Orpheus,

tilting through shade,

in the Sun’s back alley, spies

the Prize; all five feet and ten pints,

strides she, a wing’s beat

(in still marshes, legs like long sighs)

and the stung air of fried French

Solanum?

And such depths

in the angels’ Pimpleia

are both known and wanted

and wanton, and cheap

( free, the naiads swear on torn knickers)

at any price the stars might name, she turns

her white chee—OH BOLLOCKS

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

“Uh, hello?” she crooned. “I can see you!”

“Eh?”

The Slayer flung the rubbish sack high – a proper goal, straight in the dumpster. “You. I can see you. With my eyes.”

“Oh. Right.”

Spike shoved his hands in his pockets, and smoothed his hair, and scrubbed his bootheels on the black grime. The loading dock behind the Doublemeat Palace was a beastie’s heaven of ripe scents. He pictured almighty rat kingdoms beyond each sheet of rotted iron and stained brick, a sea of gray, boneless bodies squirming for a closer look at this tragic sport of theirs.

“So, what’s cookin’, love?” he asked. “I mean, besides the Jumbo Value Meal?”

“Go away.”

“Just got here.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life in the fast lane for ya.”

It was mind-boggling. Even now: clad in that shapeless nylon nightmare and that ludicrous Bessie the Bleeding Cow cap, even slathered in failure and rendered fat. Even now the little minge could lance him like a sodding boil.

She stood glaring at him for a few heartbeats, that glassy Go-Hither look in her eye, and then returned to her stygian labors. All those sacks of murdered meat and milkshakes…

Thick as two short planks, he thought, watching the goddess slog through the muck. The image was stark lunacy: the waste of all-of-that that on all-of-this.

“Need some help?” he heard himself say.

Poofter! Bloody Pillow Biter!

“No. Not unless you wanna help me snake out my grease traps…”

And, of course, her body stiffened under the candy-stripe number, the Slayer decoding her own reckless rhyme. She heaved a familiar sigh, and William the Bloody Idiot braced his head for a good kicking.

“Look, don’t be stupid,” he said. “This is not you.”

“Weird. Says me on the paychecks.”

“It’s beneath you, love.” Another sack flew into the dumpster, this one on a high arc with some ‘oomph’ behind it. “Have a look at yourself! This really what you want to do with your life?”

“Wow! Guidance counselor with a body count. O, teach me how to live a fulfilling life, Mister Dead Guy.”

Another sack of slime splattered onto the pile. She wouldn’t even spare him a glance. Even the trash merited more consideration. This, he realized, was the part when he was supposed to slink back off to his lair, tail tucked, and bollocks duly snipped.

He prowled closer instead, the gears slowly spinning. Spied the lid of a garbage can.

“Gonna to get you killed,” he said. “This type of work. It deadens the wits. Turns the reflexes to jelly.”

Once the rubbish bin was in reach, his hand flashed out. It snatched the lid and whipped it like a discus.

The frisbee sailed out quicker than his own brain, so he still had an impish grin plastered on his face when it connected with a cartoony bong on the Vampire Slayer’s forehead.

There came an unnerving silence. Her eyes found him now, of course. Drilled bloody lasers through him, in fact, and burned flaming holes.

“Now, hang on,” he said. “Honestly, dint mean to… ”

She was fox-quick, cutting the distance faster than Spike’s wayward disc, her cow helm bobbing like a lunatic’s frowzy mane.

He knew better than to fight back, by now. So, as her violent little form came rumbling through the darkness, he just closed his eyes and thought of England.

Waited for it.

Waited.

Waited some more.

Her breath was piping out hot, close enough for him to feel it on his neck. He could taste that electric bangle-jangle of her nerves, and all that racing blood shot through with adrenaline, and that lioness gonging away in her breast.

Still nothing.

Having been fooled before, he gently cracked open an eye.

She had her fists balled up tight, like arrows strung and drawn. But her eyes weren’t in the game. Tears hammered the lashes, nostrils pink and flaring. A smudge of grime painted one of her flushed cheeks.

It was wrong, wrong. When he glanced down, even her shoes were wrong: hideous, blocky, mannish, built for crawling. The girl’s shame, always spun out on the ether, was suddenly a solid thing, and huge.  And blaring like a siren.

He felt like he might go bugshaggers standing there, so he grabbed her by the hips. When they kissed, it was the way she always seemed to do it, that End of the World Snog, her fingers clawing his hair like they might tear it all out with their murderous strength.

He ran his hands under the horrific blouse, over warm tits, down every iron knot of her spine. The tongue in his mouth felt so alive that he had to strangle a large portion of his brain to remind himself not to bite it.

When the fingers in his hair began to loosen, he almost shouted his panic. His legs and arms shouted instead, driving the girl against the wall. Her arms wriggled and twisted, elbows quarrelling with hands. She was trying to speak but her mouth wouldn’t obey.

That smart, smart mouth...

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t you bloody dare.”

He might have been a mugger for the ghastly look she shot him; the eyes bugging out, teeth set and white and shining through the dark like vesper candles. They stood there for what felt like a long time, one breathing and one pretending to.

There were only a few lamps in the alley, but what they revealed was like his dreams of London; all the nasty, squalid bits of it, the fisheries and the wharfs and the roominghouses, and all the back alleys where aromas of food and death mixed so well that one realized they were the one and the same, that the difference was a trick of grammar.

But it was balmy in London, most of the time. Here, it was all California swelter, and while his cursed body absorbed it like a serpent’s, hers was peppered with delicious sweat.

“No,” she whispered. “Not here. It’s… dirty…”

He tugged her belt loose. One hand plunged down the front of her knickers, handling one thigh and then the other. He felt the same volt go through him as the first time, as every bloody time. As strong as she was, the legs down there were as soft as pillows.

She grabbed for his waistband instinctively, but by then he had her in his grip. His thumb found her little button and circled it. Pressed it with long and short strokes.

She began to breathe soft agreements in his ear. The little sounds she made were starting to become familiar to him, but not commonplace. Never that. These were like electric shocks in the madhouse, the warden gradually burning some blueprint into his heart.

And, he started to breathe too…

Ponce! Bloody Rent Boy!

He grabbed her sodding throat.

“Yeah. ‘Bout time to get real dirty, love.”

Green eyes bulged at him. Bessie the Bloomin’ Cow Hat had a gander, too, with her cheap rouge and that black lipstick, like she tongued arseholes between milkings.

He waited for Buffy’s eyes to narrow, to glaze over. This bit was familiar too.

She was off the clock, now. It was time to play.

“Oooh, big talker,” the Slayer snarled.

Her little hand slid up the front of his jeans. It wrenched the belt and button loose. He could feel that peculiar ache of hers pouring through her fingertips when she gripped his cock, the thing inside her that whispered, “This is mine, this is mine now.” The sensation almost broke him…

OH, IS THAT SO, MARY?!

THAT SO, YOU LIMP, FLUTTERING BATTY BOY?

“No,” he said. “You can’t have that.”

She kept stroking and tugging, like she didn’t hear. He grabbed her wrist hard, fingers biting hard into bone.

“Gotta ask nice, first,” he said. “You know how to ask nice, don’t you love? With that smart mouth a’yours?”

She didn’t blink.

She just sank to her knees.

(and wanton, and cheap...)

The angle he had on her was a miracle of old cinema; the paltry street light pinning her shape against a sea of muck, her angelic gaze pasted on a damp spotty canvas. Black bits of ash and granulated smog stuck to her cheeks and chin, mapping out little tantalizing constellations of decay.

She kept her watery gaze locked to his as she swallowed him, inch by inch, working hard but trying to look like she wasn’t, trying not to gag on his cock. Working hard at making it look easy.

“That’s it.” He snatched Ol’ Bessie off her head and tossed it, grabbed a fistful of yellow hair, that sodding boy-cut she got just to spite him. “There’s a good little cow.”

She did it right. Swirled her tongue in a circle, good and slow, bobbing and bobbing, her tiny fist wrapped round the base to stop from choking on the rest.

And part of him didn’t want that. Part of him wanted her to gag and choke on it. And even as he tried to silence that part, he felt himself rocking his hips forward, making his cock dig a little deeper and a little deeper and a little deeper.

When he felt a bit of mild resistance, his fist hardened to stone in her hair, enough to stiffen her spine. A muffled complaint escaped her, and a snorting, half-strangled breath. But these things only spurred him on, made his body dance, the gentle thrusts graduating into the steady beat of a war drum.

When her grip finally crumbled and the hand fell away, he went full bore at her. Then he was just shagging her face – fucking that smart, smart mouth of hers in the alley where she hauled trash.

(And such depths...)

She worried her brow and opened her throat. Dined on him like he was sodding ambrosia.

“Mmm,” she said. “Mmmmmmm…”

Her eyes. They were blasting out pure black hate and something else, but the hate was all he could use right now. So he sank the fangs of his own eyes deep into them, drinking down her hate and shame and the other thing (no, no, not that) and blaring it back at ten thousand times the volume. He fucked and fucked and fucked her beautiful face, soothed by the slippery music of her lips as his cock battered the warm, pink walls of her throat.

The unexploded bomb was ticking down to zero. He almost let it blow, too, but the squalid little night was singing to him, now, and, for all he knew, this could be the last night on Earth.

So, after one last thrust, he slowly guided her off him by the reins of her hair.

When the head reemerged, the girl was gasping like a rutting sow. Her tongue dashed out and licked the tip. A romantic farewell kiss.

(the Prize; all five feet and ten pints...)

“That wasn’t askin’ nice,” he chided. “That was nasty.”

Fingers still knotted along her scalp, he took the doggy for a little walk. She yelped and cursed and pretended to differ, one hand snatching at his fingers, the other groping along the greasy asphalt.

Across the way, a squat gray recycling bin sung out to him. It seemed just the right height.

“We’ll work on table manners some other time,” he said. “Right now, we got some rubbish needs takin’ out...”

 

 
(To be continued...)

He bent her over the bin, face first. Shoved her belly flat to the grubby, plastic lid.  Spit and cussed and growled.

His jeans were worked halfway down his hips by now, and his hard-on was wagging out in front of him like bloody Excalibur.   It batted her hips and backside ridiculously, like a shark bopping at a glass wall.  Buffy kept her precious thighs and knees locked tight, but also stretched her arms out sideways, and spread her palms.  Ready for it, it seemed, but not ready to be ready.

Spike seized the rim of her pants and knickers and yanked down hard.  The girl’s soft bottom bloomed out of them like a pink miracle, so he kept yanking and ripping until they were a pale puddle strewn about her ankles.

The image before him was live poetry: a creature of pure rump — headless for all purposes, but warm, yes, and wet with life, yes.

Her legs clenched even harder, jealously guarding their secrets.  He mashed her pretty cheek to the lid, and looked her in the eye.

“Oh, pardon me, princess,” he said.  “Didn’t know you wanted to waste time on the pomp-and-circumstance.” 

She fired back a little gleam of defiance, and a curled zipper of a grin, so he set to work on those other ripe cheeks of hers, giving her pretty ass a proper thumping.  The song his hand made on her skin was wonderfully loud and rude, the sound of cheerful midnight labors.  He sent shot-after-shot splattering home, leering at the tiny mewls and whimpers as they escaped that smart, cock-starved mouth of hers.

“Hhhhooow,” she whispered; the word as mad and meaningless as a wolf’s cry.

As soon as he heard it, he gripped the soft, private spot he loved to touch, the place where the buttock met the inner thigh.  It was soaking wet already, so he pushed one knuckle against her quim and began to gently grind it.  The other hand kept sailing down, meanwhile, gradually painting her bottom a scarlet red.  The thighs below it slowly defrosted as a result, unable to resist.  Buffy rocked back against his knuckle gingerly, moving the hidden muscles of her hips.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s a girl.”  He swirled one finger inside her, and a wonderful shudder went straight through her body like a gust of wind.  Her profile told the tale: the little sounds and breaths sometimes leaving her lips and sometimes not, sometimes trapped there at the ledge of her tongue.

He kept at it, fiercer than before, because this suddenly seemed like the perfect time and place for ferocity.  Her slender calves began to pump and saw in response.  When he looked down he was hypnotized by the sight of them walking in place, trapped by the torn pants bloused around her cheap running shoes.

There came a moment of shocking clarity, followed by a certain dead poet’s need to drift above the scenery and commentate.  He knew that the two of them writhing in this filthy alley could’ve been any two, writhing in any filthy alley.  And but for the horrid striped blouse, she might’ve been the world’s lowliest whore; one moment tugging and suckling at his cock, the next bent crooked and bared to any passersby, her white legs soaked and slow-dancing below a pair of red moons.

He worked a second key into her special lock, probing and prodding the tiny tumblers inside.

Bloody Kodak moment this is…

“Please,” she begged.

“Please what?”

She wrenched her neck around until she could meet his gaze.  When she did, Spike snapped off another picture inside his head, stashing it away with all the others for future review.  That look on her face; telling him everything and nothing, all-at-once.

He grasped her hips like a set of handlebars, like she were a motorbike he was about to ride (and he was, he was).

When he nudged just the tip inside, she made a noise like a stifled scream.  He pushed hard, drove, deeper and deeper until he was fully seated, her red, stinging cheeks mashed flat against him.  When he pumped the final inch of John Thomas home it was like a knife in a belly, and she cried out this time, as loud as a dog’s bark.

Warmth and wetness gushed back at him like blood, paving the way home.  She was as tight as a sailor’s knot down there, strangling his todger, but it was just slippery enough to move.  So, he started rocking into her, in and up, never pulling out enough to make her beg backwards for it, enjoying the feeling like they were stuck together.  And soon it seemed like they were; she held on to him like a hostage, clamping her thighs and ass and knees every time it seemed like he might escape.

He stroked harder and faster, plundered and reamed and shattered her flanks.  She was even crying now — little, warbling lamb-gasps — and he was breathing hot curses onto her, calling her a two-bit slag, telling her she was bloody good at it, that this should be her full-time gig.

As if to press the point home, one hand strayed from her waist and traced down the seam of her wobbling cheeks.  He dipped his thumb in the wetness there and then licked it clean.  The taste was like no other: sweet and sultry.

(the Sun’s back alley…)   

It excited him, so he rammed and ripped with renewed violence, slid his cock home at all angles, riding the motorbike, riding the horsey, and the bike vibrated and purred back at him, and the horsey whinnied her approval.

Suddenly, her legs — the ones trapped down in those sad shoes and knotted knickers — began to twist out of their prisons. She leaned forward and let him drive while she did so, surrendered every throbbing inch in order to focus on this task.  One shoe kicked away, and then the next.   Spike stamped and booted away the knickers and bloomers himself, and then she was standing there, barefoot, and one-half starkers in the hot night air.

For a few moments she was slick and wriggling, like a fish on a deck.  He slowed his thrusts while she regained her balance.  When she did, she was up on her tippy-toes, her legs slightly parted as he stood lancing her from behind.  The image was innocent in a strange way, the stuff of old paintings.  Renoir's bathers.   Lucretia and Dionysus...

WANKER!

SALAD TOSSER!

He shoved her down again with a grunt.  She eased her silky calves up the backs of his own legs as he set to work on her again, and they clamped there like a set of jaws at his knees, as if to coax him ever deeper inside.  And he somehow found more to give her, squeezing his cock one more inch into uncharted terrain.

“God, god,” she said.

(in the angels’ Pimpleia…)

Spike licked his thumb again and then put it back to work.  It explored her splayed buttocks and drifted onto Her Majesty’s dainty little arsehole.  He smeared it in a very deliberate and threatening circle there, and as he did so the little cries began to skip and jitter off her lips like tiny thunderbolts.  Even her hips stuttered at the sensation.  He kneaded and probed and massaged, and when the sharp breath gusted suddenly out of her lungs, he sank the thumb up to the hilt, a sudden partner in these crimes, all while working Buffy's poor fanny like a devil’s jackhammer in Hell.

She relented, finally; went slack as a dolly while he savaged her.  The petals of her miraculous body kept folding open, inviting more and more.  He felt her bare feet slide up the backs of his jeans and hook together at the ankles, buckling herself in for the ride.  She moaned and mourned as an orgasm rocketed through her core.   The bin was creaking and complaining beneath them, but Spike could barely hear it over the sound of the stolen blood in his veins roaring southward, hardening his member to solid oak.  He had a thought of tossing her to the ground, finishing her off down in the muck and soot.

More nonsense words shuddered out of her: “doing, you’re, doing, oh, what, oh, huhh, hhoh…”

He was listening pretty intently to this rot, and to the kettle drum of the rocking bin, and to his own dark old dirges.  So by the time he heard the voice calling down to them from the restaurant’s loading dock, it carried with it an urgent note of repetition.

“Buffy?” it asked.

He looked up and saw its owner’s shape.  The girl was standing at the edge of the guardrail up on the restaurant’s loading platform, clutching a mop.  She seemed to be roughly Buffy’s age, with black hair and blue saucer eyes.  There was about twenty feet between them, and it was dark up there.  But Spike could see so very well in the dark, and the expression on her face twinkled back at him like a starry, night sky.

Terror, yeah. And bewilderment.

And also something else.  Something the vampire knew all too well.

He leaned in close to the Slayer’s ear.

“Well, well, well," he whispered.  "Looks like you got yourself an audience, pet...”

 

 

 
(To be continued...)
 

All three of them froze there in the gloom, as though waiting for some magical curtain to descend and end the show.  The lass on the platform just looked and looked at them, not saying anything, anymore.

He felt Buffy’s body jerk and shiver beneath him, the legs unlocked and set down like a pair of trees, like she might make a run for it.  Mop Girl stiffened on the stairs, perhaps thinking the same thing.  But Spike was still planted deep, so he gave his hips a vicious twist, steering them all back to reality.

“Shhhh,” he whispered.  “Too late, love.  It’s already happening.  It’s already done.”

Buffy made a mournful sound that died halfway up her throat.  She still had one cheek pinned flat, facing back towards the restaurant and at the lass on the stairs, and when she lifted it he knew she was going to try to escape this bright moment, to close her eyes and drift away.  He knotted his fist in her hair, wrenched her head down tight.

“No, don’t do that.  Look at her.”

She did.  She gave their interloper one of her damp, faraway stares.  And the grim guard stared back, her eyes cooling to a certain temperature of hooded detachment.

“You know her, yeah?”

“Uhhh,” she said.  “Uh huunnh.”

He drove the thumb deeper into her ass, and was rewarded with a gasp. “What’s her name?”

“Juh, juh, jehhn, knee, juh…”

Jenny looked like she might’ve heard this little exchange, shifting her feet upon the stage.  The dock lights behind her framed her with a gauzy yellow halo, and made her features seem purple and bruised by contrast.

“Look at your Jenny up there.  Watch her face… the way her body moves.”

He lit into her again, gave her little rump three plopping thrusts that sounded like rude kisses.

Jenny did and said nothing.  She just swayed up there at her post, as though hypnotized.

“See that, Goldie?” he hissed.  “See what I see?”

The Slayer only panted and gasped.

But you have her attention, now.

“She’s lookin’ at us,” he explained.  “But she don’t know what she’s lookin’ at.  She thinks the snake has found the mouse out here, love.  Thinks this game of ours has only one player.  You follow me?”

He stroked slow and deep again, and the motion coaxed another long, sweet sigh.

(in still marshes, legs like long sighs)

“And she doesn’t care,” he continued, hating each word.  “She likes it.  She’s walked in on your plight, and all she can do is like it.  All she can do is watch.”

“Nuh, nuh…”

“Oh, yeah,” he purred.  “It’s true.  You help them and you save them, and this is all you get.  Your glorious reward.”

Her legs had gone back to doing their strange, slow dance down there, the miniature toes picking and wiggling on wet nasties.  The night around them seemed suddenly hotter, a sweltering swamp, and she was bathed in sweat now, fucking swimming in it.  Because it was hard work, after all.  Being in the world, being her.

So, Spike started up the motor in his hips again, shifting into a new gear this time, a firm but playful bop, bop, bop, like he was milking a cow.

“You see,” he started, feeling philosophical, “that look of bewitched horror sometimes, at roadside wrecks, in war zones, at graves.”

He let this sink in for a moment.  The song in the alley was delicious now; nothing but Jenny the Mop Maid’s silence and Buffy’s mewling little groans and a wet clapping where their bodies met.

Bop, bop, clap, plop…

“Jenny’s a good girl most of the time, I’d wager.  Minds her mum.   Pays the rent on time.  Works this job like she’s moppin’ up Buckingham.  Pure and true…”

He gave Jenny another long look just to make sure of this, licking the image of her up and down with his eyes.   He could sense the girl’s full presence in the game now; her heat and her heartbeat rising, little strangled breaths poking through the round O of her mouth.  She was a plain thing, neither ugly nor pretty.   Just plain and solid and normal.  The sort of girl who’d whisper past without much of a fuss, who’d vanish easily in crowds.

Their eyes connected for a crystalline second.  And, via some mysterious shard of magic, Spike could see her whole life in them, right up to this very moment.  They were cruel little eyes; the kind of eyes that quietly longed for a special rapture she could only get at someone else’s cost.  He watched Jenny’s free hand slowly sink towards the rim of her grease-spattered pants…

“A real Sunnydale legend,” he murmured.  “Pure and true.  But not yet.  Not tonight.”

He shoved and twisted and slashed, feeling that wall and wanting to break it down, to pulverize that stone hardness inside her.  And Buffy Summers grunted, and her little bare legs danced, and she looked and looked at their hapless Jenny on the dock.  But the point still seemed to elude her.  He needed to clear things up.

He drew himself out slowly, enjoying the ticklish sensation as her pussy seamed closed behind him.  But he kept her head stuck down there on the lid, and kept the joint locked in Her Highness’ naughty little hole.  That’s the one he worked, now, using her sopping wet thighs to help along the chore.

“No more plaintive cries from yonder balcony,” he whispered.  “Tonight, she wants to watch you get yours.”

When he was satisfied about the state of things in her nethers, he started the endgame.  He had to let go of her hair for this part, and he did so gently, chary that she might dash off like a doe into the fields.  When she didn’t, he pressed the soft, wet clay of her buttocks and parted them wide.  The flared remnant of the seam there was like an arrow pointing the way to Hell.

“And she doesn’t even know why,” he spat.  “Maybe it’s ‘cause she hates you.  Or maybe she hates herself, and the world, an’ everyone in it.”

“Uhhnn… uhhnnn…” Buffy whimpered.

Call it off, love.  Call it off.  Stop this.

Stop me.

SHUT IT, TOSSER!

Jenny.  Jenny on the dock was still swaying, eyes heavy and glassy.  They were eyes of a beast in the meadow, watching the red horror of a predator’s meal.

“But it doesn’t matter, pet…”

He steered his cock to the goal.  It pecked and prodded, quivering like an archer’s bow.  Buffy went slack again, dead again, and he hoisted her body forward for a better slant on matters.  There was dirt all over her now, everywhere, the cheap blouse coated in brown stains, the skin of her bare arms patchy with soot.  Only the backs of her legs seemed to be chaste.  She dangled them like limp rags, such that the toes just barely scraped the macadam.  The soles there were dyed indigo with tar.

She was still staring at Jenny, gasping at her, the tears pooling in the cups of her green eyes and then spilling over, racing towards her chin.  When she expelled a long, deep breath, Spike found his purchase.

It was just the tip, at first; just the head disappearing inside, but she let out a yelp that sounded like someone stomped on a doggy’s tail.

You can feel THAT, can’t you…

He began to push.

Motorbike… Horsey…

“Because it ain’t her down here,” he whispered, all the time surging deeper and deeper, the walls of her forbidden entrance slowly yielding. “Because there's a blackness in hearts.  Even in beating ones.”

Tell me to stop, tell me to stop, say something!

But it was too late.  School was in session now, and wouldn’t quit until the bell.  She spread her thighs a few inches apart, making low pig noises, snorting and snarling.  He pumped his hips, half-in and half-not, gradually fucking and reaming his way into Little Queenie’s prim, puckering ass.

Shivers ran down her frame like rippling waves.  He grabbed the back of the blouse and yanked it up, unveiling a pristine swathe of her back.

This was just more skin, but Miss Jenny seemed to like it.  In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed her fingers slithering down into the front of her pants, and squeezing and rubbing and tweaking there.

The sound Buffy made when he drove his blade home would follow him for weeks and months later, into dreams and quiet moments.

And it did feel like a knifing.  He stabbed and drove and reamed and fanged, bit her deep and hard, and the flapping applause of her ravaged bottom filled the night with electric murder.

Spike abandoned Jenny to her silent perversions, and focused on his pupil’s face instead.  Or maybe she was the teacher.  It no longer seemed to matter.  Her red lips wormed and twisted, roared out hot syllables, but her eyes were still glued to the Mop Maid.

Watching it all go down.  Seeing the world the way it was.

Buffy made a gulping, tormented sound, and then she shoved one of her arms underneath her own body, groping for the wetness between her legs.  He helped her, curling his hand around a thigh.  Together they found her clit, luring a million nerve endings to life as they galloped to the finish line. 

Up on the dock, Jenny’s silhouette looked like it might make it there with them.  Her mop was gone, and she was pressed flat up against the guardrail. She went at it like a cat in heat, nearly riding the bloody bars, her panties hiked down to mid-thigh.  She was rubbing and rubbing like a nest of bees stung her quim.

With them, but not… 

Swimming in the same black broth…

( free, the naiads swear on torn knickers)

As another hot wave exploded through Buffy, he let it all go.   He started fucking her like this was the End of Days, like he wanted to break her, like he was breaking her.

And she was saying something.   It wasn’t words, exactly.   But it was the right sort of nonsense; the sound of shameful, wicked bliss.  The song of the whole wounded world was just like this; someone getting fucked raw in a dirty back lane, while the crowd looks on and rubs and rubs.

And she knew it, too.  She knew what this was, knew what it was like to get done dirty.

He came in four parts, each spurt more grand and insistent and final than the last.  Buffy seized onto him with every ounce of her strength when he did; her filthy little feet belting around him again, mashing her bottom backwards to drink every drop.

Her teeth were a savage grid of pearls, and as the last shot of cum fired into her, she seemed to go a tiny bit bonkers.  The moan that fled her mouth was terrifying, like a sharp death in the woods.  Her eyes bobbled in their sockets, and another wave flittered through her, from tip to toes. As it left, her face and thighs blushed hot and neon pink.

This was pleasure, of course.  An Ending, though not the storybook kind.

For about ten seconds, none of them budged. The only movement seemed to come from Buffy's poor backside; a sort of motorized twitching and tugging, like a broken wind-up toy. There were echoes and aftershocks, and a few dainty thrusts. Then everything became very still.

Dear, sweet Jenny the Janitor went first. She made a strained, lonesome little noise, then she buttoned up quickly and left, leaving the mop and bucket where they were.  Abandoning this night, perhaps, and every damned thing in it.

Spike was still rock-hard, so he stood there, waiting for all the heat to cool and the pressure to drop.  Somewhere beneath him, Buffy fought for breath.  It felt like her skin was on fire.

When he finally pulled out of her, she stayed propped there on the bin for awhile, gasping and jiggling her lovely legs.  It was like she wasn’t ready to land quite yet.

After she did, her feet gingerly found the blighted earth.  She pulled down her blouse with both hands, as far as it would go, aware again of the world and its decencies.

He tossed his head, trying to shake something out of it.  Zipped up.  She didn’t look at him.  Instead, she roved in a small, quiet circle, picking up her shoes and castoff garments.  Without thinking about it, he took off his jacket.

“Here,” he said, shaking it like a flag of surrender.

“Huh?”  She shot him a puzzled look, like he’d gone mad.  “No… no, it’s okay.”

“They’re torn,” he said, even as she slid into them.  Those muddied white pants.  “Take it.”

“I don’t want it.”

The words were small and low and final.  She slipped on her shoes.

“Listen,” she said.  “I gotta get home.  Dawn…”

“Yeah.  Sure.  I know.”

“Okay.  Good.”  She swayed towards him a little, then drifted away like a balloon in wind.  “So, I’ll, uh, see you around.  I guess.”

“Yeah.  See you.”

She wobbled back into the restaurant, limping a little.  He did not know what she needed to face in there, but it didn’t seem to matter much anymore.  Whatever wounds needed to be licked would be licked.  And then they would steer clear for a while.  And then they would meet up again.  Do this all over.

Because they weren’t students or teachers or any of that rot.  Because they would never learn.

Spike stared up into a black, starless sky.  It was deader than anything he’d ever seen, so dead a wolf wouldn’t waste a howl.  So he didn’t either.

He turned and tramped off into the shadows and the filth instead.

Feeling it.