By Cynthia Martin
Warning: Horrid shmoop. I think that's the end. Spike is wallowing in the sweet slavery of love, which I must recommend, btw.
Right, okay, didn't act like a fierce lover: acted like a servant. Didn't please you entirely. Just a slave again, a slave of love and you. Kissing you, slipping your pretty panties off, tounging you, lipping you, loving you, holding you down.
You are so very hard to please. Why isn't that enough? Don't squint at me. Don't be hard and petty, I am going to die for you. Don't you get it? This is it, after all, be a little kind. Don't be so hard and crazy -- this is all I have to give.
Relax. Pretty one. There is no tomorrow. Only my lips on your rapturous smelly folds. Funny. Please don't find fault with me now. Hush.
That poor berk who loved Layla, he had nothing on me. Shhh, sleep. He wandered the earth chanting her name and a holy man batted him in the face one day.
"If you loved Krishna like you love Layla you would achieve liberation," said the holy man.
"Sod Krishna," said he. "There is only Layla."
And you know what he did? That holy man? He said: "Ha, just testing," and liberated that sorry yob with a touch.
Shhh. Sleep. We are none of us immortal. Tomorrow will take care of itself.