As she hung up the phone, Buffy rushed back into the bedroom, almost frantically gathering the few things she had discarded during the course of the night before. She had to get home and get cleaned up before her meeting with Anya. Her mind was racing ahead, trying to decide just how much she should tell her friend – since “everything” was certainly out of the question – and she was only half-focusing as she hurriedly moved about the room.
She quickly gathered her belongings – her jacket, the boots she had finally taken off just before finally falling asleep – she suddenly flinched backward in revulsion when she came across Spike’s belt, lying on the floor beside the bed where she had dropped it.
She stood up slowly, wide eyes staring at the simple piece of rough black leather, her mind filled with memories of the night before and how she had used it. She could hardly believe that she had done the things that she had done to Spike – had no idea what had possessed her to behave in such a way.
It was almost as if something had taken her over, guiding her actions and leading her to do things she never would have considered on her own. The claim seemed to have awakened some primal, dark part of her nature that she had not even known existed before. And when Spike had left in the wake of her claim, that part of her had seen it as defiance – and had proceeded to take her over.
The overwhelming fury she had felt, the need to assert her power over the vampire she had claimed, was frightening to her in its intensity, even now in the light of day. She could not explain the powerful desire she had felt to prove to him beyond all doubt that *she* was the one in control, that he was at her mercy – that he was hers.
And he *was* hers.
Her heart pounded and her mouth went dry with renewed desire as she took in the sight of the still form asleep on the bed. God, how she wanted him! As she watched him, he stirred in his sleep, pulling slightly against the chains that still held him, and she felt a rush of desire flood her nether regions at the very sight.
It was disturbing to her that the sight was so arousing to her. Her former mortal enemy, bound, helpless, and utterly vulnerable to her – and it filled her with a powerful desire like nothing she had ever felt before.
Bound, helpless – and completely desperate for her. It had been quite obvious the night before that she was not the only one affected powerfully and strangely by the claim. It had clearly awakened a need, a longing, in Spike – for *her*. All the things she had done to him – she had teased and tortured him, giving herself to him only as she chose, making it clear that he was at her whim. She had hurt and abased him and demanded nothing less than his absolute submission.
And he had yielded it freely, and begged her for more.
*Something is seriously wrong with this picture.*
As she looked on, the blonde vampire began to slowly awaken, drifting out of the heavy sleep that had overtaken him after the intense events of the evening before, straining slightly against his bonds, frowning in confusion, not seeming to remember where he was or what had happened, as he gradually opened his eyes.
The moment they fell on her, he froze completely, his half-hearted struggles ceasing as he stared at her, memory coming back to him. She did not move, did not look away, strangely feeling no shame at gazing so freely on his naked form, something that would have had her blushing and turning away in shame the day before.
But why should she feel ashamed? After all, he was hers, wasn’t he?
The myriad emotions that flowed through him with the memory of the night before were all too clear in his incredibly expressive blue eyes, focused intently on hers, studying her expression with a strange mixture of fear, resignation, and an oddly hopeful expectancy.
The uncertainty she saw in his eyes filled her with an unexpected softness, a sense of affection for him like she had only felt once before, in the moments when she had awakened after the claim. The anger, the rage she had felt the night before at his perceived rebellion had been soothed by her display of dominance, and his submission to it.
Now, she felt only a gentleness and compassion for him, her possessive feelings toward him taking a softer, protective turn. She saw his fear, his insecurity, and wanted nothing more than to take them away, to comfort and reassure him.
Suddenly, accomplishing that seemed more important than getting home, than her conversation with Anya – than anything else at all.
Slowly, with a grace and confidence that surprised her, she approached him, feeling a pang of regret when she saw his body tense as she neared him, saw him swallow reflexively and flinch just slightly as her hand stretched toward his face, intending nothing more than a tender caress.
“It’s okay,” she murmured softly, relieved when he relaxed slightly and leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment before meeting hers again, a question in his wide, startlingly blue gaze. “I won’t hurt you.”
He did not move at all as she leaned over him to unlock the chains that bound him to the bed, and he fell back onto the mattress, unable to hold back a soft sigh of relief that made her feel a sharp pang of guilt, for leaving him in the uncomfortable position all night. He just lay there patiently as she moved to the foot of the bed and released his ankles as well, before moving back up to the head of the bed.
She leaned down over him, meeting his solemn, wondering eyes with a tender, reassuring smile as she reached a hand toward the darkly bruised, bloodied spot on his throat that she had so abused the night before. His eyes widened with alarm and he tensed up – but did not pull away – a pleading look in his breathtaking eyes.
“It’s all right,” she repeated softly, gently brushing her fingertips across the wounds she had left, then lowering her mouth to kiss them softly.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back with a low moan at the sweet sensation, beyond pleasure, fulfilling a need deep within him for which he could not find words – a need for acceptance, for approval, for the tenderness and affection that she was unexpectedly lavishing on him.
The night before had been about punishment, dominance, enforcing savagely the lesson of just whose he was, and what was expected of him. But the lesson had been delivered and accepted, and now the Slayer seemed to be focused on healing and reassurance, teaching another, more pleasant lesson, of just what he could expect if he *did* please his claimant.
She deepened the pressure she was applying slightly, laving the blood that had dried on his throat gently away with her warm tongue, and he gasped at the intensifying sensation, a rush of hot pleasure flowing through him as she put her arm around him, resting her upper body against his as she raised her free hand to rest behind his head, steadying him.
Instinctively his arms rose to go around her, hesitating just before he touched her, remembering her sharp words of the night before – he was not to touch her, not unless…
*Go ahead,* he heard her soft, encouraging voice in his mind – and it was all the permission he needed.
His hands moved slowly, worshipfully, over her glorious body, still clothed in the top and skirt she had worn the night before, and she let out a soft moan at the sensation of his touch over the coarse fabric of her blouse. His hands lowered to rest at the base of the tiny scrap of leather that she called a skirt, then edged a few inches up to her hips, his hand sliding cautiously inward, toward her aching core.
*Yes, yes, yes…* she urged him silently, her mouth working over her mark with rising intensity, and the pleasure coursing through his body was nearly overwhelming to him.
“Buffy…” he whispered. “God, Buffy…need you…want you, Buffy…sweet…”
His soft, adoring, incoherent ramblings in her ear intensified her pleasure as his skillful fingers did their work to bring her to the satisfaction of her need. She intensified her efforts, her hands running lightly up and down his body as her mouth caressed his throat.
Finally, in a moment of intensity every bit as powerful as anything they had felt the night before, and far more sweet, they reached their fulfillment in the exact same moment, her body clenching tight around his fingers as her orgasm engulfed her, her mouth closing with a gentle but intense pressure over her mark on his throat, bringing him to his climax a mere fraction of an instant later.
Only when it was over, as the blissful haze began to pass from them, did he realize…
She had never once touched his cock – and yet the intense pleasure that had consumed him was greater and more powerful than anything he had ever felt before.
She rose slowly from the bed, meeting his eyes with a tender smile, lowering her lips to his to grace him with a slow, thorough kiss, before standing up straight again.
He lay there for a moment, watching her, before he slowly sat up on the edge of the bed, never taking his eyes off her as she gathered up her things again, sitting in the chair across from the bed to put her boots on -- preparing to go. He just sat there for a moment on the edge of the bed, absently rubbing his sore, aching wrists, as he watched her.
“Where…” he began finally, his voice hoarse and hesitant from lack of use. “Where are you going?”
The insecurity in his voice was clear, though he tried to sound unconcerned, and Buffy paused, regarding him for a moment, trying to decide how much to tell him. Finally she replied, “I need to talk to Anya about something. And then, a little later, we’re going to go to the Magic Box. Giles wants to meet.”
He looked down for a moment, pensive, before looking back up at her. “What do you – I mean – do you want me to…” His voice trailed off, his eyes finishing the unspoken question, over an uncertain frown.
“Go get cleaned up,” she said in a quietly commanding tone that surprised her, though in a way it seemed so natural. “Get dressed and ready and meet me at my house at…” She glanced at the clock on her phone before finishing, “ten o’clock. Okay?”
He nodded slowly, studying her face, trying to read the answers there to the questions that swirled through his mind. He had no idea what was happening between them, what she thought about it, what her intentions were. He only knew that his future, his very being, was in her hands; and – her immediate tenderness notwithstanding – her capricious, possessive nature made that a frightening thought.
“Okay,” he answered quietly, looking away. He had little other choice.
She looked up at him again, at the odd unidentifiable emotion in his voice, troubled and concerned – and wondering at the fact that she was troubled and concerned. She made a quick decision and moved quickly, purposefully, across the room to stand in front of him. Without hesitation she leaned down and kissed him again, firmly, intently, though the kiss was brief.
When their lips parted, she met his eyes again wordlessly, and he found some reassurance in the expression there. She cared. It mattered to her. What they had done was not meaningless, not merely a way of enslaving him to her, as he had feared.
He kept telling himself that over and over – hoping desperately to convince himself – as she turned and walked toward the door without another word.
Buffy deliberately did not think about the events of the past night as she let the hot steaming water from the shower wash over her body, rinsing away the sweat and other evidence of the night she had had. Her mind had been racing with confusing thoughts, trying to figure everything out, and she had come to the conclusion that she did not really know enough about the ritual or vampire bonds and such to figure it out on her own.
She would wait and let Anya try to figure it out.
She had barely stepped out of the shower and into her bathrobe when she heard the doorbell ring. She hurried to answer it, standing out of sight from the porch as she invited Anya in, before going back upstairs to get dressed.
When she returned to the kitchen where she had left the ex-vengeance demon, Anya was busying herself by putting on a pot of coffee. She smiled apologetically at Buffy as she came down the stairs.
“Long morning,” she said by way of explanation. “Lots of orgasms to cram in, and not a lot of time to do it.”
For once, Buffy was too troubled by her current situation to even notice Anya’s blunt statement, responding only with a meaningless grunt as she took a seat on a stool by the center island.
Anya turned to face her, leaning her back against the counter beside the coffee pot with an expectant smile as she added, “Apparently it’s been a long morning for you too?”
“Not so much the morning,” Buffy amended with a little grimace. “as the night.” She paused, frowning, before she admitted, “*And* the morning.” She looked up at Anya with an expression that was almost panic in her emerald eyes.
“Anya, I don’t know what to do. Something went wrong with the ritual. It must have. This is all just – just so strange. I don’t know if I can even explain how I’m feeling right now. It’s just – it’s just too weird,” Buffy shook her head helplessly, her face already coloring, though she hadn’t even begun to tell her story.
Anya studied her face for a moment. “Well,” she said matter-of-factly after a moment’s pause. “maybe you should just start at the beginning and tell me what happened – and then maybe I’d have a freakin’ clue.”
Buffy took a deep breath, hardly able to believe she was about to tell this to anyone. “Well,” she started hesitantly. “I think what started the whole thing off wrong was that – he tricked me. I didn’t make him – actually say the words. Actually submit. Until – until we were already…”
“Halfway to happy land?” Anya supplied helpfully.
Buffy’s lips quirked up without amusement as she nodded. “Yeah,” she replied quietly. “And even then…he wouldn’t really give in…I mean…he even *bit* me! He wouldn’t give at all until I…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening slightly as she looked up at Anya with a guilty expression. She *really* wasn’t sure if she wanted to share this part or not.
“Until you what?” Anya prodded impatiently. “What did you do, Buffy?”
“I – I really don’t know *why* I did it,” Buffy admitted softly, looking away. “It just – seemed like the thing to do at the time.” She shrugged with a little grimace. “I – I kept insisting that he submit, and – and he wouldn’t, and – and finally I, well I…”
“Buffy,” Anya’s voice was low and troubled as she interrupted suddenly, her eyes wide and alarmed as she went on in a slow, measured voice, “don’t tell me you bit him back.”
Buffy’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief that Anya had guessed it so easily – followed by apprehension as she stared dubiously at her friend.
“Buffy,” Anya prodded not too gently.
“I’m not telling you,” Buffy said in a voice that was slightly petulant, looking away like a child trying to avoid punishment.
“Oh my God,” Anya moaned, putting a hand to her eyes and turning away for a moment before turning back to Buffy with an anguished look.
“What?” Buffy demanded, standing up, on the verge of panic. “Anya, what?”
The ex-demon stared at her for a long moment with wide, somber eyes, studying her expression, looking her up and down almost as if looking for some subtle difference in her. When she finally spoke, her words sent a shudder of dreadful apprehension down the Slayer’s spine.
“Buffy,” she said quietly. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
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