All About Spike - Plain Version
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Warnings/kinks/squicks: het/slash (implied)/ rum, sodomy, and the lash (alas, without the rum or the lash. Maybe next time.)/ cherry-poppin’/voyeurism/
“All my world in one grain of sand, and you own it.”—Goldfrapp, Black Cherry
The world was somewhat blurred as Drusilla and William staggered drunkenly over the threshold of the sumptuous apartments they shared with Angelus and Darla. Their usually impeccable attire was disheveled, the result of a long evening of theatre, champagne, and the protracted seduction of a smug burgher and his corruptible wife. The color was high in Drusilla’s cheek, due as much to the champagne as to the new blood coursing through her veins.
They barely made it to their bed before collapsing together in a rather inelegant heap. Drusilla giggled rather loudly. William put his finger to her lips.
“Quiet!” he hissed. “Do you want them to hear us?” He sat up with a start, listening intently for telltale footsteps in the hallway outside their room.
She didn’t answer him directly, but drew off her lace glove and caressed his cheek with graceful alabaster fingers. He kissed the tip of each finger in turn.
“You could forgive me if I wanted you to myself from time to time? Please, Dru, you understand, don’t you?” There was urgency in his voice.
“Shh, my darling, my beautiful innocent William. Shh. Lean back and watch the stars with me.” She pushed him back upon the bed, straddling him and entwining his hand in hers as she bent forward to kiss him. Everything else fell away —there was only Drusilla and her insistent tongue, her clever and roving hands. He found himself kissing her back with equal fervor, his hands smoothing back her hair and sliding down her back to rest at the base of her spine. They were locked together for what seemed like an eternity, tongues entwined and bodies planed softly against one another. The assorted tweeds and silks they were wearing supplied a certain delicious friction as Dru —still fully clothed— hitched herself onto his burgeoning erection.
“Ah! My delicious boy,” she whispered. For a moment she seemed quietly lost in contemplation as she bucked against him. He eased her chemise down off one shoulder, and, sitting up, teased at her exposed nipple first with his teeth, then with his tongue. His hands cupped her ass through the many layers of skirts and crinolines and petticoats, and a drawn-out sigh escaped her lips.
He began to lift up her voluminous skirts, anticipating the slide of his long fingers into her deliciously wet cunny.
He was dismayed to find an impediment —an insidious thing made of India rubber, a carefully molded Priapus— attached via straps encircling her tiny waist.
William tried to back away from her on the bed but found himself held there by the newly forceful weight of her body.
“What do you… Where did you find this… this… thing?”
“Shh. Let it go.” She began efficiently undressing him: first shucking off his waistcoat, then his crisply starched shirt. He raised his hips slightly so she could slide his trousers off.
He was completely naked now, his erection almost painfully insistent. Drusilla knelt and, one hand gripping the base of his cock, traced her tongue up the shaft and to the velvety tip, circumnavigating it once before taking it tenderly into her mouth.
A shudder ran through him, and Drusilla steadied him with her free hand.
Another slow, deliberate tongue bath and his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. She gave one last kiss to the glistening head of his cock before sliding off of him and sitting up.
“Don’t… please don’t stop.”
Now her ministering hands had taken hold of his torso and were guiding him gently but adamantly onto his stomach, where he came to rest on his still unrelieved erection.
The sudden contact of her hands on his back caused him to gasp —the contrast between her cool touch and his own enflamed skin was almost too much. He couldn’t see what she was doing, but could only feel it; his entire body was restless with apprehension, shaking ever so slightly with a tremor that he couldn’t control.
Dru leaned in and left a trail of kisses down his long and lean back. “You’re all a-tremble, my sweet. No, no, no… must be quiet and still, like a baby rabbit in the nest.”
He could hear the rustle of her skirts and feel her resolute weight upon him. She pulled his buttocks apart slightly, and with two deft fingers she massaged something deliciously cool and wet into the exposed pucker of flesh, A sharp pressure bloomed from deep within as she slid the godemiche between his parted thighs. The apparatus went in slowly, millimeter by millimeter, the shock of each slight thrust pushing him into the bed linens. Each and every muscle in his body was taut with resistance.
“You’re as tight as a bow string, shhh. Shhh.”
He involuntarily turned his head towards the pillow to muffle his gasp as she drove into him up to the hilt. His girl —pale, delicate— surely she wasn’t made for such exertions? Angelus and Darla —that was their territory, was it not?
Too often he forgets that she’s like them.
She was their creature after all, not his. She never would be. His disappointingly conventional notions were dissipating as surely as his own body was gradually losing its rigid composure. He wouldn’t defy her any more. “Let it go,” she’d whispered in his ear, and he was: the dense molten core at the very crux of him was radiating delicious heat out to all his limbs. Suddenly he was struck by the desperate desire to be able to watch her as she fucked him —to see for himself the unvarnished delight written across her beautiful features, the feline grace and strength with which her hips undulated as she snaked in and out of him.
Now he was moving with her, thrusting forward in time to her movements. They’d found a common rhythm at last, and it was delicious.
He was jarred from his heated reverie at the lilting sound of Dru’s voice. “Oh, but my boy William looks so pretty when he’s being ridden, doesn’t he?”
It slowly dawned that her words were not meant for him. Even as his hips bucked and his cock plunged feverishly into the unkempt mound of bed linens, a terrible chill ripped through him. The beads of sweat trailing slowly down the sinuous curve of his spine turned icy when he heard a familiar Irish brogue: “That he does.”
Angelus was framed in the doorway, throwing a shade across William’s pale flesh.
But it was too late to stop. The momentum that they’d built up was more forceful by far than his sudden desire to flee; with one last measured charge Dru pushed him over the edge. He came with a single cry; Dru collapsed atop him, cooing like a bird and stroking his shoulders.
As exposed and vulnerable as he felt, it was the obvious pleasure he’d derived from his exertions that forced him to turn away from Angelus’ violating gaze. Shame and arousal and things he couldn’t quite name and wouldn’t want to were the causes of the hot blush slowly suffusing his entire spent body.
Angelus laughed that coarse, smugly bemused laugh of his.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed your new plaything, Willie. Dru’s gentler with it than I am, but I wanted to ease you into it.”
Suddenly, with lightning speed, Angelus reached down and jerked William roughly up off of the bed, forcing him to meet his potent stare. His voice was low and conspiratorial: “We’ll give you an education you never dreamed of, my dear boy.”
Drusilla’s arms encircled William’s waist, and she bit playfully into his shoulder.
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