 |
|
|
Author: The Deadly Hook Winner in the Love's Last Glimpse awards! __________ Master and Slave (A Does It Have to Mean Something? Outtake)
"Do you trust me?" The handcuffs dangle from his hand, swinging a little bit from side to side as Buffy's eyes widen. She's at Spike's crypt because this is the time of night when she does that sort of thing. Comes here, throws him against the nearest flat surface, rolls around. They've already done that much tonight, starting at the top level of the place and working their way down. "Never," she whispers. She can't take her eyes off the handcuffs. He smiles at her then, a slow, curling smile that puts a nearly human flush on his face, warm and soft. Knowing. And okay, there was a tremor in her voice when she said it. Not really convincing. And the rising heat from her body is hard to miss too, the liquid flush between her legs at his suggestion. His lewd and icky suggestion. Her body's really working against her here. "Never?" he asks, and he twirls the cuffs on one finger, lifts an eyebrow. She meant to leave. Only a minute ago, that was the plan. He'd gotten too... they'd gotten too... cozy with each other, for a minute there. Him asking questions she didn't really want to answer. Although she did answer him, didn't she? Told him it was just sex, what they had. Nothing more. Something for herself after trudging through a day's worth of greasy job and a night's worth of patrol, duty and service. Something nobody else knows about. Something just for her. Vampire pretty. Want, take, have. He slides a bit closer to her, takes ahold of her arm. Holds it up just lightly with the tips of his fingers and runs a hand made warm by friction down the soft skin of her inner elbow and toward her wrist. "You really want to go?" he asks softly, and again he runs his hand up her arm, then back down, smooth fingertips tracing trails on her sweaty skin. She shivers. Of course that could also be because she's sitting on a cold cave floor in nothing but a pair of panties, a nice Oriental carpet drawn up over her breasts. "Yes," she says, and this time he doesn't even look up when she says it. Just keeps on doing that motion, fingertips sliding on flesh, up and down. And she's leaning over now, half draped over his lap because of the way he's tugging on her arm, the rug bunched up between them. Their skin looks very white against the carpet's dark weave. "No you don't," he sing-songs into her hair. His other arm slides around her, and then both of his hands are stroking her arms, her back pulled up against his chest. Buffy just stares at her hands. He's started running the cuffs up her arm too, letting the cool metal slip against her skin as he does that stroking motion, up and down. On one of the downstrokes, he takes both of her hands in his. Her fingers are curled up in his big palms, not quite fists. Shiny chrome steel winking in his grasp. She doesn't say anything. Just watches as he puts a bracelet around one wrist and snaps it closed. She closes her eyes. In her mind, she vaguely considers putting a stop to this. Because that's what she should do, stop it. Jerk away from him and find the key to the cuffs, her clothes, her bra. Stomp out. The other cuff clicks closed. It's just sex, she tells herself calmly, even as excitement wells up in her, more intense than it really should, considering they've done this already. Had sex, that is. Not this. "Got you now," Spike whispers, nose against her hair. "Whatever shall I do with you?" Her whole body jerks a little at his words, and her eyes pop open. The handcuffs cut into her wrists as her hands try to move apart and hit resistance, fingers grasping at nothing. And in a rush, it finally dawns on Buffy exactly what she's letting him do. "Ah ah ah," he says softly, and hooks a finger around the chain between the cuffs and lifts. Her hands are suddenly in the air, held away from them both. "No good doing this if you're just going to start a fight." "No point?" she pants, and her heart is really hammering now, although she isn't willing to admit that it has anything to do with fear, not yet. She's aroused too, almost painfully so. She tosses her hair, tries to look unconcerned. "Isn't that what gets you off, Spike? Chaining up girls?" He's not the only one getting off, Buffy, a rational little inner voice reminds her, tinny-sounding, like a radio shut up in a drawer. It sounds sort of like her sister. First, the sex with vampires. Now, bondage. Gross. What's next, demon gang-bang? "Yeah, but this isn't about me," he says calmly, his free hand exploring her body under the rug. She's panting, way more than she should be, head falling back helplessly on his shoulder, every brush of his fingers trailing across her skin like fire. "Wh-What do you mean, it's not ab--" "Thought you might like to see what it's like," he continues casually. "On the other side." Other side of what, she wonders vaguely, but doesn't voice it, because all of a sudden he's lifting her, arms hooked under her knees and shoulders. She scrabbles helplessly with her linked hands at his chest, chain catching in his scanty little twists of hair. "What are you doing?" She wriggles, confused. "Where are we--" She's being deposited gently on the bed. "Lie still, and I'll show you." His fingers are combing lightly through her tangled hair, and he's looking at her with a soft expression, enigmatic. The irony is nearly enough to make her laugh. I'm lying here in manacles, and he's acting like this is his idea of romance. Wait--scratch that. I know this is his idea of romance. Spike climbs up on the bed. He doesn't touch her--not the way she wants him to. He just kneels over her and begins to arrange her body to his liking, arms outstretched over her head. She can't help but struggle a little, twisting her hands in the cuffs, testing. She could probably break them. If she had to. "Sssh." He stills her, hands on her waist, and places a kiss on her shoulder, sends his hands stroking over her breasts, down her torso. "Will you just get on with it?" she snaps at him. She's throbbing now, desperate. Worse, she has no real idea why she feels this way. Helplessness generally hasn't been a turn-on for her. Like, ever. And yet... It's a game, she reminds herself. She's not helpless at all. Not really. "Whatever kind of... kinky thing you have in mind, just do it already," she demands, trying not to make it sound too much like pleading. That's probably exactly what he wants. Spike shakes his head, smiling. "Not the way this works," he says, and returns to his slow ministrations, stroking her body, up, down. It's torturous, and Buffy writhes. Her hands begin to creep down from their outstretched position. Spike makes a tut-tutting sound, and calmly rearranges her again, but this time he keeps her hands pinned down. She has a clear view of his body from her position. Leaning over her, all slim lines and taut muscle, gleaming from her sweat. Scuff marks and scratches stand out against his pale skin in sharp relief. Her eyes focus on one pert nipple, poised right over her face, and an overwhelming urge comes over her to reach out for it with her mouth, suck on it. She wonders just exactly when that kind of thing had become a default setting for her brain. See Spike's chest, want to lick it. I am so sick. He dips his head and begins kissing her breasts then, fondling them gently, squeezing. She strains, her hands clenching and unclenching. "Spike--" She can't even begin to form the word "please." He stops her again, slides his hands up her arms. "Hold still." "But--" Her eyes flick toward Little Spike, prominently visible from this angle, and she bites back the begging comment that immediately leaps to mind. No chance. And then there's the embarrassed flush that always comes from looking at him that way, the reflexive thought of I'm looking at Spike's penis. It's the type of thought that tends to leap into her mind at the most inopportune times, like when she's talking to Xander or Willow. I've seen Spike's penis, she'll think to herself, often while nodding and smiling her way through a particularly boring conversation about research or housework. It's pretty, too. Pink. And uncircumcised. I know all sorts of fun facts about it, including what it tastes like. I've even explored the mysteries of anal sex with it. Which, grosser still, I actually liked. Ask me how! "Supposed to just let yourself go," he murmurs into her skin then, mouth pressing into her belly. His tongue laves up her body, teases at a nipple, and she can't suppress her gasp. "Give yourself up to it. Stop trying to take control." Buffy pants, breathless. She can no longer move--she simply hasn't got the energy for it. Every major muscle group is taut, stretched in excitement. She strains against the cuffs. "I'm... I'm not--" "Yes, you are," he chuckles, head lifting, blue eyes regarding her. "Every time you come here. Master and slave." He trails a finger down her breastbone, over her belly and through her fur, down between her legs. "This time, it's your turn to be the slave." Buffy gasps and bucks. She's horrified at his words, but her body's too far gone to care, desperate for his touch--any touch. "Spike--pl--plea..." He still doesn't touch her where she needs it. He's just watching her while his fingers tease, light trails on her stomach, her thighs. She catches small glimpses of him as she tosses her head on the pillow, feverish. His eyes are unhealthily bright. He's completely absorbed by the sight of her. Fascinated. "Good, isn't it," he says then, and she feels a thrill of terror at the sound of his voice. Dimly aware how much it resembles the way he used to sound saying things like I'm going to kill you. "To just let it happen. Give in." He dips a finger into her. Her body arches like a bow. She flings back her head, mouth open, but no sound comes out. Or if it does, it's on another frequency. One only dogs can hear. She's barely managed to recover, bleary and confused, when she feels him nudging at her, between her legs. She lifts her head just in time to see him slide his cock into her. It's slick and fast, the kind of thing she normally likes, but she's too aroused, too wet, to even feel it. Instead she just watches him, his motions, the smooth, pumping rhythm of their bodies joining together. He's kneeling, holding her thighs, lifting her up with each thrust and she feels--oh! Her head rolls back again, helpless. Okay, she felt that. Then for the next few minutes there's nothing else, just nothing else but the friction. Her moisture, his motions. He's changed position again, the way he always does--moving, adjusting. He's covering her now, laying atop her, and she barely even notices her bound hands, not with the way he's panting in her ear and moving on her, body pressed into hers smooth and heavy, and somehow it's slow and it's delicate, with wet nuzzling kisses into her lips and her neck, and she feels... she feels... Buffy blinks. They're nose to nose, like Eskimos. Somewhere in the course of all this, she's slid her chained hands behind his head, tangled her fingers deep in his blonde hair. The handcuff chain is locked tightly behind the back of his neck. She can't breathe. Orgasm hits her then with an unexpected shock, staring right into his eyes. She keeps clutching at him because she simply can't do anything else, and just rides out the feeling, her body curling up. He just holds her, making small movements to help stretch her climax out. And watches her, intense. She collapses finally, eyes closed. Doesn't even begin to think of rearranging herself until she's had a few restful seconds of panting. Until then, she's content to just lie there, let him lie there too, with his head pillowed on her breasts. She can't think. Can't even begin to think about what it means, what just happened, the way she responded. This time, it's your turn to be the slave. She's not his slave. Not ever. This was just... this was just... Cool air rushes in to touch the skin of her chest, and she realizes that he's lifted his head. Her eyelids flutter open. When his face comes into focus, she's pleased to see he looks a little wobbly too, sated and dreamy. The handcuff chain behind his neck makes a clicking sound as he pulls back to look at her, stretching the links taut. "Wanna do me next?" he murmurs. "Wh-What?" Do him? I just did. He grins, that little-boy grin that she never really knows what to make of, reaches across to the bedside table, retrieves the handcuff key. Unlocks her hands, draws the cuffs down her body, drops them on her stomach. She stares at the gleaming metal, baffled. Then Spike leans back on his heels in a lazy motion. Extends his arms toward her, wrists close together, hands in loose fists. He's sleek and sweat-painted, a battered vision in mussed hair. Offering himself up to her. Buffy's eyes widen again. Spike grins wolfishly at her, slow-blinks his eyes. "C'mon, Slayer," he rumbles, a sexy purr, and wiggles his fingers lightly. "You know you want to." Her willing slave. Buffy picks up the cuffs, weighs them in her hand. She's sticky and exhausted. There are chafe marks around her wrists, and they've been doing all this for hours. Her whole body feels like one big bruise. She snaps the cuffs around his wrists before she can even begin to finish thinking about it. Only fair. [end]
|
|
