Disclaimer: If you made it this far into the website, chances are you know durned well who owns the copyright on Buffy, Spike and the rest of the gang, and that it ain’t me. No copyright infringement intended. This is, as ever, fanfic impure and simple, or, as I like to think of it (due to the parallels to romance novel fiction) femfanfic. It is one (somewhat deranged and obsessed) femfan’s vision of the possibilities of the Buffyverse created by Joss Whedon. . This is intended only for those over 18, if you are under 18 please go back now.
All Too Human
part 4
Time had no meaning in Hell, and so there was ample time for regret. Buffy regretted that she had not given herself to Angel before she had been taken so brutally --so rapturously-- by Spike. She regretted that she had not fought harder, or longer, or better, that she had failed the world when it counted. The memory of her other victories over the forces of darkness turned bitter, meaningless now that darkness had triumphed.
Even after Spike won, Buffy tried to fight him. Even when it was hopeless, she was still the Slayer, and had no choice. She tried to be indifferent to him, but he knew how to make her burn. She tried to ignore her own sensations, to lie perfectly still and unmoving, so that he would grow impatient and leave her. But he only laughed, and took his time with her, and she found that the inevitable orgasm he forced her to was all the more intense for having been resisted. And so, after a while, she stopped resisting.
But she didn't stop fighting.
After that first night, when hopelessness had worn down her resistance, she had recovered just enough spirit to renew their private battle. She had found and carved and polished a piece of wood, planning to drive it through his chest when he tried to take her again. She expected that she would be punished, eternally, for that transgression, when the other demons caught her. But she couldn't imagine that it would be any worse than the eternal punishment she already endured.
The results were not what she expected.
She drove the stake into his chest as he was kissing her, and had the pleasure of seeing his look of stunned surprise just before he exploded into ash around her. For an instant she was swept by fierce joy, triumphant, willing to suffer whatever was in store because she had, impossibly, succeeded.
But she hadn't, after all. The ashes scattered about her pulled together like metal filings attracted by a magnet. Spike reformed before her eyes, the stake still piercing his heart.
He was laughing when he drew it out.
"Too late, darling. You should have tried that before we got to Hell. Or Hell came to us." He looked at the stake he held in his hand. "Nice work. It would be a pity to waste it." She had no idea what he meant, but couldn't believe he would still want to continue what he had started. But he did.
She could feel his anger in his kisses, and he was not gentle about disrobing her. Instead, he set his hands in the neckline of her negligee and ripped it open, pulling the scraps from her body with brutal quickness. Then he pulled back from her, and forced her to turn onto her stomach. Still not satisfied, he lifted her hips and bent her knees until she was kneeling on the bed, with her head on the pillows.
"More games, pet. I wonder how you'll like this one?" He eased into her, from behind, settling his weight on her. The different position allowed him to penetrate even farther than he usually did. The feeling of him so deeply inside her took her breath away. In moments, Buffy found herself whimpering, her hips slamming backward to meet his. Spike brought his hands around to fill them with her beautiful, ripe breasts, teasing the rose bronze nipples into hard little peaks. She tightened around him deliciously. He wasn't sure he had the will power to punish her, after all. Then he remembered what it had felt like to be reduced to ashes and decided to go through with his plan.
When she was moaning into the pillow, when she was liquid heat around him, he withdrew. Buffy gasped, suddenly bereft, needy. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, eyes wide and confused.
"Shhh, love," Spike said. "Have I ever disappointed you?" Buffy was afraid to answer him. She closed her eyes instead, waiting for whatever whim moved him.
When the invasion came, there was a difference. It wasn't cold. There was something odd about the shape. Not as long, uncomfortably thicker. Her eyes flew open as she realized what he was doing.
Having used the magic that he now possessed to blunt the pointed end, smoothing and rounding it, Spike pushed the stake gently into her glistening, wet depths, rocking it slightly back and forth, finding the excruciatingly sensitive places within her that most easily responded. Shocked, she tried to pull free of him, but he held her fast.
"No, baby. This is my game. We play by my rules." He turned the smooth wood inside her, making her shudder as exquisite sensation coursed through her. "That's right, baby. Show me how good it feels." He pushed it in deeper, was rewarded when her hips reluctantly moved back to accept the intrusion. The sight of the golden, smooth wood disappearing into the wet pink folds of her labia excited him, made him harder than ever. Her breathy cries as she yielded around the slightly thicker shaft drove him wild with lust.
But he was still angry. And she was so exquisitely, so enticingly, vulnerable. Using one hand to move the stake gently in and out of her responsive sheath, he moved over her again, this time positioning the head of his cock at another, tighter orifice of her body. Buffy froze when she felt him press his shaft between her buttocks, her pleasure draining away. He couldn't possibly mean to do what she thought he was going to do! But he did.
"This will be easier on you if you relax, pet." Spike warned her.
"Please don't do this," she begged, her voice quivering.
"Shhh," he said again, turning the stake once more, shocking her with another frisson of heat. For the moment, he seemed content just manipulating the stake inside her body. She began to relax again, began to let the delicious sensation build inside her, began to push back against it, engulfing the entire thick, wooden shaft. Spike reached his other hand forward, and Buffy keened her pleasure as he stroked her sensitive clit lovingly. And it was at that moment, when she was utterly aroused, utterly pliant, that Spike pushed through the tight, resistant ring of muscle in her bottom, forcing the stake deeper into her at the same time. Buffy felt like she was being ripped apart, as Spike edged himself deeper into the narrow channel. But in counterpoint, the stake was pressing into her most secret depths, and Spike's fingers were caressing her intimately, overriding minor pain with intense pleasure. With a groan of capitulation, she moved her hips backward again, accommodating him, impaling herself farther, deeper upon wood and flesh alike.
"Good girl," Spike murmured into her ear, easing himself out and pushing gently forward again. He didn't want to hurt her, after all. Not really. His anger with her was quickly evaporating under the heat of her responsiveness. God, he loved being inside her, having her. He was greedy for her heat and her surrender, and right now, right now, for every secret her body held. Still working the smooth wood of the stake in and out of her slick sheath, still teasing the little pearl that he loved to torment, Spike allowed himself to vamp out, and bury his fangs into the long white column of her throat.
Buffy groaned for him again, pressing her neck backward against his mouth, pressing her hips back against his cock, against his hands. Spike abandoned any thoughts of gentleness, heat rising in him in response to her willing submission.
Buffy thought she would die. Her shock and humiliation had receded. All she knew was that what Spike did to her felt glorious, that he was giving her what she craved, much as she might hate her own cravings. But right now, right now, she was hungry for every secret his body could teach her. She drove her hips backward, drawing him in, making him come to her. He obliged, pushing deeper, stroking harder. The wave was building quickly. Buffy felt it approaching and for once welcomed the onset. She let it take her, screaming into the pillow, aware of the delicious difference in her contractions as a different set of muscles clenched and released around Spike's shaft.
Spike was aware as well, exquisitely aware, of the almost painfully stronger contractions that pulsed around him. He drove into her harder, finding his own release, collapsing over her at last and joining her on the bed.
After a moment, her soft whimper made him realize that pleasure had turned to discomfort, and he withdrew from her. The stake was still pressed deep inside her, and on a whim, he gently turned it once more, watching as she quivered in renewed arousal. Smiling, he pulled her closer, her back and buttocks snug against his chest and hips. His own satiation had been complete, but he knew she was capable of more. He caught the lobe of her ear between his fangs, and bit lightly, enough for her to feel pressure, but not for him to draw blood. She sighed and wriggled back against him, moaning when he pushed the stake in a little more forcefully. He twisted it again, then began to use stronger, more brutal strokes, until she was sobbing in need. Abruptly, with the stake pushed as far inside her as he could lodge it, Spike switched their positions, so that she lay on her back, and he could taste her sweet feminine core. He pulled her long legs over his shoulders, then settled down to feast on her. She was soaking wet and sensitive to his least touch. He laved her swelling clit, then drew it into his mouth, so that she thrust her hips against him, offering him more. And all the while he twisted the stake inside her. In moments she was screaming for him, dissolving into rapture, but he wanted more from her, and more, and he would not stop until she lost her capacity for endurance, and her last orgasm left her unconscious. Only then did he pull the stake free of her body, tossing it over the side of the bed, and draw her into his arms. He nestled the sheets over her perspiring body, content to hold her until she revived, content to feel the steady beating of her heart against his own chest. In a few moments, her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up at him
"Remember, love" he said as he caressed the swell of her belly, "if you want to play rough, I'll oblige."
"Promise?" she asked sleepily, not really aware of what she said. Spike drew in a surprised breath. He let it go on a laugh.
"Too right!" he warned, then kissed her.
******
Time had no meaning in Hell, and except for Buffy, Spike was beginning to find it rather wearing. Being an Infernal Prince, second only to the usually absent Lilith, and a Satan who couldn't be bothered with earth when there were a billion worlds to conquer, had it's perks, but Spike found the responsibilities more annoying than he had expected.
Lilith might be Queen of Hell, but she went rarely amongst her subjects, and had seemingly turned over her role to Spike, granting him nearly limitless power. He ruled a land of darkness from the Castle of Unending Night, holding court like a renaissance prince. His courtiers, the ones who kept to human forms, seemed to echo this conceit, for they all wore the flowing silks and draping velvets of fifteenth century Italy. He even had Buffy dressed in gowns with yards of fabric, cut low across her breasts, her hair caught up in nets of gold studded with jewels. She wore undergarments of silk and taffeta, chemises, petticoats, garters and stockings, garments that provided him with amusement when he wanted to take his time, savoring the process of stripping her naked, or that ripped easily in his hands when he was impatient to be inside her.
To complete the illusion of Renaissance splendor, Buffy was guarded like some cosseted, royal hostage, surrounded by those who were part servant, part jailer: imps; tiny, gnarled creatures with leathery wings and over-large eyes, their skin dusky blue, or ash gray, or moss green, their purpose both to see that her physical wants were well tended, and that she had no possible means of escape.
Spike was called on to settle disputes between demons, and had to judge not only who was right and who was wrong --never an easy matter with demons-- but how to render a decision that wouldn't inalterably piss off one of his immortal courtiers, and turn him or her into an immortal, implacable, enemy. There were torments even a demon feared, and Spike knew he would need to be careful to avoid them. But his innate cunning served him well, and he avoided the worst of it.
Willow helped. And hadn't she been a revelation? Not long after he came into his own, Spike discovered that female demons were as attracted by power as any human woman had ever been. He also realized that, from their perspective, he did not have a mate, and there was no reason why they could not supply that lack. They dismissed Buffy as a necessary indulgence. He had needed to marry her to bring Lilith into the world, but how could a merely human girl satisfy his demonic needs?
Willow had been the first to voice this opinion. Her human intelligence had translated into demon cunning and diabolic subtlety. She often had useful advice to give him, or a point of view on problems he faced that he himself had overlooked. They were having a private supper in her apartments, which Willow had arranged in the manner of ancient Rome. They were recumbent on velvet couches as they ate. After the meal, Willow poured him a goblet of wine, laced with blood, then stood and allowed her silk robe to fall to the floor. She was naked beneath it. Spike eyed her body appreciatively. The school girl costumes she had affected in life had given no clue to the ripe, rounded female form she now displayed.
"I think it's time you started exploring your options," Willow said, walking toward him with a sway of her lush hips.
"My options?" Spike smiled, sipping the wine, and reaching out a hand to stroke the white flesh of her thigh. Vampires were rarely monogamous, and Buffy's continued resistance, while it did amuse, also left him open to the offer of something a little more...acquiescent.
"Yes. You need a consort, a mate, a partner."
"What? And me a married man," he laughed, but he pulled her down beside him on the couch. Vampire sex was a blood sport, as much about the exchange of pain as the exchange of pleasure. With the exception of the times that he took her blood, Spike found himself completely uninterested in hurting Buffy when he made love to her. And her reactions made him believe that his feeding didn't hurt her, after all. It might be amusing to reacquaint himself with the darker side of vampiric sexuality. He vamped out and carried Willow’s wrist to his mouth, kissing it in an almost courtly fashion before sinking his fangs into her delicate veins. She gasped in pleasure, but that didn't distract her from the point she was trying to make.
"Your marriage to Buffy doesn't count. That was ritual. She's human and no fit mate for you. She's useless in your court."
Spike stopped feeding long enough to reply. "Oh, I wouldn't say 'useless', exactly."
"You don't keep your vassals in line by oaths of honor, Spike," Willow said as she leaned forward and began to undo the laces of his black velvet doublet. "Demons don't have honor. All we have is a healthy sense of self-preservation, an eye to the main chance, and a good idea of who to back."
She pulled off the doublet, and opened the shirt beneath, leaning forward to lick greedily at his male nipples, and bite at them teasingly. Spike drew in a breath, buried his hand in her hair and pulled her face up to his for a long, wet kiss. She was beautiful and deadly, the kind of girl he admired. And she was as perfect and as cold as every other demon in the world. Spike let her go, and she continued to speak, still disrobing him.
"As long as Lilith favors you, and as long as you're the strongest demon around, they'll do whatever you say. But if you grow careless, if you anger, or alienate too many of them, they might just try to pull something while Lilith is occupied elsewhere." Since Lilith always seemed to be elsewhere, this was not an empty threat.
"And you think that taking a consort will help?" he asked as she stripped off his hose and joined him on the couch. He poured a thin stream of the wine over her white breasts and licked it off.
"If you pick the right consort," she said with a smile, and then she vamped out and took his blood, offering her own, and after, offering him more. And it was as hot and hard and satisfying as it had ever been with Dru.
And not quite as good as it always was with Buffy.
He allowed himself a few more indulgences, sometimes bedding more than one demoness at a time. Fun and games and all very pleasant. But however many demoness cast out lures, however much he enjoyed their initial attentions, they paled quickly, because they couldn't offer the things Buffy had in abundance; blood like wine and living, human heat.
It was she who kept the monotony of triumph from driving him mad with boredom. No matter how many times he took her, no matter how many ways, no matter how often he overcame her reluctance, her enmity, and made her cry in need, made her turn to him, she always regained her sense of self afterwards. She was still the Slayer, and she still fought him. The unending battle was delicious.
But it had some unexpected consequences.
As with all of his breed, fidelity wasn't his long suit. Even when he had been with Dru, Spike had occasionally bedded a particularly enticing victim, sometimes deciding to vamp her, sometimes merely taking her life at the moment of her most intense pleasure. A considerate, if uncompromising, lover, he always made sure the pleasure was intense, indeed. Some of them understood they were dying, but for the sake of the rapture he gave them, yielded to him utterly, preferring death in his arms to life outside his bed.
So it was not surprising that the vampires in Hell looked upon Buffy as a particularly tasty morsel that, though out of reach for the moment, was ultimately obtainable. Spike had, when he had planned things, considered her in exactly that light, himself. But that had changed very quickly. He let it be known that she would never be obtainable, and that in some things, fidelity was required.
It caused some problems. Xander, in particular, was not pleased. But though that unlikely young man had quickly proven to be a demon of the most deadly cleverness, Spike was not unduly concerned. His own power was well entrenched. Still, Xander, of them all, wouldn't back down before Spike, and the older vampire respected that. So he tolerated Xander's open covetousness of Buffy. It was almost amusing.
But Spike found teaching Buffy the myriad facets of passion the most amusing game of all.
*********
She never knew how he would take her, what new experience, possibility, would be revealed. The bed was merely the most convenient location for his passion, hardly the only one. He had taken her on the steps of the submerged bathing pool, on the marble tiles of the floor, he had taken her up against the twisted trees of the garden, and once, memorably, in front of his entire, completely unaware, court.
Spike sat her on his lap while he himself was seated on his throne, both of them in elaborate, formal Renaissance dress. He had pulled her full skirts apart, impaled her, then draped the billowing cloth of her gown elegantly over them both, so that no one could detect the joining of their bodies. He had made her sit up straight and immobile, whispering erotic threats into her ear, promise of sensual torment if she did not play this particular game, and then he had allowed his court to join them.
Buffy was humiliated, convinced that the others would all know what was happening, even if they couldn't actually see. Surely it was obvious. But she realized very quickly that they had no idea. And she began to feel what Spike wanted her to feel; an added fillip to the titillation of having him inside her. There was something intensely arousing about the need to remain seemingly poised, indifferent, polite, while all the time Spike's rampant flesh was encased in her tight sheath. She hated him for making her feel such passion.
Buffy tried something experimental, deliberately concentrating, contracting her inner muscles around his unmoving prick. Her reward was his tiny indrawn breath. She smiled demurely. He had threatened that if she lost control, if she allowed herself to come in front of the whole court, he would punish her by making love to her for a hundred nights without once letting her achieve release. Hate him as she would, Buffy knew that particular form of torment would be unendurable. But she was determined to pay him pack somehow.
Now she wondered if she had found a weakness she could exploit to turn the tables on him. She began to contract and release around him, all the while sitting perfectly still. Spike had gone very, very still himself. But as she continued tormenting him, she found that she was also contributing to her own pleasure. And that she would have to stop if she didn't want to risk public humiliation. Unhappily, she realized she was so aroused, so close to orgasmic, that she had increased her own discomfort, not eased it. Spike chuckled softly in her ear, understanding her dilemma. But not willing to end it just yet.
The demons were apparently unmoved by the whim of an Infernal Prince to have his ritually mandated bride sit at stiff attention on his lap while he held court. Knowing how much she disliked their company, they supposed she had angered him and that this was her punishment. None of them suspected that she had pleased him and that this, though momentarily a torment, would ultimately prove a reward.
Nothing, however, got by Willow. Noting the uncharacteristic immobility of the Slayer, noting her flushed face and slightly uneven breathing, noting that her nipples were stiff against the soft fabric of her bodice, and noting, as well, the self-satisfied smirk with which Spike watched her, Willow drew her own conclusions. She waited until the musicians started to play, and some of the other demons began to dance. Then with an imperious gesture, she called Xander to her side, whispered a word of command to him, and drew him forward to face Spike.
"I remember that Buffy liked dancing, once," Willow said to Spike. "Wouldn't you like to watch? I know Xander would be happy to partner her," she purred. Heat flared in Xander's eyes at the deliberate image she had used, and he reached for Buffy's hand.
Spike laughed and waved him away. "You do amuse, pet," he said to Willow. "I admire clever girls. But enough for now."
With a gracious curtsey, and a mocking smile, Willow withdrew, taking Xander with her.
Spike ended the party early, but it was still too long for Buffy, who had been in sexual agony for what felt like days. As soon as the last fawning courtier bowed himself out, as soon as the imps closed the carved wooden doors behind the last guest, she had fallen back against his chest with a groan. Taking pity on her, he had reached a hand into her bodice, fondling one ripe breast, then shifted his hips to impale himself more fully inside her, bringing her to orgasm in a single thrust. He waited until she recovered, then began again, plunging into her lush, wet depths in a languorous rhythm that quickly made her greedy and impatient for fulfillment. He was only too happy to oblige.
By the time they were done, her gown was ruined, the throne had been toppled, and he had taken her standing, taken her kneeling, taken her and taken her again. When they were finished, when she had gone limp and boneless with satiation, and he had filled her to overflowing with his cold seed, she protested that she couldn't move, and pleaded that they sleep where they were, on the dais of the throne room. Tempting as the idea was, Spike reluctantly decided it was impractical. He pulled down one of the silk hangings that covered the walls, wrapped it about her sated, limp body and carried her back to their apartments. The imps would clean up.
Another time, she had found him sitting on the edge of their bed, brooding. A new wall had sprung up within a foot of where he sat. He was dressed in the clothes he had worn before his ultimate triumph had freed Lilith and enslaved the world. At least in the pants and boots. His leather trench coat was beside him on the bed. The shirts he had worn were nowhere in evidence. The well defined muscles of his chest drew her eyes, making her shiver, making her remember how it felt to have his unliving flesh pressed against her warm breasts. Making her want him to do it again.
A chair nearby contained some filmy undergarments that Buffy suspected were for her use.
"Put them on," he said, confirming her guess. Buffy knew better than to protest. She merely nodded, stripping off her gown and undergarments. The undergarments on the chair were almost as elaborate as those she discarded; black seamed stockings, a lacy merry-widow in the same midnight color, and a ribbon of black lace for her throat. That was all. Except for a pair of high, high, wickedly high, thin heels; shoes that forced her up onto tiptoe, making it difficult to walk in anything but tiny, delicate steps. Making it difficult to keep her balance. Making her incredibly aware of the sway of her hips, slightly exaggerated by the heels, of the enticing length of her own legs, of the exquisite friction of her bare thighs brushing against each other as she walked, oh so slowly, toward him.
He rose to meet her, picking up his coat, pulling her into his arms, kissing her with the hunger she had come to expect as her due, and which instantly, despite her own resistance, flooded her intimate flesh. Spike draped his coat around her, pushing her arms into the sleeves, so that, as once before, it surrounded her like a second caress. Then he bent her backward over his arm, kissing his way down her throat, arcing her back until the tops of her breasts were straining to leap free of the merry widow. Bending his head toward them, he pushed down the stiff fabric of one cup, freeing a nipple, taking it into his mouth. As he had wanted to do since he had first seen them, Spike bit, lightly, into the turgid bud of flesh. Buffy whimpered for him, and he could tell from their trembling that her legs wouldn't support her much longer. He pulled her upright, and gently pressed her backwards.
"Lean back against the wall," he said. With a shuddering sigh, she did. He brought his head down again to her other breast, pushing the cup aside, tormenting it into a rigid crest. She moaned anew. His mouth still tormenting her breast he reached into his pants pocket and brought out two bits of plastic. Then he lifted his head from her breast, kissed her open mouth, and while she was thus distracted, closed the first nipple clamp over the aroused peak. Buffy went still with shock. It was like having his mouth fastened almost painfully, unyieldingly, over her breast, or as if his fingers were tight about her. He drew away, gave her a smug smile, and then turned his attention to her other breast. Buffy tried to push him away, but with no more success than she ever had. With the second clamp fitted, he returned to kissing her, slipping a hand between their bodies, sliding one finger deep inside her sheath. Buffy cried out against his mouth, and he kissed his way from her lips, along her jaw, to her ear, and began to whisper to her, telling her how good she felt, how good she tasted, what he was going to do with her, to her, for her. Buffy thought that if she couldn't make him stop, immortal or not, she would die.
It was Spike himself who stopped, holding her upright against the wall, looking into her eyes --pure green at the moment-- finding them awash with a potent mixture of arousal and fear that must seduce any vampire. He smiled, then sat back down on the very edge of the bed, reaching forward to caress her stockinged legs, and let his hands drift once more between her thighs. He pulled them gently apart, waiting while she balanced on the heels.
And then he leaned forward, moving his hands to steady her hips, and Buffy discovered that the heels had put her at exactly the right height to make her convenient and accessible for him to ravish with his mouth. He swirled his tongue over her straining clit, and she couldn’t stand upright, anymore, she couldn't. But the wall was at her back and Spike pressed against her and would not let her fall. He sucked harder on the tender pearl, pulling it into his mouth, causing her to thrust forward with her hips, and moan anew. She was drenchingly wet, her nipples forced to stiff attention by the clamps, her ragged breathing constricted by the stays of the corset, her legs at once caressed by the silk of her stockings, and lengthened by the height of her heels.
Buffy couldn't get enough air into her lungs and he wouldn't let her collapse to the floor and she was dying, dying with the sweet pleasure of his mouth on her. Then he moved his hands from holding her hips still and put one finger inside her, withdrew it, and pushed it back again while his other hand rose to flick just lightly against the nipple clamps. It was too much and she shattered for him, bowing over his back, tearing his skin with her nails, opening her most secret flesh for his absolute invasion, his unrelenting conquest. Spike drank in the intoxicating nectar of her fulfillment, forcing more and more of the honeyed liquor from her helpless body until she collapsed over him, in an excess of rapture.
He let her recover, but he would not let her fall. Instead, he eased her weight back onto her legs, pushing her back until the wall supported her. Then he opened the zipper of his pants, freed himself of the constriction, and thrust inside her lush, sated body. It shouldn't have been possible for him to bring her to arousal so soon after he had given her such complete satisfaction, but it was. Once again, the heels lifted her to the perfect height for his enjoyment. But after awhile, even they weren't enough for him. Spike reached a hand down one of her legs, lifting it, getting her to wrap it around his waist. Using the wall to support her weight, he reached for the other leg, using his hips not only to plunge inside her, but to keep her from falling. He coaxed her into locking her ankles around his waist, supporting her buttocks with his hands.
For one breathless instant, they were motionless. Then, instinctively, Buffy moved her hips against his supporting hands, making him groan. His chest pressed against her bosom, causing the clamps to deliver an almost painfully pleasurable frisson to her swollen nipples. Then he thrust deep inside her, and she was lost.
He loved her like this, lush and wet from recent satisfaction, drowsy with contentment, yielding and on the verge of another, longer, climax. She was always so much more pliant after she came the first time. God, it had never been like this with Dru. What was it about Buffy that made him nearly insatiable? That kept him from being completely satisfied if she wasn't utterly fulfilled?
The question lost importance as she moved her hips in an enticing, erotic roll, engulfing him even more fully than she had before. Spike took her mouth again, increasing the pace of his thrusts until he felt her peaking again, until he met her pleasure with his own drowning her, drowning in her, subsuming both of them in ecstasy.
****************
She no longer tried to keep track of days that were not days, and nights that were unending. The pale, beautiful girl drifting across the black lawn in her gown of white silk might have been in the Castle of Unending Night for a year or a century or millennia. She didn't know. The only thing Buffy knew for sure was that every moment of that timeless time had been one of sorrow, of loss, of despair.
And of unrelenting, enervating desire.
Buffy was the last, the only living human in Hell. Even Ethan Rayne had allowed himself to become a demon, letting Willow vamp him. Lilith had promised he could keep his own soul, along with the demon that would immortalize him, and he had jumped at the chance.
The other humans who had survived Lilith's initial advent did not fare as well. They either became favored pets of the new rulers, or were slaughtered outright. Favored pet status, however, was unbelievably transient. The pets quickly either became demons themselves, or died under overzealous displays of affection from their masters. Buffy was utterly powerless to help them. This was Hell, and the Chosen had been defeated. Eventually, only Buffy was left.
And when she encountered other vampires, they all watched her with covetous, thirsty eyes. Now full demons, they had no real need for human blood, but they still craved it. Spike used magic to supply the need, but either could, or would, do nothing about the craving. Though blood flowed from fountains and collected in crimson pools throughout his palace and in the surrounding gardens, there were no human vessels from which to drink, and Buffy could feel the hunger the other vampires felt for her. A hunger they carefully kept reigned in out of fear of Spike, who clearly did not regard Buffy as something to be shared. Still, she knew that the others were merely waiting, sure that, the ritual marriage having served it's purpose --uniting the Chosen with a demon, destroying all hope, thus opening the door to Hell-- he would tire of her, eventually, and that they would then have an opportunity to slake their own desires.
She was afraid they were right.
Xander was the worst. He was the only one who didn't bother to hide his feelings when Spike was around, the only one who never took his eyes off her whenever they were in the same room. The only one who ever went beyond looking, and made covert attempts to take her for his own.
He had come across her in the garden, once. Buffy tried to retreat to her rooms. Xander moved with superhuman speed to intercept her, pulled her close, and kissed her with merciless hunger, pulling her bodice loose, baring her breasts. She fought him, and, full demon though he was, she pushed him away before he could do more. But Xander hadn't been angry, so much as amused.
"It'll happen, Buff," he said to her, as she stood panting, clutching her bodice closed. "Spike has every female demon in Hell to chose from. Sooner or later, he'll grow tired of you. And when he does, I'll be waiting."
"You'll wait forever," she hurled at him. He laughed.
"I've already waited forever. But I know you'll be worth the wait. Still, I'm getting impatient. And that makes me...unhappy." Lightening quick, he made another grab for her, pulling her back into his embrace. This time, her struggles did not suffice to free her, and tightly as he held her, she realized they were only arousing him.
"Now, you don't want me unhappy, Buff, because when I become unhappy, I tend to be mean." He tore her bodice open once more, pinching a nipple cruelly between thumb and finger. "If I were you, I'd make sure that your future lover were kept happy now. It'll make me all the more disposed to treat you...kindly, when the inevitable happens." He forced another kiss from her, his fangs cutting into her lips, then smiling, licked away the trace of blood he had stolen and let her go.
Terrified, Buffy fled back to her rooms. The boy Xander had loved her, but she had never been able to return that love. Now, the demon he had become was obsessed by a similar desire. The idea of being given to Xander, of being forced to endure with him the things Spike compelled her to was appalling. But she had no idea how to prevent it.
The worst of it was, that she had begun to need Spike not merely for protection from the other demons, but because he had taught her to crave, to need, to burn, for the pleasures only he had ever brought her.
When her mortality had been burned away, so too had her tie to mortal cycles, mortal rhythms. She was permanently in a state of wanton receptivity, her body fecund, straining toward a promise of fertility and new life that could never, ever be met. Spike had reveled in her need, his own pleasure always enhanced by her fulfillment. He had only to turn the gaze of his black eyes upon her, or raise his scarred eyebrow in silent inquiry, had only to walk by her, and Buffy would become instantly, drenchingly wet, aroused, her legs trembling, unable to support her, her nipples hardening into aching buds hungry for the feel of his lips and teeth and tongue. She might, possibly, survive his loss of interest. She could not conceive how she would endure being forced to allow another demon possession of her body, which had been totally, completely possessed by Spike.
Now, frightened both by Xander's actions and his words, Buffy, tried to do something she had never before, in all her long sojourn in Hell, attempted. She tried to find Spike within the complex warren that was the Castle of Unending Night.
Instinct led her, and the bond of their ritually spilled blood. She knew which corridors to turn down, which to avoid, which stairs to climb and which to pass by. And then she came to a set of apartments done more like a Roman villa, with frescoed walls and marble pillars, than a renaissance palace, and she heard within, soft feminine voices, and cold feminine laughter. Slowly she moved toward the sounds. Until she faced a circular bed placed between four marble columns, drapes of sheer white silk floating from their capitals.
She hadn't heard Spike's voice because he was busy drinking the blood of Demara, a lamia with tawny hair and skin, eyes like topaz, and, in serpent form, scales like beaten bronze, and copper and gold. She was still in human form and was laughing as blood poured from her throat and into Spike's mouth. Demon blood wasn't as satisfying to a vampire as human blood, but it had a certain appeal. The other laughter Buffy heard came from the bed's remaining occupants; Cordellia, pressed against Spike's other side, one long leg thrown over his hips; and the one to whom these apartments belonged. The one who knelt at Spike's feet, apart from the others, yet seeming to direct them, as if this were a play performed for her entertainment. As perhaps it was. The four were too engrossed in their own enjoyment to notice Buffy, and she walked slowly around the pillars, until she was behind the bed, watching as Spike left off kissing Demara, and turned to Cordellia. The lamia began to change form, coiling herself around the two of them, making herself a part of their love play, slithering up between Cordy's thighs, causing the vampire to shudder in pleasure, then winding around her waist, and rising farther before sinking her venomous fangs deep into Cordy's breast. The vampire wailed, apparently finding the pain as acceptable as the pleasure. Spike laughed and reached out a hand to gently squeeze and release the lamia's coils, in a rhythmic pattern Buffy knew lamias relished. Then he dipped his head to bite Cordy's other breast, and she began to rock her hips sensually against his thigh, moaning her satisfaction.
Spike hadn't entered Cordy yet, though his cock was hard and rigid against her belly. The lamia draped a coil around it and constricted slightly. Spike growled against Cordy's bloody bosom.
And then the one who had orchestrated this began to do more than watch. Moving forward, Willow set one pale hand against the lamia's coils, lifting her away from Spike. She tugged Spike's hips lightly, making him turn from Cordellia and lie supine on the bed, though he kept his teeth fastened in the other vampire's breast. Cordy sighed and followed him. Willow allowed that, but pushed the other girl and the lamia slightly to one side. Then she raised herself up, moving astride Spike in one fluid gesture, impaling herself on his manhood, before leaning forward to bury her own fangs in his neck.
Cordellia reached out a hand to stroke Willow's hair from her face, making it easier for Willow to drink from Spike. The four of them seemed impossibly intertwined, heaving, twisting, burning to the same rhythms, moving as if in some obscene dance. Buffy wasn't able to move, or look away. The lamia lifted her head from Cordy, stretching further, coiling up toward Willow. Having drunk deep, Willow sat up again, her hips still moving sensually on Spike. Buffy could see his turgid manhood disappearing into the fiery nest of curls between Willow's thighs, reappearing as she moved upward, and receding once more as she engulfed him on her downward thrust. Spike's blood dripped from Willow's mouth, and the lamia's forked tongue licked out for it. The she struck for Willow's throat, and the vampire pulled the serpent toward her, uncoiling her from Cordy and Spike, encouraging her to twine about her own body instead.
Meanwhile, glutted with blood, Spike abandoned Cordy's bosom, and drew her across his body until her pulsing female heat was within reach of his avid mouth, stroking his tongue into her wet sheath in tandem with Willow's thrusts onto his cock. Willow watched them, smiling, gently squeezing and releasing the lamia's coils. Demara changed again, her head falling away from Willow's throat, becoming a swooning girl. Willow held her upright, then kissed her brutally, thrusting her fingers into the lamia's glistening wet labia until the other demoness began to writhe and thrust back. In a few moments, first Cordy and then Demara peaked, each moaning, twisting, screaming out in pleasure. They fell to either edge of the bed, sated, no longer capable of doing more than watching as the game drew to a close.
It was as she released Demara, and turned her attention back to Spike that Willow saw Buffy. The others were too oblivious to notice her. Willow didn't miss a stroke of her rhythm, but smiled directly at the Slayer, holding her gaze as she moved seductively upon Spike. Without the involvement of Cordy or Demara, Buffy once more had a clear view of Spike's male flesh being engulfed and relinquished by Willow's hungry body. Spike reached up to knead Willow's full breasts with his hands. Willow tilted her head back with a satisfied growl, her red hair cascading down her spine to touch her buttocks, but she never let her eyes leave Buffy's. And Buffy still couldn't move or look away. She stood frozen as Willow increased her pace and Spike began to utter the cries Buffy had learned to recognize, and then Willow began to reach her own crises, began to shiver and moan and yet hold Buffy captive with her eyes. Buffy was sickened by what she saw, but continued to watch as Spike spilled himself into Willow, and the vampire at last broke the bond of their gazes as she pitched forward over Spike's body in her climax. When all four were spent, breathing deeply, sated, Buffy backed quietly away and returned to her rooms.
The prescient imps who served and warded her had drawn her a bath. Buffy let her torn gown and ruined bodice fall unheeded to the tiled floor, discarded her petticoats, chemise, stockings and shoes and immersed herself in the cool water. She tried to scrub away the taste of Xander's mouth and the feel of his hands on her breasts. She tried to scrub away her fear that Spike had grown tired of her, and might give her to Xander or some other, even less human demon. She tried to scrub away the sight of Willow's smile, the sound of her satisfied, throaty cries. She failed at all of it.
Eventually, she got out of the pool, pulled a thick bath sheet around herself, dried off and went to bed. An attentive imp drew down the silk covers, took away the bath sheet, and left her to rest. Buffy closed her eyes, and tried to find forgetfulness, but it was long in coming. Eventually though, she slept. And dreamed.
In her dreams, it wasn't Spike in the center of that heaving mass of flesh, it was Buffy. Buffy's breasts were bitten by lamia and vampire alike, Buffy's wet, sweet center was licked, and stroked and fingered by greedy demon tongues and hands. She began to toss and moan in her sleep, but slowly, the dream began to change. It wasn't Cordy or Demara biting her any more, it wasn't Willow's red hair Buffy saw between her own thighs. Spike drove his tongue inside her, stroking her exactly where he knew she liked best to be tasted. It was his hands cupping her breasts, his fingers tugging her nipples into hard little peaks. In her dream Buffy moaned and opened herself to him, burying her hands in his thick blond hair, pressing herself closer to his clever mouth, arcing her breasts more fully into his hands. He pulled one hand free, letting it find play in the nest of curls between her thighs even as his knowing tongue began to delve that exquisite bit further inside her that started the wave cresting within her.
The wave built and built, the force shaking her from her dream... to find that she was not dreaming, after all. Spike was with her, caressing her, feasting on her flesh and she was shattering for him as helplessly as if she had not seen him take and use three other women mere hours before. She was still orgasmic when he moved over her, entering her, pushing her toward another height.
After the first crisis passed, drained and exhausted, she tried to push him away.
"I can still smell them on you," she told him bitterly. "Leave me alone." Spike's scarred brow flew up in amazement.
"You know about that?" he asked. Maddeningly, he hadn't stopped moving inside her, seemed disposed to have their argument while still ravishing her. As ever, she found herself, however unwillingly, responding.
"Yes. I know about that. What I don't know is what you're doing here, when you had the three of them. Why didn't you just stay with Willow?"
"Because the three of them can't satisfy me like you can," he said simply, and then he brought his mouth down on hers, ending the argument. But his words had stunned her, and the fight had gone out of her. She climaxed for him moments later, but, too recently sated, it was long before he took his own release, and he made her scream, made her beg, made her shatter repeatedly, until he was satisfied.
Buffy kept waiting for Spike to grow tired of the gentleness he had decided to show her. Surely that was only a ruse, something to lull her into submission, so that her suffering would be all the greater when he decided to renew his torture of her. Hadn't that been what he meant when he said she would spend eternity making up to him for the loss of Drusilla? With the world at his mercy, with supernaturally beautiful female demons and vampires, lamia and djin throwing themselves at his feet, fighting for a place in his bed, he had no need of Buffy's merely human charms.
But as night blended into night, it seemed he did. After the time she had found him with the demonesses, Spike's days --as days were measured in this place where there was no sunlight and where time was unending-- were spent ruling his court. His nights were spent in her bed, in her arms, in her body.