Hiya! My seasonal_spuffy contribution this round will be an AU S7 BDSM comedy! … Wait, where are you going?
In all seriousness, I’m actually quite apprehensive about this one. It’s the first real pr0n I’ve posted, and because I’m apparently a masochist too, I had to bring in potentially touchy issues along with non-vanilla sex. Anyone who is totally horrified by the idea of a post-S6 Spike/Buffy bondage fic might want to skip it. (Those who are only slightly horrified should know I’m right there with you.)
A huge thank you to my wonderful beta rabid1st for the kind reassurance and stern corrections.
In this alternate S7, Spike is back, souled, and has been helping out the Scoobies; there’s no First Evil making him crazy.
Rating: strong NC-17 for bondage, S&M, and generally smutty premise
Standard disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, just the story.
Distribution: Please do not repost.
Feedback: Hit me. (Not too hard.)
For all that it was about a prostitution ring, Giles’s spiel began rather innocently.
Vampire crime lord, sex slaves, human trafficking, bad. To the group gathered in the rebuilt Magic Box, bad was nothing new. But when Giles started to talk about unassailable desert compounds, mechanized gun towers, and the impracticality of a frontal assault, Buffy started to get concerned. By the time he stated that an undercover operation would be necessary, the mood around the table was tense.
Only Spike seemed unmoved.
“Infiltration would require both a… a decoy,” Giles’s eyes flicked to her, then away, “and, a… well, a proprietor. By necessity, a demon.”
Like a therapist or a trial attorney — or at least the ones she’d seen on tv — Giles led them right up the conclusion he wanted them to reach… and stopped.
Maybe he thought she’d be make fewer objections if she came to it herself. Maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to say it. He’d used euphemisms for “master” and “slave.”
Given the appalled silence, it was clear he hadn’t lost anyone due to coyness. For long moments, her two closest friends’ faces were aghast masks. Spike’s remained lowered, subdued, and carefully blank.
“That can’t… it…” Xander sliced a hand around emphatically before subsiding in speechless disgust.
After a moment, Willow blurted hopefully, “What about Angel?” She always had been his staunchest fan. Buffy had long appreciated that, but now, for some reason, it grated. “They wouldn’t have to… and even if they did, under those circumstances, it wouldn’t make him perfectly happy.”
“Oh yeah?” Xander murmured scornfully. Willow subsided, chagrined.
Buffy was just glad he’d said it, so she didn’t have to.
If anything, a Dominant/submissive scenario might be more likely than mere sex to cause Angel soul loss. It would feed his demon’s lust for violence and dominance, and his soulless self’s appetite for punishing her. Angel loved her innocence, and sure, it would make him horribly uncomfortable to have to play her Master for a crowd. But if he forgot for one second that he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying it, she could find herself facing Angelus.
Surrounded by who knows what… wearing who knows what… chained to who knows what.
There was only one vampire they could tap to play her Master. The one who’d held her down and bruised her on her bathroom floor.
Once again, she didn’t have to say it. Xander spat the name out as though the taste of it offended him.
“No.” Spike responded suddenly, vehemently. As if Xander had suggested him out of nowhere, as if he hadn’t been pegged for the role all along. He didn’t move from his slouch, just raised an accusing glare to Giles. He spoke with the moral authority that had, until recently, been easy to dismiss from him. “You cannot ask this of her.”
“I cannot,” Giles agreed. He addressed Buffy. “Even before… I could never ask this of you. I will not ask.”
She sighed, resigned. “You don’t have to. Once I knew… you knew you wouldn’t have to.”
Spike, who’d been nothing but docile since he’d returned with a soul, put up considerably more resistance. When he began castigating Giles as a “filthy rotten wanker” and a “tweed-clad pimp,” she seized him by the shoulder of his duster and dragged him out the door.
Outside, she released him with a shove and turned away. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and tried to block out Spike’s yammering so she could think.
Through her churning emotions, two certainties rose to the surface. One, to rescue these women, they had to do this. Law enforcement couldn’t operate in the demon world, and freelance demon-fighters had failed. Two, neither of them was ready. There was only one way she could see that either of them would be able to go through with it.
And so she interrupted the diatribe with, “Your safe word is ‘tangerine’.”
Spike’s protests ceased. After a moment, he tentatively ventured, “My safe word?”
“If I’m going to submit to you on this mission, let’s be clear on one thing: you. first.”
Spike nodded dumbly.
“What was that?”
An unexpected frisson went through her; a naughty, illicit tingle she’d never thought to feel again with Spike. It was unnerving. Getting off wasn’t what this was about. This was about business, her business, and she wasn’t about to let some personal demons get in the way of going after the real ones.
“Go to your crypt and wait for me.” If she was going to do this, she needed supplies. Not chains — she knew too well that Spike had them, and no vampire would ever throw those out — but other things.
For want of a horsehair flogger, the battle was lost. Or something like that.
Buffy took the time perusing the racks to gather her nerves… and her wits. She’d acted impulsively with Spike — surprise, surprise — and was, not unusually, a little appalled with herself in retrospect.
Not to mention nervous. She was shopping to sex up a guy who’d sexually assaulted her.
Am I really going to do this? She looked down at the cat o’ nine tails already in her basket. Apparently.
“Do you need help with anything?”
Buffy’s head whipped around. A saleswoman was standing solicitously a little ways off. With curly, graying hair, cardigan sweater, and flowy skirt, her vibe was more Earth Mother/Bank Teller than Sultry Vixen; exactly what sex shop employees on the Hellmouth would look like. She probably fostered orphaned kittens… and sold them to demons as poker chips.
“I, uh, need a collar,” Buffy finally answered.
The woman nodded matter-of-factly, as if she heard that sort of thing every day. Which, she probably did.
“We have a wide selection. Perhaps one like this?”
Buffy suppressed what would have been an inexcusably girly giggle at the thought of Spike in a black collar studded with pink plastic gems. “It’s not for me!” she clarified quickly. She winced as she heard the classic denial leave her lips, and hurried to add, “It’s for my, um,” she cast about for the term, “willing slave?”
The saleslady smiled. “I take it you’re new at this.”
“Oh, I’ve always been dominant. We’ve just never been so formal about it,” Buffy heard herself saying. She moaned into her hands, “I used to be able to shut up, too.”
“Well, then,” the saleslady said, considerately letting the babbling slide, “let’s find a nice formal collar for your… guy? Girl?”
“Guy.” She didn’t know why she was so quick to clarify that. She was buying bondage gear; it’s not like she would be judged if she were gay.
She fingered the collars as the saleslady talked about materials, sizes, styles. Hanging here, they seemed so… animalistic. If she ignored the dildos and mysterious strings of graduated-sized beads in the corner of her vision, she might have been in a pet store. Like, right over there was a rack of feathered cat toys. She was picking out a collar for Spike as if he were her little yappy dog she could stow in her purse. If I wasn’t going to end up wearing one myself later, I’d get him a flea collar to go with it.
How would she feel, wearing one of these? She picked one and held it around her neck. Closed her eyes.
Surprisingly, she felt ok about it. Not turned on, but not revolted, either.
The collar she ended up choosing, a black leather band with D-rings set in it, was a unisex model that either of them could wear. Having Spike wear the same collar now as she did on the mission would enforce the symmetry of it, she reasoned. And it would be one less thing to ask Giles to reimburse her for.
And wouldn’t that be a fun conversation.
When she arrived at his crypt, Spike was standing diffidently a little ways from the door. His eyes flitted to her when she entered. Taking a deep breath, she set down the handled paper shopping bag and shrugged out of her coat. She used looking for somewhere relatively un-dustbunnied to put it to delay dealing with him. What did one say in these situations? ‘Hi, my name is Buffy, and I’ll be your Mistress of Pain for the evening’?
She had to take charge. She met his gaze, resolutely unabashed. “Downstairs.”
He scurried to obey.
She followed him down, her feet less steady than usual on the ladder. “Stand over there. Hands above your head.” She managed to keep her voice from wavering as she gave the orders.
She’d eyed the iron loop at the top of the archway on more than one occasion last year, idly wondering why he’d chained her arms out, not up, that time with Drusilla, since the hardware was there for either. Wondering how he’d look if she chained him up there, and pointedly not wondering how she would feel if she let him do the same to her.
Spike obeyed her without comment, which was disconcerting in itself.
“Have you done this before?”
She wondered if he could tell that she was making this up as she went along. She squelched the impulse to explain herself, or ask permission. Setting a tone, here. Still… “You remember your word?” She leaned past him to pick up the shackles from the floor, then craned her head trying to figure out how she was going to reach the high archway.
“Tangerine.” It came out in a low rumble.
“Good. Now don’t say it again unless you mean it.”
Who knew citrus could be sexy? More importantly, how could she still be so susceptible to him after what he’d done? She eyed him, taking in his submissively raised arms and lowered gaze. Ok, that might have something to do with it. Knowing he wouldn’t move unless she told him to was already making her more comfortable getting in his personal space. The chains would help more… once she could get him in them.
She’d discovered the answer to why Spike had chained her arms out instead of up: the arch was really high. Well above his standing reach, let alone hers. Either of them could probably jump and reach it, but having him do it seemed ignominious, and having him move so she could seemed irresolute. She ended up dragging his dresser over next to him and standing on top of it to thread the shackles through the loop. Suave, Buffy, suave.
She fastened the shackles around his wrists and stepped down, warily watching his face for the curl of a smirk, but his expression was still impassive. It remained so as she shoved the dresser back out of the way. When she fastened the collar around his neck, his only response was a slow blink of his lowered eyes.
She almost wished he weren’t being so, well, submissive. If he’d be naughty in some way, disobey her or talk back, it’d make it easier for her to punish him.
But maybe he didn’t want to be punished for being naughty. Maybe naughtiness wasn’t what she wanted to punish him for, either.
She took a moment to consider that, the idea that she wanted this. That the fluttering in her chest wasn’t just nerves. No, no mere whipping could ever pay him back for what he’d done to her. If she tried to even the score upon his pale flesh, there wouldn’t be enough vampire left to take her to Augusten. If she just mindlessly vented her rage, this “therapy” would end up doing them both more harm than good. But on some level which was fast approaching the surface, she wanted to hurt him.
Mind awhirl, she bent down to retrieve her shopping bag. She had assured the dubious saleswoman that she’d done her reading, and that she would practice flogging inanimate objects first. The former was an overstatement and the latter an outright lie, but there was no good way to explain that she had the Slayer knack for weapons, or that her partner’s kidneys couldn’t be damaged with a wayward stroke.
She didn’t miss the look on his face when the she took out the flogger.
It steadied her a little, knowing this wasn’t just for her.
As she circled around behind him, she realized with another momentary fluster that she’d forgotten to take his shirt off before chaining him up, too. At least this she could pretend wasn’t an oversight. Keeping ahold of the flogger, she took a fistful of shirt in each hand and tore it down the middle. A quick yank at either sleeve, and she was flinging it past him towards the bed. Her hands met on his buckle, and with some none-too-gentle tugs, his pants were around his ankles.
Shackled above and hobbled below, he looked helpless. She paused to admire his sinewy arms, the sharp flared planes of his shoulder blades, the curves of his ass. Then she pulled off her own shirt and tossed it after his.
Spike’s head jerked to follow its arc like a birddog sighting a pheasant.
When her pants followed, he started protesting.
She stepped close, so her breasts barely grazed his back. Her nipples tightened in greeting beneath the lace. “Problem?” she asked silkily.
He’d been keeping his eyes forward, but now he twisted to look back over his shoulder. “I don’t want to make you — ”
Irked at his presumption, she slid the handle of the flogger sideways up the front of his leg to his balls and pressed. His eyes closed on a moan. “Look at where you are. You think you’re making me do anything?”
God, he really sounded like he meant that.
She set the flogger aside and retrieved a narrow leather strip from the bag near her feet. Peering around his side she realized she’d barely have to touch him to put it on; he was already hard.
Despite this, she took his cock in her hand and stroked him. She took ownership of him, every inch of his flesh. When the tip was beading fluid and Spike’s hips were rocking forward, she brought her left hand around and fastened the cock ring on with a quick snap.
The shudder that ran through him made her feel powerful. So did the cat o’ nine tails in her fist.
She drew the whip back and paused. She could feel the edges of the tape as the handle warmed in her damp hand. She could hear a faraway drip of water. His back called to her with its unblemished planes of bone-white skin. He was breathing.
She brought her arm down.
Color blossomed on her empty canvas.
She stepped closer. “You want that, don’t you?” she murmured. “You need that. Deserve it.”
“Yes,” his voice was loud in the hushed tomb. “Deserve more. Please…”
“Hmm.” She ran a finger along the marks she’d left. “I suppose that’s true.” She stepped back.
The other side of his back sprang crimson.
“This? Is nothing.” She switched hands and gave the first set of marks a crosshatch. She wasn’t hitting anywhere near as hard as she could; the aim was to sting, not maim. “Nothing compared to the pain you’ve caused.” Another blow brought symmetry.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, the words she hadn’t let him say, the words he hadn’t dared. “So sorry…”
She had nothing to say to that, so she hit him a few more times. Par for course.
As she fell into a rhythm, Spike swayed into the blows, moaning and mewling in pleasured pain. Her skin felt hot all over; her vision crystal clear as it narrowed to include nothing but his flesh. She felt in the throes of an artistic fervor as she made fine red weals spring up across his back and haunches. She didn’t even notice her growing arousal until a sharp spasm in her belly made her stroke falter and her thighs clench.
A final swat at his butt, and her arm fell to her side.
Spike wobbled to stillness as his punishment ceased.
Breathing hard from more than exertion, she moved around in front of him. His head hung forward; his legs barely held him up. He looked utterly enervated. With one prominent exception.
Using the flogger, she gently lifted his chin. His gaze was luminous; his face was streaked with salt.
While he was looking her in the eye, she used her other hand to release the strap. A gasp, a half tug, and he spilled on her belly.
She pulled the key from where she’d secreted it in her bra and got on her toes to unshackle him. He dropped to his knees. His face was pressed to her, and after a moment she felt the wet rasp of a cool tongue, licking her clean.
He hadn’t waited to be asked, just fallen to it like it was natural. Why was she allowing it?
He was wholly hers. For now.
Mouth open, lower lip brushing at the edge of her underwear, he paused.
He dragged her underwear down. She let her hands bury themselves in his hair. She wanted him to be wholly hers a bit longer.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/265825.html