Part 2



He came to slowly, his body still working while his mind had been—gone.  Squeeze and thrust and rock and squeeze.  Harsh breathing bathed the back of his neck in humid bursts, hands still scrabbling at his sides as he was used.  Unconcerned about his body’s movements, he tried to place what exactly had happened.  He could smell come—his own and a human’s—but the frantic, jerky motions behind him seemed to indicate a desperate need for relief not yet found.

Again?  Biting back a grin, he started thrusting back harder, fiercer, muscles clenching with a vampire’s strength.  Again.

“Fuck, yeah,” was gasped into his back.  “Fucking cunt.  Such a goddamned whore.”

He moaned in answer, wanting more words, more touches, more anything.  More everything.

The unlubed cock jack-hammered into his flesh, but any pain had long ago faded into the glowing, golden haze.  His body on autopilot, he lost himself to the floating, shimmering warmth, the vivid, euphoric mist of pleasure.

It was good, here.  Timeless and good.

As warm human ejaculate coated his bleeding insides, his own body began to spend without a single touch.

When he came to again, he was being led into an office building.  Blinking dazedly, he tried to figure out what he’d missed this time.

Not that it really mattered.

“Jack?  Fuck it, he’s lost again.  Man, I wish I knew what this bastard does.”  He had to smile at that, a groggy little smile at the question that was routinely asked at the very least once or twice a night.  Usually by his handles, sometimes by his customers.  Everyone thought he was on some kind of drug, one that made him the perfect sexual partner in bed and a dazed, malleable mannikin when he wasn’t.

A woman’s voice with a child’s intonations whispered at him from the memories he could no longer really access, “Pleasure, my Spike.  Save your wicked tortures for your Princess; use pleasure and watch their minds shatter and break, crack and crumble upon the ground.  Play with them, my Spike, make them beg for you to hurt them just a little bit more.”

He was dimly aware that it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  That he was. . . different.  He knew he fed off a thick, ruby-red liquid that none of the other whores would touch, and sometimes he even remembered that he wasn’t precisely human.  Sometimes, when he woke up just as the sun set and was led to the bathroom by the pretty girl with the long black hair, he remembered that his name wasn’t Jack and he wasn’t a whore and he was supposed to be somewhere. . . ask someone something. . .

But then he’d kneel between the pretty girl’s thighs as the shower rained down on them and drink from her while she washed his hair.  Afterwards, while she dried and dressed him, he would remember nothing more than that pleasuring others was a good thing.

He was dressed in a suit, he noticed as they passed the security guard and climbed up several flights of stairs.  He was clean, too—his last customer had enjoyed covering him in white, stringy fluid and then laugh as he tried to lick himself clean—so a substantial bit of time had passed.  He held up his arms, admiring the black cloth against his own deathly pale skin.  The pretty girl with the black hair didn’t like his truly white coloring but said nothing when Kane came around.

He stumbled at the thought of Kane, shivering in remembered fear.  Kane liked for him to attack the tall, burly man, no matter how much he didn’t want to.  It hurt.  It always hurt, like icy blue stilettos pushing through his eyes and temple into his brain.  Kane scared him because Kane never wanted pleasure, just pain.

He didn’t like pain.

“Jack.”  He raised glassy eyes to look at the waist of his current handler—Kevin, he thought his name was.  Maybe.  The one that always smelled of saw dust and machinery.  Names were ephemeral things, but scents were still useful identifiers.  He studied the man’s cock through his jeans—already half-hard, just from being near him.  The dopey smile altered into something more predatory, a jolt of warmth edging through the cloud.

“Yes?” he purred, moving closer while his eyes never left the tightening jeans.  Handlers were allowed to use him if they wanted to—so long as it didn’t interfere with his next customer, anyway.  Some handlers came early to take him in their cars or against a wall, enjoying the virgin-tightness he returned to every single night.  Sometimes they got in trouble for this, since wealthy customers wanted to enjoy that unusual ability for themselves; dust-metal-oil-sweat rarely took him, though.  He wasn’t sure why.  He liked that smell, of sunlight and bodies that worked hard.

Kevin took a step back.  “This one’s a CEO on a long-distance conference call.  Don’t make a lot of noise, if you can.  He’ll tell you what he likes and doesn’t like.”  A gentle pat on his shoulder and Kevin was knocking on the door and taking himself back down the stairs.

He watched him go, wondering why he missed the scent of sunlight so much.

“Ah, very prompt.  Jack, they said your name was?”

Two seconds to study the middle aged man who opened the door.  Salt-and-pepper hair, a thin mustache on a hard, demanding face.  A suit cut to fit his aging, but still decently in shape body perfectly.  Grey eyes behind thin glasses, studying him equally as intently in a few quick flickers.

Submissive, then.  Demure, quiet, and obedient.

“Yes, sir,” he said, linking his hands behind his back and lowering his head to stare at the floor.

“Good.  You may call me William.  Follow me.”

He remained a proper one step behind, the purposeful stride only confirming what he’d initially guessed.  This one would give few instructions, little praise, and expect instant obedience.  That was okay; he didn’t need the client to tell him what to do, most of the time.  Once the initial confusion was passed, he knew what the client wanted because the better they felt, the better he felt.

“Would you like something to drink?”  The large office room was elegant and spartan.  A large desk dominated the room, covered with papers and a hightech computer. 

“No, sir.”

“Once the meeting starts, I will not wish to be interrupted.  If you wish something, you will have to get it yourself.”  That was interesting, he thought as he began stripping off the fine suit.  The client watched avidly, despite how economical his movements were.  Normally, refreshments were out of the question.  The cursory question was usually just that—cursory and without real meaning behind it.  This offer was genuine.  Should he want food or drink later—the well stocked bar and small refrigerator told him that many choices were available—he would be allowed to simply stand and get what he wished.

That kind of freedom was unusual.  He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“This call looks to be long and complicated.  I’d be grateful if you didn’t listen to anything that was said.”

“Of course, sir,” he said immediately.  He’d long ago perfected the art of hearing without listening, waiting for any comments that were actually directed at him.  “Where would you like me, sir?”  Dirty talk would be wasted on this one, especially once the call began.

“I’d like you to suck me.  Kane was quite effusive with your ability to last for a long time; was he lying?”

“No, sir.”  This would be good.  Hours and hours with a cock in his mouth, his untiring body pleasing his client and pleasing himself. . .   Yes, this would be very good.

“I also may ask you to ride me.  It depends on how frustrating the meeting is.  I will come frequently—please do not make a mess on my floors.”  Another interesting bit of freedom—if he didn’t want to swallow, was the implicit understanding—he did not have to.

Not that he wasn’t going to.

“Of course not, sir.”

“Undress me from the waist down.”  There was no teasing while he removed shoes, socks, pants, and underwear, folding them neatly and placing them on a nearby chair.  William didn’t want teasing.

“Now, I must sit at my desk.  Despite the late hour, it is conceivable that others will arrive—my vice president is due back from a trip and may stop in to say hello—so if you do not object, I would like you to be under the desk.”

That was a blatant lie, easily readable behind the thin lenses and the suddenly twitching cock, but there was no need to call him on the kink—the client would get what the client wanted.  After all, the better the client felt, the better he did.  Impassive, he slid his naked body under the dark-cherry wooden desk, crouching in the corner while William seated himself and grew comfortable.  There was a great deal of room underneath the desk and he could see that this was not the first time William had indulged this particular kink—a nicely sized pocket had been hollowed out of the desk, so that bobbing heads would not thump against the top of the desk.

That was noisy, after all.

“You may begin when you wish.”

Confused at the gesture of—was it respect?—he ignored the implicit choice and leaned forward.  Nuzzling into slightly spread thighs, he licked his way up to find an extremely hard cock waiting for him.  Smiling, already anticipating the bliss, he sank down and took it deep within his throat.

“Uhhhh.  How—how long can you do that?”

Swallowing and pulling back slightly, he said, “I can hold my breath a long time,” he said with just a hint of heat in his voice.  “If you wish it, Sir?”

Hands gripped his hair, forcing him back down so that his nose rested on crisp pubic hair.  He hardly moved, sucking lightly and tracing his tongue along the vein in an absent kind of pleasure.  He would have to lift up occasionally to take aid in the suction but otherwise. . .

“That. . . that’s good.”

He moaned lightly in agreement, knowing it would make the client even hotter, confident in his ability to give pleasure.

“Teach them, teach them, my Spike.  Teach them like my Daddy taught me.  Such beautiful music in their screams. . .I hear it calling me, my Spike.  Can’t you hear it?  Make them dance for me, my Spike.  Can you make them dance?  Around and around to make you happy, every thought on pleasing you.”

“I know how to make them scream, luv, but making them want it?  That’s—”

“Like my Daddy.  I miss my Daddy.  Can we go find him again?”

“Er, sure, Dru.  We can go find your Daddy.  I’ll bloody well stake him myself.”

“My Daddy made me love the pain.  Make them love you.”

“By hurting them?”

“No, silly Spike.  By pleasing them.  Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.  Every bit of salty life given is a bit that you can take.  Take it, my Spike.  Make them dance for Princess?”

For two and a half hours he knelt there, cock in his throat occasionally playing with the balls resting against a plush leather seat.  William came several times like that, never losing a bit of his erection.  One time William pressed a bare foot against his bare groin, rubbing lightly in the sticky cum there.

“You enjoy this?”  William was on hold.  True to his word, two people had come in and out; every time the door closed on their retreating backs, hands had grabbed his head to pull it roughly while cum filled his mouth.  That had been very nice, since he had had to do nothing but gently suck, yet the pleasure had been. . . intense.

William pushed him off, rolling the chair back slightly so that he could crawl out.  He immediately climbed onto William’s lap, rocking against the erection that hadn’t flagged once.  “Yes, Sir.”

“There’s lube in the drawer.”

Retrieving it, he quickly prepared himself and sank back down.

“Oh, god!  You’re a virgin!”

“No, Sir,” he contradicted, his arms straining as he raised and lowered himself in an awkward position.  He must have eaten during his lost time, that always made him heal faster.  “I am not.”

“God.  Oh, god.  You’re so tight.  Gonna have to—ask Kane for—you, again,” William panted.

Silent, he increased the tempo—slightly, the angle wasn’t good for him—arching back as the pleasure he gave William returned to him a hundred-fold.

“Sir?  Are you still there, Sir?”

            “Yes, Lucy, I’m here.”  William forced himself to concentrate, despite body riding him slowly, carefully.  The purpose here was not to get the client off as quickly as possible, nor to devise ways to torture through pleasure.  The client simply wanted something to distract him while he worked through the current business negotiation.  So movements were never fast, never loud, never more than a pleasant background sensation while the mind was occupied.

Of course, once the phone was hung up. . .

Cool, smooth hands grabbed him, pushing him back against the desk while the barely-felt returning thrusts became long, hard, and deep.  He moaned, exposing his neck and arching his back, barely aware that this would please the client.  His own cock was hard again and William grabbed the base of it, squeezing almost to the point of pain.  Thrashing under the silent command, he focused on what it did to William, to have this much control over him—

And the pain went away.

That was why he didn’t care to remember anything but how to please whoever was currently using him to get off.  He hurt people all the time—he knew he did, because each time he received a jolt that knocked him to his knees and left him panting for air he was certain he did not need.  The pain was searing, blinding, little blue shocks spiderwebbing through his mind.

The pleasure was healing balm for this pain.

He lost himself in bliss, free of pain and full of joy, knowing that he was making someone else happy.  Giving someone else pleasure.  Vaguely aware of William coming, he was jolted back to the present when a hot mouth settled over the head of his erection.

The hand at the base of his cock stroked up and then down again.

He screamed and blacked out.

“. . . to ask Kane for you again, Jack.  You were perfect—just like he said you would be.”  Dressed, he nodded dumbly as an envelope was handed to him and he was eased out the door.  Wondering again how much time had passed, he slowly climbed down the stairwell.

“Great.  Just great.  ‘Sure, Kevin, I’ll do you a favor.  That’s what buddies do, we help each other out’.”  A youthful, frustrated voice floated up to reach him.  “Of course, he’s paying me, but still.  Helping a friend.  Friendly, guy-type-thing for Xander to do.  I figure I help him move some furniture, maybe—I don’t know, whatever guys do.  Which I don’t know since I have no guy friends!”

One more flight.  He was considering not leaving by that exit and just returning home on his own—this handler was loud and seemed to be pacing a lot, and he could smell nervous fear.  That usually meant a brutal night was still ahead of him and he was tired and hungry after being with William for six hours.

“Dammit, Kevin, if I get bitten by a vampire because I’m out in the bad part of town at four in the morning without my stakes, I am so going to find you and bite you.  First on my list, that’d be you.  Then I’d go find Anya.  Oh, yeah, definitely biting her.  You’d think a former vengeance demon wouldn’t—”

He’s stopped by the doorway, fighting through the ever-present haze to make a rational decision about what he should do.  Standing with his muscles taut to keep the warm come in his cool body, he’s caught the scent of this new handler.

Saw dust.  Oil.  Machinery.  Wood.  Spicy-sharp scent that was water, but wasn’t.  Lingering perfume and a hint of a man’s cologne.  Sunshine.  Laughter.


The scent drew him outside before he’d fully decided to, mincing the last few steps when a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy looked at him with a pole-axed expression.


Part 3