Chapter 26: Power
another awesome banner by sourbuckley
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A/N: A million thanks to dampersnspoons for the beta read and for encouraging me to go deeper and to, like, think. "MORE BRAAAINS," she said. And then she did the Thriller dance, and then we laughed and cried and made glittery white glove cookies. Boy, is that kitchen a mess.
A/N#2: Thanks to sourbuckley for yet another beautiful graphic for this story. Check out what she did there! Devil posters even! (And see how she did it here. Ooh, instructional!)
A/N#2.0: Thanks so much to everyone for commenting, I really do love hearing your thoughts even if I take a while to say so! (Still planning to respond to all reviews from the last two chapters.)
A/N#3: Thanks to my S5-6 Buffy DVDs for reminding me how beautifully bad ass Spike Pratt can be (and how adorable Xander and Anya once were together! They're not in this story, though. They are in this one, this one, and this one. In case you're, you know, bored and stuff.....)
A/N#4: Hey look, it didn't take a whole month! *ducks*
A/N#5, seriously now: I forgot to warn you guys that the last chapter would have some dark, disturbing content. Oops! P.S. So does this.
And now, let's lower the lights, crank the mood down to morose and get this self-pity party started...
Women.
Spike had almost forgotten how much power they held over him. Built a wall so thick, so high no one could touch him, until...
No matter. He'd phased the fairer sex out of his life before and he would do it again. All it took was reducing one to a symbol; an effigy of his lifelong regret. Make her vulnerable while he fucks her mouth, make her choke, make her afraid.
He stoppered the decanter and, sardonic, raised a glass of single malt to the laughing red devil on his wall. "Cheers, Dad."
He sipped his scotch, sat at his desk. Opened his humidor. Loosened his tie. Back to his old routine. Eight years he'd been at this, and it had done him just fine. Only a fool would believe an old dog like him could learn new tricks.
As he sniffed a thin cigar, he had a flashback to Buffy, tapping one just like it on her swollen, glistening cunt. 'Oui...'
For a moment, he thought he could smell her.
What was he doing, desperately trying to recapture a wisp of her scent? He lit the cigar, closed his eyes and waited for its spicy leather taste to roll on his tongue. These lovesick thoughts would fade soon enough. Ending this was best for everyone. Especially her.
He never wanted to make her worse. Never thought for a second she could feel that way. He thought he'd lit her up like a dormant torch... But that's what she'd done for him, wasn't it? It didn't go both ways.
Anyway, she was a fucking bitch.
This cigar was no good. He could hardly taste a thing.
Setting it down to watch it die in the ashtray, he became riveted, the sound of the ticking grandfather clock intensifying as he got lost in the sight of the curling smoke.
He blinked, checked the clock. The girl was late. That was all right; it got him ruffled, worked him up. As if he were readying to play a concerto, he cracked his knuckles, wiggled his fingers, made fists, released them. The thought of holding a whip again, wielding the power to mar smooth unblemished skin... Well, he missed it.
Out of habit, Spike spun his chair to the wall, to the triptych black mirror mounted behind his desk. It was the sole Gentile family heirloom in his possession, and he used it to watch his call girls undress. He liked the way it refracted their appearance, made them look like moving Monets.
Masterson promised him he wouldn't be disappointed tonight. He bloody well hoped so. What's-her-name was out of town, and the last one had bored him soft. Then again, he'd just met Buffy that night... He'd be bored by anything in her wake, wouldn't he?
He rubbed the smile off his face, pushed her out of his mind. The doorknob clicked.
She was here.
It seemed she'd already undressed. Cat-like, she crawled through the door, slinking slow and quiet to his snake whip -- he couldn't see her in the mirror anymore but he heard the creaky floorboard in the center of the room.
His blood reacted to her presence. First, the skin on his neck and ears prickled, then his cock stirred. Yeah, he thought, breathing in and turning his chair to watch her approach, This is gonna be a real good night.
He recognized the beauty marks first. The curve of her hips, that lower back, her hair... His lips parted and his mouth went dry.
Stark naked, a whip handle in her teeth, Buffy Summers-Pratt crawled to his feet and raised her head.
Spike stared back at her as if she was a hallucination. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak; didn't want to either, for fear it might make her go away. Finally, out of sheer necessity, he gasped.
Eyes softening, she rested her cheek on his knee and nuzzled against him like a purring kitten. Like she'd missed him. Like she needed him.
As the clock ticked away, Spike reached out to touch her face, rub his thumb over her soft, cool cheek.
She gazed up at him with welling eyes. Plaintive and remorseful, she wordlessly begged him for something.
Punishment. The way he punished them.
He wrinkled his brow, tilted his head.
Her drool spilled onto his trousers.
Spike took the whip handle out of her mouth. "Buffy..."
Firmly, she shook her head, pursed her lips, then ran her hands up his thighs.
She was wearing the watch he gave her. She was also opening his pants. He caught her wrists, did the unzipping himself, and craned his stiffening cock toward her mouth.
She looked up at him as she descended to press her lips against it. Just that, a chaste little kiss, and his eyes rolled back. The second he felt her tongue, he barked a shout and made her stop.
He was the one in control here.
Breath ragged, Spike pulled himself together, fastened his pants and stood up. Something told him that if he went through with this, his whole world would burn. And then he thought, Let it.
Fingertips seeking out the switch under his desk, he swallowed and whispered, "You sure?"
She answered with one slow, languid sweep of her eyelashes: Yes.
Standing straighter, he flipped the switch and the wall receded. He trailed the end of the whip over her open, trusting face, then shoved her nose to the carpet and said, "Crawl."
Undaunted, Buffy pushed up and crawled away from him, toward the room.
He cracked the whip across her back, stunning her. Quelling an urge to ask if she was all right, he masked his concern with, "Did I say you could stop?"
She began to move again, and when he stalked and struck her along the way, she didn't break stride.
"Hands up to heaven," he said in French when she arrived at the cross.
Instantly, Buffy obeyed. Spike watched her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed, until he remembered what he had to do.
He unclasped her watch and dropped it on the floor before shackling her wrists and rising her up to a kneel. With his foot, he rolled the angled phallus her way. "Sit on it."
Buffy had trouble finding it. Spike lashed her once more as she tried, but then he broke protocol and moved her about until her pussy lips parted on its bulbous tip.
His fingers came away gleaming with dew.
If he was a good man, he'd unchain her now and carry her to his bedroom. If he was a very good man, he'd send her home.
But Spike was neither one of these. Every woman he'd ever been with knew this about him.
He stood directly behind her head, rubbed his hard-on on her silky hair, stuck his wet fingers in her mouth and said, "All the way down."
Front teeth scraping his finger, she descended on the phallus, inch by obedient inch.
She let out a soft, involuntary whimper and bit down.
Sliding the whip handle down her back, he looked to see how far she'd gone. "Is that it?"
She nodded.
He turned it on.
Buffy twitched and groaned as it vibrated inside of her. Then, before he even had to tell her to, she began to undulate.
Spike was thrown. She seemed so... eager to please. Or was she simply eager to get off? Was that all she wanted from him? Was this all she craved? Punishment for minor sins? Better orgasms through discipline? Another reason to hate herself in the morning?
He turned off the vibrator.
"What are you waiting for?" Buffy panted. "Whip me. Choke me!"
He grabbed her hair and tilted her face toward his. "You don't speak. Remember?"
With an insolent gaze, she said in French, "I'm the devil's spawn. You have to scare away my demons."
Spike blinked. How did she...?
She knew.
Letting go of her hair, he took a clumsy step back. She knew. Lindsey told her, and now she knew.
Was she mocking him? Was she here to taunt him with his secret, using it to assert her power over him? Was that what this was?
"Please," she whispered. "I want to feel--"
"Feel what," he challenged her angrily and began to rock on his heels. "Real, excruciating pain? Honest to God terror? Want to feel what it's like here in Hell?" He poised two fingers at his skull at the word here and bent down to get in her face. "Is that what you 'want', you sanctimonious little bitch."
Her lashes fluttered, but she wet her lips and breathed, "Oui."
Mouth tight, Spike took a bracing inhale through his nose and said, "Head. Down." Then he whipped her and yelled, "Now!"
Buffy closed her eyes and bowed her head. This docile act of hers was just that -- an act, and he couldn't wait to hear her beg him to stop.
"You think you can get inside my head?" The whip sang as he cracked it full strength with each exclamation. "You stupid! Stupid! Girl!"
She cried out, hands balling into fists. He'd hit her twice in the same spot.
"Ask for the full service, that's what you'll get." He looped the noose around her neck, pushed her down hard on the phallus. "First things first," he said, snapping the whip taut near her ear, "make you wish you were never born."
He unleashed on her then, whipping and shouting, channeling his mother in word and deed -- You worthless little dog! You've ruined my life! I should kill you, I should kill you right now so you can just! Stop! Tormenting me! -- but Buffy showed no fear. Didn't flinch, didn't scream, just took it. Like he used to.
"Don't pretend it doesn't hurt. You're not doing yourself any favors." How could such hard, relentless strikes cause only quivers and muffled grunts? "Cower! Scream! You stupid bint, I have to do this until you scream! Scream your lungs out, or it'll only get worse!"
Silence.
"Do I have to cram this sodding prod in your asshole?" He kicked the phallus. "Rip you apart inside? Make you bleed for days? Beat you with a spiked rolling pin when you cry?"
After a moment, she whispered, "Do it."
He stared at the back of her head. "You're mad. This isn't a game, Buffy!" He loosed the whip again and roared, "This! Is my! Nightmare!"
"I know what it is."
"Then... Why are you making me do this? Why do you want me to break you? I'm in love with you, you stupid..." Losing steam, spent, confused, he dropped the whip and sank to his knees, let the tears fall. "What do you want from me, Buffy? Proof that I'm a monster? Haven't you got enough?! Answer me!"
He heard a sniffle, and looked at her trembling back, the welts that were forming there. Angry red lines criss-crossing her precious mole-dotted skin.
Throat swelling, he moved quickly, setting her free from the noose and shackles and phallus, wrapping his arms around her as she collapsed into him. He pressed his tear-stained cheek to hers and breathed, "Forgive me."
She didn't pull away, and he didn't ask for more. To his surprise, her little hands slid up to his shoulders, and she gave his lips a soft whisper of a kiss.
"Your back, love, I broke the skin..."
"It can wait," she said.
"For--?"
She kissed him again, increasingly ardent nibbles that made him grab onto her and help her remove his shirt and then she said, "Lie down."
He let her coax him onto his back. She took off his shoes, unzipped his pants, and with a few more tugs and pulls, he was naked.
When she crawled up his thighs, he saw what she was after. Holding her off at the shoulder, he said, "Don't--"
"It's just me," she said earnestly, caressing his hand and giving him the sweetest, dewiest eye-smile he'd ever seen, "Buffy. I'm not anyone else tonight."
It was frighteningly easy to drop his guard when she put it that way. As her warm, wet tongue lathed his cock, he clamped his lids shut, threw his head back.
"Hey." She scratched his belly to get his attention. "Keep your eyes on me. Don't look away."
Not sure what she was trying to prove, he put one hand behind his head to prop himself up and lock his gaze with hers. Teasing his rigid shaft with her lower lip, she found his free hand and twined her fingers through it.
He glanced at their joined hands for a moment, then back at her. Left hand wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking him, making him quiver and expel gusts of air, she took him into her mouth, slow and sure.
Her eyes, so deliciously telling, went from compassionate to flirtatious in a blink. He couldn't help but feed off of that, couldn't help but reflect that saucy little attitude.
And then, the oddest thing happened.
He began to enjoy it. For exactly what it was. This wasn't about power; this was about pleasure. No control issues, no fear, no shame... just good, clean fun with a girl he was dead crazy about.
Joy was an emotion he'd never attached to this act, but right now, with her... It might as well have been his first time. Pulling back for a moment before she dove down again, she closed her mouth and silently chuckled at his awed expression. Any other woman laughing at him in this scenario would have spun him into a rage, but her laughter was so honest, her face so guileless, her motives so pure, that a split second before he erupted premature as a spotty teenager, he realized something: this girl nearly half his age, with an infinitesimal fraction of his life experience, had in the space of two minutes managed to crack open a whole new world for him.
"Fuck! Fuck! F-Ahhh!" Back arching, he squeezed her hand, looked in her eyes and blasted off in her mouth.
She was a bit startled, but soon relaxed to swallow it all. Not because she had to. Not because she thought it would cleanse him of evil. She did it because she wanted to.
Clearly bemused by what a very short time that took, she raised her eyebrows at him.
He shot her a breathy laugh. "I swear that's never happened before."
She shrugged a shoulder and sighed, "That's what they all say."
"C'mere, you," he said, and drew her close to kiss her smiling mouth, slung his arm around her neck. As their kiss deepened and his fingers swept down her back, she hissed, and he remembered the pain he'd caused her. "Pet... Let me take you upstairs."
"What's upstairs?"
"A bathtub, for starters."
"Is it big enough for two?"
Tenderly, he moved her hair out of her face. "I think we'll manage."
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A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.