“Buffy?”

The Slayer woke with a start. She’d fallen asleep, head pillowed on her folded arms, in front of cybersmut. The screensaver mercifully obscured the last webpage she’d explored. Schwoo, what with an impressionable teenager standing in the family dining room, looking at her obviously insane older sister.

“Don’t you have to be at work in an hour?”

“Huh?”

“Work? That which pays the bills? Or at least the ones that show up in pink envelopes with ‘Second Notice’ stamped on them?”

“Yeah. What are you doing up?”

Cue the Big Dawn Eye Roll. “You told me you’d kill me if I beat you to the shower when you had first shift at the Doublemeat.”

“Oh. Yeah. I did. I will.” Buffy stood and stretched.

“Ew, you’re filthy.”

Buffy blushed furiously. “Mud. Vamp dust. The usual challenges for Ultra Tide with Extra Bleaching Action.”

“Yeah. Well, hurry up. If you’re late, I’m late and it’ll probably still be all my fault.”

Dawn padded back upstairs in fuzzy slippers, leaving Buffy to frantically shut down Netscape and then, for good measure, the whole laptop.

***

“I’ll take two Doublemeat Muffins and a Bruncherito. Plus a coffee.”

“Small, Medium or Large?”

“Large. Cream and sugar.”

Large. Cream. Sugar. The language of fast food breakfast at the DMP drive-thru was enough to make her hide her head in shame.

“Oh how far has Hemery High’s Fiesta Queen fallen,” she murmured, punching the total button on her membrane keyboard.

“Excuse me?”

“That’ll be six dollars and twenty-seven cents. Please pull forward.”

***

“Buffy, do you have a second?”

“Sure, Lorraine.”

“You didn’t ask that customer if they wanted to Make it a Doublemeaty Meal.” The manager pointed to her colorful button. “Remember? The new promotion that goes along with the ad campaign?”

“Sorry. I just forgot.”

“Okay, well, remember. Or I’ll have to put you back on the fryer.”

“Won’t happen again.”

Buffy flipped her headset’s mouthpiece back into place. “Welcome to the Doublemeat Palace. May I take your order?”

***

The direct route home from Fast Food Hell wandered through Sunnydale’s abbreviated business district. City Hall, government offices, banks, real estate brokers and a few other respectable establishments at the top of the street; the Espresso Pump, Magic Box and The Sun clustered at the opposite end.

Opening shift left her day free, but the question inevitably hung in the air: Free for what? Most days, she skirted the main streets, reluctant to be seen by any of her former classmates who’d scored office jobs. She’d passed Rose Biggs a few weeks back, neat and brisk in a pencil skirt and an apricot twinset, hurrying into the Coldwell Banker office. If Rose had recognized Sunnydale High’s Class Protector, her glance didn’t reveal it. But her disdain for the grungy fastfood worker, that had registered.

Today was no exception. Buffy walked on Wilkins Boulevard most of the way, cars zipping past too fast to notice a lone pedestrian. But at Briar she hooked a left and headed for the shopping district.

Inspiration struck.

She’d never gone farther than the magazine rack at the front of the Sunnydale BookNook, but there had to be an Oprah-inspired self-help section at the back. Maybe no one had penned ‘Women Who Screw Vampires and How They Kicked the Habit,’ but surely some wise tome could stop her downward spiral.

The bell tinkled and she resolutely marched towards the back of the store.

***

This was not good.

The BookNook did a brisk business in the morning, but it was all regulars stopping by for the newspaper. Few patrons wandered back to Buffy’s section.

She’d started out just fine, thanks. Judging by the number of titles on the subject, most women wanted out of a bad relationship, or wanted to check if theirs was a bad relationship, or wanted to avoid getting into the next bad relationship, or wanted to flagellate themselves for having had a string of bad relationships. Buffy leafed through a few of each type eagerly, and then it caught her eye.

The Kama Sutra.

She couldn’t believe a bookstore stocked sex manuals, only feet from Mother Goose.

She couldn’t believe she was standing in the middle of the BookNook gaping at the pictures.

And she especially couldn’t believe that she and Spike hadn’t dared even a tenth of the positions detailed in the slim volume.

No, this was not good.

And even worse, she had absolutely no cash until payday. Her desire to peruse the Kama Sutra in the privacy of her bedroom didn’t rate as enough of an emergency to break out the gold card, either.

She sighed, re-shelved the self-help books that couldn’t help her and headed towards home.

***

“Sunshine on my shoulders makes me dusty,” Spike mumbled, peering across the slash of natural light to his doorway. Little chance that Buffy would come to him. Figured he’d be banned from her good graces for at least a day, probably more, possibly forever. He ought to sleep, but her scent on his sheets - could drive a man insane, and Spike lived considerably closer to the edge than average.

With an impatient groan, he flopped onto his couch, kicked off his boots and squeezed his eyelids shut.

No luck. Sleep eluded him.

He tossed.

Turned.

Tried counting sheep. Big, white, Bo-Peep sheep. Fluffy sheep. Fluffy Buffy.

Images of pretty white animals leaping gracefully through his imagination were replaced by the lithe form of the Slayer, soaring over tombstones in pursuit of an invisible foe.

Spike gave up. Sunlight or not, he was headed for the Slayer’s house.

***

He surfaced on Revello, only a few feet from the back door. It was a risk - if she’d locked the kitchen entrance, he’d have no shadow or overhang to protect him from the day.

Fortunately, Revello Drive welcomed him with a standing invite and an open door.

“Hello? Hello? Slayer? Niblet? Red? Just stopped by to ... uh ... borrow ... no, uh ... to ask if you had any information on that ... uh ... vampire...” Spike shuffled through the kitchen cautiously, extending his senses until he’d concluded that the house was, in fact, empty.

“Buffy?”

Up the stairs, into her secret chamber, all girlie fair and scented with a dozen competing fragrances - shampoo, body lotion, perfumes. Intoxicating.

Was she at work, then? Slaving away for wages he’d have scoffed at as a mortal over a century past? Had she joined a gym, taken up bicycling, developed a habit of practicing Tai Chi in the park? A mental list of daylight activities denied him flooded his brain.

And then thunder struck in the distance and he smiled. Whatever bright Thursday morning plans she’d had, the game would likely be called on account of rain, and that would surely force her into his arms soon.

***

She ran down Revello, hoping to avoid the storm. Buffy knew it was her imagination - the dark clouds weren’t on her heels. Meteorological phenomena didn’t follow you, not even in Sunnydale.

Fumbling for her key, she dashed through the front door, barely avoiding the first drops. The paper wasn’t on the porch - did Willow snag it again? Damn, she was hoping to scan the classifieds, maybe find a nice office job with sensible hours and decent benefits.

“Morning, love.”

No, not Willow. It was Spike, peering at her from over the Sunnydale Times, comfortable in one of the living room chairs, boots on the coffee table, as if he were a resident in good standing, not an intruder in danger of meeting the business end of her stake.

“Spike.”

“Saved you the classifieds.”

“You didn’t save me anything.”

“’Course I did, pet. Right over there,” he nodded towards the floor, “Can’t imagine you don’t scan the want ads daily.”

“No, I mean you didn’t save anything for me because that’s my paper. My $14.98 a month for home delivery, so Dawn can check the box on the standardized test that says ‘Yes, my nice, normal family gets a daily paper.’ Not so some freak of nature can sneak into the house and read the sports section.”

“Actually, this is Culture and the Arts.”

“Sunnydale has culture?”

“Surprised me, too, pet.”

“That’s not the point. The point is that you’re not supposed to be in my house. At all. And certainly not alone, doing god only knows what!”

He raised an eyebrow, shrugged a shoulder and returned to his paper.

Buffy let out a disgusted little groan and headed for the kitchen.

Select mug, she told herself. Yes, the blue one. Fill with water. Water from the copper pipes she’d spent a fortune having repaired. Place mug in microwave. Hit buttons. Choose tea bag. Watch mug spin on lazy susan. Look up, but face the window. Focus on the backyard, on the flowers you’ll plant as soon as there’s some extra cash, the bench you’ll reposition to better catch the sunlight.

Of course, the bench and the barren beds were presently obscured by another torrential downpour.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the microwave beeped, shrill and insistent, like the alarm clocks she inadvertently slayed. Wake up, Buffy. There’s a buck in your bank account and a vampire in your living room. She turned, planning to sit at the breakfast bar and pretend that none of this was real.

Except that the vampire was now seated right where she’d planned on imagining normal.

“So we gonna chat this out or what?”

“There’s really nothing to talk about, Spike. You should go.”

“This is nothing, then? You won’t even look at me, but this is nothing.”

She glowered, but he was right - making eye contact could only lead to badness. Besides, she must have a twisted lash or maybe she was coming down with something, something to explain the teary-bleary feeling she was forcing back.

“Buffy...” He reached for her arm and she recoiled. “Let me be good to you, Buffy.” He reached again and she didn’t pull back this time.

Good ... let Spike be good ... that didn’t make sense, her mind insisted. But he slipped behind her and kneaded her shoulders, working out the knots and forcing her to relax, just a little.

“I know I’m not, could never be, what you deserve. But this is all that we’ve got, this little piece of time. I’ll go when you say, Buffy. Just let me touch you, take care of you. Let yourself feel.”

His words didn’t make sense, but his hands on her shoulders, that simple touch, overrode the pain and uncertainty in her brain. As she relaxed, he tried to ease her down to the tile, shrugging out of his coat to blanket the floor.

“Not here.”

Spike glanced towards the staircase, unbelieving that he’d be admitted to her inner sanctum.

“No! Not there. You said...” she trailed off, and it took him a minute to follow her thought.

“The motel?”

She nodded and he weighed her suggestion. On the plus side, he’d be assured of uninterrupted, uninhibited Buffy. ‘Course it was at least a twenty minute walk, and while the cloud cover should protect him, it didn’t do anything to guarantee that Buffy wouldn’t change her mind halfway to the honeymoon suite. Or worse, that they wouldn’t run into one of the Scoobies somewhere in between.

“We’ll take the tunnels.” He dragged her, still clad in her fast food finery, out the back door and into the sewers.

***

“The lady and I need a room.”

“Rate’s $20.”

Spike and the desk clerk traded cash for a room key.

She knew she was blushing furiously. Should’ve changed, should’ve pulled on dark glasses and a hooded sweatshirt or maybe a wig. Should’ve brought a suitcase, or at least a backpack. Been less obvious about being here for the obvious. Her litany ended as her lover ushered her into one of the ground floor rooms, just two doors down from the office.

“Not exactly the Ritz Carlton,” he said, tossing the key on the dresser, “but it’s comfy, yeah?”

“You want me to approve of the decor?” Buffy snorted.

“No. Actually, I want you to strip.”

She reached for the door.

“Now, now, pet. You just suffered the singular humiliation of checking into a by-the-hour motel with a man and you’re gonna let that go to waste?”

“You’re a pig, Spike. And how do you know I haven’t been here before?”

“Oh, I know, Slayer.” Her back was to him. He closed the gap, stepping close enough to divest her of her top, her sneakers and socks and polyester bottoms, never letting up his commentary. “I know you’ve been a very good girl up until just about two days ago. The way you react to me - I know you’re feeling everything for the first time. Not a virgin, no ... but not quite a woman, either. So much to show you.”

Grabbing her hand, he guided her into the bathroom. Reaching into the shower, he turned the spray on high and stripped off his own clothing. “Trapped you are, Buffy, love. By duty and responsibility and respectability. You can scarcely understand what I’m offering.”

He guided her into the shower stall, bra and panties still in place. “What I’m offering. And what I’m insisting upon.” Spike pushed on her shoulders and she obediently sank to her knees, taking his straining erection into her mouth.

“That’s my girl,” he purred as she set a steady rhythm. “You’re a natural at this, pet. Love your rough pink tongue, your greedy little hands.”

In truth, Buffy hadn’t done this much. But the night in the house, something in her had snapped and she’d sucked Spike off expertly. This second time she slowed her pace, tasting him and measuring his reactions to each type of touch.

Her tongue probed the slit and he moaned. Her free hand cupped his balls and she felt him tense and clench. Her hand wandered from his balls to his bottom, cupping and squeezing.

Her pinky wormed its way into his tight asshole and he howled and spilled into her mouth.

Mouth still wrapped around his pulsing cock, Buffy smiled and lapped up the last spurts. At least her sojourn in the BookNook had earned her one very surprised Spike. His eyes had gone wide as saucers as he collapsed back against the tile.

Recovering with unnecessary breaths, Spike resisted the urge to ask her what had inspired her exploration. Instead he smiled wolfishly. “Strip.”

This time she obeyed, peeling her drenched bra and panties from her skin.

Before the garments hit the floor, he lifted her by the waist. “Wrap your legs around me,” he coaxed and Buffy complied.

Spike crossed the room in three long strides, from the bathroom through the bedroom to the only bare wall in the space. He pressed her into the wall, guiding himself inside of her at the same moment. Buffy’s legs clenched, pulling him in tighter.

“You like that? Reminds you of the first time?”

Buffy gasped and closed her eyes, reaching blindly for support. She found none and was forced to anchor herself by gripping Spike’s shoulders. It was enough, though, and she started to move on him, riding him as surely as he was grinding into her.

He lost himself in the motion, ravaging her mouth with his own. Buffy responded eagerly, kissing to the point of asphyxiation.

Spike drove home mercilessly, letting her move on him but setting the frantic pace with his powerful thrusts. She fought him for her orgasm, moving both with him and against him. In the end, it was his voice that pushed her over the edge. “You like the hard fuck, don’t you, Buffy? Not the good girl after all, are we? When you close your eyes at night, what do you dream? You dream of me, now, don’t you? My body. The things I do to you. I can feel your muscles tensing, hear your heart racing. I know you’re close, pet. So close.”

His fingers dug into her bottom as Buffy pushed herself against him and away from him, racing towards her climax. “That’s it, love. Ride me.” He shifted her weight just a bit, freeing a hand to take to her mouth. Unthinking, she licked his index finger. A second later, he’d buried it inside her ass. She mewled and pitched over the edge.

***

Buffy was still coming down from her orgasm when Spike guided her to the bed. Stacking pillows, he eased her to the mattress, on her hands and knees with pillows under her belly.

“That’s it, love. Keep your bum in the air.”

He’d snagged the bottle of lotion from the bathroom and warmed some in his hands. Slicking one finger with the substance, Spike slowly probed Buffy’s tightest entrance. She tensed as he penetrated her, but relaxed as her body adjusted. A second finger joined the first.

“Gonna make you feel so good, Buffy love. Things you’ve never even dreamt, pet.”

He inserted a third finger and used the rest of the lotion to caress his hard-on, making him slick for the next part of his plan.

“Promise me you’ll stay nice and relaxed, doll?”

A slight head nod.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He removed his fingers, and Buffy felt the tip of his cock at her asshole. Panic ran through her body. She hadn’t done this, hadn’t even been touched there until the other night. Hadn’t imagined that being touched in such a secret place could be so arousing. The internet, the Kama Sutra - she’d been curious with her eyes. But now that her tender flesh was required, she couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“Now, pet ... everything we’ve done, it’s given you pleasure, yeah?”

She relaxed a bit and he reinserted a single digit, thrusting gently.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

A slight head nod.

“Want more?”

A barely perceptible gesture, but permission enough for Spike to align his cock again and press just slightly into her tight passage.

A deep gulp, but no protest from his lover, so he pushed in farther.

She’d taken almost half of him, four inches buried and four inches still exposed, when an unexpected current of pleasure eddied through her, from the place where their bodies joined to her toes and finger tips.

She moaned, arching her hips backward, taking in more.

“That’s it, love. I won’t steer you wrong.”

“Unnnnnhhhh!”

Spike pressed closer now, watching her take him in. “You got me, Slayer. Got every inch of me.” He thrust in a gentle, steady rhythm, her walls squeezing him until he thought he’d pop. “You’re so tight, baby. Tight everywhere, but back here? Like a vise. Like a silken vise.”

She couldn’t follow him. Her brain rejected everything save for this dark pleasure assailing her nerve endings. Happy to report that they’re in working order, she thought as his cock pounded her ass.

Sensation built and Buffy searched for something to relieve the ache. Angling her hips forward, she brushed her clitoris against the rough fabric of the pillowcase. The change in position buried her lover another few millimeters deeper, forcing out his growl.

Her struggle to build the friction between fabric and her clit changed their motion from a simple penetration to a complex pattern of hip swivels. She met his force with violence of her own, inexperience forgotten.

As her climax built, Spike buried two fingers inside her pussy. The added contact tumbled her into an intense orgasm, stars exploding behind her eyes, gasping for breath.

If the feel of his cock plunging into her ass through her slim walls wasn’t stimulation enough, the shock of her muscles tightening sent waves through his body. “Buffy!” her name was a roar on his lips as he followed her into oblivion.

***

With Riley, she’d like to sleep after sex. With Spike, it was more like losing consciousness.

The very first night she’d discovered that her total participation was not required for this creature to take his pleasure. And now it was happening again. Despite her bruises and trembling, he’d again slipped himself into her, missionary style, and set a slow pace as she struggled to come back from the beyond.

“You’re beautiful, love,” he whispered as her eyelids fluttered open. “Golden and glowy. Make me hunger for you. Make me ache.”

Her only response was a struggle for enough oxygen to fill her lungs. She felt ragged, torn to pieces, clinging to a shred of sanity. His voice she could escape, but his body? Never. And combining the two? She reclined, passive, as he labored above.

“Do you know what you look like? When you come for me? Your eyes cloud over.”

Her vision blurred.

“Your skin gets all pink and flushed. Blood rushes, pulses, screams.”

She was already there.

“I feel your heart racing. Breath quickening. Your lips part, and those little breathy moans escape.”

Spike smiled, a small, impossibly sexy grin as she moaned just as he’d described.

“Now you’ll shut your eyes tight, arch your hips and grind. That’s right, pet. Reach for me.” He answered her searching thrusts with his body, letting the tension build. “Ooooh, this is my favorite part, love. You’re taut, strung like a bow, arrow about to fly.”

Spike barked out a strangled sound, part laugh and pure lust.

“Now, baby, I can sense it. You’ll tighten up in all these delicious, tiny ways until ... yes!” He screamed for her as she shuddered, her fingers digging into his arms.

“That’s my girl,” he cooed as he slipped from her body and crawled over her. Poised above her, knees at either side of her head, he pressed his cock past her lips.

Buffy quickly realized that this wasn’t a blowjob. Spike was fucking her mouth, and not gently. She licked and suckled when he was near enough, but the rhythm was designed to get him off quickly.

She wasn’t disappointed. Three more strokes and he was spilling into her mouth. She hadn’t swallowed - ever - not until the night in the building. His mocking challenge had spurred her on then. Now it wasn’t accurate to say that she enjoyed it, but she certainly admitted that it was stupid to be squeamish about bodily fluids when you were fucking a corpse.

Straining for a last lick, she polished him off and collapsed back into the tangled bed sheets.

Fucking a corpse.

Having fucking incredible fucking with a corpse, she amended. Didn’t matter, though. A glance at the bedside clock told her what she already knew. Dawn would be home from school, the laundry wasn’t done and those forms she was supposed to fill out to apply to the local community college? Still on mom’s desk.

“I have to go.” Without a backwards glance she shrugged into her uniform and rushed out the door.

***

Spike inhaled deeply. Cigarettes. Bloody marvelous things, a quick nicotine fix all wrapped up in a neat package, no rolling papers or pipe required. He missed the unfiltered Lucky Strikes of an earlier era, though. After all, remove the threat of cancer and there was no reason to dilute the drug.

Speaking of drugs, he could see her silhouette moving across the upstairs hallway. It was later than she usually left for patrol. She wouldn’t skip it, though - not this one. Too noble, too good. If he was honest that was part of the kick of it, part of the pure unadulterated glee in reducing her to harsh moans and breathy sighs.

He’d been a virgin and a clumsy boy when Drusilla turned him. Spent quite a few years figuring out how to best please his dark queen back in the day, and while monogamy was not the rule in the vampire kingdom, Spike had been more faithful than most. Pleasing his lover became a point of pride, and if it made Spike something of an oddity, it also built his reputation. Never left his lover wanting, they whispered in the demon bars. His victims didn’t count, of course, but seduction was part of the thrill. Part of the hunt. But now to have a flesh and blood woman, this woman, writhe underneath him, a Slayer no less, and respond to his touch, well ... words failed him.

At last the hallway light clicked off. He counted down. A second earlier than he anticipated, she was at the door. She paused to call out to Willow. That made her a minute later than his estimate.

“Evening, love.”

“Must you litter my lawn with the remnants of your oral fixation?”

“Care to offer up something else for my mouth?”

“A decided no. Go away, Spike.”

“Make me.”

“You think I won’t?” He fell into step a half stride behind her.

“What’s the matter, pet? Shame of our clandestine meetings getting to you? Or just eager to get out of sight of the house and have another go?”

Buffy kept her eyes focused forward, heading for the nearest graveyard - Saint Sebastian’s. No fancy crypts here, just modest headstones for Sunnydale’s only Catholic burying ground. There had been a suspicious death in the morning’s paper and the obit suggested that Sara Ballard, beloved wife and mother, wouldn’t rest in peace.

Sure enough, a hand was breaking through the earth.

“Can we not, Spike? Kinda busy.”

With a frustrated growl, Spike yanked on the hand and tore Sara free of her grave. The fledgling was still blinking, confused, as the stake found her heart and she disintegrated into thousands of tiny pieces.

“There. Are we expecting any others or does this conclude the heroic portion of our program?” He bounced on his heels, pleased that he’d made short work of their task.

“I need to patrol. Alone.”

“Come on, Buffy. Nothing’s doing out here. Sunnydale’s been a snooze fest since you squirmed out of your grave to dispatch the thundering horde. Evil is vacationing elsewhere.”

“Why don’t you go join them?”

“I’m not evil.”

She snorted. He stepped closer and reached out to caress her cheek. “You know it. If you didn’t trust me, least a bit, you’d never let me get so close.”

“You think you’re close?”

“Uh, yeah. I think burying my cock in your quim counts as close.”

Even Buffy’s capacity for snappy comebacks was tested.

“What? Is it cause we don’t cuddle? Don’t have pet names? Should we laze abed afterwards talking about what we’ll call our firstborn? Would that do it?”

“You can’t, Spike. You don’t have a soul.”

“The catch-all excuse for everything.” It was his turn to huff. “Y’know what? Forget it. I’m off.”

***

‘Course, Spike was right about the recession. Her defeat of Glory had quieted the Hellmouth for months; her return and prompt dispatch of the demon gang had persuaded even the most determined evildoers to head for Cleveland’s less potent but non-Slayer patrolled wellspring of darkness. Buffy knew it would never last - the next Big McBad would inevitably be super-sized. But for now, it was all random newbie vamps and the odd demon too far out of the loop to hear that the party had moved, temporarily, to Ohio.

She paused at the gates to Restfield. Not even eleven. Too soon to head home, too late to head for the Magic Box and train. And, after the last few days, too hard to deny that there was a very good way to work off all her pent-up energy just a few plots away.

A little voice protested. “No, go home, check in on Dawn, maybe do some laundry, finish those applications, balance your checkbook.”

A husky, seductive baritone easily silenced the angel on her shoulder. “Curiosity killed the cat, but you’re not a kitten, pet. You can handle it. Handle this. Handle me.”

She strode purposely for the crypt.

***

Damn! Where could he be? She’d kicked in the door with a little less force than usual, wanting to skip the snark and get straight to the main course. But the upper level was decidedly Spike free.

Buffy crept towards the ladder, arguing with herself the whole time. But she was pulled down, into the vampire’s subterranean lair, where he slept in strangely human fashion on bed sheets, yet decidedly preternatural with his alabaster skin and chest that moved in an irregular pattern.

She stood over him, watched him sleeping for long minutes.

And then Buffy felt tremendously foolish. Even if using this half-monster for kicks wasn’t six kinds of wrong, mooning over his slumbering form was just pathetic.

Determined, she turned to go.

And his hand shot out, faster than the eye could follow, and encircled her wrist.

“Back for more, pet?”

“No.”

He smiled, a lazy, sexy smile that made her heart stop.

“Not sure I could oblige you after the last few days. So good thing you’re not here for that, love.” He sat up, swinging his legs over the bed and pulling her to sit by his side. “Just looking for some company, then? Maybe a friendly chat?”

Buffy scanned the crypt frantically. There had to be something, some plausible excuse to be here. And then her eyes rested on a nice, ordinary everyday object. “You - you have a camera.”

“I do. Fellow can’t see himself in a mirror, he tends to take a lot of snapshots.”

“Oh.”

“So, you’ve got a yen to take up shutterbugging?”

“No. Oh - the camera.”

“’Fraid I’m fresh out of film.”

“Oh.”

“Lie back.”

“What? No!”

“Just a bit, Buffy. Just take your hair out of the ponytail and relax.” Spike slipped from his bed, still naked, and picked up the camera, aiming it at his guest. “Come on, pet.” He took a few experimental snapshots. “Take your hair down. Let those golden tresses tumble over your shoulders.”

She complied, blushing.

Spike snapped away.

“Relax, Buffy. Pretend. Play.”

Despite herself, she melted into the bedding.

“Kick off your shoes.”

Her ankle boots landed on the floor with a thud - left, then right.

“How ‘bout that jacket?”

She sat up long enough to divest herself of the garment.

He coaxed until she wore nothing but lacy black panties.

“Cup your breasts, luv. Nice. Now roll over onto your belly. On your hands and knees. Ass in the air. That’s my girl.” He reached out to position her slightly. “You’re perfect, luv. Wish there was film - I want you to see what I’m seeing.” Spike’s free hand caressed her cheeks. “Now, how ‘bout these?”

Buffy’s brain had checked out. She’d been aroused and humiliated by his suggestion, but the longer the game went on the hotter she felt. Flipping onto her back, she slid her panties down her slim thighs, pausing only a minute before tossing them to the floor with the rest of her clothing.

“Spike?” He’d turned his back to her.

“Just a second, pet,” he soothed as he loaded the camera with a fresh roll of film. Fortunately, his lust-addled subject was too far gone to realize that he’d slipped in a 36-count roll earlier and was now on his second.

Watching her through the lens, he wondered how far she’d go. “Spread your thighs for me, love.”

She did.

The camera clicked.

He crawled onto the mattress, positioning himself between her thighs. “Wider, pet. Spread your lips.”

She complied and he took a close-up shot, then a second before pulling back.

“What should I do next?” she asked, twirling a lock of golden hair around her finger. “Should I …” Buffy licked her lips, then inserted her finger into her mouth, gently sucking.

Spike forgot he was holding a camera.

“What’s the matter?” Her fingers trailed down her body, her index finger sliding over her clit. “Isn’t this hot enough for the centerfold?”

“Plenty hot, baby.” Remembering his role, he resumed taking snapshots and guiding her. “Spread your thighs just a little wider, pet.”

“Like this?”

He groaned. “Oh, yeah, love. Just like that.” Spike felt dizzy, barely able to keep himself from pouncing on her. She wasn’t just letting him take a few dirty pictures – well, granted, she’d probably stake him if she knew about the film – she was masturbating, right there in front of him, asking as many questions as he was giving prompts.

“Am I wet enough?”

“You’re glistening, love.”

“Want me to arch my hips a little more?”

“Yesss…”

“How do I look, Spike?”

“Hot, pet. You look like molten lava, like the surface of the sun.”

“Do you wanna…?”

“Do I wanna what?”

“When you see me like this, do you wannafuckme?” She turned scarlet as she said the words, even as her hands continued their wanton exploration of her sex.

“Every man who sees these photos will want to fuck you, Buffy. Me, right now in this room? You’ve got me at the bloody brink of insanity!”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” He reached his last picture as she climaxed, thrashing on the bed sheets.

He was buried inside her a second later, game forgotten.

***

She had let him be tender, that time. At least a bit, before it devolved into a marathon shag session, complete with her begging him to thrust harder and biting his shoulder with her blunt teeth hard enough to break the skin.

And he’d finally got it figured out, he reflected, after she’d fled into the night.

With Buffy Summers, it wasn’t a position that defined the ultimate taboo. Nope. Not sex in public places, not even backdoor action. Not games. He imagined that she’d even take to whips and chains if he had the opportunity to show her. For this one, the only taboo was admitting that she might like any of it - from the plain vanilla tumble to the release provided by darker pursuits. Yeah, she wanted it; craved it; maybe even needed it as an outlet for her frustrations and pains brought out by the workaday world. But admit any of that?

If he was right, he thought, inhaling his Marlboro, he fit a pretty clear need. Tutor Miss Buffy Summers in all the decadent arts, while staying in the shadows.

It wasn’t enough.