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Ch. 25: How It Happened

There was something to be said about stability, a consistency in lifestyle. She and Spike had been dating steadily for several months now, and at this point Buffy wasn't overwhelmed by excitement, wasn't crying over the drama in her life or bubbling over with giddiness—but damn, she was happy. She spent almost every day with her hot boyfriend, studying, flirting, watching him rehearse, enjoying his nearness. And boy could he kiss.

And though they hadn't gone much farther than kiss—either on the lips or on, well, other parts of their bodies—with Prom coming up, Buffy had nervous expectations about where their relationship was going to head next. It wasn't as if they'd sat down and had a conversation about it or anything—that would've been awkward. No, somehow they'd both silently agreed that Prom would be the night. The Night.

Lying on her bed, listening to music and completely daydreaming, she wondered if he did the same, if Spike actually daydreamed about The Night and how it would all happen. Buffy had a dress, a beautiful dress of soft, swishy material that draped her body in a sexy way. The skinny spaghetti straps showed off her neck and shoulders, and the slightly hidden slit up the side showed off her toned thighs—but only to those she wanted to impress. And she couldn't wait to see Spike in a tux.

Prom was just something she couldn't stop thinking of. And it wasn't just her—the whole school was abuzz with excitement. They'd even had the "Be safe with sex" assembly during school today, where the school had passed out condoms without shame and had lectured them on the necessity of practicing safe sex. It embarrassed her, having a condom in her purse where she was sure her mother would find it somehow, but it also gave her tingles of excitement at the prospect of finally experiencing such intimacy with her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend, who was supposed to have come over ten minutes ago with food. Her mom was at work, preparing for a gallery exhibit, and being left at home for endless hours on a Saturday was clearly an excuse for quality make out time in the comfort of her own home—and food was a nice bonus as well. But her stomach was beginning to growl, and Spike still had not come bearing greasy goodness. Pulling herself up off the bed, she looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she should reapply her lip gloss, change into a different outfit, put her hair up or leave it down.

"If I'm not ready by the time he comes, I'll just blame him. Idle mind and all that," she thought to herself. Pulling off her skirt, she rummaged through her closet for a pair of jeans, one that might show off her cute ass. And then, of course, the top didn't match, so she pulled off her sweater and pulled out a feminine frilly v-neck top, one that showed off her neck and nicely clung to her small waist. Twirling once in front of the mirror, she smiled in contentment.

And then she pulled out her lotion, slathering it all over and making sure no rough spot went rough. She liked the way the lotion had just a hint of sparkle on it—made her feel so girly. And then her hair. She brushed it thoroughly, wanting it to shine and bounce the way she knew he'd like it. And then she started on her face. She plucked any stray eyebrow hairs and smoothed on lotion, added just a hint of eyeliner, carefully applied some gloss, and then finished things up with mascara.

And then she started on the nail polish.

--

Spike knew he was screwed. He was supposed to have been at Buffy's house almost an hour ago, but there had been a huge accident at the one main and necessary intersection of Sunnydale. Stupid rubberneckers had caused quite a backup. And then the line at the carryout place had been utterly consistent with the kind of morning he'd had. In short, he was feeling rather disgruntled, impatient, and not a little worried about how Buffy was going to yell—because she was quite the yeller when it came to food. And he'd debated over the merits of arriving later just to pick up some ice cream or cut his losses and drive as fast as possible without the possible bonus of arriving with her favorite flavor of the month. He went with the ice cream and hoped she'd think of lateness in clumps of time rather than specific minutes.

Breathing in deeply, he turned into her driveway and hoped she was in a good mood. And then he groaned at himself, saying, "God, you are such a whipped wanker." He shook his head and then, with precariously balanced pizza and ice cream, walked up to the door. When he knocked and got no answer, he began to worry a little. The door was unlocked, and so he slowly let himself in, wondering what was going on.

Inside, he heard music blaring from Buffy's room—either she was really pissed at him and was intentionally making it impossible for her to hear his knock, or she was in a really good bouncy mood, and she was too busy dancing to answer the door. What were the chances? Putting the ice cream in the fridge and the food on the table, he walked upstairs.

In her room, Buffy was dancing away, letting the music slide all around her freshly painted, blow-dried, and brushed body. Eyes closed, she sauntered around the room and undulated with the beat, enjoying the way her sexiness was leading the dance. She threw her arms into the air and started swaying her hips seductively when she noticed Spike was leaning on the door, an amused look on his face.

"Hey, there, cutie. I'm sorry I'm late; there was—"

"Shhh," she whispered, sauntering towards him. "Just dance with me." Dancing in her room always gave her confidence that she often lost outside the comfortable zone within her bedroom walls, and this time she was going to take advantage of it. Hands on hips, sometimes sliding towards his ass, she looked up at him coyly.

The moment he'd seen her dancing, Spike had become aroused. Her body moved so lithely, and he could barely keep himself from gaping, from staring mindlessly at his sexy girlfriend. Shaking himself out of his daze, he asked, "Do you remember the first time I caught you dancing up here?"

Buffy blushed at the memory that seemed so long ago. "I was so embarrassed that I just yelled at you. Craziness," she said with a chuckle.

"Yeah, I reacted the same way, but I was so turned on by the way you were dancing that I created a different ending to our little meeting," he confessed, running his hands up and down her sides.

"Me, too!" Buffy responded, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed."

"Oh, really?" Spike said with the cock of an eyebrow.

"No, you first," she said, her embarrassment clear on the redness creeping into her skin.

"No, no, I insist. Tell me what naughty thoughts you had about me that night," he teased, pressing her closer to him. "Go ahead. I'll tell if you tell," he whispered before smiling reassuringly at her.

Eyes lowered, she turned to press her back against his front and began to sway more distinctly, knees dipping and hips rocking against his. "Well, you sneak up behind me," Buffy began, her voice slightly hesitant. She took advantage of the new position and simply reveled in the way his body so easily fit against hers—and she felt less embarrassed sharing when he wasn't looking straight at her. Slowly, she began to remember her fantasy.

"We dance together for a little, and then you begin kissing my neck," Buffy breathed, her arm snaking up to feel the softness of his hair. She gasped a little at the feel of his lips on the sensitive skin of her nape, and her heart raced away.

"Like this?" Spike murmured as he nibbled at her neck, moving across her skin and then nibbling at that spot behind her ear.

"Yes, exactly," Buffy purred, her body rubbing against his in delight. "And then—"

"And then do I run my hands up your body? Like this?" he said, his hands sliding skimming the undersides of her breasts, teasing her with feather-like caresses until he finally filled his palms with her breasts and lessened the ache of her nipples with his touch.

"Oh, yeah, that's exactly—" she inhaled sharply as he squeezed lightly, knowing just how she liked to be touched. Overwhelmed by the sensations, she turned in his arms and kissed him fully, needing to feel his lips and his tongue with her own.

Spike held her close, relishing the way she tasted and the boldness of her kisses. He continued his caresses up her back and over her ass and up the sides of her breasts, sneaking under her cami and feeling the warmth of her skin.

Buffy broke away and pulled off his t-shirt, enjoying the way he breathed in sharply at the feel of her tongue flicking out at his chest and sliding all over his stomach. Eventually, Buffy slowed down and breathed in deeply, nestling her head in the crook of his neck before whispering, "And then you touch me."

Her words flamed his arousal, and he had to control himself, had to restrain from throwing her onto the bed with desire. He had to play her game, and her fantasy was clearly about slow and sensual satisfaction. He slid his fingers around her top button and then slowly unzipped her jeans. He relished her quick and unsteady breathing and hoped he was living up to the fantasy.

Buffy's eyes were closed, her whole body focusing on the slow descent of his fingers. Closer and closer, she waited for that beautiful moment when he touched her in that special way. She gasped loudly when his fingers finally pressed against her intimately, sending buzzes of pleasure all throughout her body. She clung to him, trying to kiss his skin but being further thrown into ecstasy with every movement. She simply held on while he drove forward towards that moment of bliss.

Spike watched as her lips parted with quick breaths, her breasts heaved with anticipation, her body tightened with sensations. His fingers were moist with pleasure, and he could feel Buffy's body become taut in preparation. He kept his movements slow, wanting to draw out the most satisfying orgasm, and he waited as she held onto his body. Slowly increasing pressure, Spike circled her bud and waited for the explosion.

"Oh god, Spike," Buffy cried out, her voice husky and her body quivering with rapture as his fingers drew out that delicious spurt of pleasure. "Oh, god, Spike," she repeated, her face nuzzling his chest as her body slowly came down from its high. "Mmmm," she murmured in between kisses. "That was perfect. Just like my fantasy."

He kissed her as he felt her clit vibrate a few final times. He smiled at the lingering tremors and slowly slid his fingers out of her jeans before buttoning her up again. "You are so hot. I love making you come," Spike said, kissing her thoroughly.

"And now it's time for your fantasy," Buffy declared as she peppered his body with kisses.

"Um, I don't know about that. My fantasy was, well..." he trailed off.

Buffy looked up at him in earnest, her hands cupping his lovely face. "Let's do it."

Spike froze, his mouth slightly open in shock. "What?"

"You heard me," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck with tenderness. "Let's do it. I know you want to," she purred, pressing herself against his protruding erection, and then added, "And I want to. Why wait till Prom?"

And there it was—the unspoken but silently acknowledged plan for their mutual deflowering.

Spike stared down at the trust mingling with desire in the hazel eyes gazing up at him. "Buffy," he whispered, softly running his fingers through her hair. He kissed her warmly, still in awe of her suggestion.

Smiling through their kiss, Buffy lightly ran her nails up his chest. "Hey, we even have condoms. Good old school education with the free condoms. So..." she said coyly, leading him towards her bed. "What exactly was this fantasy of yours. I was honest, so you have to be honest, too."

Spike's face flushed with embarrassment and arousal. "You don't have to act it out. This, you, all—more than enough to fulfill my fantasies."

"That's sweet, but you can't get out of sharing your dirty thoughts. So spill," Buffy teased. She loved how comfortable she felt, even with the huge decision she'd just made—and her comfort, well, comforted her in knowing that she wasn't making a mistake.

"Well, to be honest, I start here on the bed, and you start there, dancing for me." He scooted back on her bed, head slightly propped and legs sprawled. He could barely move, with his hardened desire and nervousness nearly crippling him. He hid his fears by casually settling his shaky hands behind his head on the headboard.

"I'm dancing for you?" she asked with suspicion. "Just dancing?"

"So it's more of a strip tease, I guess. And if this is really my fantasy, you'll be wearing a black lacy thong," he added with a smirk, allowing himself to calm down when he realized Buffy was relaxed and comfortable with their direction.

"Is that right? Well, we'll just have to see, won't we?" she said as she began swaying again, hair tossed back in sultry temptation. Reaching for her jeans, she slowly began to unbutton them just for his eyes; Buffy loved the way his gaze never left her, and twirled for him, shaking her ass for his pleasure. And then, as he was watching her cute ass dance, she slowly bent over and slid down her pants—revealing a black lacy thong. And then she smiled when she heard his sharp intake. Peeking over her shoulder, she winked at him before kicking of her jeans completely.

"You are so beautiful, pet," he breathed, still staring at her panties.

"What's next in the fantasy?" Buffy asked as she headed towards the bed, throwing off her cami in slow motion as she neared him.

"You come to me, feeling your own body as you sit on top of me," he said, his voice husky with lust.

Buffy crawled onto the bed, her hair tumbling over her face in a sexy cascade. She slithered in between his legs and climbed up his chest before setting her thighs around his, pressing gently against his erection. "Like this?" she asked as she ran her hands over her breasts.

"Just like that," Spike responded before pressing his lips to her skin. He grinned as he heard her gasp, loved the way she mewled as he sucked her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra and caressed her body.

Buffy arched her back and felt her hair tickle his legs. She moaned in delight as he lavished attention onto her breasts, suckling them just the way she liked it before tossing off her bra.. Not wanting to take all and not give, she began unbuttoning his jeans and slowly pulling them down, taking his underwear at the same time. When he finally kicked them out of the way, Buffy took advantage of her upper position and took a long lick of his cock.

Spike blew out a long breath, tightly reining in his desires. He reached for her, tangling her in a long, hard kiss before returning to her breasts and feeling them tighten even further in his mouth. He played with her nipples while his fingers returned to her sex, wanting to feel the hot warmth inside of her.

Buffy was on fire—every part of her screamed for completion—for that final act of intimacy that they'd delayed until now. Until now. "Now," she breathed, her legs rubbing against his. She pulled off her thong and allowed Spike to complete their removal. "Please, now," she begged, pressing her breasts against his chest.

Spike pushed the hair out of her face and kissed her once again. Positioning himself, he whispered, "I love you, Buffy." And then he thrust into her.

Buffy gasped at the unfamiliar feeling and tightened her muscles in response. She heard Spike moan, and she continued her contractions, enjoying the way she held him inside of her.

"Oh, god, Buffy," Spike cried out as his hands found her hips and began rocking into her.

The first moments were over, and Buffy could no longer think coherently—she only felt the innumerable sensations skimming her body and heating her from the inside. She toppled onto Spike and anchored her legs onto his, feeling her slightly sweaty body slide up and down against his lean muscles.

They groaned in unison at the new movement and the way their skin felt electrified by their contact. Their tongues completed the union, and their breathing became ragged and hoarse with gasps and moans and mewls.

Spike couldn't hold back any longer and thrust harder, faster into her welcoming body. Buffy could feel the change, the increased frenzy of his movements, and she gloried in the idea that she herself caused such desire. She let herself bend to his every craving and knew she was close, knew he was closer.

The friction, the heat, the longing, the love all swirled upward and thickened with every thrust—and finally they exploded in each other's tight arms.

And when the condom was properly disposed, and the sex-induced torpor was put off long enough to get into a more comfortable position, the two drifted into sleep, murmuring their love for one another before completely succumbing to pheromonal slumber.





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