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Part four: Making Out
Spike moved the coffee table out of the living room,
while Xander turned
off all the lights, leaving the television
as the only illumination. Buffy and Willow came out of the
kitchen carrying
bowls of popcorn and candy, and Anya
followed with a small cooler full of soda and beer.
When the bedrolls were
properly spread out and everyone
had settled in, Buffy punched the 'Play' button on the
VCRs remote and the movie began.
"What's
this called again?" Spike asked, leaning back
against the sofa.
Buffy picked up the box and handed it to him. "Deadtime
Stories,"
she informed him. "Ten hours of the most
terrifying movies ever made...or so they say."
He shook his head as he
examined the box. "Where do
you find this crap?"
"Hey!" Xander said defensively. "That happens to be classic
horror,
pal....and I'M the one who found it."
"Why am I not surprised?" Spike replied. "This is NOT
classic horror in any
way, nimrod. You want real horror,
you have to go back to the basics. THIS," he added,
displaying the box, "is a pitiful
attempt to frighten people
with nothing more than disgusting special effects designed
to....oh, bloody hell! Did you
SEE that? His whole fucking
head exploded! Play it back again!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Stop
it," Buffy hissed, pushing Spike's hand off her
thigh.
He rolled his eyes and sat quietly, watching the movie
for
a few minutes, then slipped his hand behind her and
massaged the back of her neck.
She allowed him to continue,
arching her back a little
so that he would move his hand down and rub it.
Spike obliged her, keeping his touch
therapeutic. His
fingers knew exactly how much pressure to apply and
where to apply it, making her pliable and relaxed...which
was
exactly how he wanted her.
"Feel good?" he whispered in her ear, smiling when she
sighed and sank back in his arms.
Supporting her
against his chest, he rubbed his hands up and down her
arms, lulling her into dropping her guard.
The
others were all engrossed in the movie, and he
had Buffy back far enough so that they were out of
everyone's peripheral
vision. Slowly, he slipped his arms
around her waist and settled her more comfortably on
his lap.
After a few
seconds, he carefully moved one hand down,
searching for the hem of her pajama top. When she
didn't protest, he allowed
them to creep just beneath the
soft flannel and caress her stomach.
Her head leaned back on his shoulder, and he
took
advantage of the position by kissing the slender curve
of her neck.
There was the tiniest little gasp, then
she lifted one
hand and caressed the side of his face. Encouraged,
he nuzzled her throat as he stroked the warm skin
of her abdomen.
Her next move almost caused him to swallow his
tongue.
The tiny hand that had been touching
his cheek so
tenderly suddenly dropped down and covered the back
of his right hand where it rested under her top. Before
he
could even react, she moved his hand up and over the
curve of her breast, pressing it down firmly.
His cock
became iron hard under the silk pajama pants
he wore. He lifted his hips, letting her feel it press against
her bottom.
"Baby," he murmured in her ear. "Kiss me."
Buffy turned her head and his lips came down on hers. They
exchanged
a soft, wet kiss that only made them want more.
Pulling back, she stared straight into his eyes and easily
read
the message he was sending her.
"Be right back," she said, climbing to her feet and heading
for the kitchen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spike
waited two minutes, then went after her. Nobody
paid any attention to him. Their eyes were riveted on the
movies latest
display of oozing organs and hacked off
limbs.
He stepped into the dark kitchen and was immediately
grabbed
and shoved up against the wall.
"What took you so long?" Buffy demanded. "Don't you
want me anymore?"
This
question was a private joke between them, and he
always answered it the same way.
"Kitten...you have no idea."
Bending
his head, he captured her lips again, kissing
her long and hard. His tongue invaded her mouth, searching
for hers, then
playing with it and coaxing it to enter his own
mouth. When it did, he closed his lips around it and sucked
it lightly.
Buffy
made a soft sound in her throat, pressing herself
closer to him. Her hips ground against his, inflaming his
already
raging hard on. His hands moved down her back
and cupped the cheeks of her ass, lifting her against him.
She pulled
away to breathe. Meeting his gaze, she
sent one hand down between them and fondled his
erection.
"Oh, fuck,"
he moaned, thrusting into her small hand.
"No, we can't," she said, squeezing gently. "But I can still
make you
feel good."
He was well aware of that fact. Buffy's hands were just
as talented as the rest of her lovely body.
She had learned
exactly what touches pleased him the most. She knew
that he liked her to wrap her fingers snugly around
him and
use her thumb to caress the head of his cock, smearing
the drops of semen he produced back into his skin.
No
woman at any time in his existence had excited
and satisfied him the way the slayer did so effortlessly.
Even Drusilla,
whom he had truly loved for a very long
time, hadn't been able to compare to this young girl, so
young that she had
barely left her teens.
Buffy was his world now, and he was almost sick with
love for her, love that she returned
to him with a willing
and tender heart.
His desire for her was constant, it never left him at
peace anymore.
All he wanted to do was be with her. He
thought about her when he was awake, and dreamed of
her when he slept. It was
rapidly becoming an obsession.
God, life was good!
"These drawstring pants are handy, aren't they?" she
giggled,
pulling them away from his skin and sliding
her little hand down inside of them.
Spike's head dropped forward and
landed on her
shoulder. "Yeah...handy," he managed to choke out,
groaning when she grasped his cock and squeezed.
"Somebody's
awfully hard," she sing-songed, pumping
her hand up and down.
He was getting dizzy with pleasure. Pushing her
pajama
top up, he lowered his head and applied his
tongue to her nipples. He licked them firmly, with
long strokes of his
tongue, then took each one into his
mouth and sucked.
Now, it was Buffy's turn to moan. Her hand moved up
and
down, faster and faster. She used her free hand to
pull the silk pants away from his body, wanting to avoid
telltale
stains on the fabric.
Spike's hand dove beneath the waistband of her own
pants, cupping the damp mound of her sex
and rubbing
it. His fingers teased her, slipping slightly up inside of
her and then back out.
"Please," she
begged in a throaty whisper. "Spike...come
on...please..."
He responded by moistening his index finger in her
wetness,
then using it to stimulate her clitoris. He plucked
and rubbed it, eliciting soft purrs from her.
Buffy tightened
her grip on his cock, and began working
him even faster. Her hand was wet from his secretions and
his hard flesh slipped
easily through her delicate fingers.
"Faster, baby," he instructed her. "Make me come...do it for
me, love...oh...oh,
yeah...."
It was difficult to keep himself quiet, but an interruption now
would be disastrous so he burrowed his
face more deeply
between her warm breasts as they stood in the dark kitchen,
masturbating each other to a mutually satisfying
climax.
His cock went off in her hand, splattering a load of semen
on the floor at the same time she clamped her
thighs shut
and came all over his hand, soaking it with her juices.
They had already taken a big enough risk by
fooling around
like this with their friends just a few steps away, so there was
no time for afterglow. Their hands slipped
back out of each
other's pants, and they quickly composed themselves and
straightened their clothing, then returned
to the front room.
Spike was right behind her, when he remembered that he
still had something else to do and made
an immediate U-turn
back into the kitchen.
Tearing off a length of paper toweling, he wiped up his
semen off
the floor and buried the mess in the trash can.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Have you changed
your mind?"
"About what?"
"About the dare you accepted."
"Technically, I didn't"
"Technically,
shmechnically...just because you didn't
accept it in front of witnesses doesn't mean you didn't
accept it."
"Will
you quit nagging me?"
"Never."
"Shit."
Part five: Bedtime Stories
"Love is lovelier, the second time around...just as
wonderful with
both feet on the groounnndddd!"
"Oh, god....who let her start singing?"
"Hey!" Spike snapped, glaring at Xander.
'You just shut your
yap and leave her be. She's a beautiful singer." Smiling up
at the small blonde straddling his upper
thighs, he folded
his arms behind his head and gave her a little bounce. "You
go ahead and sing all you want, baby.
Don't pay a bit of
attention to that stupid prat."
Buffy made a face at Xander, then fell forward in a giggling
heap
on Spike's chest. "I love you," she said, nuzzling her
face against the side of his neck.
"I love you, too," he
replied, bringing his hands around
and running them up and down her slender back. "You
haven't had another nip at the
tequila bottle, have you,
luv?"
"Nope." She shook her head. "Just feeling good. Life is
almost normal and ordinary
tonight."
He chuckled. "You'd hate normal and ordinary, and you
know it."
"Maybe. But it's nice to give
it a try every now and then."
"Ha!" Anya shouted from the other side of the room. "Gin!"
She laid a hand of cards
down on the floor in front of Willow.
"You owe me ten dollars!"
Willow smiled, tossing her own cards down. "Will
you take
a check?" she teased.
"No." Anya frowned. "No, I won't. Do I look like a bank? Cash
only, no checks."
Seeing
how serious she was, Willow's smile began to fade.
"Anya....come on. We were just playing for fun. Ha-ha. Good
times?"
Anya
folded her arms across her chest and whipped around.
"Xander!" she complained loudly. "Willow won't pay me the
money
she owes!"
"I don't owe her money!" Willow chimed in. "We were playing
for fun. I THOUGHT she understood that."
Xander,
who was lying stretched out on the floor in front of the
TV flipping channels, didn't reply.
"No one gambles for
fun," Anya stated clearly. "The purpose of
gambling is to win and take money from the person you're
gambling with. You
don't go to Las Vegas to gamble and let
them keep the money if you win."
"This isn't Las Vegas!" Willow retorted.
"And we weren't playing
for real money!"
"I was!"
"Well, I wasn't!"
"Xander! Make her pay me!" Anya
insisted stubbornly.
"I'm not paying her!" Willow added, just as firmly.
"You have to! A gambling debt is a
debt of honor!"
"Oh, come on!" Spike exploded from the couch. Buffy
was still cuddled on his chest, dropping soft
kisses all
over his face and neck. "How's a fella supposed to con-
centrate? Christ, Harris! Can't you control your
bloody
women?"
"Nope," Xander replied, eyes still glued to the TV, ignoring
the squabbling girls. "Gave up trying
long ago."
Tara walked in from the kitchen, carrying a can of
soda. "What's wrong?"
"I'll tell you what's
wrong!" Anya said loudly. "Your girl-
friend is a welshman!"
"What?" Tara's brow furrowed.
"She means a welsher,"
Xander interjected.
"She played a game of Gin," Anya informed Tara, "with
clearly outlined stakes, then she lost...and
NOW she
won't pay up!"
Tara looked at Willow. "You were playing for money?"
Willow sighed, rolling her eyes.
"Not for REAL money. For
PRETEND money."
"Pretend money?!" Anya sounded scandalized. "As if!"
By this time,
even Buffy was tired of listening to the
argument. "Knock it off, you two!" she said, sitting up
and giving them her
best 'slayer' glare. "Anya....do you
WANT me to go and get that stuffed rabbit again?"
"You wouldn't dare!" Anya
challenged, her voice not
nearly as certain as her words.
"Oh, yes I would," Buffy said. "There is no gambling
for
real money allowed in my house. If you can't play
nice...." She let the rest of the sentence trail off, her
tone of
voice making her point.
Spike grinned, pulling her back down. "Meanie," he
whispered in her ear.
"Damn straight.
Now...where was I?"
"Right here."
****************************************
"Okay. Who's on first?"
Xander
grinned. "That's what I want to find out."
Spike looked at him. "What?"
"No, what's on second base."
The
vampire rolled his eyes. "No. No Abbott and Costello
routines or I swear I'll thump you good and proper."
"And I'll
hold you down while he does it," Buffy added.
"Fine. You people wouldn't know funny if it came along
and bit you,"
Xander grumbled.
"Don't tempt me," Spike said. He turned out the lamps,
leaving the room in utter darkness save
for the firelight.
Willow licked melted marshmallow off her fingers. "I'd
forgotten how good these are."
"And
how addicting," Buffy said, reaching for another
graham cracker and snapping it in half.
Spike waited until she'd
finished assembling her snack. "All
right, Miss Sticky-fingers, you gonna tell a story or not?"
"Not," she said,
her voice muffled by the mouthful of chocolate
and marshmallow she was diligently trying to swallow. "My
stories suck.
Besides, you were all there when they happened."
"Well, I'll tell one," Xander started to say, then was abruptly
cut
off.
"I'm thinking...no," Spike said. "Your stories are even duller
than hers."
"Hey!" Buffy protested. "I
didn't say they were dull. I said
they were all there when they happened."
"Same difference. No, Slayer, I do believe
I'M the only one
qualified to tell a proper horror story."
She smiled at the others. "He really does tell them
well."
"Uh, yeah," Xander put in. "Of course they're all TRUE, so
get ready to be seriously nauseous."
"Never
mind him, honey," Buffy said, reaching up to pat
Spike's cheek.
He caught her hand in mid air, bringing it to his
mouth and
pretending to bite. "Not until you wash those little hands,
baby face," he said, giving her hand back to
her. "Now
everyone just shut up and listen."
****************************************
"A long time
ago....a VERY long time ago...I lived in the
city of London. The times were much simpler then, and
true horror was
much easier to find. It lurked in every dark
stairwell, round every street corner."
"It was 1888, and I was twenty-five
years old at the time. I
had spent the evening in the home of a young lady I was in
the midst of...courting. We had
dined with her parents, and I
had then been invited into her father's study for brandy. We
passed a half an hour or
more discussing the latest news from
the Whitechapel district of East London. A few months previously,
a rather gruesome
crime had been committed there. A young
woman of...questionable...propriety had been mutilated and
murdered. Her name
was Maryanne Nichols. They found her
at 3:45 in the morning on Friday, August 31. A police constable
Neill, while
in Buck's Row, had come across the body of a woman
lying on a part of the footway. On stooping to raise her up,
under
the belief that she was drunk, he discovered that her
throat had been cut from ear....to ear."
"She was quite dead,
but still warm. A Dr. Llewellyn of White-
chapel Road, whose surgery was less than 300 yards from
where the dead woman
lay, was called out upon the solici-
tation of a constable. He inspected her body and pronounced
her dead. After making
a hasty examination, he then discovered
that, in addition to the gash across her throat, the woman had
terrible wounds
to her abdomen. After the body was
removed to the mortuary of the parish in old Montague Street,
steps were taken to
secure identification, with little prospect
of success. Her clothing was of common description, but the
skirt of one
petticoat and the band of another article bore
the stencil stamp of the Lambeth Workhouse."
"Now, if the woman was
murdered on the spot where the body
was found, it is impossible to believe she would not have
aroused the neighborhood
with her screaming...which must
have been horrible indeed considering how long and lingering
her death must have been.
The pain...the terror...the awful
knowledge that the end was upon her, that she had nowhere
to go...no one to help...must
have been agonizing."
As the fire burned low, Spike rose to his feet and grabbed
another bunch of kindling
from the wood box. He placed it in
the dying flames, then used the poker to stir them up again.
"Bucks Row
was a street occupied all down one side by
a respectable class of people, superior to many of the
surrounding streets,
while the other side had a blank wall
bounding a warehouse. Dr. Llewellyn called attention to
the very small quantity
of blood on the spot where the body
was found, even though the woman had been literally torn
apart. Disemboweled...her
neck split open...and yet almost
no blood."
"The weapon used, he said, could hardly have been a
sailor's jack
knife, but more of a short and pointed weapon,
one with considerable power being applied to it. He didn't
believe that
the woman was seized from behind and her
throat neatly sliced, but rather that a hand was held across
her mouth, while
her neck was punctured...and then ripped
open. The other wounds found on her body were of a
similar nature."
"Over
the course of the next few weeks, four more of these
particularly brutal attacks took place. Annie Chapman, found
on
the eighth of September. Throat punctured and slashed.
Her uterus torn out. Very little blood found. Elizabeth
Stride,
found on September 30th. Throat punctured and
then ripped open. Catherine Eddowes, also found on
September 30th...forty
five minutes after Elizabeth. Uterus
and left kidney removed...and not found anywhere near
the body."
Spike's
captive audience leaned forward, hanging on every
softly spoken word he uttered. None of them had ever heard
him speak
in this more cultured voice.
"The last one was the worst of all. Mary Kelly. Found on
November 9th, at 10:45
in the morning. Her entire body
mutilated beyond all recognition, her heart torn out of
her chest...and nowhere in
sight. Her breasts, eyes, and
nose cut off."
Turned slightly away from the others, Spike stared into
the
sputtering flames.
"Then...as suddenly as they'd started...the murders
stopped. And, to this very day, no one
has ever been
able to identify the killer. There've been a lot of wild
theories. Some say he was a skilled surgeon,
or a
member of the royal family. Who's to say?"
The fire had died down again, casting the room into
deep
shadow. The silence ticked by for a few seconds,
then he turned on them quickly, his demon fully upon
his face.
"Would
you like to hear MY theory?" he growled. "Be-
cause I was there!"
He lunged forward, making them all gasp and
fall
back. Tackling Buffy to the floor, he buried his face
against her vulnerable throat, snarling and snapping
at
it playfully while she squealed.
"Somebody get the lights!" Xander yelped. Jumping
to his feet and doing it himself,
he turned on Spike.
"What the HELL is all THAT supposed to mean?"
he demanded. "Are you trying to tell us that YOU
were
Jack The Ripper?"
Spike sat up and shrugged. "I didn't say that."
"Right!" Xander scoffed. "Puncture wounds...not
much
blood...mutilated victims. Put 'em all together
and what do they spell? You! That's what!"
"Don't let your imagination
run away with you,
junior," Spike replied. "It was just a story."
"Oh, yeah? Well....I'm keeping my eye on you!"
"Even
if it WAS him," Buffy piped up from the
floor. "You're okay. Jack only killed prostitutes, so
unless there's something
you haven't told us about
yourself....?"
"Hmmph," Xander muttered. "Just the same...you'd
best watch it."
The
only reply Spike made was a two fingered one.
****************************************
"When are you
going to do it?"
"Are you on about THAT again?"
"You'd better believe it."
"Well, sod off, will you?"
"Not
a chance. You got dared, and you took the
dare."
"Didn't really."
"Oh, yeah...you did."
"Prove it,
then."
"Well, I guess we know who the REAL welsher is
around here."
"Hey!"
TBC.....
Next:
Five Minutes In Heaven
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