Ten minutes later, I think I have loudly covered just about everything that`s been *wrong* with me since the day I turned his scrawny behind, up to and including this past week. I`m detailing the pride of lions charging at my dick, accompanying bleeding head wounds and resultant blue balls-- when I realize that he is still smirking at me.
I am hoarse. Three mortal women have come into this bathroom, only to run off in fear ...and to likely hail security. And he hasn`t even batted an eyelash by way of apology.
Come to think of it, he`s never apologized for......well, ever.
I haul the impertinent brat none too gently to his boot clad feet and toss him against the back wall. He is *still* grinning. Godamn, *nothing* I do ever wipes that smirk off his...I thrust my fists into my pockets to keep from pounding them into his skull....and *oooh*... YES!
Revenge. Best served ...now.
I dare bookstore security to come between me and my boy. And this...potted plant.
*****
Shit. Facial Expression Number Six. Hairboy just got a plan. He`s always got some kind of plan, but this one seems to have channeled Angelus, so let`s call it 6.5 for clarity's sake. Hence, the plant I hold up in front of me for protection. There`s gotta be wood of some sort on the damn thing. It`s a tree, ain`t it?
He`s circling me like some kind of happy insane dog. I can hear his wheels spinning. Angel is always bloody well *thinking.* He thinks while he fights, he thinks while he sleeps, he thinks while he feeds. Hell, the great ponce probably has all sorts of things floating around in that Irish wasteland between his ears while he *shags*, for fucksake. I`d bet my knackers he solves math equations and charts battle plans while getting laid. After all, he wouldn`t want to get too bloody happy.
Me? When I`m sleeping I`m snoring, when I`m fighting I`m fighting, and when I`m getting head my internal dialogue pretty well sounds like...`grr. ah. oh yea. baby. harder`.
Right now, however, I`m the one doing the thinking. I`m thinking that I`m in trouble. I`m thinking of how hard I`d have to throw this plant at him in order to make a break for it. I`m thinking, why the fuck does the man have duct tape?
*****
Thank the Powers for my boy`s decided lack of horticultural skills. Did he think he was going to stake me with plastic shrubbery? Besides, I have the upper hand. I have the wits. I have the plan. I have the biggest fucking hard on in the room. I have the duct tape.
And in a moment, I have him...right where I want him...
*****
All right, I know the old man still has some kick left in him. I watch him slaughter large, hulking evil on a daily basis, and I fuck him nightly so I can attest to his nearly non-existent refractory period. But ya know, I have to admit that I count on several things working to my distinct advantage. His soul and its faithful companion the Colossal-Guilt-Complex ensure that no matter how far I push him, he`s never gonna retaliate with permanent physical injury. His complete lack of interest in all things modern significantly decreases his options for weaponry. And hey, soul or no, he`s never been Mr. Imaginative. Stalk, talk, talk, kill, kill, kill. That would be the MO. Substitute fuck for kill when he`s got religion, and there you have my sire in a nutshell.
So how the *hell* the hulking Celtic potato decided to adhere my ass to the wall of a public women`s restroom is completely beyond my ken. I didn`t think the man knew what electrical tape was for. Although, I`m guessing taping errant childer`s wrists to metal hooks isn`t on the official list of handyman`s uses...
Ya know what, I don`t think I *wanna* know when he learned how to tie a Boyscout knot with duct tape.
*****
Godamn, but he`s adorable when he`s bound. Silent would be good too, but we`ll work with what we have. I ran out of the stuff before I could seal his mouth shut. Looking at him now, I think I might have gone a little insane with the actual taping process. `Cause he`s not getting away from this wall anytime in the near future.
Which leaves us so few options. All of them good. Did I mention he was *naked* and taped to the wall?
Did I mention he was cursing my religion?
*****
``And your mother!`` I finish, struggling futiley against the interminable sticky mess which binds me to this wall. My wrists are crossed over my head, my legs are open, pants are around my ankles, and ducttaped to the tile floor.
I suppose I should count myself lucky that he ran out of tape before he got to my mouth. Although, godamnit, when this stuff comes off my legs it`s gonna hurt. Fucker is *so* going to pay for this little burst of creative energy.
Of course the moment of my finest and most highly channeled fury is the precise instant he chooses to kneel between my legs and look up at me with that worshipful puppy expression...
Prick.
*****
Some people assume that the one on their knees is the submissive, merely by virtue of the posture. Now, I`m not gonna argue that time honored and most obvious interpretation. But, what I can tell you after two hundred some years experience on both sides of this act, things ain`t always necessarily what they appear. Take right now. I`m on my knees, yea. But I`m also the one who`s in control. And it has nothing to do with the duct tape, which he could rip to shreds if he wanted to. I know that, he knows I know that, and all this is just part of the game. The power lies with the one who wields it.
As I am constantly reminded by the Fates, I am not terribly good at many things. But there are two things I can do really. really. well. Fight and fuck. I suppose then it`s fortunate that my destiny was to be a broody vamp avenging evil for all eternity, `cause really, it`s not like I could put all that on a resume. ``Immortal bloodsucker with no true skills seeks job where he can kick ass and give head.`` I`m guessing there aren`t alot of job opportunities like that in the mortal world.
Spike however doesn`t seem to mind my limited employment skills. Actually, by the little noises he`s making I`m fairly certain he doesn`t give a damn about much except when I`m going to make him come. Which I will. After I pay him back for the recent traumatic brain injury, and the fact that while he got to finish the act that night, I was left wanting.
I cup his balls lightly in one hand, exerting far less pressure than he prefers, and swirl my tongue around the tip of his cock. He arches against my mouth, but I just chuckle and pull back. Teach the little bastard to chain my ass to a lion`s cage. Teach him a few things, damnit.
I begin to lick his thighs in long, slow strokes, and I can hear the wall begin to crack as he pulls against the bonds holding him to it.
*****
grr. agh. yea baby. harder. fuck
*****
He`s doing that little incoherent thing now, growling at me in monosyllabics. Gods, I love that. Reminds me of another thing I`m good at...
Torture.....
You know how there are these *moments* during lovemaking...ones where you just stare into your partner`s eyes, and the world beyond the both of you simply ceases to exist?
Yea.... Now isn`t one of those moments.
I`m staring into his eyes all right, my forehead pressed to his, my grip firm around the base of his cock, but if this moment is anything...it`s the one where he`s envisioning hideous and painful methods of my immediate demise. When it comes to sex, Spike is an anything goes kind of guy. He`ll do pretty much anything if the end result is good. But even Spike has rules. Standards, if you will.
Rule number one is: thou shalt not cease the giving of the blowjob when the monosyllabic grunting has begun.
But I`ll be staked dead if the little wretch is gonna get off *again* without me. So I lean in and kiss his fang-filled mouth hard, tug at my zipper `til it`s undone, and wrap my hands around the both of us at the same time. Oh.....the rhythm is always so easy to find with him...
Sliding my grip up and over my length and his, pressing my face to his, my chest to his, my cock to his, and listening to the precious cadence of his sighs and moans...My fist caressing us both, smooth skin and rough hairs, salty sweat and the sweetest screams...
And yea, I admit to being the romantic of the pair, the Pouff, the one who likes bubble baths and foreplay. I like making love on actual furniture, preferably a bed with clean sheets godamnit, but at the moment... I`m over it.
I`m so over it that I`ve got him taped to a friggin` wall with my fist wrapped around his cock and my own, and I`m kissing him so hard the blood is running down his chin, and I`m matching him whimper for whimper.
I`m so fucking over it that I don`t care that we are in a communal bathroom, and in three minutes we`re likely going to be arrested for public lewdness. I`m so over it that when I finally do come, I`m going to howl loudly enough they`ll hear me in the kiddies` section of this bookstore. I`m so over it, that actually, I kinda fear the perfect happiness moment..
Fuck it. At least the hideous pink chaise lounge fits in with Hell`s decor.
*****
It`s not my fault that Angel can last for fuckin` ever. He spent a century perfecting the celibate monk vampire routine, and apparently, it has served him well. He has a ridiculous amount of control...and, oh who am I kidding? He had that skill down pat before too, and it`s been the bane of my fucking existence the entire century and a half I`ve been on and off layin` him.
It`s not my fault I bloody well enjoy *actually getting off* as much as the rest of it. I spent a century shagging Dru for chrissake. I love my girl and all, but if you don`t find your moment of pleasure with her right quick you`re just as likely to be left layin` in a puddle of someone else`s blood while she talks to the stars. Indoors. Minimal attention span, my Dru. So it`s nothing but conditioning, I tell you. Conditioning. I can`t last for fucking ever and that`s why none of this is my fault!
I mean if he would have had the sense to just finish what he started in a timely manner...
*****
Last time something like this happened,
at least I had a fucking concussion. So the memory of being interrupted
by charging wild game animals at life`s finest moment is luckily hazy.
And all right, this might not be the *most* embarrassing moment of my existence. I mean, I`ve accidentally killed good demons, and I`ve sang Karaoke in public, and one morning Cordy caught me...uh...entertaining myself with a copy of a Victoria`s Secret catalogue. And then there was the time in Paris, mid-1800's when I was drunk enough that I actually let Spike talk me into wearing a -- never mind.
But damnit, this is the most *recent* humiliation, and for godssake why couldn`t have the security guard come in *after* I fucking got off???? I fight evil, I slay evil, I kick evil`s ass, can`t I just have one frigging moment of IMperfect happiness? That`s not too much to ask, is it?! I think I`m going to cry...
*****
Hot DAMN Peaches is pissed off. I`d love to get annoyed at the irony of him yelling at me for vamping at those kids, considering what he did to that security guard, but I`m not takin` any chances. I knew he had lost it when he threw the Dracula novel at the Goth kids on the way out the door and shouted something about `At least he gets to have SEX!!`
Christ, I`m thinkin` all those decades of celibacy really unbalanced the poor bugger. I can`t even find it in my undead heart to be pissed about the tape ripping all the hairs off my ankles. OK, that`s a lie. I`m probably gonna have to shave his legs tonight when he falls asleep. But before that, I think I need to get the pouff some godamn relief.
*****
We finally emerge from the employee exit behind the store, into the dark and deserted parking lot.
I take in a breath to clear my head.
Cold, crisp, clear. The night matches Spike's eyes. He twinkles at me with that damnable grin, the grin that says undoubtedly, ``See what happens when you try to drag me into a fucking bookstore you nonce?``
I might punch him.
He's whistling now, walking three paces ahead of me with a bounce in his step. I want to punch him.
I want to punch him because he is my *childe*, and your *childer* are supposed to *listen* to you, and Spike looks at me with a horrified expression when I even suggest that he obey me. I want to punch him because he makes me do things I never dream of doing in lucid moments. I want to punch him because lucid moments are few and far between when he is by my side.
I want to punch him because his blood is the sweetest, thickest bit of pure cream that I've ever tasted, and it lingers still on my tongue. I want to punch him because if I can remember that far back, he makes me sob when I come. I want to punch him because he made me lose my cool and take him hard and fast in Barnes and Noble, of all places, and I want to punch him because I still haven't had a release from this aching hard-on, and I want to punch him because --
Oh for chrissakes, please do not tell me I'm seeing what I'm seeing.
Do not tell me that Spike is up on the stone bench surrounding the rushing water fountain in the middle of the outdoor shopping center. Do not tell me that the gleeful look on his face is a sign of terrible things about to happen. And especially do not tell me that he is actually leaning over and splashing his hand about in the water.
``Hey, Peaches! There's money in here.``
``That's for charity, Spike. That
money is collected and given to charity.`` Although I don't know why I'm
bothering to explain. The word `charity` is as foreign to him as the
words `peace on earth, goodwill
to man`.
He is pocketing large handfuls of wet coins, plunging his soaking arm over and over again into the fountain. I am trying to get to the car before this gets completely out of hand. ``Angel, get over here. My pockets are full.``
Too late.
``Spike`` I begin very patiently,``this is not trick-or-treat. You cannot take this money.`` Why, Lord? Why must you continue to punish me in this way?
He pointedly ignores me, leaning further over the fountain in order to scoop the coins from the center pedestal.``Spike,`` I warn, ``Spike, you're going to --``
/Splash!/
Spluttering, he emerges from the knee-high water, a golden moon-god. His hair has turned the color of honey and is plastered to his beautifully shaped head, and his black t-shirt is plastered to his chest.
Why do his pectoral muscles look the way they do? Who said that his body had to be formed in perfect proportion that way? All fine lines and sharp planes. I want to bite his stomach, so taut under his wet shirt. I want to feel his muscles tighten when I touch him. I want to cup him in my hand and listen to him half-groan, half-cry when he reaches that little death. And I would really like to do it now. Preferably at home.
Which is why for God's sake, whatever I want to do, I probably shouldn't laugh. . .