Lift

Rating:
Total Chapters: 1

A porny outtake from Disenchantment.

Enjoying this story? Share your rating!
[Total: 0 Average: 0]

In her room, Buffy quickly changed, putting on a dress and a knee-high boots without hose, threw a few things into her bag, and ran down the back stairs.

Spike was quiet, holding her hand, as they walked to the tube, and as they rode. Buffy wanted to ask where they were going, but something made her cautious to speak. He was pensive, cradling her hand in both his own, staring up at the car cards, avoiding her gaze and everyone else’s. She tried to imagine sitting down with him in some restaurant, or going—where? To a movie? Dancing? They’d danced together on the island, but dancing felt like one of those things, like the dark brown skin and silence while fucking, that belonged to Hinchliffe, but not to Spike.

When they emerged near the British Museum, he put an arm around her, but remained silent. Despite his tension, she felt pleasure in walking with him this way, as a couple like other couples they passed, out for the evening. He led her on a diagonal path through a large square, into a side street, and up to the entrance of a hulking old building that was at once grand, and obscure.

In the lobby that was all brown and maroon and half dark, with brasses glimmering in the weak light and palm trees in pots obscuring the chairs, the back of her neck tingled. There were vampires in this place.

“This is—”

“This is a place I used to know,” he said, cutting off her question. “Will you come upstairs?”

There was something in his manner, an archness, that made her hackles rise. But she sensed that this was a sort of test—that she could best pass it by being compliant.

“Lead on.”

There was an ancient cage lift with manual controls, with a staircase winding round and round it, up and up into darkness—Buffy couldn’t tell how many storeys the hotel had. Shutting them inside it with a clang, Spike pulled the lever to make the lift begin its slow climb. The mechanism groaned, the cables heaving. Buffy leaned in the corner of the car and watched Spike’s back. When he halted the lift between floors, and turned to her in game-face, breathing a growl that reminded her she was in a small cage with a large beast, she was neither particularly startled, nor afraid.

She shifted so her feet were planted wider, left her hands relaxed at her sides, and tipped her chin up, keeping her eyes fixed calmly on his. He would understand what her open stance signaled, there was no need to speak. But she expected he would—he had an air of argument.

So she was surprised to find herself suddenly jammed against the rear wall, lifted off her feet as he penetrated her simultaneously with fangs and cock.

He wasn’t gentle. She shivered all over, mewing and grappling him closer; the pain where he’d attached himself to her neck gave way quickly to a cottony pleasureable ache; each pull he took seemed to yank her heart upwards, as if he might suck it out. As he fed he kept up a slow gyration of his hips, filling her so she felt pinned, sheathed on him. Spike grunted as he drank her, one hand giving rough squeezes to her breast. Tears started from her eyes, and she wanted to laugh—a relief broke over her, breaking a stricture so pervasive she hadn’t entirely understood it until he’d made this shattering move.

As his sucking slowed, he began to fuck her harder, so she slid up and down the wall, her skirt bunching in the small of her back. She heard herself gasping, letting out short rhythmic cries. Each of his thrusts hit her just so, resonating through her whole body, bringing her to the edge but not quite over it, again and again. She clung to his shoulders, wishing wildly that she had fangs of her own, to possess him as he was possessing her. In all their times together, he’d never done anything to her quite like this.

It was then that she became aware of the stirring, the faint whispers rushing up and down the space outside their cage. Lifting her gaze, she peered out through the mesh, where glints in the darkness resolved themselves, as she stared, into pairs of golden eyes. First she saw just one set, then another; turning her head, she saw more on the other side. A whispering that didn’t resolve into speech, that sounded, in Buffy’s rushing ears, like the chirring of bats, moved up and down the space outside their box, seemed to swirl all around it.

The lift cage was surrounded by vampires.

They hovered on the encircling stairs, watching wide-eyed, seething and pressing in. Rows of game-faced vamps, their eyes illuminations in the darkness, their hunger palpable. Buffy’s heart lurched and raced.

Feeling that, Spike drew back from her neck. Dragging her arms off his shoulders, he pressed her wrists up high against the cage wall. She hung from them as he fucked her, grinding and twisting into her so she trembled, and shook, sucking her lip up under her teeth to keep from crying out.

He let out a roar then, that reverberated all up and down the lift shaft, all up and down her body. The sound stirred the demon audience, but he never looked past her, never indicated by so much as a glance that there was anyone there of any importance at all besides herself.

The game-face slid away then, and he focused on her. “Buffy,” he murmured. “My Slayer. My mistress.”

“Yes!”

“Are you mine?”

“I am. I am yours. Spike. Spike—I love you so much.”

“An’ do you trust me?”

“With—yes—with everything—!”

“An’ what am I, to you?”

“Oh God—my love—my lover—my—”

“An’ the child … growin’ inside you … who put it there?”

“You—you did—!” Her toes curled; she huffed, struggling to postpone the orgasm that was rising to overtake her. She surged with pride as she answered this strange catechism. She knew that they all knew of her, these observing demons, as they knew of him. It was filthy and exquisite, to show them what they were to each other.

In her room, Buffy quickly changed, putting on a dress and a knee-high boots without hose, threw a few things into her bag, and ran down the back stairs.

Spike was quiet, holding her hand, as they walked to the tube, and as they rode. Buffy wanted to ask where they were going, but something made her cautious to speak. He was pensive, cradling her hand in both his own, staring up at the car cards, avoiding her gaze and everyone else’s. She tried to imagine sitting down with him in some restaurant, or going—where? To a movie? Dancing? They’d danced together on the island, but dancing felt like one of those things, like the dark brown skin and silence while fucking, that belonged to Hinchliffe, but not to Spike.

When they emerged near the British Museum, he put an arm around her, but remained silent. Despite his tension, she felt pleasure in walking with him this way, as a couple like other couples they passed, out for the evening. He led her on a diagonal path through a large square, into a side street, and up to the entrance of a hulking old building that was at once grand, and obscure.

In the lobby that was all brown and maroon and half dark, with brasses glimmering in the weak light and palm trees in pots obscuring the chairs, the back of her neck tingled. There were vampires in this place.

“This is—”

“This is a place I used to know,” he said, cutting off her question. “Will you come upstairs?”

There was something in his manner, an archness, that made her hackles rise. But she sensed that this was a sort of test—that she could best pass it by being compliant.

“Lead on.”

There was an ancient cage lift with manual controls, with a staircase winding round and round it, up and up into darkness—Buffy couldn’t tell how many storeys the hotel had. Shutting them inside it with a clang, Spike pulled the lever to make the lift begin its slow climb. The mechanism groaned, the cables heaving. Buffy leaned in the corner of the car and watched Spike’s back. When he halted the lift between floors, and turned to her in game-face, breathing a growl that reminded her she was in a small cage with a large beast, she was neither particularly startled, nor afraid.

She shifted so her feet were planted wider, left her hands relaxed at her sides, and tipped her chin up, keeping her eyes fixed calmly on his. He would understand what her open stance signaled, there was no need to speak. But she expected he would—he had an air of argument.

So she was surprised to find herself suddenly jammed against the rear wall, lifted off her feet as he penetrated her simultaneously with fangs and cock.

He wasn’t gentle. She shivered all over, mewing and grappling him closer; the pain where he’d attached himself to her neck gave way quickly to a cottony pleasureable ache; each pull he took seemed to yank her heart upwards, as if he might suck it out. As he fed he kept up a slow gyration of his hips, filling her so she felt pinned, sheathed on him. Spike grunted as he drank her, one hand giving rough squeezes to her breast. Tears started from her eyes, and she wanted to laugh—a relief broke over her, breaking a stricture so pervasive she hadn’t entirely understood it until he’d made this shattering move.

As his sucking slowed, he began to fuck her harder, so she slid up and down the wall, her skirt bunching in the small of her back. She heard herself gasping, letting out short rhythmic cries. Each of his thrusts hit her just so, resonating through her whole body, bringing her to the edge but not quite over it, again and again. She clung to his shoulders, wishing wildly that she had fangs of her own, to possess him as he was possessing her. In all their times together, he’d never done anything to her quite like this.

It was then that she became aware of the stirring, the faint whispers rushing up and down the space outside their cage. Lifting her gaze, she peered out through the mesh, where glints in the darkness resolved themselves, as she stared, into pairs of golden eyes. First she saw just one set, then another; turning her head, she saw more on the other side. A whispering that didn’t resolve into speech, that sounded, in Buffy’s rushing ears, like the chirring of bats, moved up and down the space outside their box, seemed to swirl all around it.

The lift cage was surrounded by vampires.

They hovered on the encircling stairs, watching wide-eyed, seething and pressing in. Rows of game-faced vamps, their eyes illuminations in the darkness, their hunger palpable. Buffy’s heart lurched and raced.

Feeling that, Spike drew back from her neck. Dragging her arms off his shoulders, he pressed her wrists up high against the cage wall. She hung from them as he fucked her, grinding and twisting into her so she trembled, and shook, sucking her lip up under her teeth to keep from crying out.

He let out a roar then, that reverberated all up and down the lift shaft, all up and down her body. The sound stirred the demon audience, but he never looked past her, never indicated by so much as a glance that there was anyone there of any importance at all besides herself.

The game-face slid away then, and he focused on her. “Buffy,” he murmured. “My Slayer. My mistress.”

“Yes!”

“Are you mine?”

“I am. I am yours. Spike. Spike—I love you so much.”

“An’ do you trust me?”

“With—yes—with everything—!”

“An’ what am I, to you?”

“Oh God—my love—my lover—my—”

“An’ the child … growin’ inside you … who put it there?”

“You—you did—!” Her toes curled; she huffed, struggling to postpone the orgasm that was rising to overtake her. She surged with pride as she answered this strange catechism. She knew that they all knew of her, these observing demons, as they knew of him. It was filthy and exquisite, to show them what they were to each other.

~END~

Enjoying this story? Share your rating!
[Total: 0 Average: 0]