All About Spike - Print Version
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Disclaimers: I do not own the characters which are the property
of Joss Whedon and ME and those other guys, and I don’t even own the dress.
Heavy silk satin the colour of blood, long sleeves dripping down to
the floor and a train that sweeps behind her as she walks towards him.
Nothing beneath it. He can see it when she moves, nipples hard
against the slick fabric, the outline of her pubic mound and the slight
curve of her belly, her thighs, her knees. He can smell her
His own knees turn to jelly and he falls to them like a supplicant.
“Are you trying to kill me, woman?”
“Do you want it?”
She smiles at that, drifts across the stones, stands before him, arching
her pelvis forward so that her satin covered stomach touches his mouth,
nose, forehead. Her hands grip the fabric of the skirt to gather
it up, up. He leans back a little, his own hands anxious to assist,
sliding the gown up her thighs, his fingers splayed as they move over the
landscape of her flesh, grasping both fabric and hipbones, pulling her
closer. He rubs his face in the beads of moisture caught in
the curls of her pubic hair, the smears of blood between her thighs.
Blood and ocean. Drowning in you.
She shifts slightly at the first probing of his tongue, the soles of
her bare feet shuffling wide until her thighs are open and his mouth closes
over her, his tongue pushing between folds of flesh, the thick sticky beautiful
mess between. Now her hands on his head, absolution offered.
Now beatitudes in the whisper brush of trailing silk sleeves against his
temples. Dark communion and terrible joy. He drinks
in blood and ocean, swallows blood and light, feels the shaking muscles
of her thighs against his face, the hard and the soft of her between his
lips, beneath his tongue and teeth. Her fingers twist into
his hair, dig into his skull, pain to distract him from the throb of his
erection beating against the zipper of his jeans like a fist upon a door.
In a few minutes she’s coming. Oh yes. Oh yes.
Spasms, jerks, and shudders so intense he has to hold her tight enough
to bruise lest she fall. And she says, yes, yes, good, good,
yes, yes, ah, ah, ah, so good, mmmm…and mmmmmm…and then a laugh bubbling
out, giddy, ecstatic, delight beyond any other possible expression.
That’s new as well.
He sits back, lets fall the blood-coloured satin to cover her again,
then gets to his feet. She sways slightly and her eyes blink
languid, unfocused, dream-soft. He takes hold of her
arms, mostly to steady her, and waits. He wants to have
her in the gown, slide across the slick fabric and her skin, move inside
her, bloody silk beneath, tangling, binding them both.
He waits. And she draws his face to hers. He
waits and she licks around his mouth, kissing the taste of blood and ocean
from his lips. He waits and her hand takes his hand.
She moves them to the bed. Makes him sit, kneels at his feet,
unlaces his boots and pulls them off. The sounds echo in the
room, muted thuds and her soft breath, and the swish of the fabric of her
blood red gown. Her movements are unhurried, careful, studied.
Pulling off the socks. Tossing them aside. Hands
moving up his legs, the rasp of her fingernails over denim covered thighs,
brushing lightly past what’s pushing hard against the zipper, not touching
him there, reaching for the belt buckle. Exquisite. Methodical.
Torturous. Buckle undone now. Button undone now.
She pushes him back to lie upon the bed. He inhales, exhales,
sharp, short, an ancient habit to relieve tension, then more anxiety as
she carefully pulls the zipper down and his cock springs free. Jeans
pulled over his hips, a murmured command “lift up” and he does.
She leans in to tug them past his buttocks, so close that her hot breath
moistens the soft skin at the apex of pelvis and thigh, making him shiver.
Her cheek just brushes his cock, causing it to dance. She pulls
back and he shudders. Grasping both legs of the jeans, another
swift tug has them on the floor.
He’s still wearing the t-shirt. She’s looking at him, her
eyes like her cunt sucking him in.
“You’re really beautiful,” she says. A terrible ache in his chest
at the words. He’s said the same thing to her so many times
she must feel the truth of it in her marrow by now. But what
does it mean when she says it to him? “Beautiful,” she says
She lifts the gown, baring her thighs. Kneels on the bed to straddle
him letting the satin pour over his body. He moans at the sensation.
Can’t help it. Her hands slide under his shirt, pushing it up beneath
his armpits as she’s dragging her mouth up over stomach and ribs to take
a hard little nipple between her lips and suckle. He hisses.
Can’t help it. Teeth. Lips again. Other nipple.
Lips, teeth, lips, pulling, pulling. He groans.
Can’t help it. And his hands begin a frantic dance of satin and flesh,
satin and flesh. He wants to rub the two together, make a new
kind of skin they can crawl into and share. One hand
moves, gripping the fabric, scrunching it in messy folds to squeeze the
globes of her bottom, fingers worming their way to her slippery slit.
Like satin, her blood and juices on his hand. She squirms approvingly,
making his cock jump again.
His other hand roams over a satin covered tit, thumb flicking the nipple.
She spreads herself over him languorous and sweet. Sucks his lower
lip into her mouth. “You taste yummy.”
“That’s all you, my love.” And then, “Fuck me.”
“Fuck me now.”
She giggles, wriggles her pussy, slippity sliding him in. Oh God.
Oh God yeah. Slow, up and down and that sticky, slurpy suction
sound, and oh, oh, oh getting messy now. Nice bloody fucking
good messy all over his cock and his belly and his thighs, feeling and
knowing, not seeing it, not having to see it, heavy silk satin gliding
over his chest and his fingers digging into her hip bones forcing her to
ride him a little harder now, and now faster. Her arms go up, raised
to the ceiling. It strikes him as a holy gesture and his mind creates
a fanciful interpretation - invoking the power of the moon maybe, calling
down lightning – but then her head lolls back, exposing her throat and
he can’t think fanciful. All mixed up, blood on his cock and her
mouth open. A low moan and whose voice is that now? Which
part is him? Whose skin? Whose blood?
They grunt together, hard grunts, unh, unh, uhn rising in pitch until
it’s the same sound, the same voice, uhn, uhn, uhn. She reaches
down, to rub the satin over her clit and his hand covers hers, rubbing,
feeling it in her hand, his hand, his cock pressing against the underside,
the inside and the outside of pleasure pushing towards each other.
Blood and pussy, blood and pussy, his cock aimed to heaven and her blood
flowing over it dragging him into hell. Hell is delicious.
“Gonna come, gonna come now, oh god oh god oh god,” she pants.
It’s her voice cocks the hammer, squeezes the trigger, bamm! His
prick fires, shooting hard pulses into her bloody cunt and he roars until
his throat is raw, spunk-empty, drained. Her womb is heavy still,
still rich and full of life’s promise. He hears her laughing
all around him – bells and blood satin and moonlight and oceans.
He’s well and truly caught. A binding spell in gore and silk.
He smiles as she falls across him. Strands of her hair tickle
“Well, well,” he murmurs, brushing her cheek, fingers painting her with
tiny streaks of blood. “It seems my slayer is a witch after all.”
Like every woman that ever walked the earth.
“That’s why it was always taboo or something right? Cuz we’re
so freaking powerful when we’re menstruating. Hey! You drank
“Yep.” He brushes the hair away from her face. “You witch
you. Love the frock by the way.”
“I think we ruined it.”
“Can I have it?”
“You are so weird.”
“I’m not gonna wear it! Use it as a pillow or something.”
“Sorry. It has to be dry-cleaned now. I was going
to try to return it, but…”
“Speaking of cleaning. Don’t suppose you want to clean my dick
with your tongue?”
She snorts. “Dream on, baby.”
He ponders a bit. “Thinkin’ maybe I’ll take up yoga.”
“So’s I can lick it clean m’self the next time.”
She laughs and it rumbles against his chest. “You
know how ridiculous that sounds? I mean, I was going to say perverted
but it’s just so stupidly Man.”
“Yeah, well, we better do something or we’re going to be glued together
rather painfully in another few minutes.”
She sits up. “Tell you what. You get me a towel and some
warm water and I’ll wash you till you’re shiny.”
“And then will you…?”
She pats his soft penis and grins. “We’ll see.”
Suddenly it isn’t soft anymore. Witch.