He’d twisted around during the night, his hands still bound behind him, one arm crushed between his weight and the chair, while metal cuffs anchored him to the floor.  Why the chains had been so readily available had been disturbing on levels that didn’t bear close examining.  Good little girls, even those with supernatural destinies, should not be able to procure extensive sets of manacles nor handle them with such ease.

Too bad it hadn’t stopped at merely ‘disturbing’.  To find only ‘disturbing’ so early in the night should have been a clue that ‘surreal’ and ‘hair-raising’ were lurking about, waiting for their entrance.

Whining and bitching hours before sleep had resulted in the removal of the torn black shirt and the gift of too-large sweat pants.  Pants which had slipped their way down past pale, narrow hips to rest loosely over thighs.  Every twitch brought them a little lower, driving sanity further away with ever millimeter exposed..

Faint light snuck in around windows and doors, the yellow street-lamps giving just enough illumination that shapes were fuzzily distinguishable.  Anything wet glistened. 

It wasn’t the light, though, the way it moved and broke, reforming to dazzle a beat later.  It wasn’t even the smell, thick and heavy as it gained in competition against mildew and dust.

It was the sounds.

Low, desperate sounds, almost falsetto in their urgency, over and over again to the rapid cadence of a heart that did not beat.  Sounds that were animalistic, frustration driving higher functions into deep recess while instinct clutched tighter and tighter.  The sounds of something cornered and trapped and so very desperate for whatever it was desired.

Soon the ‘sh, sh’ of fabric rubbing harshly on vinyl joined the sounds.

Sanity edged its way out the door, ushered by the sights and the smells and the sounds.

Creeping to the edge of the bed, two eyes remained focused on the scintillating light, a beacon in the maelstrom of scent so strong it drenched the room.  Hands twitched but did not move, supporting warm weight they wanted to be free of.  Images flashed through a fevered mind, and abruptly a head moved, shaking violently to dismiss the vivid instructions.

Except they weren’t actually being dismissed.

Thud, thud, thud.  One heart beat in furious rhythm to the shush, shush, shush of smooth skin and soft fleece on shiny slick vinyl.  It wouldn’t be so horrible to touch, would it?  There were benefits, after all.  Lots of benefits.  Really, there were.

The sounds broke for a moment, although the movements did not, leaving utter stillness in their wake.  The sound of quick panting grew acidic in the abrupt silence.  Just as suddenly the sounds returned, louder this time, and the movements took on a more frantic edge.  The desperation climbed higher and higher and suddenly it was obvious.  What had to be done.  It wasn’t about right or wrong, good or bad.

Just want.  And need.

There were no instructions from mind to limbs, just the knowledge that kneeling on the cold concrete, pressed up against a chair that looked grey but was red in sunlight, was a good thing.  One trembling hand moved through the darkness to trail fingers in the glittering light’s refractions, feeling wet and warmish though the skin.  The low whimpers became a gasp.

“Please. . .”

Freezing at the quiet, mumbled word, body stretched out just enough to touch the slumbering figure trapped in metal and vinyl.  The voice was different, higher, softer; the signature accent mutated into something posh and refined.

The change were intoxicating.  To hear that voice again, that begging whimpering voice, just one more touch couldn’t hurt. . . could it?

Movement, faster now, under the lingering fingers, so much that air stirred from it, creating coolness where there should be none.  The brief thought that this frantic lunging was the most fruitless of all actions, driven by a mind that truly was unaware of what the body did.  The incessant working against frictionless air, the tireless body unable to bank on pain or exhaustion to impel a different position.

It would take just one movement, tight muscles pulling just a little to make the actions much more. . . rewarding.

But the smooth, long muscles that were fuzzy outlines in the dim light didn’t have to move, now.  Not now.  Because the tips of fingers had become their entirety, the calloused ridges curled beneath coming into play.

“Yes, god, please.  There.”

The constant movements from the chair did not gain speed, but seemed somehow to become harder.  Deeper.  Stronger.  The shushing sound was drowned out by the scrap and suck of rough on sticky wet.


Muscles contracted, bringing palm flush with silky, sticky skin, squeezing against a bumpy vein. . . just a little.  Disjointed thoughts circled around incredulous disbelief into detached curiosity.  Both sets of actions were inexplicable, and despite a more than passing acquaintance with the phenomenon of inexplicable, this time it did not rest easy.  The first motions could be ascribed to instinct—dreams were powerful motivators, a slumbering body unresistant to hidden whims.

The second, however, had to be more than just morbid curiosity.  That would have resulted in watching. . . not touching.  Not moving so flushed, sweating skin could rest against cool vinyl, poised above and behind the twisting jerking body, yet still able to comfortably allow one hand to remain exactly where it had started.

“Please. . . more.”

The brush of something cold jolted attention out of vexing concepts—into a more distressing understanding.  The light was just enough that pale round things were seen, white inches from flushed pink, moving in tandem with the never ceasing twitches.  Instead of going ‘up’, however, these went ‘in’, and ‘back’.

Memory surged, a conversation facilitated by burning harsh liquid, and preferences established.  At the time it had resulted in aversion and embarrassment, but the seed had been planted and ideas had already taken root.  

Ideas that screamed to be acted on.

Shifting weight onto a single hip was bad, so a leg was thrown over shivering thighs.  Straddled, but not touching, a second hand reached joined the first, concentrating on the wettest, stickiest part.  Stroking it, rubbing a single digit all over it.  The long, drawn out cry caused instant stillness.  “Please.  Please.”

Wet and sticky from nail to the second knuckle, the second hand reached around to find the place the ‘back’ and ‘in’ motions protected.  Slowly, very slowly, wetness was pressed against something so very tiny and delicate.

The tip slipped through.

“Yes, please.  God, please. . .”  The whimpers became tearless sobs and for the first time awareness showed something else that glittered and danced in the light.  Breathy moans became nonstop movements, ragged under dual pressure.

Tight, ringed pressure around the first knuckle.

“Harder, please, please, harder.  Please!”

It wasn’t a demand.  A demand. . . would have made an odd kind of sense in the deep, rough voice that used to inspire fear and dread.  In this voice, mewling high and elegant, it was a request.  A supplication.  A plea.  The despairing cry of need for something that would not come.  Not without help.

The pressure stopped just above the second knuckle.  Without any further prompting, an additional bit of movement allowed cool air to touch a recently released first knuckle.  It then sank back into tight, squishy coolness that grabbed at it as it moved a third time.

“Another.  Please, more.  Fuck me. . .”

“Am.”  The word was rough, gruff from a throat full of things best left ignored.  The desperate sounds grew worse.


“When I want.”  In and out and squeeze and up and down and twist.  Another sound of longing and a laugh bubbled up from no where.  “When I want—not before.”

If anything, the sounds increased at the edge within the words.  “Yes.”

“Do you want more?”


“More of what?  Harder?”  Squeeze, tight and hard, provoking a cry muffled into a padded vinyl arm.

“Yes.”  A breathy prayer of received forgiveness.  “That.”

            “Or more of this?”  Bone dry, still the second finger slid in easily, stretching further.  Aching knees gave out, weight lowering to rest on trembling muscle.  The groan of pleasure caught both unaware and the heavy muscle underneath tensed and moved.  Another groan, another twitch, silky hairs scraping on rough, smooth skin rubbing to the sounds of shush and scrap and squish.

“Yes.  Please!  More. . .”

Thrust in, thrust on, twist up and down with the remaining appendage.

“My choice,” was whispered into the heavy air, sliding into brains that could barely comprehend the meaning.  “Mine.”

“Yours.  Yours.  Choose.  Please choose.”  Archaic accent, familiar voice, utterly raw and defenseless.  Dependent.

“I choose. . .”  Stretch to accommodate another finger.  Increase pressure just enough that moans became gasps.  “Both.”


In and out.  Forward and back.  Up and down.  Three sets of movements, joined together, timed so that one caused the other.  Underneath it all was writhing and twisting, into and away from, enhancing the movements, driving them faster and harder and frantic.  The harsh sound of breathing, panted sobs, the clink of metal striking solid resistance, and the low constant begging for more.

Something was missing.  Rocking, a liquified mind attempted to voice the bubbling need.  “Whose?”




Savage twist of three digit, palm and fingers squeezing to pop the reddened head, provoking a scream, a cry of, “Master!”

Burning heat splashed against hip and thigh, lukewarm and sticky coating a clenched fist.

Awareness returned.  True awareness, and the dream state of need and want faded into aching shock and embarrassment.  A body scrambled off and away, a rickety wooden door slamming behind the retreat.

In the darkness, blue eyes opened wide, a twisted body stretching in contented relaxation, even enjoying the metal freezing into wrists and ankles.  Very nice, that had been.  And without too much prompting, either.

Spike smiled as he drifted back to sleep.

Part 2