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...)