By Mint Witch
RATING: NC-17, for smut
SPOILERS: Through S6
DISCLAIMER: Do I look like a paunchy guy with male pattern baldness? No. Okay. Let’s all move on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a wishful thinking S7. As in I WISH! And big thanks to Canada for the world’s fastest Beta.
DISTRIBUTION: I’m not only easy, I’m free. Just ask.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!
Dawn found the first one.
Dropping the links onto the kitchen table with an idle comment, “looks like one of the local dogs has made a break for it,” she began her daily quest for after-school snackage.
“Huh?” Buffy looked up from the cutting board absently, her gaze slowly focusing on the pile of chrome. “What’s that?”
“A choke chain, I think.” The younger woman spoke into the refrigerator, “I mean, that’s what it looks like.”
Tinglies crawled up and down Buffy’s spine, Spidey-sense on full alert for no apparent reason. She probed the feeling like a sore tooth, moving into Inquisition Mode: “Where did you find it?”
“Back porch. What’s for dinner?” Dawn eyed the confetti of former vegetables sacrificed to Slayer cooking. “Soup?”
“Ummm…” Buffy looked guiltily at the carnage. “How ‘bout pizza? Could you call?”
“Sure, Buffy! What do you want?” Dawn found herself speaking to her sister’s departing back, chain dangling from Buffy’s fingers, and shrugged, “Super Everything Combo it is, then.”
The rear porch was empty. How long had this been out here? Where exactly had Dawn found it? It was daylight, and Dawn only came in the back door when she stopped at Janice’s first, so it could have been days. She scoped the porch for anything else unusual and came up empty: no fish-mobiles, scary pictures, dead flowers, nothing. Nada. Maybe it was just a dog. But… where were the tags?
Buffy sat on her bed playing with the cool length of chain as she pondered the little mystery. Was she making too much out of this? Nevertheless, she carried it with her as she made one last check of the house, making sure all the doors and windows were locked and little sisters safe in their beds.
Satisfied that the hatches were battened, Buffy retreated to her room. Time for little Slayers to tuck themselves in, as well. After she stripped and crawled into her own bed, she realized she was still clutching the choke chain. The links were warming to skin temperature, and Buffy rolled on her back to hold the collar up to the light filtering in from the street. When she slid the larger ring over her thumb, the rest slid down, pooling onto her chest with a muffled thump.
Smirking at herself, Buffy waved her hand idly, the links gleaming in the faint illumination. The slight motion caused the end on her chest to drag itself across a nipple. With a quick gasp, she repeated the gesture, teasing her eager flesh. The links cooled and coiled, twining themselves around and between her breasts, across her chest, the bumps playing pleasurably against her skin.
Bringing her other hand up, Buffy caught the smaller end-ring on an index finger. She stretched the chain taught and sawed it back and forth across taut nipples, eyes tightly closed, until her breath came in pants and her hips rocked in time.
Buffy whimpered and draped the chain down the length of her torso, hands following to run over her abdomen and along the outside of her thighs. Her legs were pressed tightly together. With a tiny screech, she forcibly pushed them apart, baring her sex to the night.
She held herself open for long minutes as her arousal grew and pressed outward, demanding satisfaction. Her inner walls throbbed and rippled, a deep, persistent ache that wouldn't go away. A trickle of her own fluids rolled downwards, tickling her ass. Buffy fought her own desire, heightening the tension, torturing herself, until she broke, grabbing the collar to roll it across her clit.
The sensation shredded the last of her control. She plunged three fingers into herself, reveling in the heat and moisture. She fucked herself as hard and deep as a limber body could manage. Her hips thrust upwards, whimpers and moans forcing past clenched teeth. Twisting the fingers locked in her cunt, she flailed for the taper decorating her night table. The sweet smell of beeswax tickled her senses, wrenching her mind into candlelight. With a deep moan, Buffy lubed the candle in her own slick juices, before pressing it gently, carefully, into the tight rose of her ass.
Her hand returned to her clit, flicking and pulling in time with the fingers working deep within. It still wasn’t quite enough. She needed more, something, one more finger. In desperation Buffy wrapped the chain around the hand pinching her erect nub and pressed against her mons, rocking and rolling her sex against the cool chrome. The links caught her clit with a sudden hard pinch as her hips thrust upwards, rocketing her to orgasm with a muffled shriek: “Spike!”
Panting, Buffy smiled to herself. There was no longer any doubt in her mind about where the collar had come from: Lassie wants to come home. With a sated chuckle, the Slayer drifted into sleep. She dreamt of vampires and the bizarre courtship rituals of the undead, a length of chain clenched between her thighs.
Spike ground out his cigarette as the pants and muted wails from Buffy’s room faded to soft, girlie sleep noises.
One question answered. Pulling his next gift from the pocket of his jacket, he stroked it through his fingers for a moment, before heading around the back.
Continued in 2. Happenstance