How Our Games Have Changed

How Our Games Have Changed

By Ayt Gimm (aytgimm@aol.com)

Spoilers: Post "Smashed" Everything up to there assumed.

I would probably rate this an NC-17 due to the intermingling of sex and

violence.

It's always been a game between us. Some of our games are more fun than

others. I still don't knock when I enter; I have new reasons not to now. I

like to imagine he is sitting around half dressed waiting for me, though that

scenario has yet to pan out. This time he is in bed. I have to restrain a

smile.

I'd think about how that makes my job easier, if I could admit to myself

that is why I am there in the first place. He is smirking at me, one bare leg

hanging off the bed, smooth white inner thigh exposed for me, cigarette

hanging out of his mouth. I don't try to hide my eyes traveling up and down

the flesh not covered by his sheets.

"Slayer." The game has started. He looks at me through heavy-lided eyes

and does not bother to hide his appreciation of my body either.

"Demon, smells bad, big, blue. What do you know?"

"Nothing."

"Right." I glare at him. He knows I don't need him for the demon, but

he plays along. Why wouldn't he? It benefits him as much as me.

"What's in it for me, Slayer?" The question I have been waiting for,

the big advancement, our point of no return. Not that there is any doubt,

but those words tell me this will happen. I start to feel a spark of warmth

and relish in it. I pull my sweater off and straddle his lap. I'm wearing a

tiny white tank top, I know it's one he likes.

He gives me a bored look and doesn't bother to remove the cigarette from

between his lips. His hands don't move to touch me, and his eyes seek out

the TV. His body under me betrays his casual front, but I play along; the

game is afoot.

"Spike"

He makes an annoyed face, eyes still fixed to the TV, but I feel him

squirming for contact beneath me. I grab his chin roughly and force him to

look into my eyes. With my other hand I grab the cigarette from his mouth

and put it out on his chest. He lets out a snarl and grabs my wrists and

throws me backwards onto the bed. He doesn't hold back; he knows he doesn't

have to, and I don't want him to. He's always known how far he has to go to

break me. He holds me down and his knee jerks roughly between my legs. My

breath already starts coming in uncontrollable gasps and pants. I want to

play my part better, act angrier, put up more of a fight, but the power of

resistance has already left me.

"You're going to pay for that, love." The menace in his voice is real

and it makes my hair stand on end and my insides tingle even more. I lift my

head and bite his bottom lip, hard. I taste blood on my teeth and laugh at

our disgusting, diseased little fling. The laugh is even more scornful than

I intended and he hits me across the face, hard. He pulls me up like a rag

doll; I pretend I am one. A boneless lump of cloth: his toy. My clothes are

on one-second, off the next, I am not sure if he or I removed them.

Sometimes it plays like this; I lay here, trying to act indifferent,

uninvolved. He always knows exactly what my flesh needs. He never takes it

easy on me, and it causes this pull in my gut that is so intense I can barely

stand it. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to pass out from

the exquisite and terrible things he is doing to my body. My breath feels so

rough and harsh in my throat; it always takes a while to register that the

animal noises I keep hearing are coming from me.

His tongue and fingers seem to penetrate every orifice at once, and he

stimulates every single part of my body with nerve endings. His tongue rakes

across my eyelids, his lips brush behind my knees, his teeth scrape the curve

of my spine, his fingers scratch down my inner thigh leaving pink trails, his

mouth closes on the thick tendons at my groin. He twists and turns me any

way he wants. His mouth envelopes my toes, moves from my naval, between my

legs to my tail bone. He occasionally bites hard, and scratches leaving

streaks of blood, knowing pain is the anchor that keeps me there. He knows

without it the tenderness he shows would scare me into realizing what we're

doing and I would bolt.

Sometimes unpleasant thoughts enter my head, and I have to fight to push

them away. Maybe it is this new, strange, less human part of me that needs

this so badly. Maybe I am treading too far on the dark side. Sometimes it

scares me so much I have to take control. I beat him mercilessly. I take

him in my mouth without protecting him from my teeth, I grind against him so

ruthlessly I bruise and feel raw for days. Sometimes I want to pull his head

to my throat and force him to drink. When I abuse him I can see how close to

the surface his demon is, how hard he fights to keep it down as his fingers

and dull teeth draw blood from expanses of my flesh.

The more I try to resist, act like I don't like it, act like I don't

care, the more angry and furious my body's reaction to him becomes. When I

come seizures radiate from my abdomen and jerk my body uncontrollably, sobs,

moans, and indescribably guttural sounds escape my throat. It's so visceral

I feel flashes of darkness behind my eyes and I think I might never feel the

sun again while my body bakes from the heat of our actions.

It always ends the same way, the part that really scares me. Terrifies

me. He pins me down, arms over my head, trapped between his legs and stares

deeply into my eyes. I don't let myself turn away, because it would be so

weak. He always says it, and says it the same way. It's without pleading,

or resignation, or sadness, just a naked expression of the facts.

"I love you"

I know what he's doing. He has always known me so well, and he knows

that so much of me is addicted to him, and part of me is falling. He is

wearing down that part. My heart always pounds, caught in my throat. I

always throw him off, wordlessly dress and leave. I feel his gaze on me

every moment. I can't look at him on my way out, because his face expresses

every emotion so clearly without room for misinterpretation. He will take

what he can get, but he will always want more, and he's sure he will

eventually get more.

I tell myself over and over: I can make this stop. I will make this

stop. I'm not in danger yet and I'll end this before I beg him to drain me.

This will stop before I can't restrain my desire to confess my love back to

him. Until then we can keep playing this game.