Spike tried to put Velvet’s disturbing comments out of his mind as he made his way on shaking legs up the stairs and back to the room where Buffy had directed him to meet her. He realized that he was breathing, quick shallow breaths that were unnecessary for any other reason than simply to steady him – and they were failing at that.

He thought over the entire situation again and again as he made his way to the living room, and realized with a sinking feeling that nothing he could say was going to make this any better – not at the moment. His mind replayed the words that Buffy had heard him say, and he cringed at his own foolishness.

He had outright declared that he was not afraid of her, that he could manipulate her into doing anything he wanted – and though his fearful mind had no idea what exactly she had planned for him, he knew beyond all doubt that she planned to firmly convince him otherwise.

*I’m bloody convinced already!* he thought ruefully. *Not likely that *she’ll* believe that, though!*

Her tone, her demeanor, everything about her in the basement had spoken of barely bridled fury. He knew that she had just barely managed to keep her anger in check. The question was…why had she bothered to control it at all? He was her slave. She could legitimately do whatever she wanted with him, and no one would correct her or say a word about it.

He found himself confused, because she had clearly wanted to make a point to him and to Velvet that she was the one in control, and yet he knew beyond all doubt that when she had struck him, she had not used her full strength. She had deliberately held back some of her Slayer strength.

The question was, why?

He reached the living room, and took a deep breath before entering, closing his eyes for a moment and fighting back a sick feeling of fear that had risen in his throat.

*It’s just Buffy,* he told himself. *Just Buffy. She wouldn’t really hurt you.*

He stepped into the room, keeping his eyes down as he had learned to do during the course of his slavery, and immediately could sense her there, her Slayer essence putting off an unmistakable sense of power and authority to such an extreme level that it sent his demon screaming for cover.

The rest of him desperately wanted to follow.

He chanced a hesitant glance up to her…and froze at the breathtaking and terrifying image that met his eyes. Buffy stood straight and proud, with no trace of the insecurity and self-consciousness that had plagued her the night before. Her piercing eyes of jade were cold as they fell on him, and her expression was hard, merciless, as she regarded her rebellious slave dispassionately.

It seemed that the Slayer had remembered who she was.

He looked down quickly from that intimidating gaze, and his stomach did a little flip as his eye locked onto the object in her hands – a thin, hard leather riding crop.


Buffy’s heart was pounding with mingled dread and anticipation as she waited for Spike to show up. She glanced anxiously at her watch, and noted with dismay that it had been twenty minutes since she had left the basement. What was keeping him? And should she make an issue of his lateness? Would that small concession somehow lessen her authority?

She really had no idea what she was doing, she realized again, staring down wide-eyed at the distasteful object in her hand.

When she had left the basement, she had really had no idea what to do to Spike, only that she had to do *something* to establish her dominance to him – and she highly doubted that mere words were going to do the trick. But as she had looked through the various weapons that Riley kept on hand for punishing his slaves, searching for something she could use, the thought of actually hurting him made her feel terribly uneasy – almost sick.

It was not as if she had never struck one of the household slaves before. Many times in the past, if one of them had mouthed off to her, or deliberately disobeyed her, she had exerted her authority to put them back in their place, so to speak, although that certainly didn’t mean that it was an easy thing for her to do. In some ways, she had adjusted to life as a wealthy, powerful slave owner.

In other ways, she never would.

*You’re the Slayer, Buffy,* she reminded herself. *Vampires are *supposed* to tremble in fear before you.* She steeled herself, drawing upon her true nature to shut out the traitorous sympathy that she felt for Spike, in spite of herself. *Whatever you do is your right,* she insisted in her mind. *You own him. You just have to make him understand that.*

*It would help if *I* understood that first,* a second inner voice whispered a moment later.

Buffy closed her eyes and forced back the softer emotions that weakened her. Spike did not deserve her sympathy. He had played on her hurt and vulnerability the night before, and had obviously fully intended to continue to do so, to get whatever he wanted to make the best of his new life as her slave. She had to make him see that he would *not* be able to use and manipulate her like that. She had made the mistake of allowing him to see her vulnerability.

It was something she was determined that he would never see again.


Spike wrestled with the fear that came over him at the sight of the weapon in her hand. The fragile assurance he had tried to hold onto that Buffy did not have it in her to hurt him, fled at the sight of the crop, held in unyielding hands of iron, far stronger than their deceptively soft appearance.

*Get a hold of yourself, mate,* he urged himself as he stepped hesitantly a few steps closer to her, stopping a respectful distance away from her. *Don’t let her see your fear.*

*Oh, bloody hell. Too late for that.*

“You’re late.”

Just the sound of her voice, much colder and harder than he had expected it to be, intensified the sick feeling in his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He knew any excuse he could come up with would be useless, and probably only succeed in making things worse for him.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at him.

Finally she spoke, her voice calm but commanding. “Come here.”

He swallowed hard, and forced himself to walk a few steps closer to her. As he did, she stepped steadily nearer to him until only a couple of paces separated them. Breathless, having no idea what to expect he waited for her to speak.

“Do you think you can play me, Spike?” she demanded, her voice soft. “Do you think you can play mind games with me and fool me into doing whatever it is that you want?”

Another question with no right answer. “No” would make him a liar. “Yes” would make him dead.

“No” seemed the lesser of the two evils.

He shook his head slightly, not looking at her. “No, Mistress…I didn’t…”

A sudden, unexpected slap, harder than the one she had dealt him earlier, rocked him backward a few steps. “Do not lie to me,” she ordered, her voice still calm and even. She paused before she said, in a voice a little softer, “I didn’t want to have to do this. I told you I didn’t. But you’ve left me no choice. I’m going to have to teach you what trying to manipulate me will get you. Is that clear?”

He knew he was innocent of the offense she was accusing him of. He also knew that to protest to that effect would only make matters worse. He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

“Take off your shirt,” she ordered in a voice of quiet resignation, and he was a little surprised by the command. *Of course,* he realized with grim understanding. *Wouldn’t do to ruin the brand new clothes right off.* He wondered, however, why she had instructed him to put the thing on in the first place, only to make him take it off again mere minutes later.

Then it struck him…perhaps that *was* the point. Just another little display of her power. He would do what she told him, when she told him, whether it made sense to him or not – simply because she told him to do it. He was her slave, and he was to obey without question.

And he did obey her, his hands shaking slightly as he fumbled with the buttons but finally managed to take off the new black shirt, folding it carefully and laying it over the back of the chair beside him.

“Just stand still and don’t move,” she ordered him, her hard, angry eyes meeting his boldly, almost defiantly.

And why should *she* look at *him* with defiance? Wasn’t she the one in control? he wondered suddenly.

“You may think that you can get away with things because you think you know me,” she went on, and he could hear a bit of her anger – and perhaps a little hurt – creeping into her voice in spite of her otherwise emotionless demeanor. “But you can’t, Spike. Whatever’s happened between us in the past is just that – past. And I’m not going to let it effect my judgment now. I can see through your little games, and I’m not going to put up with them! I’m not gonna let you make a fool of me, Spike!”

By the time she had finished, her voice was trembling slightly, and her anger was obvious. He winced inwardly. Her anger getting the better of her at a moment like this hardly boded well for him.

She walked around behind him, slowly, with measured, even steps, and he forced himself to keep perfectly still, knowing that she was about to begin, and willing himself not to move, not to flinch. He had felt the strength that the Slayer possessed during countless fights between them, and knew that she had the power to do him serious harm if she wanted to.

There was silence for a moment; he could sense her gearing up to strike, braced himself for the blow, for the searing pain of the crop across his back. And then – nothing. He froze, every muscle in his body tensed in dreadful anticipation of the blow that did not fall.

“You think I can let you get away with talking about me like that to *her* of all people, Spike?” Buffy continued unexpectedly, apparently not even trying to hide her anger now. He could not see her face, but he could hear her dangerous emotional state in her trembling, tearful voice. “You think I can allow anything else to happen in this house to make them disrespect me even more? I can’t do that, Spike! I can’t let you get away with that, because if I do…”

Her voice trailed off, and he could hear her sniffing back tears. “I can’t. I have to do this, Spike,” she said, and he realized suddenly that she was not really talking to him. She was trying to convince herself.

He heard the slight whipping sound of the weapon cutting through the air as she drew it back swiftly for a powerful blow, and he braced himself for the impact. A beat later than he expected it to, the crop fell across his back. It was a stinging blow…but nothing like he had expected. A normal blow with even a fraction of her Slayer strength behind it would have left him bleeding, possibly knocked him to the floor – but her blow did not draw blood, did not even move him.

“I *have* to!” she gasped, and her voice sounded weak and strangled, almost desperate, as he heard her draw back the crop a second time.

As the second, ridiculously weak blow fell, he could hear the sound of a soft sob behind him. He was stunned, and felt the overwhelming, unexplainable urge to turn and offer his comfort – but he did not dare. He heard her draw back the crop again…but the third blow never landed, and in the next moment he heard the hated weapon drop with a soft thud to the floor, and the muffled sound of the Slayer’s sobs into the hand she held up across her mouth.

“Damn it, Spike!” she sobbed brokenly in frustrated confusion and pain, burying her face in her hands and stepping back away from him.

Tentatively, he turned just slightly toward her, turning anxious blue eyes full of a concern he did not understand on this woman who should have held so much power over him, but had broken *herself* in her attempt to wield it.

“Bu…Mistress,” he began cautiously, correcting himself at the last second. His voice was barely over a whisper, as he turned fully to face her. This time, against instincts that should have seemed unnatural to him, he did not dare to touch her. “Are you – are you all right, love?” he finally asked, softly, hesitantly, not willing to set off her anger again, but wanting to offer what little help he could. He was not even aware of the pet name that had slipped past his lips, coming so naturally to him.

She looked up at him suddenly, as if just seeing him for the first time, and he watched as her eyes widened in a sort of shock, turning to horror as she looked between him and the discarded weapon at her feet.

“I…” he tried again, stepping closer to her, telling himself firmly that this was not going to be like the last time. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to…”

“Go,” she whispered in a voice of defeat, looking down and away from him, trying to hide the pain in her eyes.

He gave her a questioning look. “A-are you su…”

“Just *go*!” she snapped through her tears, glaring up at him through tear-filled, shining emerald eyes, full of so many mingled intense emotions that neither of them could have identified.

He paused for a moment, wanting to stay, but knowing that the choice was not really his to make. He was hers to command. After a moment, he replied softly, “Yes, Mistress,” and turned to slowly walk away.