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Untitled
Vibrater PWP Story


by
Lady Cat





And Xander's so hard he's about to cry and it's so good. And Spike just watches, smiling a little or maybe smirking, and then walks away until he feels like coming back and doing it again. And Xander hates it, the leaving, but he loves it too and wants it with a despeartion that scares him.

And everyone knows of course, not just how Xander's so hard the jeans look obscene and Spike poses him in the most obvious of ways, but because Xander isn't even trying to hide it anymore. He doesn't care, doesn't give a damn about anything but the thing pulsing and throbbing inside of him, warm when he's used to warmth only accompanying friction, and he wants Spike. His touch, his taste, his prescenece around him, reassuring him that this is what Spike wants, because that's what makes it okay. He doesn't try and remove the ring around his cock or rock on the seat to press the toy in deeper. He just sits like a good boy until Spike tells him to move or look or say somethng, and then Xander's panting and groaning in agreement, body moving to comply before he can even nod to show he'd heard.

Spike's so casual about it, too. He does whatever Buffy's ordered him to do today, or whatever Giles says in that biting way that isn't an order except when you look at it closely. And then he'll stop, randomly, and come over to where Xander waits frozen and lifts him up from the seat, turning him around so Spike can press right there and Xander has to lock everything down to stop from coming. And not because the toy is pressing right on his prostate.

Eventually, Spike gets bored of the back and forth and pulls Xander over with him, pushing him face down into Spike's lap, ass raised and visible to everything and one. Spike rests his book there, occasionally shifting it with a muttered curse about little boys with fat arses and that only presses and rubs even more and Xander can't breathe he's so turned on and if doesn't come soon he's going to explode, to burst into a thousand pieces, and he knows that's what Spike wants. So he makes his hands fists and bites his lip until it bleeds and he ignores the way he's just a book rest for Spike to use whenever he wants, and that he's wearing a shirt so see-through he knows Dawn can see his nipples and shorts so short he looks practically naked, pushed over like this.

And he wants it. Wants all of it, craves it as much as Spike craves to give it, and they think he's addicted, just a junky riding his bleached-blond pony and they'll never understand how it's always been there, this need, and Spike just set it free. Spike's the one who's addicted, to the way Xander tries to be so good but never quite manages it. And the blow jobs Xander's still learning how to do, because he's human and has to breathe, and he'd never given any at all before Spike, and still isn't quite sure if Spike's humoring him. He knows Spike's addicted to the thrill of control, he knows because that's how he convinced Spike in the first place.

Showing up in a robe and a little bit of leather, kneeling beside a cold coffin in the dark, waiting for Spike to do something even if it was just yell at him. Because Xander was tired of the hints and the subtle requests, tired of the surprised looks, and the hints of disbelief, and he wanted. So he went and he waited and when Spike rolled over to look at him, Xander didn't look up. He didn't do anything at all until Spike ordered him to, and that was when the light switched. That's when hands that neverevernever trembled as they touched him for the first time, tracing over skin that was warm and yielding, and Xander knew that this was what he wanted and he wasn't going to ever let it go.

He coudln't stifle the cry when Spike smacked him, not hard, just enough to show that Spike knew his mind was wandering and not where it was supposed to be. He shifted his hips a little in apology, rubbing against the erection underneath his hips. "Do you have to do that?" Giles demanded, stuffy and prissy-disgusted and not admitting that Xander hadn't seen him quietly slip away to jack off, the first few times. "This is a place of business."

"After hours," Spike dismissed, his hand coming down again, harder. "Did I say you could do that?" he asked Xander. "Didn't, did I?" And no one but Xander can know that Spike's so gleeful underneath the disdain, a kid visiting toy's r us for the very first time, all wide-eyed and stunned at the vastness of possibilities before him. So many things he can do to Xander and so few of them hindered at all by the chip, and Xander has to prevent himself from wiggling with glee, knowing that he'll do anything, be anything so long as Spike doesn't stop pushing him against walls and shoving a vibrator up inside him expressly for the humiliation they both need.

Buffy always looks cold around the eyes when she sees them together, and Willow looks sad and a little disturbed, but Xander can't see anything except a really crappy floor-job and a dust bunny about to eat his head. He doesn't say sorry to Spike's pronouncement or wiggle in anticipation, even though he is. It's been two days since he's come last, the longest Spike has made him stay hard yet, and it's starting to push so far past the 'good' stage that he's afraid he's going to do damage. But Spike knows that, too, because there are always questions---backhanded, dimissive, unimportant questions---to make sure that it never goes farther than Xander wants. Xander's never had enough to go too far, yet, and he sin't going to stop now.

Spike brings his hand down hard on the back of Xander's thigh, studying the red imprint thoughtfully afterwards. Sharp exclamations from the girls only made Spike rub at the base of the vibrator again, so casual in his control that only Xander can feel how hard he is and how much the leg that's holding most of Xander's weight is trembling. Then all thoughts disappear as a slap and vicious shove are done simultaneously, and Xander isn't going to come yet, he isn't, definitely isn't, won't let himself, won't. And Spike grinning above him like a weasal, the bastard, his hands playing over Xander's body like a flute, cool and precise and practiced, and now he really is crying in frustration and pain and that's bad, because as soon as the girls see, or Giles, they'll misunderstand and take him away and that's the last thing he wants.

But Spike knows, or sees, it doesn't matter what, no longer touching Xander at all because he knows even the softer, comforting touches are too much now, so he waits hands totally off until Xander gets a hold of himself. Then Spike's moving, so fast that Xander just barely has time to blink before he's outside, humid air a vise around his skin, squishing his insides, and he's afraid they're going to burst no matter how hard he tries to make them behave. And Spike is there, this time with gentle hands that push him towards an alley and a wall they've been against many times before, pushing Xander down so he's bent double and scrabbling to grab ankle or dirty hard ground, which ever doesn't scrape his nails the hardest or make him bleed. He stands there, blood whistling under his skull and throbbing under his temple while Spike pushes the level up the audible-buzzing and then presses again, hard, harder, hardest until Xander's sobbing with need, not caring that his punishment will keep him from sitting for a month if not worse, because that's good too, but he has to come. He has to, or the pressure is going to make him implode since it could explode.

He squeaks when a hard cock is thrust against his backside, running over the ridge between buttock and thigh, a grasping hand squeezing over his bits until the chip kicks in, far later than it should since Xander is gasping and panting and seconds away from falling into unconsciousness. He's crying like a baby and doesn't know or care enough about the salt, entire being focused on the cock under his thigh and then hands pressing in from both sides. He's begging, he thinks, words probably not very good english as he tries to say "please" without saying "please". Tries to indicate that this is good, this is great, but it's almost too much and please, he'd like to use them tomorrow and the next day.

"Such a pretty thing," Spike says, wondering and casual and Xander almost comes again, digging in with fingers and toes. He nearly shouts when the fly is undone, each buttong painstakingly opened in this awkward position, until Spike can finally get his fingers around the cold metal ring cutting into warm flesh. "This the problem, is it?" he asks cruelly, and Xander loves him for, needs him for it, but god, not now, please not now, not while it hurts so much. "Two days isn't so long. Gonna work you up to at least four."

And Spike has to know what those words are doing to him because he undoes the ring with a deft flick of his fingers, his other hand still working the vibrator at top speed, in and out, and Xander is going to die. Spike's going to kill him, he knows it, and he's going to die with a grin on his face. . .

"Come."

Crack of a start pistol and Xander screams like he really is dying, pleasure so intense it's more than just fire, it's lave and napalm and thorny-edged peace all rolled up into an agonizingly tight ball, and he comes all over everything, pumping so hard his balls feel flattened by the time they're done spasming and Xander knows he's never getting up again, at least not until next week, or maybe later.

His body is gummy-worm loose and Spike poses him so his head is upright--rush of clarity and all the colors look brighter--and his feet are sort of moving correctly, his body leaning heavily against Spike's. They end up back at the apartment, vibrator still in Xander's ass, now stark naked since he kept tripping on his jeans and Spike didn't want to be inconvenienced by having to pull them back down again, so he's completely naked when Spike pushes him against the wall, grinding into his ass even as his fingers searched for the small knob, flicking it on to the lowest setting and Xander's groan is a tearing, ripping thing in his throat, and his cock starts to fill again.

"Can't get enough of you," Spike whisperes, aching and needy the way Xander always seems to be. And Xander knows what to do now, knows how to arch and moan and give Spike a coy look beneath his lashes, and keep him here, always here, but Xander can't lose this. If only because he didn't know how Spike would survive without a Xander to focus his attentions on, a funnel for the rage and the hate and the love and the need that Spike could barely admit to himself, let alone others.

Blunt teeth nipped at his shoulders and Xander ground his ass backward, making sure Spike's dick was pressed against the base, not because he wanted to feel it deep inside him, but because Spike needed to feel it, and it was Spike's needs, Spike's wants that dictated everything, even the ones Spike would never admit to needing and wanting. So he rubbed and groaned until Spike grabbed him hard enough to leave bruises and painted his backside white and wet, teeth clamped on the back of Xander's neck like a naughty puppy.

And then Spike started rubbing again, regaining his composure in some weird time-flux moment, because he wasn't and then he was and suddenly he was reading the news paper, Xander once again in his lap, fingers toying with the vibrator carelessly. "What've you thought about milking?" he asked randomly, fingers skating over the bruises recently made.

Milking? Pushing past images of cows and then breasts, Xander tried to place the odd term. When he finally got it, though, he went rigid with lust and fear and that made Spike laugh, like he knew it would, and Xander wanted that more than anything because then he could go days, weeks and live only as Spike would bid him, and then he knew that Spike would never leave, not with such a wonderful toy to play with.





The End





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