*Bloody hell!* Spike thought as the Slayer released him, standing up straight again over his chained, helpless form. *Where did the Slayer learn to act this way? Not from the bleedin’ poof, that’s for bloody sure! He was all soulful and virtuous until *after* the fact! Not from her little college boy – that little wanker lacked imagination, could tell just by listening to him – so how in the bleedin’ -- *gah*!*
While he had been lost in his thoughtful reverie on the past, he had not been paying attention to the Slayer, and she had suddenly looped the leather belt around the base of his aching erection, yanking it tight with a sharp tug that jerked him painfully back to the present.
Bye-bye, thoughtful reverie.
“I was talking.” Buffy’s voice was calm, gently reproving in contrast to her merciless actions, as she leaned down over him to look him in the eye with a smirk, her eyebrows raised expectantly. “Were you listening?”
The second question, innocent in its tone, was not-so-innocently accompanied by another quick little tug on the belt that made him gasp, biting back a whimper that he knew she would see as disobedience to her earlier command to “shut up”.
And disobedience did not sound like such a good idea at the moment.
But she had asked him a question. *Had he been listening?* He almost nodded automatically. But that would lead to the next logical question – what had she said? And he hadn’t the faintest soddin’ clue. He would be caught lying to her.
And that couldn’t be anything but bad.
How had he ever ended up in this situation? he wondered desperately. *Oh yeah. That’s right, you bloody stupid wanker!* he reminded himself sarcastically. *You accepted the Slayer’s soddin’ claim, you git! And now you’re hers, nothing to be done about it. You’ve got to do what she says, whether you like it or not.*
Or *did* he?
He found himself wondering about the limits of the claim the Slayer had made. He had been the recipient of a dominance claim once before – the type of claim he knew that the Slayer had intended to place over him. And it was definitely not pleasant to be on the receiving end of that sort of thing.
But this did not feel like that had felt. That had been an overwhelming, consuming terror in the presence of the one who had claimed him, that sprang from an absolute inability to disobey the commands he was given, no matter how hard he tried. And considering the cruelty of the one who had had the power to give the commands, it had definitely been a terrible situation to be in.
But there had never been the desire, the desperate need, that he felt for the Slayer now, as a result of this claim. He had been attracted to her before the claim, had admitted to himself that he *did* want her -- but this was so much more. He *needed* her, craved her, and though he hated to admit it, he found himself wanting to please her.
He had never felt those things for his former claimant. Never. There had only been a seething hatred and resentment, at being forced into submission.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that this claim had been finalized during sex; maybe it was the fact that he had never actually given in to her in the physical fight that had preceded it; or perhaps it was the fact that on some level, a part of him had *wanted* to accept his claim. She had stated boldly that she wanted him, and that hopeless romantic side of him that desperately longed to be wanted had seized at that promise she had extended.
He didn’t know. All he knew was that this was different from the last dominance claim he had been a part of.
Time to test the limits of this particular claim – to find out just how “different” it really was.
“Shut up” she had said. In his experience with dominance claims, an order given by the claimant had to be obeyed; it was next to impossible to keep from obeying it. If this was like the other claim, then he should not be able to speak, even if he tried.
He looked her boldly in the eyes, allowing a defiant smirk to cross his lips as he replied in a mocking tone, “Sorry, love. Got a bit bored and lost you there for a bit. What did you say again?”
Well, then. Not like the last time. That was definitely a good thing.
Maybe. Or maybe -- not so good.
The Slayer’s narrowed eyes and the angry set of her jaw reminded him that perhaps there would have been a better time to test the limits of the claim than – well, any time when the Slayer quite literally had his dick on a bloody leash.
Her hand slipped around the back of his neck, tilting his head back slightly. His instinct was to pull away; he wanted to desperately, his every sense screaming danger. But he was helpless, trying uselessly to move against the chains that bound him and her strong hand gripping his neck. Couldn’t. Couldn’t move at all. He had never felt so vulnerable in all of his existence. He had never *been* so bloody vulnerable!
She smiled coolly, her lips inches from his, as she said softly in a voice of quiet menace, “Maybe I just need to work a little harder to keep your attention.”
He winced in anticipation of the pain he expected, the upward jerk of her hand on the belt that would send excruciating pain through his entire body, and steeled himself not to cry out – not to give her the satisfaction. But the expected punishment did not come.
Instead, the Slayer’s fingertips on the hand behind his neck played lightly around the edge of her mark on his throat, which suddenly seemed ten times as sensitive as his previously most sensitive body part. The light touch sent a powerful sensation of pleasure through him, and he groaned softly, his head rolling back slightly into her hand.
“You like that?” she murmured, a soft mockery in her tone that he missed through the overwhelming sensations coursing through his body.
Of course, he would have missed it if a bloody tornado had ripped the roof off the mansion and carried them both away to Australia – as long as it left the bed intact, and didn’t tear her fingers away from their slow, steady work.
He could find no words, could only nod helplessly, desperate for her touch.
Without warning, her fingernails dug sharply into the sensitive flesh of his throat, and the pleasure she had been giving him was instantly transformed to a fiery agony of pain. “How about this?” she hissed in his ear with a cool smile. “You like that too?”
There *were* no words to describe the feeling of her touch on the mark, delivered in anger rather than a desire to give pleasure. The searing, almost unbearable pain that shot from the mark, through his entire body, was worse than any punishment he had imagined that she would deliver.
He could feel her anger, her power, flowing through him and around him through the touch of her hand on her mark, a terrifying, overwhelming flood of sensation that spoke volumes more than her words could have spoken. In her touch, he felt the claim she had made, her right to command him and his own dangerous mistake in defying her, and her fury at being defied. It made him want to beg her for mercy, to please just stop – it was simply more than he could stand.
He didn’t realize that he *was* begging, pleading for her to stop, until he heard her whispered word next to his ear, accompanied by an increase, rather than an easing, of the pressure on his throat.
“Quiet,” she commanded softly, and in her tone he heard the full authority of the claim she had made – that he had accepted.
And then he felt it.
A strange, powerful compulsion to obey. It was not like the dominance claim he had been under before. He still had a choice. He physically could have spoken had he chosen to. It simply seemed unthinkable to choose to disobey. He was hers, and she had ordered him to silence.
He was silent.
Through the heat of her touch, the powerful sensations overwhelming him, a trace of memory came back to him -- of the last time he had felt anything like that quiet urging, that irresistible compulsion to obey her command, that he had felt as she had pressed down hard on her mark and ordered him to silence.
It was not quite the same -- but it drew to mind the memory of his sire's command, many years ago as a fledgling. Oh, he could disobey his sire -- and had, frequently. But there were times when his sire would be absolutely adamant about some command -- and somehow, his authority, his power, would come through in a certain tone that he would use -- and in those times, there was no option to obey or not.
He simply knew that he must. That was it.
His thoughts were torn once again from his memories as the Slayer once again increased the weight of her fingers against his torn flesh, whispering in a dark, possessive tone, "You're mine."
He felt the words all through him, a terrible, delicious shudder of affirmation at their truth. He *felt* that he was hers. He gasped in pain at the shock of the powerful sensations, physical and otherwise, that were flowing through him with her touch and her words.
He wanted to cry out, to speak. *Please...please...please...* echoed in his mind -- but something held him back from speaking the words -- her command that he was somehow bound to obey.
Amazingly, as if she had heard his desperate words spoken only in his mind, she did finally ease the pressure of her fingertips, instead cupping her hand lightly over the wound, surrounding it with heat from her hand that was soothing to the pain that was shooting out from the spot through his entire body.
“*Mine*!” she repeated warningly.
He nodded desperately, still not daring to speak.
He felt the taut leather of the belt go slack, as the Slayer straddled him, one knee on either side of his hips. She removed her hand from his neck, and he bit back a whimper at the loss of the intense contact with her mark on his throat.
His obedient silence was swiftly rewarded, as he felt the belt removed completely, followed by the light brush of the Slayer’s sodden center over the tip of his swollen erection. Her mouth lowered to hover over his throat, her hot, moist breath a torturous promise on his skin, which felt oddly fevered, considering that he had no body heat at all.
He glanced down to see that the very convenient red skirt had been hiked up around Buffy’s waist; apparently she had been in too great a hurry to find him to bother with panties. He stifled a groan at the sight of her glorious body, exposed to his vision.
Suddenly, she jerked his head back hard, filling his sight with her maliciously seductive smile, inches from his face. “Close your eyes,” she ordered softly, and a thrill of fear went through him at the loss of one more piece of the slight control he had left – but he obeyed.
Suddenly, he felt her body dip down onto his for an instant, then pull back, teasing him with pleasure she withheld. At the same moment, her mouth descended onto her mark, her warm soft tongue tenderly caressing the wound she had left there, sending a blissful feeling of warmth and safety and belonging all through him.
*I can make you feel so good, Spike.*
He was startled to realize that she was not actually speaking aloud – couldn’t be. Her mouth was still caressing his skin so softly, driving him to a point of pleasure that he could barely fathom.
*I can make you want me to touch you so bad that you’ll be begging on your knees for just a little bit more.*
Her words were a soft seduction in his mind, inviting and intimate, as the sweet affection in her voice coursed through his mind and body, consuming him, surrounding him, until there was nothing but the sweet sensation of her touch.
And in that moment, her teeth sank sharply into his highly sensitized throat, her hand lowering to take the base of his erection in a hard fist, leaving nothing but pain in place of the beautiful pleasure she had been giving him.
*Or I can hurt you,* she went on in his mind, and the surge of power and menace carried by her thoughts sent a shudder of fear through him. *If you insist on defying me – I can remind you that you *are* mine. I can punish you until you beg me for just one more chance to prove that you can please me.*
The power of the threat in her voice made him fight uselessly against his bonds, pulling instinctively away from her painful bite in fear. But when she only clamped down harder on her throat, and he felt her dark fury through that forced connection, he ceased his struggles, realizing the truth. There was no escape, and he was only angering her further. His head fell back in a primal gesture of submission that was as clear as the words that he could not speak.
He was hers; and he was admitting it, giving in under the overwhelming power of her claim.
She raised her mouth from his ravaged throat, her lips stained with his blood, studying his face. His eyes were still obediently shut; his lips parted and trembling.
“Look at me,” she whispered, and he obeyed, wide shocked blue eyes meeting her wild, feral gaze. “You. Are. *Mine*,” she stated again in a low growl of possessive menace.
He nodded quickly, holding her gaze, breathing hard, aware that he was completely in her power. Pleasing her, satisfying her demands, became his priority of the moment.
“You will *not* leave me again,” she declared – and there was no mistaking the power – or desire – in her voice.
He shook his head to indicate that he would not, and he meant it – but could not suppress the smirk that played faintly about the corners of his mouth. His leaving had only upset her – because she wanted him so badly.
Her eyes narrowed in anger, and he braced himself for her violent reaction to his smug response. But apparently, she had a worse punishment in mind. A sly, calculating smile on her lips, she held his gaze as she slowly removed her hands from his body completely, lifting up off of him so that she was not touching him at all.
She meant to show him whose need was greater in this little situation – and as a sense of desperation rolled through him at the loss of her touch, he knew that he had lost already.
*Please – please – please…* the chant repeated in his mind, and her satisfied smirk confirmed that she had heard his thoughts, as he had heard hers.
“You want me, Spike?” she whispered, one hand lightly trailing over his trembling, gasping lips.
He nodded pleadingly, turning his face into her hand, repentant already and desperate for contact.
His heart sank as she removed her hand and rose from the bed completely, smiling maliciously into his eyes. Unconsciously he thrust up toward her as she did, desperate to feel her, touch her.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously at his attempt, as she picked up the discarded belt from the mattress, winding it around her hand a few times as she glared at him, shaking her head in a reproving way.
“You don’t touch me unless I *let* you touch me, Spike,” she told him, idly trailing the rough leather in her hand across his throbbing member, and he jerked involuntarily at the contact.
She smirked at him – then suddenly raised the belt and brought it down sharply across his thighs, bare inches from his balls. He could not suppress the moan of mingled pain and pleasure at the sharp, stinging sensation.
“You’re not behaving very well,” she commented softly, running the belt through her fingers as she walked slowly along the side of the bed. “You must *want* to be punished.”
He shook his head desperately, emphatically, knowing that if she truly decided to punish him, it would be to leave him wanting, rather than the beating she was suggesting. At this point, he would definitely have preferred the beating.
“No?” she said in a surprised tone, moving closer and reaching out a hand to trace her fingertips lightly, almost casually, up the length of his hard, aching member. “What *do* you want, Spike?” It was a cruel question; she knew very well he could not answer.
Her agonizingly light touch stole his control, and he thrust up just slightly against her hand, with a soft, pleading moan.
Immediately she pulled back, delivering a sharp little slap that drew a hiss of pain from his lips as she snapped, “No!” She paused, then ordered softly, “Don’t…move…” as she returned her hand to its previous motion.
He forced himself to obey, though he desperately wanted to move, and this command did not carry the full authority of her claim behind it. It was nearly impossible to keep still, but he feared her anger if he should fail to obey her.
“Good,” she said softly, removing her hand again. He forced himself not to move, not to make a sound, as she moved up to the head of the bed. “Maybe I should reward you.” She moved in slowly, her hands on either side of his head, the belt resting unnoticed across his shoulder as she whispered seductively, “What do you want, Spike?”
He bit back the frustrated whimper of desperation that rose in his throat at the knowledge that he could not tell her.
She smiled softly, her hand beside his head rising to brush the backs of her fingers tenderly across the mark on his throat. He threw his head back involuntarily, cringing inwardly even as he did. He knew he would be punished, but he simply couldn’t help it.
The Slayer only smiled affectionately at the evidence of his desire for her, caressing the spot lightly for a moment as she said, “You may speak.”
Just like that, the restraint that had kept him silent lifted, and he could speak again. At the same moment, she withdrew her hand.
“Please,” he whimpered hoarsely, his voice almost a sob. “Buffy – Buffy, please…”
“What do you want me to do, Spike?” she asked him, not touching him – yet – smiling, enjoying her power as she proved her point.
“Please – God, Buffy – please – touch me!” he gasped, yearning in his voice.
“Touch you?” she repeated in a whisper of breath, her hands moving to his sides and trailing little shivers of pleasure across his skin with the light scrape of her nails, as she let the belt slide from her hand to the floor, forgotten. “Like this?”
He tried very hard to keep still, trembling all over with repressed need, but not daring to risk her wrath by moving – not now, when things were going so well. Her touch set him on fire, leaving him longing for more. *Any* contact was good, after the way she had denied it before. But she was still holding back what he needed most.
“Please,” he moaned softly. “Please, Buffy – please…”
She slowly climbed back onto the bed, straddling his legs, just above his knees, her hands moving slowly down to his hips, holding him down on the mattress, as she stayed on her knees above him, still not giving him what he so desperately craved.
“Please what, Spike?” she said in a soft, taunting tone, trailing her hands slowly inward along the lines of his hips. “Tell me what you want.”
“Touch – please – touch me…” he moaned incoherently, his body quaking under her tantalizing hands, so near to his need, yet torturing him with her refusal to grant it.
“I *am* touching you,” she said in a voice of innocent confusion, her fingers lightly tracing up and down the inside of his thighs, a malicious smirk on her lips at his desperate moan that was almost a sob.
“Where do you want me to touch you, Spike?” She finally took pity on him and guided his words, her thumbs finding a tender pressure point on his inner thigh and pressing down, smiling and pressing harder when he whimpered softly.
“Please, Buffy – please – touch – touch me – my cock,” he pleaded desperately. “Please – please…”
Immediately her hand closed tight around the base of his erection, sliding slowly down to its tip, and he moaned at the pleasure and agony of the sensation. Her hand froze around him, preventing any further satisfaction, holding him in a grip that was not exactly painful – but definitely unbreakable.
“Don’t you mean *mine*?” she corrected him with a wicked smirk, her thumb tracing a torturous circle around the tip of his desperate, weeping erection.
“Yes!” he cried out in an anguish of pleasure and need. “Yours, Buffy, yes, yours, all yours, all yours!” His words came out in a trembling, incoherent babble, just desperate to satisfy her, to please her, so that she would end the torment she was so expertly inflicting.
“That’s right,” she whispered, her hand beginning its slow upward movement again, as she raised her body up, her hot, wet center hovering over him enticingly. “Mine. You’re all mine,” she murmured, brushing her body across him in the lightest of touches, driving him to greater urgency of desire.
“Buffy – Buffy, please – please…” he gasped, pulling against the bonds that held him, forgetful of her command, knowing only that he had to be inside her – had to!
He thrust his body up toward her – and her hand around him suddenly became hard, slamming him down and pinning him to the mattress hard. Lust-darkened eyes met his with a smoldering intensity that held him and would not let him look away, as she whispered softly, but with a note of unquestionable authority.
“You’re *mine*! I am *not* yours. You’ll get only what I choose to give you! Do you understand?”
He stared into the dark, mesmerizing light in the Slayer’s fierce, predatory eyes, and knew in that moment that this was not simply Buffy that he was dealing with, but some deep, primal part of her nature that something deep within him recognized with a sense of dread and terror.
And yet, something in him rose up in protest against her words, some part of him that defiantly insisted, against her words, that she *was* his! He had claimed her, and she was his!
But no – that was just his own desires talking. She had rejected his claim, and thus made it of no effect.
*Her* claim, on the other hand, could not be denied. The power of it surrounded him, held him in an inescapable grip, and he knew beyond any doubt that he *was* hers – hopelessly lose in her desires – at her command.
He realized suddenly that he had lost himself in his thoughts, and had failed to answer her question, as her eyes narrowed in anger, with a vindictive light rising in them. Her hand was still hard on his body as he winced in expectation of vicious punishment.
And in the next moment, her expression became a cold smile, as she released him completely, rising up slightly off him with a questioning challenge in her eyes. And he knew in that moment – she could and would leave him like this, if he did not satisfy her. She might want him – but due to the claim he had accepted, his need for her was far greater than her desire for him.
“No,” he whimpered, shaking his head. “Please, Buffy…no, I need you…please!” He hated the desperation in his voice, but he *was* desperate. He was helpless, and she had the power to fulfill his need – or to leave him here like this, chained and alone and longing for what only she could give him.
And that was the point, he realized suddenly, of this whole lesson of hers.
She smiled maliciously, and whispered, “You don’t deserve it. You’ve been *very* bad.”
“I know!” he said hurriedly, desperately. “Please, Buffy, I’m sorry, please don’t! Please don’t go! I need you, Buffy, please!”
She did not move an inch, did not touch him, just hovered over him, deliberating. “You’re going to do as you’re told,” she stated, meeting his eyes with a hard look.
“Yes!” he gasped. “Whatever you say, Buffy!”
“You’re not going to go running off again.”
“No!” he promised desperately. “No, no, never, Buffy, never!”
She smiled softly, one single fingertip moving down to trace slowly up the underside of his erection, making him moan softly as her nail lightly scratched his skin – but he did not move.
“And you’ll take what I give you. No complaints. No pushing. *I’m* in charge here. Not you. Clear?” she went on, the touch of her fingers carrying him ever nearer to the edge of the ecstasy that she had not yet agreed to allow him.
“*Yes!*” he gasped in a pleading tone. “Yes, Buffy! Please! Whatever you want! I’m yours – yours!”
That was what she had wanted to hear, voluntarily, from his lips, and she suddenly removed her hand, only to immediately plunge her body down onto him, so suddenly that the shock of her tight heat left him breathless, stunned, staring up into her dark, hooded eyes inches from his, feral with possessive desire.
She pulled him into a deep, intense kiss, forceful and demanding, invading his mouth with her tongue, slamming his head back down onto the mattress. Her hands lowered to rest on his buttocks, pressing him harder against her, urging him to the response she had formerly forbidden, and he thrust into her, moving in flawless rhythm with her slow rocking against him.
Their pace gradually increased as they both neared completion, and he gasped out, “Buffy – Buffy – please…”
She knew instinctively, through the new but powerful connection between them, what it was that he craved – because she wanted it, too.
He let out a soft, strangled cry as her warm lips caressed his throat with soft, light kisses, sending a fresh wave of pleasure all through him. Encouraged by his response, she intensified her efforts, continuing the gentle rocking motion of her body. When she closed her teeth lightly over the mark, he gasped out, “Yes! Buffy, yes! Yes!”
She bit down harder, and as his cool blood trickled down her throat, she felt her orgasm engulf her, at the same moment that his overcame him, and then she was falling – falling – into depths and heights of pleasure like nothing she had ever known.
She awoke in the stillness of the early morning, a bit disoriented and utterly exhausted despite the night’s sleep she had just gotten. There was no clock in the room, but the bit of sunlight filtering through a small hole in one of the high, painted over windows, told her that it was indeed morning.
She was having trouble remembering exactly how she had come to be there – until her eyes fell on the sleeping vampire beneath her – and the chains that bound him to the bed – his freshly bruised and ravaged throat…
*Oh, God.*
Her eyes widened. *Was that – was that really *me*?* she wondered, a strange horror and excitement both coming over her at once – followed by more horror that the memory excited her at all.
Bits and pieces came back to her, little by little, and she felt a rising fear and unease in the pit of her stomach.
The *things* that she had done!
She felt him stir under her, and scrambled backward with a sudden sense of alarm. His movement, the brush of his cool skin against her flushed, sleep-warmed body, made it all the more real to her. She hurriedly got off the bed, searching for her clothes.
Wait. She was still dressed. She had done all that, and she was still *dressed*?
Somehow that made it seem even worse.
She hurried from the room, ignoring the restless, waking-up stirrings of the vampire on the bed – and the strange stirring in *her* that made her want to go right back to the bed and lie down with him again.
She found her cell phone and opened it with trembling fingers, thankful that the number she needed to call was on speed dial, noticing only after it started ringing that it was 6:30 in the morning.
Two rings. Halfway through the third, she heard, “Hello?” The voice on the other line was annoyed.
“Anya?”
“Buffy?” Anya sighed impatiently. “Unless it’s about the orgasms that you are so rudely preventing me from having before my boyfriend goes to work…”
“It is,” Buffy blurted out hurriedly, then grimaced as she rushed to correct herself. “No – not -- *your* -- um, *things*,” she amended, wondering at the irony that the sexual predator of the night before couldn’t bring herself to say the word “orgasm” this morning. “Not yours. Mine.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. “I’ll be right there,” Anya said finally.
“*No*!” Buffy objected quickly. “Um – meet me at my house in – in an hour. My mom’s out of town so we can talk. Okay?”
“Okay,” Anya agreed. “Buffy – is it bad?”
“Oh, *God*, Anya, is it bad!” she replied in a dark, trembling voice, her eyes wide and somber as she hung up the phone, trying hard to ignore the insistent little voice in the back of her head that argued with her assessment of the situation.
*But, boy, was it *good*!*
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Author's Chapter Notes:
WARNING: if you read the last chapter, you probably know what to expect...proceed with caution :)