“Shit!” The handler hurled himself backward, cursing again as he impacted against a wall and slid to the ground, holding his ankle. “You know what? Screw this. You want to kill me, Spike? Then just kill me. I have no stakes because I am a moron and I just give up.”
It took a moment for him to realize that the boy was addressing him. Then the request filtered through. Did this one think—that he could—
Pain was bad!
The handler flinched back when he knelt on the dirty ground, pushing large, work-roughened hands away to examine the handler’s ankle. It was wrenched, he decided after carefully probing it, and the calf muscle was cramping. The ankle he could do little about, but. . .
“What the fuck!”
He ignored the attempts to struggle, intent only on easing the tight muscle, finding the one point where it was twisted and taut and kneading it until it was loose and warm and putty under his touch. He hummed lightly when he felt it uncramp, a low wave of pleasure spreading through him.
“Um, Spike? Spike?”
Was his name Spike? It was a better name than Jack, he decided dazedly. Spike sounded. . . right. He was Spike. “Yes?” he asked because this handler obviously expected a response. He didn’t know why this handler was frightened of him—he could smell that clearly—but fear and pain were bad things and he was only supposed to give pleasure.
“What are you doing?”
“You had a cramp, Sir,” he explained as he spread his massage up past the knee to work strong thigh muscles. He could feel random twitches of nervousness firing under his fingers, but there was no pain in his mind, just pleasure, and he knew this handler would not refuse.
“Sir? Spike, you disappeared two months ago. Willow made us all go look for you, even though Buffy was pretty happy with you potentially dust and Giles didn’t care since it saved him money and—what the hell are you doing?”
The last was squeaked and Spike hid his grin as he too felt the sharp jolt of pleasure when he brushed against a straining erection. Arousal mixed with the heady scent of sunlight and laughter, creating a mixture that smelled almost as good as the rising pleasure felt. He wanted to please this handler more than most, especially if it meant he got more of that lovely smell.
“Tight,” he murmured as he worked. “Too tight. Need to relax, Sir. Let me help you relax.”
“Spike, let go of me.”
“Yes, Sir.” Masking his disappointment, he dropped his head submissively and waited for instructions. Kane had taught him that disobedience was very, very bad.
“Okay.” The boy scrambled to his feet and began to pace. “Kevin got hurt at work, decided it’s hard to do his night job—whatever that is—when he’s at the hospital with three cracked ribs and a concussion. He asks me to fill in. Okay, great, and I get three hundred dollars too, cause I’m his buddy and his foreman and he trusts me not to—not to talk about it. Shit. I’m supposed to pick something up, deliver it to a hotel and get my money. And I am an idiot.”
Stopping right in front of Spike, who had remained kneeling on the ground, the young man swallowed nervously. “Spike, get up.” He rose, head still down, hands clasped behind his back. “Spike, what did you do, upstairs?”
“I was with a client, Sir.” He was starting to become a bit nervous. He’d never had a handler talk to him this much, unless they were giving him orders. Few ever made conversation, since he would only answer a direct question, most content to talk at him when they weren’t getting what they wanted. Besides, it was time to return home. The girl with the dark hair would let him drink from her before sleep, if he was good.
“A client. What did you do with this client?”
“Did you—did you have sex with him?”
“Yes, Sir.” While there were some clients who requested him for non-sexual purposes, those were quite rare.
“What the hell happened to you?” the handler breathed, finally looking at him. Spike could feel dark eyes flickering over his skin, almost palpable in their intensity. He wanted to shift and cover himself, but he hadn’t been given permission so instead he remained still. “You disappear for two months and when you reappear, I find the friendly little favor I’m doing for Kevin is providing escort for hookers and that—that one of them is you. Spike.”
Spike didn’t attempt to analyze the words said to him; they were not commands, therefore he could successfully ignore them. But he longed to see if sunshine and laughter tasted as good as it smelled.
“And you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
Spike realized that required an answer. “No, Sir. Should I, Sir?”
The handler shivered but Spike didn’t think it was from cold. “Don’t call me that. It’s—it’s just creepy.”
Spike opened his mouth to agree—but then hesitated, seeing the trap between this handler’s request and Kane’s many lessons. “Very well,” he said uncomfortably.
“So, uh. Right. I should take you to Giles. He’ll want to know about this.” Dark eyes now looked very uncomfortable. “Spike, do you—do you know who I am?”
“You don’t. Okay, well, I’m Xander. Do you know who you are?”
“I am Jack,” he answered easily, already anticipating the bliss of following orders. “I am whatever you desire. I belong to Kane.”
Xander choked, coughing roughly, pounding on his own chest. Spike immediately caught the twitching body and held it firmly while the spasm eased. This handler was so warm, heat burning through their combined layers of clothes. He rubbed a broad back soothingly, wishing he had permission to touch skin instead of cotton cloth. This handler smelled so good—
“And that is possibly the scariest thing you’ve ever—are you rubbing my back?”
“Okay, that’s enough. We are going to Giles. He can deal with you. Come on.”
Spike followed obediently, but he was nervous; going to ‘Giles’ implied that he would not be going home. Kane would be there to inspect him in less than an hour and if Spike was not there, Kane would be very upset.
When Kane was upset, Spike hurt.
He said nothing as he was led to an old, beat up car. Seating himself in the passenger seat, he tried to remember if he could do or say anything in this situation. The boy was muttering to himself, now, about things Spike didn’t understand: crazy vampires and know-it-all watchers. He did understand the comments about hookers and tricks—those were frequent topics when he was being transported.
They drove silently for almost fifteen minutes—in the opposite direction. “What is it, Spike?” the boy finally snapped.
“Please, Sir, it hurts.” This was wrong. He needed to go home before Kane arrived, to be ready to present himself. He had to, the pain already building along his spine, radiating across his skin.
“Yeah, well, we’ll be back at Giles’ soon,” was the not at all soothing response. It was meant to be, Spike could tell that, mixed in with discomfort and reluctance. But he was hurting and the only way he knew how to stop the hurting was. . .
“Please, Sir,” he said again, sidling along the seat. A direct order could—and would—stop him, but in the absence of those orders he had a limited amount of freedom.
“I told you not to call me that,” the young man growled in a way that was echoingly familiar. “We need to get to Giles.”
Spike moved even closer. He knew that this was wrong and that he’d be punished for the presumption. This handler had repeatedly denied interest in using him, despite how aroused he was. It wasn’t an attempt to play coy, either, not with the amount of nervousness and innocence Spike could read in sweaty palms and tapping fingers. But he hurt. And no one could turn him down, once he started making them feel good.
Mutters were the only sounds as they drove through the small business district before entering the freeway. Spike gave a brief glance behind him, towards Kane and the black-haired girl who tasted so sweet, but he didn’t have orders to come home—merely tradition and the specter of Kane’s early morning inspections. His orders were to obey and to please, both of which he was doing.
Watching his handler settle into his seat more, Spike surmised they would be on the deserted freeway for some time. Perfect. His careful shifting, leaving his body centimeters away from the young man, had been noticed but not yet commented on.
His left hand slid onto jean-covered legs and began to knead.
“I’m not going to be one of your johns.” The words were quiet, lacking the manic energy from before. Spike was a little disconcerted by the change, but he felt no pain. If there was no pain, then there was no reason to stop.
“No, Sir. You are a handler.”
“A handler,” the word contained such loathing and disgust that Spike almost recoiled. Not quite, though; the pain was growing too quickly. “And what does a handler do?”
“They take me where I am supposed to go.” Careful movement up near hipbones and a bulge that Spike was desperate to taste.
“So they don’t pay for you?”
“No, Sir,” he said. His lower body began a slow slide across the seat, moving so that he was optimally placed.
“I told you not to call me that. Shit. William the Bloody calling me ‘sir’ and—oh, god.” The car swerved violently when Spike’s gentle massage traveled up to knead something more. . . responsive. “Oh, my god.” The boy was breathing harshly, now, face flushed, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he forced the car to behave while he was expertly stroked and fondled through his pants. “D-do you do this f-for all your h-h-handl-lers?”
Spike sank a little lower, body now fully stretch across the seat. “If they wish it,” he breathed, making sure the shirt was rucked up enough that sensitized skin would feel the cool air. He could feel this handler’s turmoil: the mental desire to push away, but the overpowering physical desire to stay right where he was. Spike chose to concentrate on the physical, reveling in the growing arousal as his own pain faded into nothing.
“So long as I am not marked,” he explained as the first button was eased open, “handlers are allowed to do as they wish.” The car was now careening down the empty road, unable to stay in a single lane as the driver’s erection was freed—
—and immediately inhaled.
“Oh, my god!”
Spike was aware of the car skidding to a stop but concentrated instead on working throat muscles around the hard flesh he’d swallowed. This young man was painfully erect, like he hadn’t come in days, and Spike’s experience told him that a quick orgasm now would lead to at least one leisurely one immediately afterwards. If they were going to go to this ‘Giles’ and away from Kane, Spike needed to keep the pain at bay.
Fondling a heavy sac, Spike sucked harshly, denying himself the taste of precum in favor of coaxing out the orgasm that boiled within. The handler babbled above him, nonsensical words that were too chaotic to form commands. Hands, work roughened and smelling of sawdust and plaster, twisted in his hair, pulling on the close-cropped locks but to Spike, it was not pain. There was never any pain so long as he gave pleasure, no matter what the handlers or clients might do to him.
When Spike felt the balls he played with begin to rise and tighten, he immediately swooped down so that the entire length was deep within his mouth and throat. The pain had faded with the first gasp from above him, but he refused to allow himself to become lost in the growing pleasure. That could happen later, when he was far from Kane and needed the escape. For now, though, he wanted this handler to orgasm, wanted him to feel the intense pleasure Spike knew he could offer.
Swallowing repeatedly, he waited for the telltale hitch in words and breath. When it came, he raised himself up so that only the head remained engulfed and sucked. Hard. One hand wrapped around the pulsing shaft to jack it furiously, still kneading at the sac; he wanted to taste this, needed to taste it.
The handler screamed when the orgasm finally hit, jerking mindlessly as his body released itself. Spike swallowed as quickly as he could, unwilling to lose a single drop of cum that tasted like the ruby liquid the dark-haired girl gave him. It tasted like pure sunshine and silly affection and something he didn’t know he craved until it coated his tongue and his throat. He never needed to taste anything else again, because this was all he’d ever want. . .
“. . . wake up, Spike, you have to wake up!”
The command jerked him back to awareness, a jagged note of pain rippling his skin when he realized the command had been given before and he had not immediately obeyed.
“Are you awake? Answer me!”
“Yes, Sir,” he said slowly, pulling away from the half-hard cock he hadn’t released when he’d passed out. “I’m awake.”
“Good.” Large hands grabbed his shoulders and threw him to the other side of the car. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?” the handler snarled. Dark eyes snapped in the dimly lit confines of the car, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the anger and confusion thick in air that smelled of male musk and cum. “Answer me, dammit!”
Spike curled into the seat, whimpering as he waited for the blows. Only Kane was ever this angry with him and Kane hurt him. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he said with as much strength as he could. Already, he could feel the pain spreading down into his spine, radiating along nerves and veins to make his skin sizzle. “Forgive me,” he begged, “forgive me.”
Silence was his only reply.
After a moment he uncurled enough to see his handler sitting motionless in the driver’s seat. Pants still undone, boxers still yanked down to expose him to the night air. Angry. But more than angry—frightened.
Spike didn’t understand the fear, didn’t understand why he wasn’t being punished. Obviously, he’d done something wrong—that meant punishment. If he was lucky, sometimes the ones punishing him would enjoy it, but Kane knew about that. Did Kane know about this? He hadn’t meant to do anything wrong, but it had hurt, hurt so much. Not knowing if he was obeying or not, because this handler was so strange and it had hurt!
“Hey, hey!” He flinched away from the hands that reached for him, burrowing against the door. Senseless, keening noises were coming from his own throat, but he didn’t know how he started them let alone how to stop them. “Calm down.”
Orders he knew. Forcing his body to calm, he swivelled until he was seated properly. Turning expectantly to his handler, he waited for more.
Eyes still black from orgasm and anger blinked at him, patently surprised by the instant obedience. “O-kay. Let’s start from the beginning, all right? Who are you, what are you, and what the hell you just did.”
“I give pleasure.” When blinking turned into a raised eyebrow and an expectant expression, Spike understood that this handler wanted details. All of them.
So he told him.
Twenty minutes later, Xander sat in his seat, completely stunned. “It makes you feel—good?” Spike nodded, not really understanding the ‘it’. “Buffy—Buffy has to know this; that the chip isn’t just a ‘No, No, Bad Spike’-thing but a. . . oh, god.” Sounds of scrabbling and the door popped open just in time for Xander to vomit.
Training took over and Spike was instantly beside the heaving body, holding it until the spasms passed. When Xander abruptly pushed him away, Spike whimpered and curled up by his door, again. This handler didn’t like him. He was bad. Bad meant punished.
The pain started again.
“Spike? What—it hurts? It hurts now? But you didn’t hurt me! I just wanted you to—” Xander wiped his mouth and shut the car door. “Answer my questions, Spike,” he began carefully. “Are you hurting because I pushed you away? Because I hurt you?”
“No, Sir.” Bad, he was bad. He wasn’t supposed to call this handler Sir, yet he’d said that so many times. But it was habit and instinct and Kane had told him that he had to call clients ‘Sir’ and ‘Ma’am’ unless they had other names they preferred. Except handler’s weren’t clients. . .
“Okay, not because I hurt you. Think. Come on, think. I can do this. Where’s Willow when you need her? And how am I going to explain this? Hey, guys, sorry to disturb you at four in the morning but I was doing this favor for my friend. What favor? Well, let’s not get into that, but while I was trying to help him out, I found Spike. He’s a little different then before. How you ask? See, there’s kinda this whole needing to—oh!”
Face lit up in surprise, Xander turned back to give Spike a long, measuring look. “If you make me feel good, that means you feel good, right? Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You are going to come here and, um, massage my hand and arm, okay? That’ll make me feel good, and you feel good, and everyone’s happy. Okay?”
Nodding slowly, Spike slid back across the seat to take the hand pushed out towards him. Cautiously, unsure of what was being asked, he began to press and knead skin turned hard from life and work. Calluses offered resistance as he tried to make tense muscles relax and go slack.
The car started, pulling back onto the road as Spike concentrated exclusively on the flesh offered to him. This was good, he decided dazedly. Better if he could suck on the cock that tasted so good, or even ride it, better to be working for an orgasm, but this was good too. Xander enjoyed this and that kept the pain mostly away. Spike closed his eyes and lost himself in the feel of warm skin and tough, strong muscle underneath it.
“I never thought I’d say this,” Xander said, as the car pulled into the driveway leading to an apartment complex, “but we’ll fix you, Spike. I promise we’ll fix you.”