Three Months
|
Author: Dark
Star Email: eternity_ds@hotmail.com Website: Dark
Star's Portal Summary: Three months can be a very long time. Disclaimer: Joss Whedon is creator and owner of all things Angel Rating: Adult (NC 17) Warning: This story contains imagery some people might
find disturbing. Notes: This is the 9th part of my S&M series, Harsh
Reality, and a direct sequel to Discovery. Pairing: B/A Category:
Dark Distribution: Just ask, please. Special thanks to Jo for her patient beta-ing on this,
and to Ares for her comments. ** The street below is busy; ordinary people going about their
daily lives, and Angel watches without really seeing anything. It has been
two weeks since his argument with Buffy and he hasn't seen or heard from her.
Is she out there with the people? He misses her. He paces across the floor and settles in his armchair
restlessly. He can't get her comment out of his head, and he's been brooding
on it for a fortnight. It's a dangerous thought because it's exactly what he
fantasises about doing - except, without the gag. ' Then you fucking do it. You gag me if that's what it
takes, and you carry on. You do not visit some vampire whore.' He can’t stop thinking of her, the way she feels in his
arms; the way she smells, the sound of her laughter. But it is his desire for
pain that brought them to this point. Is it worth it? Is Buffy right to
accuse him of cheating on her? Isn’t he only trying to protect her from the
worst of it? Unbidden, some of their previous sessions replay in his
head. Images of her body convulsing in pain or pleasure, or the sound of her
screams ringing in his ears and making his cock hard just to think of them. His hand moves of its own accord and settles in his lap.
He strokes himself through the fabric of his jeans, eyes closed, allowing the
memories to bathe him. It is always Buffy he thinks about when he
masturbates, always; he never thinks about Lucia or any of the other
vampires. His time with them is fleeting, and they are unimportant. He feels
a momentary pang because he suspects that they are dust now. A session with
Buffy is different, because his time with her is precious; it is intense and
passionate, a time when she willingly gives herself to him completely and
with immense trust. As the memories grow more powerful, his fingers unfasten
the zip of his jeans and he releases his hard cock. He is losing himself in
the memory, watching her body writhe in response to him, and his hand wraps
firmly round his hard flesh and begins to move. The images in his head
strengthen, and as he grows more excited, favourite images begin to surface.
His hand tightens, savouring the moment, and in his memory Buffy is standing
before him, her body covered in glorious marks and bruises. Her hands are
tied behind her, and his right hand is twisted in her hair and pulling her
head back. Her throat is exposed and vulnerable. His left hand gently caresses her throat, and he can feel
her swallowing anxiously under his fingers. “Your throat is beautiful,” he tells her, leaning
forward to kiss the base of her throat before adding softly, “I want to fuck
it.” Her eyes widen but she makes no protest when he releases
her hair and places a hand on top of her head. She knows what to do, and she
drops slowly to her knees. He enjoys the view of her kneeling at his feet for a few
moments before freeing his cock and moving to stand in front of her. He
strokes her head as he slides himself into the warmth of her mouth. He amuses
himself with gentle strokes, and looks down with satisfaction over the
visible welts on her bottom and the colourful bruises that have formed on her
chest. “Look at me.” She looks up to meet his gaze, and he can see the
exhaustion in her eyes, but this sight - his woman, relinquishing her power
and kneeling subservient at his feet - is so arousing he has to hold still
for a moment to make himself last. He resumes his gentle thrusting, but keeps
eye contact with her, and gradually increases the depth of his thrusts. She
tenses her shoulders as his strokes get more intrusive, and she gags when he
hits the back of her throat. She holds eye contact as long as she can, and he
sees the alarm there just before her gag reflex makes her eyes stream and she
has to look down. She feels good; she looks good. Tonight, she carries his
marks with pride; she has borne everything he has asked her for, taken
everything he wanted to do. Right now, only her hands are bound as she
struggles to take him into her throat, and he knows it is difficult for
her. But she is the slayer; such
simple bindings would not be enough to hold her if she wanted him to stop,
and he loves the illusion of power it gives him over her. His memory of this event is so clear, and in his mind's
eye he relives it all. He can feel her; the way her soft hair flows under his
fingertips, and how the heat and moisture of her mouth contrasts with the
coolness of her skin. He can see her; the marks down her back and her bottom,
the leather cuffs binding her wrists and her fingers twitching behind her. He wants to watch her but the sensations are so
powerful, and he is so close, that he gives in and closes his eyes. His hips
pump harder, she tries to pull back but he curls his fingers in her hair to
gather up two handfuls of her beautiful tresses and she can't move. He can
smell her, her scent thick with sweat and with blood. There is fear in her
scent, and yes, there is arousal too, and he can't help but move faster
because he's using all of his senses and it's so intense and becoming
unbearable. The muscles in her throat are twitching, her heart is pounding in
her chest, and her breath is coming in hot gasps against his groin. In the armchair Angel moans, his hand moving fast, his
eyes tight shut, and his fingers are unconsciously flexing in time with the
remembered contractions of her throat and he wants the moment to last but his
excitement is spiralling out of control. Her head shudders in time with each
thrust, and her welcoming mouth is hot and smooth, but it’s those fucking
sexy sounds that she makes as he takes her and he comes, spilling over
his fingers and he calls out her name in his ecstasy. When he calms, he finds he has but one thought in his
head. He’s a damned fool. ** Buffy finishes cleaning the counter in the lobby and puts
the things back on the shelf underneath. She goes back to her half-finished
bottle of wine and pours herself another drink. She hesitates after the first
sip, and turns round. Angel stands in the lobby, looking uncomfortable. “What can I do for you?” Buffy asks with prim
politeness. “We need to talk.” “I think we’ve said everything, don’t you?” “No.” Angel steps forward, but Buffy steps back and he
stops. “Buffy… I… I’m sorry.” “That makes it all right, then, doesn’t it?” she
responds harshly. “Of course not,” Angel says quietly. “I've hurt you and
I have no right to expect you to forgive me.” “No,” Buffy snaps. “You don’t have the right. Go
away, Angel. Before I do something I’ll regret.” “You want to have it out with me?” he asks, indicating
the empty lobby floor. “There’s plenty of room. You want to hit me?” “God, yes.” Buffy steps closer. “I want to hit you,
injure you, make you hurt the way I do. But that won’t make it better, will
it?” “So what will? You know I love you. I never meant to
hurt you. If it makes you feel better to hit me, do it – I won’t stop you. If
you want to do it in the room, however many times you need, do it.” Buffy
looks at him expressionlessly as he says more softly, “I just want a chance
to make things right. If you don’t want that, or me, say so – and I’ll get
out of your hair.” Buffy is silent for a long time considering Angel’s
plea. The last two weeks have been miserable, and she doesn’t want to be
without him. In her heart, she knows that; but she hurts so badly she can't
stand it, and she wants to hurt him just as much. “Fine. Since pain seems to
be the only thing you understand, we’ll do it upstairs in that hellhole you
love so much. Don’t think you’ll get away with one session either, it’ll take…” “Name it,” Angel says quickly, and Buffy blinks. She
hasn’t the faintest idea how many, so she blurts out the first number she
thinks of. “Three months. Every week for three months you let me do
whatever the hell I want to you.” “Done,” Angel replies. “The rules are mine,” Buffy adds. “Agreed.” Buffy frowns. “You don’t know what I’m going to ask you
to do.” “I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes.” Buffy takes a sip of her drink and shrugs. “Okay. When
do you want to start?” Angel takes a step toward her. “Now.” “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Angel. I’m really mad
at you right now.” “I know,” he replies softly, “but I still want to start
now.” Buffy raises an eyebrow and he adds quickly, “Please?” Buffy studies him for a moment and then shrugs again.
“Why not? Go upstairs and wait for me.” Angel nods eagerly and heads for the stairs. He has gone
halfway up when he hears Buffy’s voice. He stops and looks at her
questioningly. “When you
get up there,” she instructs, “undress and kneel. I’ll be up in a minute.” Angel nods agreement, and carries on upstairs. Buffy
finishes her drink and pours another while she decides what she is going to
do. As instructed, Angel is kneeling,
naked, waiting for her. He looks… apprehensive, and Buffy smiles thinly to
herself. She goes to stand in front of him, her arms folded. “Before we start, I’ll give you my rules and you can
back out if you want to.” Angel looks as though he is going to say something,
but he changes his mind and Buffy continues. “In here, the rules are mine. I
can do whatever the hell I want to you, and you’ll take it because I’m pissed
off and you want me to forgive you.” Angel frowns, not expecting the
vehemence in her tone. “Well, let's get one thing straight,” Buffy says,
stepping closer. “This will take three months, calendar months, and I’m not
going to make this easy on you.
You don’t touch me without permission; you don’t come unless I let
you. Your pleasure is not important here. If you want me to stop, for any
reason, or you break the rules, a week gets added onto the time penalty. Do
you understand?” “Yes,” Angel replies, without the slightest hesitation. “Okay.” Buffy steps closer, wraps her hand in his hair
and snaps his head back. “I’m going to make you hurt, Angel. I’m going to use
you, and abuse you, and if I want to shove a fucking pineapple up your
ass, I do it. Do you still want to continue?” “Yes.” Buffy releases his hair abruptly, pretending she hasn’t
seen something incredibly vulnerable in his expression. She is not going to
feel sorry for him – he is in the wrong, for Heaven's sake! She crosses to the wall chains, and picks up one of the
manacles. “Come here.” Angel joins her, faces the wall, and allows her to
fasten his wrists in the metal cuffs. She puts his ankles in the restraints,
too, and then takes herself off to the toy chest to get something to use. It
is tempting to use the metal whip, but she has another one in mind, and pulls
out his most vicious bullwhip.
Eagerly she returns to Angel, and shows him her prize. He swallows
nervously when she shows it to him, but says nothing. The whip is made of
very heavy leather, and the bite of it is so evil,
Angel has only used it on her a few times. He explained to her once that the force of the whip, in
the wrong hands, is severe enough to break limbs, and that alone had scared
her. But Angel is really good with it, and has never damaged her as
badly as that – she is not as skilled in its use, and has no idea if vampires
can be so damaged by the whip, but she is too angry to care. He'll mend. "You ready?" "Yes." Buffy's arm swings back, and she flicks the whip forward
with a mighty crack. The whip misses him, deliberately, but his back flinches
in anticipation, and she smiles grimly. Buffy changes her stance, moves a
little further back, gives room to allow the bullwhip to work properly. She has in fact done some slayer
training with whips, but this one is a brute; heavy handle, heavy braided
coil; she is ready, and she rather hopes that Angel isn't. Another crack, and the whip slices across Angel's back,
making him lurch against the wall with the unexpected severity of the blow.
The chains rattle in protest, and Buffy allows him to get his balance again
before she brings down the next blow. One blow follows the next, and she
carries on with a grim determination. She isn't trying to create something
pretty, she is just going for straight pain, and she doesn't care what it
looks like as long as it hurts. And it certainly does that, she is sure of it. She hears
the stoic silence change to grunts, gasps and moans. She watches his body
shudder with each blow, sees the arching of his back with each fierce strike.
She wants more; she keeps going, until the grunts turn to screams and his
body reacts with violent spasms. Hours later, when his back is a lacerated
and torn mess, and he begins spitting out blood, she finally stops and
unchains him. Wordlessly, she supports him over to the bed and helps
him sit down. He doesn't have the strength to sit unsupported and she lays
him down on his side. She steps away. "You can stay until you feel better. If you can
handle it, be back at the same time next week." His eyes rise tiredly to meet hers. The severe flogging
she has given him has not hurt him nearly as much as the callousness of those
few words have done, and the look he gives her back is so despondent, so old,
that she has to fight the urge to go to him and hug him. She will not
weaken. She won't. She turns to walk away. At this point in a session,
Angel would take care of her. He would tend to her wounds, comfort her, and
tell her he loved her. She has done none of those things, simply left him,
and it is that that finally brings home to Angel how angry she really is. "I'll be here," he says so softly that Buffy
almost doesn't hear him. She chooses not to respond, and she leaves the room
without another look. Week Two. The flogger is multi-stranded and leaves vicious welts
across his body. She has whipped him everywhere this time, and not just his
back as she has the first week. Blood seeps from the wounds on his arms,
legs, and chest. She whipped his cock earlier, and he hardened; it annoyed her,
so she returned to his back where the blood flows further with each fall of
the whip. She is still angry with him; the stiffened cock annoys her most of
all - he isn't supposed to be getting off on this. The whip lashes across his
back, and he is screaming in pain but she still wants more. She knows from
experience that if the same spot is hit over and over, it becomes unbearable,
and she wants him to suffer as much as she has, so she concentrates on
punishing the one spot. He writhes, trying to cope, and his screams get
louder, and she knows he can't take much more of that pain. A mental image of
Angel at the end of his tether and begging her to stop pops into her head and
she feels suddenly sick. She realises that she doesn't want to hear Angel beg
her, and the flogger flips sideways and finds a fresh spot, giving him a
reprieve. She whips him some more, but her heart is no longer in it and she
releases him. Week Three. Another week, another set of chains, a barrage of whips,
a barrage of pain and Angel's shrieks make her head hurt. She goes through
the motions and she makes him scream. But she has lost the edge that her
anger gave her, and finally, she releases him without a word and leaves him
to recover on the bed. Outside the room, she leans against the wall, her legs
are shaking and she needs to support herself. The session has given her no pleasure; no satisfaction,
and she doesn't really want to do it again. It is only week three, and there
are another ten to go. Can she do this? Should she forgive him and forgo the
rest of the sessions? But her pride won't let her back down. The deal is
thirteen weeks, and they haven't even got a quarter of the way there yet. She
is going to have to change track, but she isn't sure how; there has to be some
other way to play this out. Week Four. "Kneel." Angel drops gracefully to his knees, and Buffy watches
his smooth muscles ripple as he moves. She marvels that there are no marks on
his naked skin from the previous punishment sessions he has endured, and
today's session hasn't yet begun. "We're going to do things differently," she
tells him and he watches her silently, dark eyes fastened on her face. She
goes to the drawer and gets something out. It is black, but Angel can't see
what it is. She brings it into his line of vision and shows it to him. It is
a collar; soft black leather decorated with silver studs on the outside, and
she wraps it round his neck to fasten it behind him. She steps back to look
at it better. It looks good. Hell, he looks good in it. She
swallows, and says, "The previous rules still apply. But in addition,
you don't use my name. You may call me Miss, or Slayer - nothing else. And
whenever you come in here you wear my collar. If I'm not here, you put it on
yourself. Do you understand?" "Yes," Angel's voice sounds dry.
"Miss." Oh fuck. Buffy swallows again. That had
sounded way sexier than she has thought it would. She runs her fingers round
the soft collar; she loves the way the dark leather contrasts with his pale
skin. She runs her fingers up and along his throat. Smooth, so smooth, and
god, she really wants to kiss him. Damn. Instead, she grabs a handful of hair. "Up,"
she snaps, irritated by her own weakness. "Let's get going, shall
we?" ** Week Five. She moves closer, and Angel can finally see what's in
her hand. It is a leather strap with something round and red in the middle of
it. A ball gag, he realises. She reaches up to put it on him, and he pulls
his head back. "I don't want…" he begins, but Buffy glares at
him. "But it isn't about what you want anymore,
is it? This is what I want. Do you have a problem with that?" "No…" he says slowly, watching her bring the
gag up to his face. He opens his mouth obediently and lets her push the red
object into his mouth. It is a large one, and he knows it will make his jaw
ache before very long. Because he isn't able to tell her when he's had enough,
she gives him a hand signal to use in an emergency. All he has to do is open
and close his fist twice, and she will stop. She watches his hands throughout
the session, and although she pushes him really hard he doesn't use the
signal. It's only when she unchains him she sees the blood on
his palms. ** Week Six. She uses red cord to bind his hands together behind his
back. "Kneel," she tells him, and he drops to his knees. She stands
in front of him, taking in the view of the white skin, naked except for his
black collar, and red binding on his wrists. Pretty. He waits patiently to
see what will happen next, and she almost smiles at his surprised expression
when she slowly unfastens the buttons of her blouse and takes it off. She is
not wearing a bra, and she can tell that he appreciates what he sees. She
moves closer, right up to his face, and he can't take his eyes from her
breasts. But he remembers that he isn't allowed to touch her and he stays
still. "Angel." He tears his gaze from her delectable chest and looks
up. She waits until his gaze locks on hers, and then she orders, "Use your
mouth on my breasts… until I tell you to stop." He tries to hide his reaction, but she knows him too
well. It has been weeks since he touched her, and she suspects he yearns for
it as much as she does. Tentatively, he touches the tip of his tongue to her
nipple, and she shudders. Yes. Week Seven She has suffered for many years under Angel's
ministrations, and in her naivety, she thinks she knows everything. Her
research shows her many things that Angel has not used on her. Some, like
gags and blindfolds, are down to personal preference. He hates anything that
obscures his enjoyment of her; if she feels it - he wants to see and hear it.
And she discovers that there are various contraptions that you can use on a
man's penis - opening up a whole new world of scope for her. Tonight, he is standing, blindfolded, in the ceiling
chains. His arms are raised up into the manacles; a leather-harness type
contraption is wrapped round his cock and balls, holding him into her desired
position. His chest and back are covered in welts from the riding
crop, and part of the skin on his hip is swollen. She runs her fingers across
the marks - something she learnt from him -and he gasps, unprepared for her
touch because he can't see her. She picks up the crop, and rubs that over his
skin, too, and his muscles bunch up in anticipation of more pain. She does not disappoint him; she flicks the crop at his
cock, and he cries out from the suddenness; five more times she flicks the
crop against his cock, and although he manages not to yell, his whole body
shakes from the exertion. Then, without any warning at all, she leans forward
and runs her tongue round as much of his cock as she can reach. 'Jesus!' She is pleased by his reaction, and she unfastens the
strap that holds his cock. She leaves the harness on, but pushes the leather
back so she that she can reach all of his cock, and she takes him into her
mouth. She uses her tongue, tasting him, and it has been so long since she
has touched his cock for pleasure. She needs this, needs him; and she is
enjoying the strangled moans that escape from his throat. She knows he is
fighting his natural reaction to fuck, and he holds as still as he can, but
his moans have become harsh. She doesn't want him to come and she pulls away; she
looks up at him from her kneeling position, and takes in the quivering man in
front of her. He looks vulnerable with the chains and blindfold on, and she
wonders what happened to the bastard of seven weeks ago. Week Eight. He watches her slowly undress. He longs to touch her,
hold her, but he is manacled and it isn't allowed. She slowly peels off her
skirt and drapes it over the bed. His cock hardens as she bends over, showing
him her tight ass enclosed in red satin, and he wants to be inside her. She
stands up again, her eyes meeting his, and slowly, she peels off that tiny
slip of satin and leaves them on the floor. She settles on the bed, lays herself flat and pulls her
legs up so that her cunt is exposed to him, and his cock stiffens with
desire. She runs her fingers lovingly across her own labia, touching herself
everywhere, before sliding two fingers inside herself. She doesn't need to
hear his harsh intake of breath; she already knows it drives him crazy to
watch her play with herself, and she slows down, pushes her fingers in
deeper, and takes much bigger, bolder strokes in her self-exploration. She watches him under half closed lids to see if her
show is working its magic on him. His rigid cock tells her all she needs to
know, and his eyes are locked on her fingers as if his life depended on it.
It excites her to know that she has him so enthralled; she slips her fingers
out of her cunt and rubs at her clit, her hips rocking in time with her
movements, and the little moan that escapes her lips is not entirely put on
for Angel's benefit. She
imagines his hands on her, his lips, and her fingers rub harder; she is so
excited that he must watch her display helplessly, that she yanks up her
sweater to squeeze her nipple hard, and she comes, her orgasm making her body
spasm in helpless abandon. When she calms down, she slowly puts her skirt and
panties back on and carefully avoids looking at him. She crosses over to him
and begins to unfasten the manacles. Her eyes accidentally meet his, and his
dark eyes are begging to let him have her; he needs to come but he won't ask. She helps him over to the bed, and says calmly,
"We're done now. You're dismissed." He tries to hide his disappointment, but he doesn't quite
cover it, and she turns and walks out without another word. She waits outside
the door to see if he will finish the job himself, and she doesn't have long
to wait. He is trying to be quiet, but she hears his breath coming in short
pants and the resultant muffled groan tells her that he has finished. Week Nine. "I want you on the bed, " she tells him,
"on all fours." He does as instructed, moving stiffly because of the
caning he has received across the backs of his thighs, and wonders what she
has in mind. She reaches to get something out of the bedside drawer,
and asks conversationally, "Tell me, Angel. Have you ever had a cock up
your ass?" He hesitates, and then says, "Yes." Buffy withdraws the rubber phallus and the oil from the
drawer and pauses. Somehow she hadn't expected that reply. She'd thought he
might be a virgin there, and that is a shame because she'd wanted to be
first. Still, it doesn't matter that much - she doubts that he has done it
recently. Sometimes, when Angel wants to make it more painful when he takes
her, he leaves a long gap between the anal penetrations, and it is like being
had for the first time again. "Then this should be easy for you, shouldn't
it?" She sits on the edge of the bed and rubs the oil into the phallus -
the shop said it is specially designed to use in the ass, and it has a large
base attached to it; useful, as she doesn't intend to hold it all the time.
She is very careful to oil the implement properly; knowing that he is
watching her, and she remembers how it feels to anticipate what is going to
happen. She stands up and goes
behind him. "Relax," she tells him, and he makes an odd
noise - a sort of cross between a laugh and a snort. She positions the
phallus against his anus and pushes. Nothing happens, and she frowns; it's
harder to get in than she thought it would be. She tries again, but the
muscles stay a firm barrier, and she wonders whether she should just shove it
in as hard as she can. The thought makes her smile; she'd have to peel him
off the ceiling if she did that. Maybe if she wriggles it, it will go in? She
gives it a wiggle, pushing gently as she does so, and Angel grunts. Oh,
right. She remembers Angel doing that, sometimes, instead of pushing in
properly, he'd sort of wriggle his cock in the entrance and take forever to
enter her - and it fucking hurt. Perfect. Taking her time, she wriggles and pushes at the
rubberised intruder, feeling the muscle give to allow her in. Angel grunts,
trying to hold still by bracing himself against the springy mattress. The
cock slips in, and she begins a slow and steady rhythm with it, and although
he is clearly in pain, his own cock is rigid. He likes it. Buffy reaches
under him, wraps her hand round his cock and begins pumping it in time to the
one in his ass. He groans, and she isn't sure if it is in pain or pleasure. "You can't come without permission," she warns
him. "I know that," he replies, and his voice
sounds tight. She grins. His ass is damn tight, too. Buffy lies on the bed next to him and squirms underneath
him, until she can take him in her mouth. Her hand snakes underneath him and
resumes the anal penetration as she gently sucks on him. He swears, and tries
to pull away but she has him tight, and her wicked tongue is running all
round his shaft as she sucks. They haven't had sex in weeks, and she wonders
if he will be able to hold back. Or will centuries of practice help him out? He tries to hold still but his hips are starting to thrust,
and he is making some rather odd strangled sounds as he tries to control
himself. The guttural sounds he makes are turning her on, and she sucks
harder at him, forgetting for the moment that for him to come without
permission will result in a week's time penalty. Angels moans loudly. "B.. Miss…" his
voice has a desperate edge. Buffy lets him out of her mouth for long enough to
admonish, "You don't have permission to come, so you'd better
control yourself." She feels him tense up in an attempt to comply with her
demand. He is making some pretty desperate sounds now, and she stops fucking
his ass to concentrate better on his cock. He tries to pull back, but she
won't let him, and slowly takes him further into her mouth, and he can't help
it; his hips buck and he starts to fuck her, he's a hairsbreadth from coming
and he needs release. That's when she pulls away from him, and slides out from
under his body. "Roll over," she orders, and as he complies she
pulls off her jeans and panties and moves to straddle his head. "Do
it," she orders, and eagerly, he licks at her clit and his mouth is pure
heaven, and suddenly the world spins on its axis and she's flying. Week Ten. He lies spread-eagled on the bed, his limbs bound to the
four corners, a contraption shaped like a flower press has his testicles in
its unrelenting grip. He has a fierce clamp on each of his nipples, and
several smaller clamps along the outer shaft of his cock. He was limp when
she put the clamps on, and now that he is hard, the skin is stretched tight
and it looks painful. He
is eyeing her warily because she has told him she is going to remove the
clamps, and he knows how much fun that won't be. She takes one of the nipple clamps in her hand, and
begins to open it; she changes her mind, and lets it snap shut again, and he
yells in pain. "Oops," she says, but they both know that it
is deliberate. She removes the same clamp with a flourish, and waits while
the blood flows back into the nipple and as the pain bites, he moans. And
then, because he had done it to her last time, she takes the sore nipple in
her mouth and sucks. His back arches, and he can't help crying
out, and Buffy bites the nipple for good measure, wrenching yet another yell
from him. She repeats the painful process with the other nipple and with his
cock, but instead of taking his cock in her mouth, she takes the thick shaft
in her hand and rubs him. He hisses because it hurts, but his cock isn't
bleeding and there doesn't appear to be any damage there. Buffy sheds her panties quickly, gets up on the bed and
mounts him without a word. The feel of him inside her is heaven, and she
realises how much she misses him. She squeezes him with her muscles and he
grunts, but she doesn't think it’s because of the pain this time. "You don't get to come," she warns him. "I know," he replies, but he isn't sure he
will be able to obey that instruction, he wants her so badly. He wants to
hold her, fuck her, and to have her so close and not be able to touch her
makes him want to weep. She rides him slowly at first, savouring the feeling of
him being inside her again, and then she wants satisfaction and she speeds
up. His expression is one of concentration and she wonders what he is
thinking about in order to control himself. Maybe he is concentrating on the
sensation of the vice on his private parts, and the thought excites her and
her fingers go to her clit and she climaxes hard, but she wants more and her
fingers rub harder and she loses track of how many times she comes. Angel is
starting to look rather desperate, and she wonders if he will be able to hold
out long enough to see this through. Finally, completely sated, she collapses against him and
he relaxes. She thinks it's funny that somebody should look so relieved by
not getting any himself. Week Eleven.
She uses her hands to caress him. His body is tired and
sore. He is covered in welts, and when she whips him, his cock responds with a
twitch every time. She kneels in front of him. His cock is so tender that he
shudders when she runs her finger along the shaft. And when she wraps her
lips over the head, he groans out loud. She works on him slowly, working him
up, and she feels his body trembling with the effort to stay in control. She
looks up. "You have permission to come tonight," she
tells him softly, returning her attention to his cock. Angel knows he doesn't
have to control himself this time, but he has been doing it for weeks now and
can't relax enough. He wonders if she will be mad at him if he can't come,
and he tries to just concentrate on the pleasures she is giving him. Buffy works slowly, arousing him as much as she can, and
she wants him to come, wants him to have some pleasure in here for once. Her
hands go to his ass, holding him firmly, and her mouth slowly sinks lower
down his shaft, and he groans in appreciation. He has always loved very deep
oral penetration, and even without being the instigator, it turns him on tremendously.
Her tongue continues to play with him, and when she reaches underneath to
push a finger into his ass, it is too much, even for him. He comes, hips
jerking as he fills her mouth, and he calls out her name in his rapture. She watches him thoughtfully. She waits until he gets
his mind back, and she says, "Did you enjoy that?" "Yes… Slayer," he replies, his voice sounds
like gravel. "Good." She stands up. "But you broke the
rules, Angel. A week's time penalty gets added on." Confused, he says, "But… I had permission...?" "You did." She folds her arms. "But you
used my name, Angel. That's not allowed in here." "Oh." She watches the realisation dawn, and he
looks so upset at not obeying her that she wishes that she hadn't mentioned
it. Week Twelve The evening has only just begun, and Buffy has chained
him, facing forward, against the wall. Arms manacled high, legs spread wide
and held open for her attention. She faces him, her expression stern. "I'm not pleased, Angel," she tells him,
getting his full attention immediately. "Last week you were given
permission to come for the first time. You rewarded me by breaking another
rule. Do you think that was the right thing to do?" "No… Miss," he adds hastily, not wanting to
upset her any more than he has. "I'm sorry." "I'm sure you are," she responds. "But
that isn't good enough. So tonight, we're going to have a little
lesson." "A lesson?" He doesn't like the sound of that.
"You haven't learnt that Miss, or Slayer, are the only
names you are allowed to use in here. You haven't learnt that whatever I do
to you, or for you, is for my pleasure. So tonight, we're going to
remedy that." She reaches forward and presses her lips against his. He
remembers just in time that he doesn't have permission to kiss her. She
smiles. "There's hope for you, yet." She steps back, but Angel can only think about her
smile. Her first real smile since they started this; he wants to believe that
she might forgive him. "I'm going to hurt you," she tells him.
"And every time I stop, I want you thank me, using one of those
titles." "For stopping?" He asks curiously, "or for the pain?" "For the pain," she clarifies. "If it
pleases me to hurt you, you must show me that it pleases you to take it." Without warning, she slaps him across the face, and she
waits. "Thank you, Miss," he says carefully. She smiles again. "That's good." She goes to fetch her whip, and he doesn't care. This is
the first warmth she has shown him here, and tonight he will take anything,
if only she will smile again. Week Thirteen. He is bending over the desk, wrists strapped down, and
his back, bottom and legs are bleeding. He is screaming with each fall of the
whip, but at least tonight she hasn't asked him to thank her for it. The cane she used earlier has left
him a battered mess, and he is exhausted. Buffy puts the whip down and unchains him. She pulls his
arms back and chains them behind his back, and then she helps him stand up.
His back hurts from bending over so long, and every movement hurts. She leads
him, stumbling, over to the bed and makes him kneel at the end of it. She sits on the bed in front of him, and hitches up her
skirt. She is not wearing any panties, and she pulls his head toward her, and
says, "Please me." He needs no second telling, and he sets to his task with
enthusiasm. Buffy knows he is exhausted, but he puts immense effort into his
task, and she can't deny it feels wonderful. She drapes her legs over his shoulders,
pulling him even closer, and she loses count how many times he makes her come
before she begs him to stop. They stay together like that for some time. Angel's head
rests against her thigh; he doesn't really have permission for that, but she
doesn't feel inclined to chastise him for it. She doesn't realise until
later, that the whole time he kneels there, her fingers are running through
his hair. Week Fourteen. This session is bittersweet. She awards him pain and
pleasure in equal amounts, but refuses to allow him an orgasm. The final act of the night, she has him on the bed, his
arms chained to the headboard, and she whips him everywhere she can reach. He
is moaning, writhing, and suddenly, she wants him. She undresses completely,
and climbs onto the bed. She sits over his hips, and slides herself slowly
down over his hard shaft. She rides him, and it feels wonderful, but tonight,
it isn't enough. She reaches above his head and unchains his hands. Just
before she kisses him, she whispers, "You may touch me." It's what he wants to hear, and he wraps her in those
strong arms, and kisses her hard. Everything fades away. There is just this
moment, and nothing that has ever happened between them matters anymore. In a tangle of arms and legs, he rolls her over onto her
back. He is still inside her, and he thrusts harder, angling himself to give
her more pleasure, and she comes, screaming, and clings to him tightly as her
world spins. When she comes back, she sees his expression and wonders why he
is looking so worried. Realisation dawns, and in that moment, she understands
how much she loves this man. She wraps her legs round his waist, and holds
him tight, before saying, "Come for me, Angel." He smiles at her, making her stomach flip over, and
kisses her so hard she can't breathe. But she doesn't care, and when he
comes, she feels it; feels every twitch and spasm, and it sets her off into
another orgasm of her own. Together, sated and exhausted, they sleep. End. Part 10 - Skin Deep
Return to Fiction Index
|