both terrified and wanting, as Drusilla fastened his bindings, murmuring all the while about needing to show him that the darkness could beam as brightly as the sunshine and rambling about fulfilling promises to her lovely boy. He had been frozen with a combination of dread and longing when he’d entered the room, taking in the sight of the parallel wooden beams and head-support wooden crosspiece that made up the open-backed rack—along with the heavy metal shackles attached to each beam at top and bottom—with wide eyes and rapidly hardening cock. Once affixed, fully at Drusilla’s mercy, he found that he was quivering with need beneath his skin; despite the uproar of his emotions, however, he was forcing himself to remain motionless, as she had made him promise that he would. He had no doubt that his obedience would be rewarded. She had shown him bliss in the scant few days since his turning, that much was certain, but now…
“That’s a good William,” she murmured approvingly, stroking her hand down the tensed and flexing muscles of his arm. “Mummy has something to show you, my beautiful boy… I promise you that it’s what you need… it’s something effulgent.” The last was whispered conspiratorially against his ear, her cool breath sending an unbidden and unstoppable tremor through him with its promise of wicked and heretofore unimagined delights.
His unbeating heart clenched at her repetition of the word, her promise of effulgence having been the successful battering ram against his weakening defenses as she persuaded him into following her into eternity. He had known as she had spoken the word that his destiny lay in her, that she incontrovertibly saw the man he truly was, and he had been awed by the promise of love and pleasure that she presented within those three short syllables. Again the word stayed his nerves and merely stoked his ardor, and he allowed himself to relax into his bindings as much as possible. He knew not what to expect; she had been strangely gentle in his first introductions to the erotic arts, acquainting him slowly with variances in position and technique but always allowing him to have control. Tonight, however, she had reign over his body as well as his heart. This dark, wanton goddess would show him the world as he was truly meant to see it.
William waited, eager cock erect and twitching, flesh burning from both the tension of his muscles and the barely audible whispers she was issuing against it. Despite his determination to do as his savior wished, he was unable to refrain from straining against his bonds as Drusilla's hand descended from his still-straining bicep to trace teasing fingers slowly down his throat and chest, caressing her marks on his throat and eliciting an involuntary growl from him before dancing away and following a torturous feathering line down the center of his body.
“Such a pretty darling boy, my Willie. So strong beneath it all.” Her words were mere whispers and yet they seemed as clear to his hearing as ringing shouts; their soft tone, however, bespoke an intimacy that both balmed his tender heart and set him aflame with its promises. “The stars led me to you, my knight. They knew that somewhere beneath the fog of London and of heartache lay a warrior made for me. They saw you, William… and I see you, too.” William knew that he was giving her the same look of wonder that he’d offered her in the alley, the look that had formed the moment that he’d begun to believe that the seemingly insane but beautiful young woman was in fact meant just for him. She saw him, the desperately passionate man inside the shy and uncertain shell; his eyes closed briefly as he basked in the knowledge that he had truly been found, at long last. Long slender fingers wrapped around his erection and gave him a few slow strokes that forced eyes wide open and his narrow hips searchingly forward, earning a pleased smile from the dark beauty. “You want your Princess so, don’t you?” she asked delightedly as she slid her hand away from his cock and back up the flattened planes of his stomach, stopping over his now-still heart.
He supposed that his whimper of loss and plaintive urging had served as an answer, for in an instant one razor-sharp fingernail had sliced a neat line across his chest. The bright scarlet of the blood contrasted stunningly with the alabaster flesh upon which it welled, he admitted to himself as he looked down with an utterly bewildering feeling of fevered desire. He had never expected to be so aware of and impassioned by the blood that pooled in his veins, even if it no longer rushed there; his first taste of Drusilla upon waking had, however, whetted an appetite gone ravenous with the passage of even this short amount of time. Just the scent of that crimson elixir, the way that he could taste it coating his tongue before he’d even supped, coppery and viscous and fulfilling even as it rushed beneath a victim’s as-yet unbroken skin—no, he had not been prepared for that, but the poet in him hungered for and gloried in the sensory experience as much as the demon gloried in the sustenance the blood provided.
Drusilla took a microscopic step away from him and ran the injuring finger along the weeping wound before bringing the crimson-slickened digit up to William’s mouth and painting the fullness of his lush lower lip the same vivid red as his blood. Of its own volition his tongue snaked forward, cleaning the fluid off of his lip and flicking teasingly against her fingertip; as the slender digit slid suggestively between his lips, he busied himself with removing every speck of the vital liquid and rejoiced inwardly at the delighted mewls she gave in response to his still-inexperienced erotic attentions. By virtue of closing his eyes to savor the taste of his blood on her flesh and the headiness of her moans, he had been distracted by the tentative explorations of his own burgeoning sensuality and thus hadn’t noticed the raw hunger with which she gazed at the pool of red that was slowly spilling down his chest. Her unanticipated movements surprised him, and he groaned and bucked forward as Drusilla’s tongue slid along his torso, tracing each descending droplet, sliding tauntingly upwards towards the wound she’d inflicted before flicking its way lower to trace yet another errant stripe of crimson. Once the droplets had been tidied, she laved a long and torturously slow lick across the already-mending gash, collecting the last of her childe’s delicious essence before stepping back to gaze at him appraisingly.
“Now is when you learn your true pleasures, my sweet. Now your princess will teach her dark prince all about need and pleasure and the rewards for being a good boy.”
William shuddered at the mingling of promise and threat in her tone but found himself unable to look away from his tormentor. He was transfixed by her lithe figure and was forced to helplessly, hungrily watch her back as she glided effortlessly away from him and towards a large chest that lay near one of the low tables in the room. His cock twitched as he watched her bend forward, his eyes appreciatively observing the contrast of raven against ivory where her hair streamed like water down her back and simultaneously tracing the graceful curve of her spine beneath milk-white skin. He perused her flesh with an avid gaze, joyfully cataloguing every inch of her from the barely visible curve of her shoulder down before freezing as though transfixed on the shapely globes of her ass. For the first time since his lesson had begun he longed to wrench his hand free, to stroke himself as he watched her float back and forth from table to toy box and back again, all ethereal waifishness and predatory grace.
It seemed inconceivable that only days before he had been barely able to imagine the beautiful mystery that was the naked female form; while his fantasies had been vivid and accurate in the most clinical of senses, courtesy of the medical encyclopedias available to all curious young gentlemen, he realized now that they had lacked the vibrancy and vitality that only movement and life (or the version of life that he and Drusilla now exhibited, at any rate) could bestow. The feeling of active muscles and clasping limbs under, above, around him; the portrait of sin and divinity that she embodied as she rode him, every cell in her body actively focused towards finding her bliss, his hands on her hips controlling her pace; the devilish joy of taking her from behind, rutting like animals amid the sounds of flesh striking flesh and the grunts and groans that issued from both of them; the taste of her quim beneath his tongue; the feel of her mouth on his cock. All of these were wholly sensory experiences, experiences that he would doubtless have been without had he remained his innocently reticent self, had he depended upon one-dimensional sketches or scandalous but widely-read novels for his sexual education. He ached for her in a way that he had never thought possible, and he sharply drew in the breath he no longer needed as he watched her straighten and turn towards him. His eyes drank in the curves of her breasts and hips, the contrast of her rosy nipples and the dark hair of her sex with her ivory flesh, and he strained forward against his bonds, desperate to touch her.
Drusilla giggled happily as she watched her lovely boy fight his bindings in his quest to touch her. “Naughty puppy. Ruff,” she teased playfully, placing one slender finger against his lips as he eagerly sought her mouth. “In good time, sweet William… but now is not the moment for quick passion. Now you must to learn how to wait… and need,” she purred seductively, the tip of her tongue tracing the shell of his ear before her teeth closed in a sharp nip against his earlobe.
He gasped and tilted his head, and she continued to tease him with nibbles and sucks of the erotically sensitive flesh while her hand again wrapped around his shaft. William had surrendered to the sensations of her lips and teeth against his ear and thus didn’t realize that she wasn’t simply stroking him until she pulled back and slid her other hand down to his cock. He glanced downward and raised his eyes back to hers in confusion when he saw the leather band that she was wrapping around the very base of his shaft; he had never seen such a device before and couldn’t fathom how such a thing could be helpful in his current state. He longed for answers, entreated her for them silently with his eyes, but Dru simply smiled and repeated, “Now you learn need, my William,” as she fastened the cock ring tightly around him.
He gasped at the pressure and, in a sudden flash of intuition, understood the purpose of the device; the blood pooling in his engorged cock and making him ache with unassuaged need made more than clear exactly what Drusilla’s game was likely to be. The thought of being denied made him tremble violently, muscles twitching spasmodically beneath taut flesh in a manner that made his lover’s eyes glaze as she observed him; it wasn’t the frustration of delay that his rational mind demanded ruling his body’s responses, however, but rather the newly-awakened pleasure center that seemed to know intuitively that the release when it was allowed to come would be dramatically heightened. William surrendered to his intuition to the voice inside him that urged his trust in Drusilla and her touch; biting his lip, he groaned as he felt Dru’s nails slide up the insides of his thighs, pressing hard enough to gouge his skin and leave rivulets of scarlet in their wake.
“Drusilla…. Please….”
“Oh, such a fast learner, my Willie!” Dru clapped her hands giddily, smiling at William so infectiously that he had to return it in kind. “You do see, don’t you, my boy? You know that Princess will make you feel pleasure so bright it will burn inside your eyelids. So bright that even my stars will be jealous. And you’re such a good, smart love, William, to know that you’ll have to beg.”
Her smile had turned just the slightest bit malicious as her last words echoed, and the demon in him exulted as much as the man shuddered. Tonight, apparently, he would be blurring the boundaries between the two, finally subsuming the poet into the passionate lover he’d always longed to become—he hadn’t anticipated that becoming that lover would require him wearing a demon’s face, but he found it hard to argue with destiny. And if he needed to beg to get closer…
“Drusilla… my Princess… my ripe wicked plum… please let me feel your mouth… your hand… anything… please, love…”
“Such lovely names you call me. You make my tummy warm with joy, you do.” Drusilla beamed, the grin doubtless that of a woman whose vanity had been thoroughly caressed, and she slid one hand up to cup his face. “Such a lovely clever boy deserves a treat.”
William forced himself to remain still as Drusilla dropped to her knees in front of him and began to trace her tongue up the thin trails of blood that lined his inner thighs. He fought the urge to gasp and beg each time her mouth approached his sensitive and longing cock, again trusting the instincts that told him that silence and not pleading was required at this juncture. He kept a mental count of the paths her tongue had traced, knowing that eight strokes would be the most he could hope for. He sighed silently as he felt the eighth caress end and dropped his head backwards, determined to hide his frustration, only to raise it again in shock when he felt the first wet caress along his tightened balls.
The shock loosened his tongue, and he gave a long, low groan before murmuring reverently, “God, love… the way you touch me… never even dreamed…”
“You won’t have to dream anymore. Drusilla will take care of you now,” she promised, wicked fingers taking over for her tongue and stroking gentle, torturous paths across his sensitive sac. She giggled delightedly when he tensed and emitted another desperate groan, her pleased laughter ending only when her tongue traced tormentingly slowly up the vein that lined the underside of his shaft. She flicked her tongue against the head of his cock, collecting the drops of precome that had gathered there as she looked up and met his gaze. “So responsive for me, aren’t you, my knight? Your body knows that Mummy will take such good care of you.”
“Please, Drusilla,” he gasped, his tremors returning with a vengeance and causing a slight rattling of the chains that restrained him. “It’s true. I know that you’ll take care of me… gorgeous beautiful rose… please, love… oh yes,” he groaned, the last syllable extended by sibilance as he managed to force his hips forward only a small amount, just enough to push the aching head of his shaft inside her lips.
Drusilla moaned appreciatively and slid her mouth forward down his shaft, stopping only when her lips pressed against the smooth leather of the restraint she had placed upon him. Again she looked up into his eyes as she slid backwards, easing him out of her mouth, and hummed happily over the lust that she found there. Sliding forward faster this time, she paused with him deep inside her throat, contracting the muscles there around him until his groans had become impatient growls and she scented blood on the air; she didn’t need to look upwards to know that her darling boy was fighting his restraints and had torn his lovely hands.
“No, Princess… please…” he begged as she pulled back completely, taking with her the incredible sensations that she had been inflicting. The feel of her lips and tongue along his cock, the sight of her on her knees before him… he had never felt as purely masculine, as in control, as he had the first time she had graced him with her mouth. The combination of being bound and at her mercy with the dominance he felt looking down at her created warring erotic sensibilities to which he could do little but surrender. He didn’t want the strange feelings to end… he wanted to watch her, feel her…
“Hush now. Darling Willie has made a mess… Mummy simply must clean it up,” she soothed, straightening and walking behind him, staring transfixed at the fresh bright blood that dripped down his arm as a result of his struggle against the manacles.
William’s plaintive mewls turned to barely lucid urgings as he felt her cool tongue slide up his arm and around his wrist, flicking under the manacle to both collect all of the liquid there and to tease the raw and hypersensitive skin below. The hardness of his cock was growing more painful by the moment, and he had a brief worry that dire consequences could result from such restraint before her wicked mouth repeated its attentions on his other wounded arm and rational thought became impossible. His totemic chant of “Drusilla… Princess… Love… Please,” echoed through the room without fading and only grew louder when he heard her bones shift and felt her fangs slide yet again into her marks on the ivory column of his throat. He tilted his head to offer her the best possible access, returning the sound in kind when she growled in appreciation before he once again took up his repetitive plea.
Removing her fangs and tenderly cleaning the wounds, careful to maintain the balance of pain and pleasure, Drusilla continued her torment by applying small nips and bites along his throat and down, further… down the beautiful strong shoulders and back, around the curve of his side, across the flat planes of his stomach and then slowly, inexorably, down those same planes again. Each nip was only lightly pressured, designed to torment through the stoking of desire, although perhaps one in every four was sharp enough to create tiny bruises on the alabaster canvas beneath her lips, leaving a trail of vivid purple against the white. Reaching the tender spot just below his belly button, however, she found it impossible to restrain herself to nicks that left his skin unbroken. She allowed one fang to penetrate the tender flesh and shifted sideways, earning a hiss of pain from William and a wellspring of blood from the jagged wound. Shifting back to her human face, she fixed her mouth hungrily over the wound, drinking from him and savoring the moans and growls that formed his response as she worried the edges of the tear in his flesh. Having apparently decided herself sated, she shifted ever lower, earning a near-scream of need from William. She dodged his all-too-evident arousal in her explorations and chose instead to again nip and lick the tender flesh of inner thigh and scrotum, prompting moans of pleasured agony from her new boy as she urged yet more color to rise on her masterwork.
William was absolutely lost to his need. He was trying desperately to do what Drusilla wanted of him, to be obedient and beg for her; the gentleman still inside him demanded it, but the frustration pulsing through his body as a mirror of the pulse of restricted blood in his cock was proving too much for him to bear. What had initially been only slight tremors in the chains that bound him caused by the tension in his muscles had now become full-on attempts at detaching them from their moorings, attempts accompanied by fierce snarls and growls. He was beyond himself now, the bloody awful poet lost inside the desperately aroused demon, and he was overcome with the need to tear himself free and plow into her body, pounding into the welcoming flesh until she screamed his name and he could rend her porcelain skin with his fangs. He wanted the blood, wanted the violence, wanted the pain and the pleasure and primal rutting, and he was prepared at that moment to sacrifice his own hands if it meant he could be free to sate himself. Years later he would look back on this precise moment and know that it was the instant that he truly became a vampire; in the haze of his passion, however, his sole reflections were limited to his cock and how best to relieve the desperate need encapsulated therein.
William cried out in surprise as Drusilla released the locking mechanism and let the rack slam backwards, coming to a rest against its mooring and leaving him flat on his back. He groaned appreciatively as some of the tension drained from his arms and shoulders, relaxing slightly as he braced the back of his head against the crossbar and finding his lower back and hips supported by the device’s heavy base. He realized in an instant, however, that he was now even more handicapped than he had been before, as he was essentially blind, his sight limited to what was before him; the curve of his biceps blocked any peripheral vision, the crossbeam that supported his head prevented him from dropping it backwards to look at anything upside down, and looking down towards his feet provided him a view of nothing but his own cock. He still wasn’t deaf and could, however, barely make out the sound of Drusilla’s footsteps moving away and then approaching again, but she too had calculated his range of sight and stayed just on the periphery.
The whistling noise and sting of the lash across his tender flesh caught him by surprise, and the yelp that it urged from him was mortifyingly unmanly; he couldn’t, however, bring himself to care when it felt as though his torso was on fire. The quick rain of blows from the multi-tasseled flogger created numerous red stripes across alabaster flesh with every stroke; he couldn’t see the welts rise on his flesh but could feel them clearly, each and every one. William wanted to beg her to stop—at least that’s what the voice in his head was chanting over and over with every new flash of fire—but somehow when he opened his mouth the only words that escaped were “More… please… love.” He bucked upwards, wrenching open anew his wounded wrists and feeling the metal dig into his ankles as well, meeting her blows and gasping and panting as the throbbing in his cock became more than unbearable. His head thrashed from side to side and he pled repetitively, insensibly, for release in any way she wanted to grant it, as if the force of his need could transform them into an incantation that would force her to stop the absolutely unbearable erotic torment.
Drusilla seemed somehow to know the exact moment that the experience crossed the line between pain and pleasure, the exact moment that he could have taken no more without surrendering his sensibility; the flogger disappeared, and was replaced instantly with gentle strokes of her cool tongue against each burning welt. She soothed him with mouth and hands for a few moments, stroking her hands along the marks she hadn’t yet kissed before sliding one hand over his chest to caress his face and smooth the heavy damp curls out of his eyes. He nuzzled into the coolness of her hand, whimpering in desperation, but in an instant she was gone, her cool hands removed from his flesh and her figure again out of his line of sight. He knew better than to growl or cry out for her, knew that both fury and subservience would be equally fruitless, and he forced himself to go slack in his restraints and to await Drusilla’s mercy and his pleasure.
It was what she had been waiting for—the final indication that he had been well and truly broken, indoctrinated into his new world. Within an instant of the moment that his muscles lost their tension, his cock was back in her mouth, sliding in and out of her throat as she descended upon him hungrily. This time he couldn’t contain the feral growl or the movement of his hips, but the approving chuckle he could feel contracting her throat around his shaft told him that she didn’t mind his surrender to his instincts. Again he fought hopelessly against his bonds, longing to thrust his fingers into her silken tresses as he thrust himself into her mouth, but he was forced to depend upon his own limited range of motion and her generosity of movement. He felt her fingers against his balls, teasing them lightly, tugging gently, and his growls grew louder, his thrusts jerkier and more demanding. The slight sting of one razor-sharp nail against his shaft frightened him briefly back into silence, until suddenly the blissfully torturous presence of the cock ring was gone, replaced instead by the cool, firm pressure of her lips against the base of his shaft. She pulled back for a moment, only long enough to murmur, “Come for princess, my William,” before returning to her fevered attentions; with the sound of her voice, with her permission, he was lost. His body shuddered spasmodically as he came; each volley of seed felt as though it was ripped from the soul he no longer had, and his gasps and groans echoed off the walls as his hands clenched the chains that bound him and his heels scrabbled for purchase on the boards beneath them.
After a release that somehow felt as though it lasted both moments and hours, William slumped back against the supports beneath him, spent both emotionally and physically. He could still feel Drusilla’s tongue against him, cleaning his cock of his spendings and arousing him anew before rising to her feet and stepping back, releasing the shackles that bound his feet before draping herself atop him as she unfastened his hands as well. He brought his arms down around her as he kissed her ravenously, tongue tangling with hers as he poured all of the passion he had been forced to restrain into the contact.
Pulling back from the kiss, Drusilla gave him a wicked smile. “Such an obedient boy, my William, and you broke so prettily… just like I knew you would. Now take me to bed… Mummy needs her pleasures too, my wicked knight.”
*******
Spike’s mind left the defeated Slayer the instant her neck broke, though the slowing of her heartbeat into nothingness and her jagged, gasping, and futile breaths had formed a sort of backbeat to his train of thought as he waited for the train’s emergency brake to take full effect. Shrugging his shoulders, getting used to the feel of the new heavy leather he had just acquired, he looked back at the fallen warrior on the gritty, dirty car floor; she had been glorious, this one, and a hell of a battle. He was drawn back to her side as the train slowed, mesmerized by the smooth column of her throat; grabbing her roughly by the arm and wrenching her upwards, he sank his fangs into her throat and drank deeply, savoring every last taste even though her pulse had ceased. He placed her upright on the bench seat, her head slumped against the side rail and neatly camouflaging his bite; in that position, she looked like any other late-night partier making her way exhaustedly home after one too many. His fingers ghosted for a brief moment across features that had been so fierce in life; this one had had so much style, such fire inside her… hadn’t been nearly as dedicated to rote training as the other three-quarters of a century before. But the death wish had been the same, he thought with a self-satisfied grin as the train finally lurched to a stop. It had been a very good day… and the night ahead of him was certain to make it even better.
The walk down the empty and pitch-black subway tunnel was of little consequence to Spike; he shifted without a thought, using glittering yellow eyes to gauge his surroundings and the occasional flash of fang to send the human detritus that lurked here in these tunnels skittering back into the shadows like so many rats. The dumbest thing any of them could have done would have been to mistake this predator for prey. Within only a few moments a pulse of warning seemed to have traveled throughout the tunnel; the scavengers had all but disappeared, an occasional glimpse of the whites of eyes or the rarer flash of light-colored clothing, not yet grimy with soil and decay, giving away their hiding places. Any other night, he mused, this place could be a grand time; he would have to bring Drusilla there on a night when a quick feed was all that was needed before they resumed other, more interesting, activities.
But there was no time for that now—not this night; he had plans and a tradition to see to, Spike thought with a self-satisfied sneer as he ran his tongue over his fangs, hoping in vain for a remaining taste of slayer blood lingering on his teeth. He was grateful for the afterthought that had prompted him to drink her down at that last moment; there was nothing else in the world like Slayer blood, and to leave an elixir that potent resting uselessly in her veins would’ve been a shameful waste. He’d be putting it to much better use. The insistent throbbing of his cock prompted him to adjust himself, and he was unable to resist giving his erection a few quick strokes; jaw clenched as he growled low in his throat, he sped his steps as his rampant need combined with his memories of the celebration of his last defeat of a Slayer to elevate his desire to a whole new level of urgency.
That night in China… that night had been everything he’d longed for, everything he’d desired in two decades all accomplished in one glorious, murderous, blood-soaked night. In defeating the Slayer, he had earned the right to top Drusilla for one night, to dominate his sire the way he had been forced by vampiric family law to allow her to dominate him for years before and since. He had made her beg, made her plead, made her cry with need so acute it made her body vibrate within her chains… and tonight he’d earned the right to do it again. As unconventional a sire as his wicked plum had often been, in matters of hierarchy and familial respect she was very much Angelus’ progeny; what that meant for him was that he was the dominated in all such sexual games, unless of course he’d earned special consideration. Greeting her with a mouth and hand stained with Slayer blood and fucking her over the corpse of said Slayer had been enough to earn him such a prize, and tonight he’d earned it anew. He savored the feel of his new, heavy leather souvenir as it fanned behind him while he stalked through the empty tunnel and rehearsed in his head a thousand ways of telling his princess what he’d done. Oh, how proud she’d be. A wholly wicked grin crossed his handsome face as he made plans for his dark beauty; it had been three-quarters of a century since he’d gotten to show her how very nasty her darling childe could be, and he had every intention of reminding her until she could no longer think, could no longer hear any voice but his nor see any stars except for the ones that would burst behind her eyelids.
The ride back into the Village had seemed to take forever, but the walk back into Manhattan from Brooklyn would’ve been a ridiculous waste of time and energy; he could’ve stolen a car, but saw no reason to leave the subway. The wait, however, meant that he was simply more on edge and frenetic by the time he reached their door than he had been in nearly a century; he could feel his dark princess on the other side of the door—god help him but he could smell her and practically taste her—and it took every amount of restraint he’d cultivated throughout his existence to open the door rather than rip it from its hinges.
She was waiting for him, not naked—but very nearly so—in a gown of translucent fabric that did nothing to conceal her nudity; the diaphanous material curved to the roundness of breast and hip, revealing and enhancing the sight of the treasures below in a deeply erotic mockery of modesty. The gleam in her eyes and the smile born of pride and lust on her face warmed his heart, and he was reminded yet again of how much he had come to love this woman in the time they’d had together. More than sire, more than savior, more than lover—she had become his world, and he would lay down all he was to make her happy.
“My William has been hunting tonight,” Drusilla murmured hypnotically, hips swaying seductively though she stayed in place, standing mere feet in front of him. “You’ve done it again, my wicked boy… you put out the dark sun and made the heavens bleed. Miss Edith and I are so proud of you… she couldn’t wait to let you tell your secret to your Princess; she felt what you’d done and had to tell Mummy straight away.” Her hands had joined in the odd seductive rhythm, swirling abstract patterns over her hips before sliding up her stomach to cup her breasts.
“Did she now?” Spike asked, voice husky with lust. He kept his distance, watching his love perform for him; his girl knew the value of a good show.
“She did,” Drusilla answered, eyes wide and childlike for an instant before the pressure of her thumb against her erect nipple turned her gaze heated again. “She heard thunder and the crack of bone, and we chanted out the tick-tick-tick of the dark one’s time as it ran out. So foolish to think that she could best my knight once his mind was set.” She clucked her tongue in reprobation of the dead woman before taking a step closer, eyes flashing gold though her face maintained its human characteristics. “You drank her,” she murmured wonderingly, turning luminous eyes up to him. “Can Princess have her taste?”
The combination of innocence and experience that characterized Drusilla had always driven him to extremes, but the kinderwhore act that she was perpetrating at this moment—so much like the one she had played out against a backdrop of fire in a war-torn city—tore a savage growl from his throat as he lunged towards her and banded his arm around her waist, pulling her tightly against him.
“I’ll be a good girl for you, my Spike,” Drusilla sing-songed, staring deeply into his eyes. Spike was ripped asunder by the lust he found there and he knew in an instant that she had awaited this day as eagerly as he had, had dreamed about it and awakened damp and needy from the dream of it since his worldwide quest for slayers had begun. He ground himself against her and groaned as he felt the dampness soak the denim covering his crotch.
“Such a wet little kitten,” he teased appreciatively, thrusting his hips forward and exulting in the roll of her eyes and the delighted little yelp that issued from her lips.
“I knew it would be tonight… all was set so perfectly upon its axis, my knight, and your victory was in hand. Mummy knew… and she’s been waiting.” The last word was spoken directly against his ear and accompanied by a tantalizing suck of the lobe, and he had rushed her down the short hallway and thrown her across the large makeshift bed before his mind had even processed the need for movement.
“Do you remember how I want you, Drusilla?” he asked, his voice smoky with lust and an undercurrent of threat. Her wide-eyed nod did nothing to diffuse the situation, and he merely raised his eyebrow at her as he crossed his arms over his chest. “In that case, why are you not yet in position? You know I do not like waiting,” he growled, watching her scramble towards the toy chest against the wall to retrieve the heavy manacles before returning to the bed, head bowed submissively the entire time.
Gods, but the woman knew how to play this game. It was all he could do to remain still as he watched her fasten the chains through the thick metal ring in the wall above the head of the mattresses, checking to make sure they were completely secured before moving to the foot of the bed to affix those restraints in the same fashion to the rings in the floor at each corner. She really had remembered—all these years, and she remembered the setup as perfectly as he did. He was overcome by a wave of tenderness that surged through the desperate lust for just the barest moment, only to have it dissolve again, subsumed by his need as he watched her fasten the thick cuffs around her dainty ankles before crawling forward on the mattresses, her perfect ass barely camouflaged by the gossamer of her gown. He moved forward and circled the bed, looking every inch the predator that he was, leaning with an air of calm detachment that he didn’t really feel against the wall by the side of the bed as he watched her lean forward and wrap the manacles around her wrists, their closure marked by the unmistakable grating noise of metal against metal.
That sound went straight to his groin, making him throb to the point that the painful need he felt was nearly tangible; it seemed an entity all its own in this room with them, watching them and feeding off their lust. But the look she gave him—eyes alternating between human and demon each second, burning with an incandescent heat and longing as she gazed up at him through the curtain of long raven hair—that look forced him away from the wall and to her side, and the fragile material of the gown that had been her only pitiful shield from his desires was rent from her in a matter of instants. Drusilla growled ecstatically and arched her back in a catlike invitation for him to touch the now-exposed flesh; the strike of his hand, slapping hard and heavily against her upturned bottom, seemed to surprise her, and yet she pushed backwards into his hand as best she could, seeking further contact.
Spike pulled back with a malicious chuckle, smirking when he heard the kittenish whimper she emitted as he started to walk away. The sound of his boots seemed somehow magnified in the near-silent room; the tiny useless pants issuing from Dru and his own jagged breaths, stemming from his attempts at control, provided the only counterpoints to his footsteps. He shrugged out of tonight’s prize, draping the leather almost fawningly over the back of a chair before tugging impatiently at the rest of his clothing. He didn’t have the patience or the inclination to undo the damned safety pins that held his shirt closed, instead choosing to grab a handful and tear it off as he ripped at his belt with the other hand. He hissed as one of the pins ripped the tender skin of his palm, but the slight grimace shifted into a sneer as he heard Drusilla’s low growl; she smelled her childe’s blood, she wanted it, and more importantly he knew exactly why she wanted it—because it was his, because it contained the essences of two dead slayers, because it was as powerful and nuanced as her childe himself.
Spike leaned down to remove his boots quickly, tearing at the buckled straps and laces and kicking them off as soon as the last bond was released. His footsteps could now be silent; he could now show this woman in his bed just what a predator he’d become through her intervention. Her sharp intake of breath as he slid one roughened hand up her leg in a torturously sensual path from ankle to upper thigh told him that she was indeed surprised by his sudden contact, and the bleeding hand he clamped across her mouth at the very moment he brought the studded belt down across her arched back left her crying out desperately into his palm, even as she suckled vigorously on the rapidly-healing wound. A few more quick lashes with the metal-laced leather, placed across the globes of her ass and then the tender flesh of her upper thighs, and he felt her shift against his hand for an instant, ripping a new gash in his flesh before allowing her demonic features to recede and feeding hungrily on the powerful liquid that sang through his lifeless veins.
He removed his hand, furious that she’d blatantly defied the rules, and gave her a small but stinging slap, leaving a crimson streak against the pale perfection of her face. Sliding his wounded hand up into her hair, he tugged on a handful of the locks, pulling her head roughly back and forcing her to meet his angry gaze. “You do NOT touch me without my permission, Drusilla. Not with your lips, not with your tongue, and most importantly NOT with your fangs. You are in MY power tonight, and you will remember that or you will ache… for… days. I will see to it. Can you remember that?” he growled commandingly, his words slow and precise and unbearably erotic in their very brutality. He wanted her to fight him, to misbehave… he wanted to hurt her, to make her scream, to make her beg. He knew she wouldn’t let him down.
“Your Princess understands,” Drusilla answered meekly, eyes wide and just a touch fearful. Spike knew that she didn’t doubt that he’d hurt her—only in the best possible ways, of course, but he wouldn’t refrain from causing real injury—if she crossed him again. Satisfied by the submission that again characterized her demeanor, he stepped back and worked the button and zip on the jeans that had held him imprisoned for far too long already. His cock ached from being pressed against the cold, unforgiving metal of the zipper, and he hissed in relief as the loose denim pooled around his ankles. He stepped out of the pants and walked to collect the scraps of Dru’s gown, folding them carefully until the layers became much more opaque than the single thickness of the fabric had been.
His focus had been so complete that he hadn’t realized that he had again approached his beauty, and he was more than a bit surprised to realize that he was standing by her side. He ghosted his fingers along her cheek, reveling in the little purr that she gave as she nuzzled his hand, and then brought the makeshift blindfold to her face, covering her eyes and tying a quick but secure knot of the loose ends. She whimpered as she realized her new impediment, and he smirked and gave her another small slap as punishment for the criticism implicit in the whimper. “Not a bloody sound, Dru. Not without permission. Would you like to tell me the other rules, or should I punish you for forgetting?” That punishment would be a bit unfair, he thought to himself; he had, after all, constructed the rules on the spur of the moment seventy-seven years ago, and they had never been used since. They were, however, burned into his brain—and he was testing her, he realized suddenly; he wanted to know if that night had truly been as significant to her as it had been to him. “You may speak, Drusilla—but only if you’re certain that you remember.”
“I’m not to move or speak without your permission, and then only to answer your questions or to satisfy a request. The only noises I may make without your permission are those that please you—no words, or I shall be breaking the rules. If you wish silence, you can punish me for any sound at all. I can ask no questions of you or you will punish me. Any toy in the chest is fair game for you to use.” She drew in a ragged breath and shuddered slightly at the feeling of the embellished leather of his belt tracing over her ass and lower still, teasing the damp folds of her sex. Gulping audibly, she continued, “I remain in the shackles until sunset tomorrow unless you decide to set me free earlier. If you do set me free and then wish me shackled again you may do so without warning or complaint from me. I may come only when you wish it and give me permission. If I break any of the rules, you will decide my punishment on the spot and I cannot argue.” Her list was again disturbed, this time by the tiniest cry she could manage as the teasing leather was slapped in a quick blow against her sensitive clit, and Spike watched appreciatively as her arms buckled for an instant before locking once again. “And at the end, if I’ve been a very good girl, you’ll let me feed from you and taste the Slayer.” She turned her head in his direction and gave him a charming, guileless smile—the smile of a schoolgirl who’d mastered to perfection a particularly difficult lesson—and he found himself smiling in response, though she couldn’t see it.
“Very good, princess. Such a smart girl, you are,” he murmured, bending to whisper his praise against her ear before tracing the point of his wicked teasing tongue along her jawline, stopping his progress only to move his attentions to her parted lips. The strokes of his tongue against her lips were teasing as well, at first, though the light caresses soon gave way to insistent thrusts into her mouth as the kiss became ravenous. Breaking away from her, panting, he knelt on the mattress, moving forward until he was directly in front of her. “Show me how clever you can be, Drusilla,” he murmured, voice gravelly and seductive, as his hand returned to her hair, tangling in the long strands. “Suck me.”
He had ordered her to do it, but even with that foreknowledge he was staggered, the swiftness with which she engulfed him causing a bolt of pure carnal pleasure to run directly to the core of his being and nearly knocking him backwards. One moment he was in front of her, hard and throbbing and waiting, and the next he was buried deep in her throat, her tongue drawing tantalizing patterns along the underside of his shaft as she slid her mouth up and down his length. “Christ, Dru,” he groaned, his other hand rising to join the one already on the back of her head, both of them tightening as he began to rock his hips in time with her movements. He didn’t believe that anyone, ever, could be more perfect for him than the wicked vixen before him; she had shown him this world and held his hand through it, and she still thrilled him utterly after all this time.
Spike slid closer to her, parting his knees and positioning himself so that his balls were directly over her bound hands; never one to waste an opportunity, Drusilla immediately began to tease them with her fingers in perfect rhythm with the movements of her mouth along his cock. The little humming noises of satisfaction that she was making caused the muscles in her throat to contract around him, serving to ratchet up his desire even further, and he growled as he fisted his hands tightly and began to fuck her mouth in earnest. Spike knew he wouldn’t last much longer, could feel the tell-tale tightening of his balls that indicated it was all but over, and began pistoning mindlessly into Dru’s welcoming mouth; just as he reached the edge of the precipice, one wickedly clever finger slid back from his balls to tease and then enter the puckered aperture of his ass. Demonic features slid to the fore as he surrendered control, snarling as he felt his seed jet from him in rapid spurts. His head dropped back and he gasped desperately for air, collapsing backwards onto the mattress to evade the continuing kittenish strokes of Dru’s tongue against his hypersensitive cock. He gazed down at her, golden eyes fading back to blue as he watched her lick her lips and give him a wicked grin, her need and lust clear in every line of her face. It looked like the perfect time to escalate the game.
He stepped off the mattress without a word and crossed silently to the large toy chest against the wall, smirking when Drusilla whimpered at his absence. “Hush,” he warned huskily, smirk transforming into a wicked grin when he saw her bite her lip to quiet her wordless protests. Her arousal was almost tangible, perfuming the air to such a degree that it nearly made him light-headed with want, but it was more than just her arousal that was making him throb mere moments after having lost himself. She was just a perfect portrait of rampant desire, his dark beauty—naked and glorious against red silk sheets, ivory skin and raven hair gleaming in counterpoint to the sumptuous fabric; body taut and trembling against the chains that bound her; blinded by the fabric that covered her eyes and yet still perfectly attuned to his location, her face turned towards him and swollen ruby lips parted with the issuance of panting breaths. She was utterly, brilliantly perfect.
Spike’s eyes narrowed as he noticed movement in her legs, and he watched as she shifted by almost infinitesimal degrees, bringing her thighs closer together in what he immediately recognized as an attempt to alleviate some of the desperate ache in her core. He reached down into the open chest and withdrew the largest of the whips, knowing exactly the distance that the long leather strap was capable of covering. The smile that had softened as he mused over her beauty once again became an almost malicious grin, and he flicked his wrist, sending the leather flying across the empty space between he and Drusilla and striking directly across the tender flesh where her thighs joined her ass. He had caught her off guard—the shriek that escaped her lips told him that—and he chuckled and repeated the blow a few more times as he spoke to her in a low voice that he knew she was perfectly capable of hearing. “Looks like someone’s forgotten the rules, Drusilla. I make you come. You do not attempt to bring yourself pleasure or you will ache, Dru. I will make what you are receiving now look like the tenderest of caresses if I catch you trying to pleasure what is mine again. Am I making myself abundantly clear?” he asked, each statement and question punctuated by another lash as he circled the foot of the bed in a wide arc, making sure each blow came from a slightly different angle—always expected, yet never predictable. He smelled blood and knew that she’d bitten through her lip in her attempts to be quiet; his memory triggered, he gave her a last quick stroke with the lash for the newly-recalled transgression of the scream she had failed to contain when he’d first brought the whip down along her flesh. Walking back to the head of the bed, he grabbed her chin with an unforgiving hand and turned her face up towards him, pushing the blindfold out of the way to stare into her lust-crazed eyes. “You may answer me, Drusilla. Am I being clear as to what’s expected of you?”
“Yes sir,” she whimpered meekly, tongue darting out to clean the blood off of her lower lip only to disappear just as quickly under the force of his raised eyebrow and threatening growl. Her eyes were raised in supplication as she wordlessly begged permission to speak, and he gave her only the barest nod in approval. “Would you like to kiss your princess, my Spike? I’m afraid she’s made a terrible mess of her lips… I’m all bloody,” she whispered, managing to sound both the meek child and the experienced seductress. Spike descended on her lips then, still holding her face in a steely grip as he ran his tongue along her bruised and bloodied lower lip before taking it between his teeth and worrying the already-torn flesh.
“That’s more like it, pet. That’s what I expect from you,” he murmured as he drew back from her lips, his pleasure at her deference suffusing his tone. “Make your Spike happy, love… that’s your focus right now. I’ll see to you good an’ proper, but you have to take care of me first.” He gave her a sharp glare when her mouth opened again to speak, and she snapped it closed as quickly as possible, giving him a meek little smile in apology for her error. His scarred eyebrow lifted, and a sharp crack of the whip across her back, the tip of the leather curving around her ass, accompanied the sharp slap he administered to her face. “None of that. Every time I think I’ve got my good little girl back, you go and get cheeky. It does not please me, Drusilla. One would almost think you want punishment.”
Of course she wanted it, Spike thought to himself. She wanted it every bit as badly as he wanted to give it to her. This was what they were, at their very basic core—creatures of the id, sex and violence and lust and blood and danger and desire. His hand traced her features—delicate bone, porcelain skin, trembling lips—and he found himself giving her a tender smile, although the look in his eyes dared her to even think about returning it. She maintained her submissive aspect, looking up at him beseechingly with downcast eyes through thick lashes, and he growled low in his throat in response to the chord that her behavior struck so deep within him, the bit of the gentleman inside that came out at the damnedest times and demanded that he be gentle with the lady. Spike danced gentle yet determined fingers across her cheek to tangle once again in the makeshift blindfold, smiling with a combination of relief and satisfaction when her desperate, pleading, lust-filled eyes were again concealed. So hard to play this game when William was demanding her bliss, he thought idly; so hard to deny the demon when it reveled in her need and her submission.
Mindlessly coiling the thin leather strap around his hand, he again began his slow circuit around the bed, taking in the lovely ruby lash marks that decorated the canvas of her flesh and ever so casually uncoiling the whip and making more. Several strikes across the backs of her thighs and the curve of her ass; one across the bottoms of her feet, just for the thrill of seeing her jerk against her bonds at the stinging pain to the usually-pampered flesh. Across her back as he stood on her right side, and then a quick underhanded blow that somehow managed to strike directly across her hardened nipples and caused the scent of blood to again perfume the air as Drusilla bit through her lip yet again. Pacing his way silently to the foot of the mattress, he administered another sharp underhanded strike that landed the tip of the lash directly against her clit, causing her hips to buck and prompting two more of the same concentrated strokes.
Taking pity on her as he watched her shudder with need and desire, every muscle taut with restraint and longing as she whimpered and mewled helplessly in supplication, he shot random strokes of the lash towards her as he moved quickly to the open toy chest; he cocked his head to the side, determining that she had been marked enough with that particularly toy, before dropping the whip carelessly inside. It had done its job quite well… but now there were other, more pressing issues to be addressed. He rummaged in the box for a few moments before coming across the item he sought and extracting it, picking up and then discarding a few other toys before finding exactly what he hadn’t known he was looking for. If Drusilla couldn’t watch her own mouth and keep quiet… well, he wouldn’t be a proper master without helping her achieve his orders, now would he?
“Open your mouth, Drusilla,” Spike ordered, crossing to the bed and kneeling on the mattress. After fitting the rubber ball between her teeth and fastening the strap at the back of her head, he stopped to observe his handiwork and couldn’t repress the self-satisfied smirk. Still beautiful—such a tableau of submission was his girl. Brushing a soft kiss against her neck, just below her jaw, he murmured, voice laced with obviously false regret, “If only you’d proven yourself capable of remaining quiet on your own, love,” delighting in the little shiver that quaked down her spine. He stood again, tracing his fingertips lightly down her side, more a promise of a touch than an actual caress. Her shivers became full-on tremors of lust, and he could hear tiny beseeching noises escaping the impediment of the gag as she tried in vain to arch herself into his touch. “Uh-uh-uh,” he taunted playfully, removing his fingers from her skin but keeping them just over her flesh, close enough that he was certain she was still aware of and driven insane by their presence.
“What does it take to get you to mind, you gorgeous willful bitch?” he mused to himself as he reached the foot of the bed, standing behind her and tilting his head to watch her involuntary backward thrusts. “Maybe you need something… anything… to fill that void? Want something inside that pretty little cunt of yours? Could that be it, princess?” He was closer to her than she’d sensed, and he took advantage of that fact by bringing the molded plastic beads into contact with her slickened lips, teasing gently for only an instant before shoving the strand roughly inside her, filling her dripping core and causing her to emit a scream that managed to echo through the room, even blocked as it was by the gag. She pushed back desperately, and he relished the need she was exhibiting—she truly was lost, was completely his—she was ravenous for him.
“You are not to come until you have my permission, Drusilla. If you forget that I will be more than angry.” Her backwards thrusts ceased instantly, replaced by violent trembling as she held herself just on the verge. Tired of denying himself, he gave his cock a few cursory strokes before centering himself behind her. “Think these need to find their proper home first,” he said as he withdrew the beads from her pussy, noting the way they shimmered with her juices even in the dim light of the room. He pressed them against the tight little pucker of her ass for an instant, tormenting her with the pressure, before gripping the ring and ramming them fully inside her as his cock sank deep into her vacant core.
One hand gripped her hip tightly as he began pounding mercilessly into her while the other raced forward to fist in her hair, tugging her head backwards. Her scream when he’d entered her had not gone unnoticed, nor had the numerous mewls and groans that had begun in time with his thrusts and which had only risen in volume. Tugging her hair hard enough to cause her serious discomfort, he growled, “One chance to make up to me, Drusilla, for all the noise you’re making. Fuck yourself back on to me… fuck me good, and I’ll still let you come.” He let go of her hair with his last word and froze, still buried deep in her grasping depths, determined to force her to work for her pleasure. Drusilla made up for his lack of movement instantly, slamming herself back with all the force she could muster, working her muscles around his cock to make up for her limited range of motion and even managing to add a bit of movement to her hips.
It took everything he had to remain unmoving, but Spike was both determined and stubborn; after a few minutes of her stellar efforts he brought his hand to the ring from the strand of beads and gave it a sharp twist, rotating them in her ass and causing another desperate, if muffled, scream. That sound broke him more than anything else; he wanted to hear her scream, and he wanted to come. He’d held off for long enough. His hands resumed their previous positions on her hip and in her hair as his hips returned to their punishing thrusts, but this time the hand in her hair worked frantically to unfasten the buckle that held the gag in place. He felt the strap give and darted his hand forward, prying the ball free from her mouth and tossing it to the side. Her unmuffled groan, a mixture of lust and relief, was the sweetest noise he could’ve imagined, and he felt his balls begin to tighten in response.
“Do you want to come, Drusilla? Do you want to come with me?” Spike ground out as he pounded into her mercilessly, pursuing his own pleasure even as he promised her her own.
“Yes, please,” Dru gasped in response, voice needy and hoarse. “Please let me come, my Spike… please… ‘ve tried so hard to be a good girl…” she panted, pushing back to meet each punishing thrust.
“Yes you have… perfect… beautiful… glorious… girl,” he groaned, knowing that he was mere moments from losing his last vestige of control. The hand in her hair pulled her head back as the hand from her hip shot forward and he pressed his wrist against her parted lips. “Drink, pet… take… your… prize… and come.”
Spike’s cock jerked in release as he felt Drusilla’s fangs slice through his tender flesh and her walls clamp down on him simultaneously, squeezing him tightly as he spilled inside her; his orgasm forced hers, and her walls clenched spasmodically around him as she growled and sucked hungrily at his proffered wrist, draining him of both blood and seed.
He allowed her to continue to feed for a few moments after their orgasms had passed, too drained to pull away, before snapping back to himself and wrenching his arm free, tearing the flesh due to Drusilla’s still-embedded fangs. Pulling his cock from her but leaving the beads in place, Spike stretched out languorously by her side, untying the blindfold and lapping at his dripping arm as he met Drusilla’s sated but questioning gaze.
“Got somethin’ to say?” Spike asked, eyebrow raised as he watched her nibble her lower lip for an instant.
“Might I… wasn’t I a good girl?” she asked plaintively, eyes wide and childlike, seeking approval and succor.
“Course you were, princess,” he answered reassuringly. “You were perfect, love. But you already know that. You got your taste, didn’t you?” Spike knew exactly what she was trying so intently to not ask, but he had more than earned the right to watch her squirm.
And squirm she did, still worrying her lower lip as she began to wring her hands, obviously trying to find the phrasing for the question she shouldn’t dare ask. “But…” she began, fingers indicating the chains though she dared not speak the rest of her query.
“Oh, the chains… love, those aren’t going anywhere for a while,” he murmured seductively, raising his lips to hers and drawing her into a kiss. “Sundown is still hours away, Drusilla.”
*******
But oh, it was fun to taunt the Slayer, to curl his tongue up behind his teeth when he caught her looking in his direction, to press his hips forward in just the right way when her gaze drifted down—which it was doing more and more. She could deny it all she wanted, turn away all doe-eyed and flushed, but she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off of him since the moment that spell had taken hold, and maybe even before. The Slayer had been awfully eager to find reasons to manhandle him since he’d turned up starving on the Watcher’s doorstep, he realized with a sudden flash of insight, a tumble of memories brought to the fore by residual lust and forced self-reflection. She’d spent so much time tying him up, shackling him down, taunting him with her nearness and glimpses down her blouses—on reflection, it cast the kittenish way she’d curled into his lap and given in to his caresses in a whole new light. Could it be that Angelus’ pure little Our Lady of Sunnydale had really grown up and thrown off the confines of the box into which his grandsire had tried to put her? Not that she didn’t still have the prissy aura about her—the little cardigan sweatersets and prim little skirts gave her a kind of 1950s secretary vibe—but there was something underneath it all, something hungry and primal beneath the cashmere and the soft floral scents in which she wreathed herself. He just wanted to find out how deep that something ran—and it wouldn’t hurt his feelings any if he got to be the one to do the excavating.
Spike thought it somehow suited her to be both the powerful and shameless killer of demonkind and a demure young woman; a regular mythical archetype, Diana the Virgin bloody Huntress she was. But that whole deal was getting a bit, well… old, for lack of a better word, and thanks to Red’s wonky mojo he knew he wasn’t the only one who thought so. He still hated her, of course, so much it made him quiver—wouldn’t let himself even consider forgetting that little fact—but that didn’t stop him from nearly salivating at the thought of all that sexual naivete just waiting for the corrupting. He’d seen it and felt it during the spell—the heat and the scent coming off of her had made him long to rip the whiny Watcher’s throat out a time or two in pursuit of a few quiet moments together—and during the few quieter moments they’d actually had she’d confessed as much as he’d already managed to suss out from her wandering hands and the perpetually wiggling bum in his lap. She was ready to let go, to stretch her boundaries and give the rest of the big bad world a try… lucky for her, he was determined to be the Big Bad who showed it to her.
All he had to do now was find a way to get her alone, out of this bloody zoo of teenybopper traffic and into a nice quiet little room where he could work a little of his charm. He didn’t think she’d go easy; she wouldn’t give in without a bit of a struggle to what she was obviously still feeling. No matter how much she might want him deep down, he was, after all, evil. He was the antithesis of her precious Angel, and just as much of an opposite to the cardboard frat boy that had been her second and the farm boy that was currently attempting to make her heart pitter-pat so that he could be her third. The lovely little grab for normal wasn’t working as well as she seemed to be trying to convince herself it was, though; her heart had pounded more in the few hours in his arms than it had any time she had mentioned the prat that Red seemed so keen on linking her up with. He didn’t know when any of them would realize that normal just wasn’t good enough for his little Slayer; no, she needed… Wait a mo. When in the bloody hell had she become HIS anything? He growled in annoyance, as if to warn away his own traitorous thoughts, and earned a curious stare from Buffy that somehow again ended up sweeping from his eyes to his crotch, where a deeply painful hardness had begun to form in response to his mental wanderings. This time her eyes widened and shot back up to his face, and he just couldn’t smother the chuckle that surged in his chest.
“Don’t look so shocked, Goldilocks,” he murmured just low enough so that she—and only she—could hear him. “Not like there’s any surprise down there for you. You were all over it last night… would’ve thought you had it, well, committed to memory,” he taunted, eyebrow raised as he nodded pointedly at her hand and the skull ring that was still affixed there.
“Nothing got committed, you egomaniac,” she hissed back, crossing the small space between them hurriedly to head off any louder allegations he might make. “Not us, not… that… not anything. It was the spell,” she finished weakly, the mantra she’d been repeating for hours still sounding to his ears—and, judging by the look on her face, to her own as well—as hollow as it had sounded when she’d leapt off of him in the crypt and stormed towards the Watcher’s house, bemoaning “lips of Spike” even as she slowed her steps to make sure that he caught up to her and shared in the complaints. She was cute when she was in denial.
“Uh-huh. And the ring, then? Was it just the thing to match that pretty little fluffy bunny sweater, pet?” he added, holding her gaze and smirking as her flush grew deeper.
“NO!” she yelped, prompting a few inquiring stares from the couch contingent that she quickly deflected with an apologetic grin and a muttered, “It’s just Spike being Spike.” Turning back to him, again all flash and fury, she said, “Look, I wore the damn ring so I could give it back to you. You’re all poor and unable to pillage and plunder and stuff now, so I thought you might want it back. If you don’t, I’ll be happy to take it… maybe let Willow practice the voodoo she’s been researching in her spare time…” Her last words had been spoken with a wicked grin, taunting yet flirtatious, and Spike wondered if she even knew how much of herself she was giving away the longer she talked to him. Already he could smell her… was just too bad he couldn’t talk her into scooting forward a bit, or even talk her onto her knees. Either would do nicely, really—but the thought pictures were doing nothing for the persistent hardness of his cock.
He shifted to alleviate some of the pressure, and she caught the movement and straightened abruptly, protesting, “Gross, Spike,” as she flounced towards the door. “Willow, are you coming? I have a date to get ready for,” she declared pointedly, looking at Spike before flicking her gaze back to Willow. Red went when called like she always did, followed by the puppy boy and his demon bint, and Spike found himself alone with the Watcher yet again. A few complaints about the lack of Weetabix and the hunger pangs it was causing him caused the Watcher to storm out towards either the grocery or the liquor store—and either was good in Spike’s estimation—and he was blissfully, blessedly, alone.
~~~
It took him only a few seconds to work his arms and the rope that bound them upward; with his hands and arms free, he simply lifted them over his head before pushing his leg bonds down towards the floor as well. Honestly—regular-ply rope was supposed to hold a master vampire? He might be toothless—and he would see to it that THAT condition was temporary at best—but he wasn’t a complete fledgling nit. It had worked in the beginning because he was so damned weak with hunger that he’d had to conserve all of his energy for staying alert and undusted; but now, with all of his strength back, what did they think they were playing at? He’d only let himself get lashed down this last time because Buffy had lingered a bit over the wrapping of the rope and the tying of the knots. She’d spent some quality time on her knees in front of him, and that alone was worth the price of playing along with the Scoobies’ little restraint charade.
But if he had his way… god how he wished she’d had some sort of reason to stay behind or to come back and face him in the empty house… the lessons he could start to teach that one. He’d turn all that uppity do-gooder spirit on its head, make her scream for him while he put it to her in every room of this blasted Watcher’s prison. As if the thought conjured her, a bright blonde figure ducked back inside the front door, calling his name, and a predatory grin curved his lips. Seems sometimes vamp prayers got answered, too.
“Spike, I just realized I took your stupid ring and…” The look on her face was priceless as she turned to see him up and moving around, approaching her with all the swagger of his Big Bad days—like she somehow hadn’t believed it possible. “You’re… loose. How did you get loose? Does Giles know? ‘Cause you can’t just go traipsing around Sunnydale even if you are all flaccid. You’re still all evil and snarky and… PUT ME DOWN!”
“Not a chance in all hell, Slayer. Gonna show you just how not flaccid I am once and for all—might even make you eat your words,” Spike growled angrily, bringing his free hand down in a sharp smack against the tight little ass that was right next to his face due to the fireman’s carry into which he’d lifted her. He took the stairs two at a time, laughing at her squirming and the ineffectual little kicks she was giving his torso. “Now, now, Slayer, you’ve got better than that… I’ve felt it. Bet you use more than this when you’re training with the Watcher… don’t you wanna give it me good, Buffy? Now’s your chance… Big Bad sweeping you off your feet and running away with you… One might even think you wanted me to keep a hold on you, pansy way you’re fightin’ back an’ all,” he taunted, knowing full well that his smirk had carried into his tone and knowing just as clearly that Buffy was giving the fight every bit of energy she planned to put up. She might be shaking her head in denial, but the proof was in the punching, and she could’ve taken him down with barely an effort, given his inability to fight back. She hadn’t, and even the token punches she was giving his shoulders had turned into something much closer to a caress; the final nail in her denial coffin was the fact that he could smell the musk of her arousal so sharply it was making him dizzy.
“’s that so? Guess I’ll have to grip a little tighter,” he replied sarcastically, shifting so that each hand gripped a firm little cheek before raining a couple of sharp blows on each with his free hand. Her indignant yelp made his chuckle morph into a deep laugh, the laugh growing louder when he realized that her squirming all seemed to edge her closer to his face… and to arch her ass up into his hands. “Come ON, Slayer. You’re not even fighting me. Would’ve thought a pure little princess like you might put up a little more struggle… warrior for the light about to be defiled by evil, and all. Seems to me like you’re a little too eager.”
“Oh for love of… Spike, get over yourself. Are you going to fuck me or lecture me? It’s not like I don’t know what you’re doing, and I want to get it out of my system just as bad as you do. So we’ll get naked, get it on, and get over it,” she declared, rolling her eyes as he dropped her onto the bed. Spike watched as Buffy looked around, taking in her surroundings for the first time. “And ewww. We are NOT doing this here. Giles’s bed is a no-naughty zone. Nuh-uh.”
Spike caught her as she tried to stand, gripping her shoulders in a hold she’d probably forgotten he was capable of and pushing her back down to the bed. “We are doing this here, Slayer. And as for whether I’m going to fuck you or lecture you, something tells me you could use some teaching. So why don’t you just strip down,” his voice dropped to a low drawl as his hands drifted to the buttons on the fluffy little cardigan and began to work them free, “lay back, and let me show you a thing or two?” He heard her heart rate pick up, her pulse rabbiting crazily as she turned glazed but defiant eyes up to him. Oh yes… pretty little girl wanted to learn… and badly, by the looks of it. Every now and then, the planets aligned and made him feel like he was a lucky, lucky bastard; staring at the flushed little goddess with the parted glossy lips and heaving breasts in front of him, he knew that now was one of those times.
He stepped back and cocked his head, watching her steadily as her lust-filled gaze grew a little confused by his departure. He could see that she wanted him, that his name and a plea were on the tip of her tongue, and he resolved to hold out until she spoke her need out loud. It was almost a battle of wills, her staring beseechingly at him while he watched her with a smug detachment that took all of his long years of experience as a hunter to maintain. Then finally, gloriously, that pretty little mouth opened and her desires became words.
“Spike? I thought we were gonna… you know. What… why are you not here… anymore?” she asked, confusion and concern warring in her eyes.
“Nothing for me to do yet, Slayer,” he answered gruffly, dragging his eyes up and down her frame once more. It was the concern and self-consciousness in her gaze that called to his inner William and softened his gaze and his tone; he didn’t want to be nice to her—he didn’t even like her—but that little voice in his head told him it would be shameful to let her think that this experience meant nothing. It was scratching an itch and getting a bit of his own back, nothing more than that, but that was still something to him—it was letting him prove that he was still a man, even if he wasn’t exactly a proper vamp anymore. “Undress for me, luv,” he demanded, tone still gruff but softer this time, and he watched appreciatively as she stood on shaky legs and crossed her arms, grabbing the hem of her camisole.
“Fine. But I’m not doing a little dance or anything,” she warned, chin jutting out defiantly even as she complied with his direction and started to raise the fabric upwards.
He couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped or avoid the fact that it damn near brought him to tears. That was Buffy in a nutshell—so strong, so defiant, and still so eager to please and to experience. All she needed was to get the last word. When his laughter finally subsided, he raised his eyes back to her and froze, a lump forming in his throat as he caught sight of her standing there in the little scrap of nothing that he supposed was designed to pass as a bra. The small feminine smile on her face, though—that told him something important, too. “No need for any kind of dance, luv. Just… off with the rest of it, yeah?” he asked huskily, hand drifting down to adjust himself as he watched her slide her hands back to the zipper on her skirt. He heard the slide of metal on metal and saw in his peripheral vision the material puddle to the floor, but every ounce of attention he had was honed in on the matching scrap of froth that covered light brown curls and little else.
“Your turn.” The husky tone of her voice caught him a bit off guard, and he had shrugged off the crimson overshirt before he’d realized he was in motion. Wicked little minx was nearly as hypnotic as Dru was when she wanted to be… who said humans didn’t have thrall? He whipped his t-shirt over his head in one fluid movement, turning his smirk on her as he heard her sharp gasp. “Who knew?” she murmured quietly to herself as she moved towards him, her fingers dancing over the lines of his abs before dropping to the top button of his jeans.
“Thought it was my turn to take the stage, pet,” he said, brushing his lips against her temple as she worked first one button, then another, loose from their fastenings. She didn’t seem to hear him, instead pushing impatiently on his half-unbuttoned denims and forcing them down over his narrow hips. He leaned back slightly and groaned in relief as he felt his cock spring free, grinning as he took in the look on her face as her eyes darted from his face to his crotch and back again.
“Wanted to see you…” she whispered, frozen in place as her eyes locked with his and a flush crept up from her chest to pinken her cheeks. “Wanted to know if I was right about… you know… what I thought I could feel… from the lap snuggling and stuff and… well…”
“Were you right, Slayer? Had the measure of me, did you?” he asked, stepping out of his jeans and in the same motion moving towards her, edging her backwards towards the bed.
“I was close,” Buffy answered, freezing again as her thighs brushed the edge of the mattress.
Spike’s hands gripped her shoulders again, this time with less iron in their hold, and he pushed her gently down until she was sitting, then gave her another slight push that knocked her flat. Something had frozen Miss Priss up good and proper; little chit was never that easy to knock down. He watched her face closely, feeling that he could almost see her thought process with all its twists and turns in each twist of her lips or furrow of her brow, and he stayed standing at the edge of the bed until she’d brought herself to whatever decision she was gearing up towards. In a matter of moments, it seemed, the matter was decided; a sly smile transformed her features as she met his eyes again, and she scooted backwards, positioning herself against the pillows before crooking a finger at him.
“Don’t you have some things to teach me? I was promised lessons.”
And there it was—the gauntlet thrown. *Oh, foolish, brilliant, gorgeous little girl… what have you done?*
“’m a man of my word… think you know that by now,” he answered, kneeling at the foot of the bed and crawling slowly upwards, allowing the tip of his tongue to glide along one tanned leg from ankle to mid-thigh, stopping only when he heard Buffy’s sharp gasp and noticed out of the corner of his eye the accompanying upward surge of her hips. Centering himself over her, he lunged forward, stopping with his face directly over the ridiculous scrap of lace still shielding her from his sight and taking a deep breath in before looking up and giving her a slow, languid grin—the smile of a man who was determined to make the woman on the receiving end of that look beg for her pleasure. “Somethin’ you wanted me to see?” he asked nonchalantly as he slid his fingers teasingly slowly up her inner thigh, taking in without comment or reaction the way she shook beneath his touch. He had known she was aroused—no amount of sensory deprivation could’ve permitted him to ignore that fact—but he was stunned by the soaking dampness that greeted the index finger he teased lightly over the scanty material. “God, Slayer,” he gasped, so affected by the discovery that he was unable to maintain even a pretense of detachment as he slid the questing digit under the material and ever-so-slightly between the damp curls.
Her guttural groan had him shooting his free hand down to clamp around the base of his cock in a desperate and perfectly-timed attempt to hold off his orgasm. Wouldn’t have done to spill himself like a schoolboy on her, now would it? Except… Buffy whimpered above him, and he realized that he’d removed his hand in his rush to restrain his pleasure; glancing upwards to her flushed, hungry face and then further to the sturdy wood frame behind her head, he had a wicked flash of inspiration. *Maybe it would.* Feeling secure enough now to resume his crawl, he moved sinuously over her, tip of his tongue teasing her bellybutton and a path between her breasts before sliding provocatively over the side of her throat, punctuated by a tiny nip just below her earlobe. Buffy closed her eyes in response, and that instant of distraction gave him all the time he needed; he shifted his weight to his knees and one hand shot up to tug one of the watcher’s long neckties loose from the bedpost while the other hand grasped both of hers and lifted them above her head. *Was certainly courteous of Rupert to be messy with his clothes,* Spike mused has he wrapped the loop of the tie over Buffy’s wrist before sliding the free end through the headboard. She had come aware by this time and was watching him warily, tensed but not struggling; he felt strangely warm at the apparent faith she had in him as he worked the ends of the silk into knots around the post.
“I can get free, you know. Slayer strength and all,” Buffy said, lust beginning to take over her features again, warring with the defiance that was so much a part of who she was and softening the lines that the nervous shyness and momentary doubt had caused to form between her brows.
“True enough,” Spike answered agreeably, finishing his knot and moving to stand by the bed, looking down at her. “But if you wiggle your hands a little, you’re gonna notice that knot tightenin’ up. The more you try to get loose,” he purred seductively, fingers tracing over the silk before sliding down her arms, “the more tied up you’re gonna find yourself.”
“Then I’ll just snap the headboard,” Buffy answered snarkily, her indignation ruined by her gasp and upward arch into his hand as he palmed her breast, rubbing his thumb over the tightening nipple.
“You could do that, but it would make an awful mess. And don’t know what the Watcher’d say about his pretty pretty princess breaking down his bedframe with the evil that’s been sleeping in his bathtub of a night. Figure he might get a bit upset, don’t you? And those Scoobies of yours… Well, I’d say that they’d have a thing or two to say ‘bout the matter as well. How ‘bout you just play nice and lay there all trussed up and let me take care of you?” He watched as she opened her mouth, but didn’t give her the chance to speak, gliding his fingers over her stomach before slipping them under the lace and teasing his index across her hard little clit. He grinned as her eyes drifted nearly closed, her head dropping back as a groan escaped her lips; she fixed lust-narrowed eyes on his face as he removed his hand and brought his finger to his mouth, running his tongue along it, an action which spurred a louder repeat of her previous groan. “Doesn’t seem like you’d mind much, me seein’ to what you need… looks like I’m doin’ a damn good job already. So what do you say, Slayer?”
“Say my name, not Slayer… and say please,” she demanded; although he was certain that she meant to sound as imperious and haughty as she usually did when she addressed him, her bargaining position was seriously compromised by the perfect little picture of sin in repose she had become.
“Not in much of a position to make me beg, now are you, Buffy?” he chuckled, a bit of mocking entering his tone as he breathed out her name and watching her shudder involuntarily. “Want me to play along?” he asked as he leaned down, lips against her ear as he spoke and then teased the delicate lobe briefly with his tongue. “All right, then, Buffy,” he paused to appreciate another shudder and her slight shift across the mattress towards him, “please? Won’t you please let me show you what you’ve missed out on?”
It was his turn to gasp as she turned her face quickly towards him, catching him off guard and seizing his lips in a frantic, brutal kiss. God, the little chit must’ve been dying for it; she kissed him like she hadn’t tasted lust or passion in years… and that was just a damned shame. He mirrored her desperate gulps for air as she broke away, green eyes holding blue in thrall as she answered his request. “Yes, Spike. I want you to show me.”
“You’re gonna mind me, then, Slayer? There’s rules to this, you know. I can’t hurt you, and I wouldn’t besides… not after Red’s mojo an’ how I felt. Still don’t much like you, but couldn’t hurt you now—that’s not what this is about. But ’m not takin’ your cheek, Buffy. If you listen to me, I promise you’ll have a damn good time, luv… the both of us will. Just… trust me.” Spike spoke without moving to increase the distance between them and without flinching from the level measure of her gaze; there by her side, lips nearly touching, he’d just lain down her last get-out-of-this-free card. Where it went from here…
“A-all right,” Buffy agreed, nodding slightly as the corners of her lips turned up slightly. “Except… would it be cheek if I asked you to kiss me again? I mean, if we’re going to be all about getting it out of our systems… ‘Cause that kiss just now? Well, it was pretty much of the good.”
“Think I could oblige that… might require a punishment of some sort later, you bein’ ballsy enough to ask” he teased, eyebrow raised and smirk firmly in place.
“Then punish later… kiss now,” she begged, closing the distance between them until she was speaking directly against his lips. Looked like she knew something about the game, though, because she didn’t make the move this time… she was waiting for him.
“Hope for you after all, pet,” were the last coherent words he was able to produce before he took her mouth, pouring all of the lust and frustration and need that had characterized his mental state since Willow’s spell—since Drusilla had left him to his dreams of the Slayer, if he was brutally honest—into the pressure of his lips and tongue against hers. He relished every tiny noise that escaped the back of her throat, every jerk of her hands against the ties that bound them, every desperate movement towards him his kiss spurred her to make. He broke away from her first before he lost himself completely—the time for that would be soon, but he had a particular bit of fun in mind for her first. Chuckling at her frustrated little mewl, he stood and walked away from her, only to kneel again at the foot of the mattress, between her parted legs.
One hand wrapped around each slender ankle, and he looked up to make sure she was watching him before he spoke again. “Didn’t tie these up, Buffy. Didn’t think you’d need it… thought you’d be a good girl for me without it. Don’t prove me wrong, yeah?” he asked, almost conversationally, as his hands began to trace a slow teasing path up the insides her of her legs, cool callused fingertips ghosting across satin flesh. An eyebrow raised in warning yielded better results than he had dared hope as she immediately dropped back to the surface of the mattress the hips she had only barely begun to raise. “I said I’d see to you. Also said I’d truss you up proper if you don’t mind. Make your choice.”
Spike prided himself on making good, if hasty, estimations of people; it was a skill born partly of his highly-developed survival instincts, nourished by his remembrance of all of his hard-won societal life lessons from his time as William, and had become over the century or so he’d been around as much a part of how he carried himself as his scar or his duster or his swagger. Knowing who people were and what they were about in a glance was what he did—so Buffy’s next words, hesitant and husky though they were, shook him to his very core in more ways than one.
“I… I don’t think I can be good. Maybe it’d be better if you just… you know… trussed me now.”
*Holy fuck. Little one doesn’t just want to play with her limits… she’s making new ones.*
Shaking off his shock and giving Buffy a stunned half-smile, he managed to choke out, “Wise choice, kitten. Wouldn’t want to cross me,” as he stood and pillaged Rupert’s closet. Wanker had to have a whole collection of silky neckbobs somewhere… There. Holding the hanger out from him to hastily judge their length, Spike chose two of the longest neckties before dropping the hanger to the floor and speeding back to the bed, where Buffy still lay spread-eagled and waiting, much to his astonishment.
“No going back now, kitten,” he warned as he took her right ankle in his hand and began to wind the silk around it.
“Not going back. And, um… you might wanna use a knot like this one,” she suggested, fingers awkwardly brushing the binding that held her wrists. “My legs are way strong, and…”
“You tellin’ me my business?” Spike asked tauntingly as he slapped her ankle sharply, by turns amused and unbelievably horny as he listened to her make suggestions as to how he could best incapacitate her before he ravaged her. My, what a change a day had wrought. Well, a day, wonky mojo, and three years of palpable sexual tension.
Her only response was a wide-eyed shake of her head, and he felt the need to fill the silence with something other than her little gasps and choked whimpers as he worked to fasten her feet to the bedposts. “You are the prettiest little thing, do you know that? Always thought so… Thought it was a damned shame that I was going to have to kill you. But there was so much more to you than I thought… so much under there I didn’t see at first. Half the time, didn’t know if I wanted to throw you down and shag you or rip your throat out. You got to me, you know? The one fight I took on that I couldn’t win. Always respected the hell out of you for that, kitten—you’ve got moxie.”
“So… so do you,” Buffy gasped out, obviously flustered by the patterns his tongue was tracing on the inside of her bound right ankle as his right hand tested the newly-tied knot on the left. “Could never… kill you either. It was weird. I so wanted to…” Her last word was punctuated by a sharp, if awkward, upward thrust of her hips as his hand swept quickly upward from her ankle to her clit, giving it a small but firm rub before he eased the pressure and instead began slow, teasing strokes of his fingertips against the fabric that covered her.
“Don’t think either of us suffered from lack of desire where the other was concerned, Slayer,” he chuckled, positioning himself so that the exhalations accompanying his words traveled directly across the sodden fabric. Her shivers only increased his mirth, but the smell of her arousal was far too intoxicating for him to ignore any longer. “Oh, kitten, if I’d known…” he murmured an instant before his tongue snaked out and traced the outline of her labia. Her moan and his growl sounded simultaneously, and both only grew louder as he tore the interfering material from her body and immediately slid his tongue inside her dripping core. He’d never had anything like this, not in all of his years of existence; there would never be anything else like her, no matter where he went or who he found. The thought led to a surge of proprietary feeling, and his hands tightened on her hips as he tilted her up to his hungry mouth; he wanted to taste every drop of her, everything she had to offer—wanted to commit it to memory and keep it locked in the running journal he kept in his mind and his heart.
That thought in mind, he moved his tongue to her clit, flicking it mercilessly before closing his lips around it and sucking lightly. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, wide lust-glazed eyes fixed down upon him as he feasted on her, glossy lips parted from shock and the need for air. Spike gave her clit a little nip, just enough to make her jerk sharply and tighten her bonds inadvertently. Sliding first one finger, then two inside her grasping channel, he held her stare and asked softly, “No one’s ever done this for you, have they, Buffy?” Her body vibrated with tiny tremors again, as it always did when he called her by her name rather than her title, and she again shook her head in silent answer. “’s a damn shame, love. Never had anythin’ like you before,” he purred, fingers steadily thrusting in and out, curled upwards for maximum stimulation even as he lapped at her clit to take her higher. The telltale clenching prompted him to slow his movements, however, and he took up a more leisurely pace even as his mouth descended once more. “Not done tasting, kitten… still so much to see,” he told her in answer to her pleading cry of his name as he removed his fingers from her and moved his hands back to her hips, tilting her upwards again. His tongue again danced around her opening, teasing, and he grinned smugly when he felt it tighten in a fruitless attempt to trap him there. Flicking his tongue lower, he felt the muscles of her inner thighs jerk as she attempted to yank them closed and succeeded only in tightening her bonds further; he grinned again at her plaintive questioning whimpers even as his tongue teased over her tight little asshole for the first time. Her low, husky moan told him more than her failed attempts at blocking him, and he continued to tease the tight opening with the tip of his tongue, glorying every time she thrashed beneath him and cried out anew.
Spike pulled back for only an instant, making sure she was still watching him as he slid his fingers back into her pussy. She was right on the edge; he could feel it in the tautness of her muscles and could see it in the wanton desperation in her eyes. “Lesson the first, Buffy,” he murmured, removing his fingers and sliding them down to tease the puckered opening his tongue had just abandoned. “Pleasures can come in the most unexpected ways.” His index finger slid inside her ass as his thumb sank into her pussy and his lips surrounded her clit, and he was imminently thankful that everyone was gone; her shriek echoed off the walls, and the force of her orgasm turned her body rigid before she began to thrash helplessly, mindlessly churning her hips upwards against his face and into his hand. He held on, flicking her clit over and over with his tongue as he continued to torment her with his finger and thumb. Her body went limp after long minutes and she sank back into the mattress below, sweat-sheened and sated as she gave him a ridiculously goofy smile that warmed him in ways he preferred not to think about.
“Wow,” she breathed giddily, sighing with quiet loss as he slid his fingers from her grasping depths. “That was… with the naughty and… wow.”
“Glad it met with your approval, kitten,” he answered, moving up the bed until he knelt next to her shoulders and brushing her hair out of her face. In an instant he had moved his right leg so that he straddled her, kneeling. “It’s time for lesson the second, Slayer,” he murmured, brushing his erection against her lips and grinning lasciviously as her tongue darted out to taste the precome he’d smeared across her lips. “One good turn deserves another. Get me good and wet, love. Got somethin’ in mind for a few minutes from now… wanna make sure I’m properly prepared.” He watched, feeling like the room was moving in slow motion, as her full lips parted and her eager little pink tongue darted out to taste the head of his cock. He wanted her to enjoy it, but he wasn’t prepared for the hungry little mewl that she gave in the instant before she jerked forward and engulfed him in her mouth, taking him more than halfway down in a single stroke.
“Christ, Slayer… warn a bloke,” he groaned as his hands dropped to her head and his hips began shallow thrusts forward. Fucking her mouth was heaven, he was certain of it… there was warmth, there was that delightful thing she was doing to the ridge on the underside of his cock with her tongue, there were those gorgeous pouty lips wrapped around him and his balls against her chin and her big green eyes staring at him, silently begging him to let her continue. Gods, there was nothing else like this… and then he felt her muscles relax and his cock slid into her throat and he knew what heaven really was as she swallowed around him. “Fucking hell,” he gasped as he sank forward into her, eager to test out the limits of her newfound skill. But there didn’t seem to be any; hands on her head, he fucked into her throat at will, still savoring that little trick of her tongue, and he felt her lips bottom out against the base of his cock. He had to see it, had to look down and see the Slayer of all people with his cock fully buried in her hot wet little mouth…
“Not yet,” Spike growled to himself as he loosed his hold on her hair and shifted backwards, positioning himself this time over her chest. She looked at him, utterly confused, and he couldn’t help but find it charming how naïve she really was. She wouldn’t be for much longer, but it was just adorable at that moment. “Lesson the third,” he murmured seductively, positioning his cock on her chest before taking her breasts in his hands and pushing them tightly together, ensconcing his shaft in soft, warm flesh. “I don’t always need penetration… of your pretty mouth, your tight little cunny, or that lovely little ass… to have myself a real good time.” Her confusion lasted only until his first forward stroke, and then she gave him a wicked grin before tilting her head downwards, catching him by surprise when her tongue lapped against the head of his cock as it appeared from the sheath her breasts provided. “Gonna kill me,” he groaned, thrusting faster and tightening his grip on her breasts as his actions gained speed.
“Not gonna kill you,” she purred back, giving him a brilliant, wicked grin. “Gonna make you feel so good, Spike… isn’t that what you want? I want you to have a good time,” she teased, collecting the precome from his cock with a firm lick with the flat of her tongue. “You’ve got lessons to teach me,” she continued, her words interrupted by her teasing of him on every forward thrust. “Maybe you could teach me how to swallow.”
“Dangerous game, kitten,” he warned with a growl, eyebrow raised as he met her eager, lustful gaze.
“I want to play.” Each word emphasized by a fluttering, torturous stroke of her tongue.
“You’re about to get your chance,” he groaned, fisting his hands in her hair again and sliding himself effortlessly into her mouth on a forward stroke as he prepared for his orgasm, feeling his balls tighten painfully against his body only an instant before he again hit the back of Buffy’s exquisite little throat and surrendered, feeling as though each jet of fluid was torn from him. “Fucking… perfect… pain,” he murmured senselessly as the sensations overwhelmed him and he jerked back, the last few spurts of come landing across Buffy’s tanned throat and collarbone. The sibilant hiss of pleasure that she gave when his seed struck her went straight to his cock and somehow managed to force more from his body, this time landing across her mouth. That evil little tongue darted out to clean her lips, and he collapsed sideways onto the bed, muscle control gone as he groaned from the sheer eroticism of the little vixen sharing the experience with him. She was a vision, he thought deliriously, sweaty and wanton and both wearing and savoring his seed, and for a moment he couldn’t imagine that there was a more perfect match for his own desires anywhere than this Slayer.
After a few moments of recovery, he stood on shaky legs, groping for his jeans and retrieving his lighter from one pocket. Palming it quickly and hoping that afterglow had dimmed Buffy’s usually keen sight as her eyes followed his movements, he allowed a moment for silent thanksgiving for the Watcher’s many morning jogs and sanity departures from the apartment. They’d given him a chance to wander a bit, stretch sore muscles and feed himself—basically allowed him to regain a bit of his dignity—but the absences had also given him a chance to investigate his surroundings. Closed up in an apartment during the day, there wasn’t much else he could do to keep himself entertained than to snoop a bit, especially once he’d exhausted the daytime telly options and the selections from Giles’ bookshelf, most of which he’d read many times over. He’d come across the Watcher’s emergency spell supply not long before Red’s handiwork, and he was grateful for the man’s absolutely compulsive preparedness as he slid open the top dresser drawer and pulled out one of several long black tapered candles. He turned to look at Buffy, noting her curious stare as he turned towards her and flipped open the Zippo, striking the flame and lighting the taper in one smooth series of movements.
Tossing the lighter onto his jeans, he crossed to her, predator’s instincts honing in on the way her pupils dilated and heart rate sped to a level that would’ve frightened him had she been anyone but the Slayer. As it was, he knew she’d be fine, so he stayed silent, wanting her to ask the question that was obviously at the forefront of her mind. He returned to his seat on the edge of the bed, positioning himself so that she could see his face as he studied the candle flame and the rivulets of wax that trailed slowly down the slender column.
“Spike?” The whisper was barely loud enough to break the silence in the room, but he had no trouble hearing it, or deciphering the wealth of confusion, need, and intrigue that suffused the single word. “W-what’s that for?”
“Oh, love… got something else to show you,” he answered, holding the candle over her and tilting it slightly, watching the dark liquid wax well up beneath the wick for a long instant before falling, splashing against the inner curve of Buffy’s right breast. She gasped, eyes huge, and he was torn between watching as the lust and intrigue slowly burned away the tinge of fear and confusion present in her eyes and watching her rosy little nipples tighten in response to the heat of the wax. He decided to be greedy, that he wanted both views in one, and stood to widen his range of vision as another drop slipped from the candle, this one covering her left nipple. The gasp was more of a desperate groan this time, and he gave her a cocky grin as he tilted the taper further, allowing the flame to reach more of the wax and dissolve it more quickly, drizzling the liquid across her chest before trailing it down her stomach. The upward thrusts of her hips told him everything he needed to know about her enjoyment of what was happening, but the look in her eyes—the almost feral hunger—spurred his burgeoning hard-on to full erection and made his mouth water with the possibilities this wild little thing presented. He had known that all it needed was unlocking… all she had needed was someone to show her the way.
“Spike!” she cried out as a drop of the liquid landed just above the neatly-trimmed curls of her quim, and he watched as her hips surged upwards as her eyes begged him for relief. “Spike…” This time she whimpered, straining her arms against the ties in an attempt to reach for him.
“Can’t get to me that way, Buffy. Can’t reach me, so how are you gonna persuade me to do what you want? I seem to remember that you’re not the begging kind…” he teased, his voice broadcasting raw sex as he blew out the candle and bent over her, shifting quickly and nicking her breast on a fang. It was his human face, however, that gauged her reaction as he lapped at the rivulet of blood issuing from the wound, and his cobalt eyes that broadcast his pleasure at how truly wanton she looked. Lips bruised and bloodied from their kisses and from the assault to which her teeth subjected her lower lip every time the pleasure became too intense, hair disheveled and damp with sweat, eyes wild and pleading… she was perfect. He shifted again, this time turning his attentions to her other breast, and he felt rather than heard the moan that tore from her throat. She was so responsive, arching into him, letting him create pretty red trails of blood to offset the black wax and opalescent come with which he had already marked her. A taunting downward path of nicks and teasing licks followed; a nick below her belly button resulted in a splintering noise from behind him, and he turned his head to confirm that she had indeed manage to crack, though not break, the right bottom bedpost. He gave her a sharp slap to the inner thigh as punishment, and she looked almost sheepish in the bare instant between the slap and the sudden twist of her clit that followed it. A feral grin twisted his lips the instant he saw her surrender in her eyes, and he knew that all that was left was for him to simply wait for the words.
“Oh god. God, please… please Spike… whatever you want, just please… let me… please” she rambled insensibly, coherency fading until the only distinguishable word was her plea.
“’s all I needed to hear,” he growled, positioning himself over her quickly and burying his cock inside her in one long, hard thrust. Her scream nearly deafened him, but it was the heat of her that left him gobsmacked; he’d been a virgin when turned, but he’d fucked humans in the years since and was absolutely certain that none of them had even come close to her—no one he’d ever been inside had felt quite like this. And the way she was fucking him back as best she could, hips slamming upwards and back arched to press her breasts tightly against him—he’d never even dreamed the little chit would let go like this. Bracing his hands on her shoulders, he started switching his technique, slowing his thrusts before pounding into her roughly and then suddenly stopping, fully embedded, to circle his hips and tease her sweet spot with brief flashes of pressure.
Buffy was nearly insensible beneath him, still babbling pleas and working her hips to try to take more of him in, harder, deeper. But as good as this was, he still had plans, and he knew how to accomplish them. Shifting back until he was kneeling between her thighs, cock still buried firmly inside her, Spike clamped his hands down on her hips and began another series of almost punishing thrusts, pushing her up the bed with the force of his hips before tugging her back with his hands. She was gasping praise and urgings, a sheen of sweat covering her as she bit through her bottom lip and fisted her hands around the tie that bound them; Spike felt her quim clamp down on him and pulled out quickly, tipping her hips upward and positioning the head of his cock against her ass.
“Say yes, Buffy, and you get to come. ‘ll make you scream, love… make everything inside you melt, but you have to say yes.”
“YES!”
The word was no further in pronunciation than the first letter when he pressed inside her, stretching her tight little hole around him and thrusting his way forward in a single slow stroke. Buffy’s groan echoed his in tone and need, and he found himself panting along with her as he came to a stop, balls pressed tightly against her firm ass. “Fuck, Slayer. You’re even tighter here than you are in that precious little cunt,” he groaned, withdrawing slowly before pressing back home, feeling her muscles ease to accommodate his cock even as she bit into first his shoulder and then his neck. “Biting a vampire… not a good idea, pet,” he ground out, thrusts speeding up with her acclimation to the act, and in mere moments he was slamming into her ass nearly as fervently as he had her pussy.
“Don’t… care. Seems… like… a…. good idea… to me,” Buffy responded between pants and gasps as he plunged into her, taking her breath with every wrenchingly deep forward thrust.
Spike felt the familiar tingling in his abdomen and the tightening of his balls, and he could feel responding clenches and tremors inside her that told him she was as close as he was. *Why the fuck not?* he thought, *in for a penny… so what if it hurts a bit.* Buffy gasped out her approval as his demon slid to the fore, and he reached one hand up and slashed through the bonds that held her hands as his fangs slid into her jugular. Her scream, the bruising force of her muscles clamping down on him as she came, and the feeling of her fingernails digging into his ass snapped the last bit of his control. He managed to withdraw his fangs and lick the wound before his cock pulsed and spilled inside her, quick spasmodic bursts prompting the jerking of his hips as he collapsed onto her, groaning in completion as her walls continued to flutter around him and her kittenish mewls and sighs filled his ears.
*Just gonna close my eyes for a minute… soak up a little more of her warmth* he thought, allowing his eyes to blink slowly closed as he nuzzled against the punctures he’d left on her neck.
~~~
*Where did Buffy find ice, and why is it on the back of my neck?* Spike wondered, various facts about his surroundings slowly filtering through the haze of sleep and satiation that fogged his brain. The cold wasn’t just at his neck, it was at his back and on his sides, too, and was joined in the stellar job of making him damned uncomfortable by something hard on his wrists and dampness in the material that covered his crotch. Dropping his head back, Spike felt the familiar contours of the Watcher’s bath against his skull, and he groaned before opening bleary eyes to reassure himself that he was, indeed, still locked up tight at Fort Scooby, where Rupert had chained him before leaving for the store.
Looking down to again confirm what he already suspected, he took in the soaked crotch of his trousers and groaned, slamming his head back into the ceramic in annoyance. So it’d been a damned wet dream? Bloody hell, but that chafed; not ‘cause he hadn’t gotten to have the little chit, but because he’d been reduced from the swaggering Big Bad to a git who whacked off in bathtubs and came in his pants from wet dreams about his bloody worst enemy—and all in a matter of mere weeks. Fucking soldiers hadn’t neutered just his bite after all, apparently. Bastards.
Groaning as he shifted uncomfortably, eager to separate the dank denim from his skin somehow, he noticed the towel that the Watcher had begun leaving within his reach after Spike had snarked, none too subtly, about how it got awfully boring in the tub when he was left to his lonesome and how he’d hate to have to start borrowing the shower curtain for clean-up. It had taken that fairly explicit prompting, but at least the prat had the decency to realize that there wasn’t much for a vamp to do when he spent all his time with his hands chained at his waist.
Tucking the towel down his pants, providing himself a bit of a comfort zone until his pants could dry, Spike slumped back down and rested his head against the back of the tub, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. Damn Red and her spells, making a bloody mess of everything. Having wet dreams about the Slayer that didn’t involve her painful death was not on the list of things he ever wanted to do—at least, not ‘til Sabrina worked her mojo. He and the Slayer were adults, though, and could shake off the very, very misplaced lust the spell had incited in them; the Watcher would get over his blindness, and Harris and the demon bird had apparently already forgotten that they’d been set up as a demon smorgasbord. No, the rest of them would all move past it; the problem was with Red. She had the same damn Scooby blindness all of them seemed to have, pretending everything was peachy-keen while it was falling apart, and it always seemed to fall to somebody on the outside—like him—to point out the screwups. God only knew what would happen on the day when Red’s magic caused a mess that cookies and pretense couldn’t fix. As he drifted off into another uncomfortable slumber, Spike had the uneasy feeling that that day wouldn’t be long in the offing.
*******
Lying there holding the handcuffs, watching as Buffy’s expression slowly morphed from sated and happy to distant and detached, Spike had never felt so desperate. He knew that in his hand was the one thing that might truly help him reach her. He wanted with everything he was, everything he’d become through this strange journey into goodness he’d undertaken at her side, to make her happy, to bring her back to herself and out of the prison of despair and fury in which she kept herself tightly locked. It wouldn’t fix her—she was too broken, and too resistant to repair, for such a simple solution—but he knew perhaps better than anyone the transformative possibilities brought about by love in restraints, the effulgent experience that resulted from ceding control and allowing all senses but touch to come into play. His experiences had shaped him, had made him—strong, passionate, violent, tender, loving, hungry for pleasure and eager to please. Spike had found himself inside chains, and discovered new dimensions every time he played again, finding new joys and new reasons his world was worthwhile. He knew that he could show her that even after the light she'd left behind, there were still glowing things of beauty to be had—that there was still a brighter world worth living for if only she'd just....
Spike took a deep breath, knowing that the bridge must be crossed now or never. This would be the gauntlet thrown. Raising his eyes to hers yet again, he dangled the cuffs before her and asked her the question that was the key to it all. "Do you trust me?"
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