Show Me
"Show me."
Spike hesitated for a single moment. They´d played games, sure, but this was different. This was more. This would cross a line they hadn´t crossed yet, for all the ageless vampire had crossed it hundreds of times before. Eyes darker than the night sky gazed at him steadily, light shattering against them to add spangles of stars to the depths. Xander wanted this.
He stripped quickly, stitches popping as he yanked and tugged and finally bared all of himself to Xander´s unwavering gaze.
"Sit."
He thumped onto the chair before his brain processed the command. It didn´t need to, not anymore. The heat in Xander´s eyes hard–wired Spike´s body, transferring control of it out of Spike´s grasp. Thank god.
"Spread your legs."
His knees felt yanked apart, the skin of his inner thighs shivering in the sudden breeze. Spike´s shoulders went back, arms hanging loose and ready for whatever would be asked of them. He felt exposed, an object kept only for display. His cock, already hard, grew longer still.
"Show me."
A repeated command, but the intonations were different. Intimate. This wasn´t ´stop covering up what´s rightfully mine´. This was something much, much darker, flowing through the calm of Xander´s voice like heated caramel, sweet and sticky and burning to the touch. Slowly, so slowly, Spike drew the fingers of his left hand along the inside of his thigh. The touch was icy, a reminder that this wasn´t Xander´s flesh but his own. Dead–touch. Reaching the join, Spike curled his hand, drawing it back until his balls were cupped and hidden. Then sliding it even further back, he tilted it down and out to hold and push, presenting smooth flesh for Xander to examine.
"Good."
Pleasure slid along nerves set aflame. God, for that word, Spike wasn´t sure what he wouldn´t do. It wasn´t just letters strung into recognizable patterns. It was the undercurrents, still sticky–dark and rich, layered with approval and pleasure that were both laced with pride. Possessive pride, at a trick successfully completed. It was degrading, humiliating, and Spike loved every moment of it.
No words this time, but Xander´s ´go ahead´ motion was unmistakable. Play, then. Spike let his thumb rub over skin oiled for smoothness, nerves left tingling in its wake. Pressing against the crease, flesh standing distended on either side, he let the air caress his skin. Pheremones heated with Xander´s slow, steady breathing set nonexistent follicles to rise, flesh turning bumpy as the need to shiver nearly overwhelmed him. Only when he couldn´t stand it anymore did he stop, grasping the sac in his fist and giving it a firm tug. He couldn´t stop his moan. Or the wet that smeared across his belly, cooling almost instantly.
Xander´s smile sent shadows crawling across his face. It sharpened his features, darkened his eyes, and made him seem cruel. Distant and cold, for all the heat he expelled like a furnace. Commanding. Spike felt himself growing weak at the sight, so similar to the one he didn´t want, but still sometimes craved.
"Harder."
His fingers immediately closed, pinching, before they tugged down with short, sharp yanks that grew longer as Xander´s heat grew stronger. Spike heard himself breathing, harsh gasps that whined through his nose on every exhale. He opened his mouth, trying to stop the sound, but that only let the moans out–breathless, gasping things, pitched too high and full of need Spike would never have otherwise voiced.
"Good."
Spike whined as he relaxed his hold around his balls, taking the word as both praise and a request to stop. He didn´t want to stop. It had just started to hurt, just reached that first plateau of spice–edged pain that he dreamt of. Tried to duplicate it himself, but this took the presence of someone else to truly achieve. Someone who wanted that hurt. Gave it the heat that left his lips tingling when he licked them.
"Your cock."
The word was crude. The tone was caressing, wrapping around his cock almost before his hand did, stroking with nails that cut and made him bleed. He groaned again, the sound floating on the air, echoing as he did as he was told. He felt hot–fingers, cock, he didn´t know which–and the shock of feeling what shouldn´t be there drew out another sound. His eyes nearly rolled back as pleasure overwhelmed him.
"Good. Now stroke."
Cat–like satisfaction lapping at cream in that voice. Had he known that Xander would be so good at this? The right amount of cruel and even crueler kindness, the words and touches perfectly placed to draw the hurt to the surface where it could be admired, oil–slicks on bumpy gravel. Spike didn´t know and at this point, didn´t care. He stroked, dry skin almost painful until his own precome was gathered and spread, easing the path.
"Pull it back."
It was foreskin. Spike knew that without being told, watching where Xander´s eyes rested, the spot radiating heat as if a glance were a touch. He spread the web of his hand around the thinner skin, drawing it down. The exposed head glistened. Returning to the previous command, Spike stroked and tugged once more. He was careful not to let the foreskin roll up, covering the place Xander seemed to like watching the most. His gaze was direct, predatory, and made Spike hotter than his own constantly moving hand.
"You look good like that. Exposed. A toy on display for me."
Spike´s jaw lowered, air rasping over his tongue to sting his throat. Three sentences. Twelve words. And Spike was as desperate to come as if he´d been worked over by a professional for hours. He swallowed back whimpers of need. He wouldn´t beg; not unless Xander wanted him to.
"Harder."
Gears shifted in Spike´s arm. His hand clamped tighter as it moved faster, pulling up red–marks that would´ve been bruises on a human. He didn´t look away from Xander. Couldn´t. His eyes didn´t hold stars, anymore. They held universes, sun burst and black holes, drawing Spike into their depths and holding him prisoner. The chains he made himself.
"For me."
Spike´s resolve broke, the whimper bursting free. He wanted to beg Xander–for more, for release, he didn´t know which. He´d beg for Xander. A single touch would push him over now. Just one, the smallest bit of heat, the tiniest taste of salt and skin and he´d become a geyser, Old Faithful, perfectly regulated to the beating of Xander´s heart, or the deep, ragged breaths he took. He continued to stroke, jerking himself for Xander´s pleasure. He knew it was a pretty show, his hand pale and almost yellow against the red of his cock. The slit dilating as precome leaked over his knuckles. The way his chest heaved with unneeded breath, nipples peaked and pointing towards Xander. Each muscle distended, perfectly sculpted, all Xander´s. Everything was Xander´s. In this moment or any other, so long as he didn´t stop looking at Spike like that: cruel and confident, darkly mysterious. Smugly pleased that his most recent acquisition would do as it ought, perfect and treasured. And so cruel, the single curve in his left cheek, brought about by the tiniest smile, creating a dark cavern that held the remorseless drive to make Spike do more, hurt more, be more. For Xander.
"Come."
He almost missed the word. His body, however, heard and responded. Rushing filled his ears, body jerking as he stroked even harder, even faster, hating every nanosecond it took from the moment Xander spoke to that final, aching moment when everything stopped–and Spike finally came.
"Good."
Spike didn´t know how long he hung there, covered in spunk, head back, eyes closed. Xander´s praise made him aware of time again, the rush of the world drowning out the surf pounding within his ears. He smiled, drunkenly, certain that he´d pleased Xander. How could he not? Xander was puppet master now.
"Lick it clean."
He gathered up the traces of his release, fingers dripping with it. Pinky and ring finger were clean before he saw the way Xander looked at him–disappointed yes, but amused. Spike knew how to make himself pretty for worthy audiences.
"Lick this clean."
Down. Down he looked, following Xander´s hand as it went from collarbone to navel to rest against jeans. Darkened jeans, damp with–
Spike dove. Scrabbling at a zipper already undone, he didn´t stop to wonder how he´d missed this. He didn´t care. Offending clothes were pushed down, not totally gone before he began greedily sucking at the traces not carried off by cotton. If he was good, truly good, then his efforts would be noticed. They were. Balls clean, Spike returned his mouth to an erect cock, desperate for the reward he loved best.
Hands crept into his hair, twisting the strands into elflocks. Big hands, warm and solid gripped and pulled. Spike whimpered again, moving his tongue faster. If he was... he knew he was...
"Good."
The End
