"So how are things going with your new slave?"

Riley's question drew Buffy out of a pensive reverie, and she looked up at him blankly, startled, across the large oak dining room table. It was too wide, she thought randomly, looking back down at it. She had always felt like it kept them seated too far apart, like she could hardly talk to him across the vast distance between them.

Riley did not seem to mind it.

"Oh," she began, distracted. "Um...fine, I guess."

"I saw him downstairs in the servants' quarters a little while ago," Riley went on, oblivious to the little flinch she tried to hide at his mention of yet another visit to the basement. "I see you've already had to put him in his place, huh?"

Buffy winced inwardly at the reminder of the scene earlier that morning, wondering how Riley could have known anything about what had gone on between her and Spike. She realized with a sudden sense of guilt that one of her blows to Spike's face must have left a mark. The guilt was immediately followed by anger and frustration at herself for feeling guilty at all.

*God, this is so confusing! I should never have bought him!*

"Yeah. It wasn't a big thing, really. You know Spike. Never could keep his mouth shut," Buffy shrugged, forcing a laugh. If she allowed Riley to see how much it bothered her, she would end up having to suffer through another one of his endless lectures about how vampries were not people and had no rights, and how it did not matter what humans did to them.

"Well, he'll have to *learn* to keep it shut!" Riley remarked darkly, looking down to take a bite of his steak, and Buffy felt an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. "So what are you planning to do with him, exactly?"

The casual question caught her off guard. *I only wish I knew.*

"Um...I don't know for sure," she replied slowly. "I hadn't really thought about it. He *does* need something to do."

Riley shrugged. "It's about what *you* need, Buffy," he reminded her. "I guess it's harder for you to think of it that way. Well, I guess you really wouldn't know any better, since you keep yourself so distanced from my work and my colleagues," he went on in a tone of obvious disapproval. "But a society lady like you ought to have a personal attendant. Most won't even appear in public without one."

"Personal attendant?" Buffy frowned, not sure what he meant by the term.

"You know," he explained. "A slave that's there just to -- to *be* there and do whatever you happen to need at the moment. You shouldn't have to do much for yourself, Buffy. Especially now that you've got a slave that's all your own."

Buffy didn't say anything for a moment, as she tried to digest his words. Riley *had* suggested the idea before, she remembered, a long time ago. But she had rejected all of the slaves he had suggested for the position, partly because she thought that her Slayer-self would go insane from the constant presence of a vampire, following her around, shadowing her every move -- even if it *was* just to serve her.

Mostly, though, she just could not stomach the idea of constantly being with one of Riley's little whores, who would dutifully see that her mistress had everything she needed each and every day, and then each and every night climb into bed with her mistress's husband.

*Well, that's one thing you wouldn't have to worry about with Spike,* she thought with a smile of bitter humor.

She thought over the idea of Spike being her personal attendant, waiting on her hand and foot, and felt an odd sense of embarrassment at the idea. It just seemed so strange to her to think of someone that she had known before all of this, before she had become the important, respected Mrs. Riley Finn, serving her every whim, treating her like a queen.

She felt as if she were hiding behind a very thin disguise, and that anyone who knew her from before would immediately recognize it, and leave her facade in shreds.

Somehow, that thought made the idea *more* appealing to her instead of less.

She remembered the somewhat vague reasons she had had for purchasing Spike in the first place. All the changes that had taken place in her life over the past few years, which had on the surface appeared to be *good* changes, had in reality only served to make her feel gradually more and more out of place and less and less sure of herself. The confident, aggressive Slayer she had once been seemed to have vanished, hidden away in the meek, dutiful wife she had become.

Seeing Spike at the auction -- so like he had always been, cocky and arrogant and defiant, despite his hopeless circumstances – had served to remind her of much happier days, a past in which she was not hiding uncertainly in someone’s shadow, but confident and powerful in her own right.

She realized that some part of her had decided in that moment that it might be nice to have someone else around who remembered that girl, to recall those times with her and help her find a way to maybe, somehow, bring them back.

Even if that someone *had* been her mortal enemy at the time.
But then, she remembered the scene that morning that had occurred between her and Spike, and cringed. She honestly was not sure how she was going to be able to face him at all after that. She had tried to exert her authority as his mistress, to show him who was in control, and had ended up instead not being able to give him even one decent blow without dissolving into tears like a child.

*Yeah, Buffy,* she thought wryly. *Very intimidating. He’ll think twice before disrespecting *you* again.*

But she realized with a sense of resignation that no matter what she decided to do with Spike, she couldn’t very well avoid having to face him, no matter how embarrassed she felt. He was her slave, and she was going to have to talk to him at some point, if only to instruct him in what it was that she wanted him to do.

Oh, yeah. It would help if she *knew* what it was that she wanted him to do.

Maybe having him as a personal attendant, keeping him close most of the time, would at least keep him from having the opportunity to talk and scheme behind her back. It would definitely make it easier for her to keep an eye on him, and therefore for her to keep him under control.

She looked uncertainly up at Riley. “I don’t know,” she said. “I sort of thought that my personal attendant should be…female.”

“Not necessarily,” he smirked with a soft little laugh. “A lot of ladies…well, they don’t exactly pick their attendants for their cooking and cleaning abilities, if you know what I mean.”

Buffy’s eyes widened, surprised at what Riley was saying. “Well, I’m not…” she began hastily. “I mean…I don’t want…”

Riley laughed aloud this time, smiling up at her. “Buffy, I trust you,” he assured her, and the cruel irony of those words spoken by her unfaithful husband made Buffy feel sick. “It’s not gonna bother me if you have a male attendant. I mean, come on!” he scoffed after a pause, giving her a knowing look. “It’s *Spike*.”

As if that was all there was to it. As if Spike was so utterly repulsive and pathetic that Riley didn’t have a moment’s concern about his spending hours upon hours with his wife, completely assured that nothing inappropriate would happen between the mistress and her slave.

Or perhaps not caring if it did, she corrected, swallowing back an involuntary sob that rose in her throat.

Well, if he didn’t care, then she didn’t care either, she decided resentfully. She had hesitated to give Spike that rather close position to her, for fear of offending or upsetting Riley, and it was hurtful to her to realize just how little he even thought about her at all, that the idea of another male, even if he wasn’t human, spending much more time with his wife than he did, did not bother him in the slightest.

Well, fine, then, she decided. If Riley didn’t care, then neither did she. Her decision made, she excused herself from the table to go and find her new personal attendant.


Spike had spent the greater part of the day feeling bored, and more than a little lost, as he simply wandered about the house, trying to get a feel for where everything was, while not looking too idle in the process. He got the distinct feeling that there wasn’t much loyalty among the slaves in this house; it seemed to be pretty much every vamp for himself, if Velvet’s behavior was any indication.

As he returned to the tiny room that was now his, not having anything else to do, he thought over again the events of that morning. He had gone into his meeting with Buffy a little nervous – okay, terrified, if he was honest with himself – knowing that it was in her power to make him suffer, not just for his rash, insulting words – which were enough in and of themselves to merit a severe beating – but also for every other offense he had ever committed against her.

When he had seen her standing there, her face set in steel and holding the riding crop in her hand, he had been certain that the Slayer was about to take her revenge for the many times over their long, complex history that he had tried to kill her, attacked her and her friends, lied to her and insulted her and just generally been a pain in her ass. He had known beyond all doubt that, having had several years for build up, this was going to be the most severe, painful beating he had ever received.

Thus it was that he had been absolutely astonished, disbelieving, when the Slayer had not even managed a single solid strike with the weapon, and had fallen apart before his eyes only moments after the attempt. No matter how many times he thought it through, he really could not understand it.

Of course, it made sense to him that the girl was hurting over the idiotic actions of her wanker husband, gadding about with his female slaves and ignoring his very attractive, but very lonely, wife. But to his way of thinking, that would have made for *more* pain aimed his direction, rather than less. He would have understood if the Slayer had taken the opportunity to vent her frustrations at her unfaithful spouse on the helpless vampire that was so conveniently at her disposal.

But instead, the act of attempting to hurt him had almost seemed to hurt the Slayer more than it did him – and he simply could not wrap his mind around it, could not comprehend the reasons why.

After all, she’d never had a problem with hitting him *before*.

His wondering was cut short by a soft rustle at the door, and he looked up with surprise to see Buffy standing there, watching him calmly.

He immediately rose from the edge of the bed, standing at a sort of attention before her, his eyes down, waiting to see what it was that she wanted. He did not understand at all the reasons why she had failed to actually hurt him earlier – and therefore he could not assume that she would fail to again, if he should anger her.

“What have you been doing today?” she asked him quietly.

He paused, hesitant. The truth – absolutely nothing – would probably not be very impressive to her. “Well…” he began with caution. “I wasn’t really sure…what I should be doing, Mistress. I didn’t really – I mean…”

“I dismissed you without telling you what to do,” she broke in, her relenting tone and words relieving his anxiety, as she took responsibility for the situation. “It’s not your fault.” She paused, her mouth opening to speak, then closing again as she thought better of it.

Then she changed her mind again and said, “Spike…”

When she did not go on after a moment, he chanced a look up at her, deep blue eyes searching hers. Her expression was firm, authoritative, but he could see regret in her eyes, and compassion – and sadness. That ever-present sadness that had been so foreign to the girl that he remembered.

“I’m a little new at this. This whole…mistress…slave…thing,” she waved her hand in an uncertain gesture as she tried awkwardly to explain what it was that she meant. “This all just feels kind of weird. Because of…well, everything…us…knowing each other and all. And to be honest with you,” she admitted, lowering her eyes for a moment before meeting his again. “I’m sorry, but I’m not really used to the idea of hitting you when I know that you can’t hit me back.”

Encouraged by her openness, and by her actual words which were far from what he had expected, Spike dared a slight smirk. “No need to apologize, really,” he quipped. “Can’t say that I mind.”

Buffy did not even crack a smile. “I can *get* used to it,” she went on as if he had not spoken, her voice and eyes hardening slightly. “If I have to.” She paused, before adding, “I don’t want to have to.” The honesty of her words was clear in her piercing emerald eyes as they bored into his, and he knew that she meant every word just as she had spoken it.

“You won’t,” he assured her quietly, dropping his gaze again in an attempt to show her that he would submit. Despite her good intentions, he was well aware that Buffy was potentially the most dangerous owner he had had since becoming a slave.

He had had others who had been of crueler natures, more violent and inclined to hurt him…but they had not had the actual power to do so. Not really.

As much as she did not appear to be at the moment, Buffy was the Slayer. She apparently did not intend to hurt him, but he was well aware that if at any point she *did* want to, she was capable of inflicting some serious damage.

She looked at him for a moment, as if gauging his sincerity, before she nodded slowly. “Good,” she replied, and he could hear the note of satisfaction in her soft voice. “I hope not.” She paused again, before going on.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to start your new job. You will be my personal attendant,” she informed him.

He looked up at her sharply, well aware of the implications of that term of which she was not aware. In his experience and the experiences of others he had seen, “personal attendant” roughly translated into “sex slave with benefits”. The personal attendants of his former owners had been subjected to all sorts of degradations – whatever the owner happened to fancy – as well as being required to wait on their masters hand and foot, meeting all sorts of other demands as well.

He had only actually *been* a personal attendant to one owner before – and it was an experience he tried hard to forget.

One look in Buffy’s eyes, however, told him that she knew none of this, and did not mean the term in the way that he had come to understand it. Just how she *did* mean it – he had yet to find out.

He looked down again, replying, “Yes, Mistress.”

“I want you to come to my room at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. We’ll go from there. Okay?” she instructed.

He nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

“It’ll be your first day, and we’ll just kind of take it as it comes, you’ll just kind of get an idea of my routine and what I’ll need from you,” she went on, her voice even, but still sounding more than a little uncomfortable with the arrangement. “I’ll be patient,” she assured him. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot to learn.”

As she turned to go, she muttered something under her breath which he knew she had not thought that he would hear. However, she had forgotten that he had the benefit of enhanced vampire senses, and could hear the faint whisper of her words clearly.

“We both do.”