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     Angel fell onto the bed as if he were a hawk diving from on high.

Spike instinctively retreated the few inches the remaining chain allowed, pulling vainly when the limit was reached but Angel, kneeling between his legs, grabbed his hips and pulled him back. Once Angel's hands touched him, Spike stilled like a rabbit fearful that the slightest motion might set the predator onto its heels. Angel caressed his abdomen, up his pecs, across his shoulders, and out his arms. Capturing his wrists, he slid them towards the headboard while pinning the pale, thin body under his own heavier, well-muscled mass. Spike felt himself respond to the constraining weight by trying to wriggle out from under it, but Angel's position between his outspread legs made that impossible even if Angel had not had the superior strength. Angel kissed him, not deeply but passionately: a kiss designed to inflame ardor rather than quench it.

There was a part of Spike that resented this treatment, the part that had kept him from admitting his need for so long. If he could have overpowered Angel in that moment, his pride would have driven him to do so and run away, but as it was, he could only struggle ineffectually despite knowing that, like Angelus, it probably heightened Angel's need to possess him. Spike began to feel as if Angel's every touch burned him like dry ice: so cold it felt hot, sizzling as it froze. His resistance became frenzied, if no more effective, and eventually Angel pulled far enough back to look down on his face, grinning insufferably.

"Ye're a lively thing for bein' undead." He observed merrily. "I suppose askin' ye to lay still would be fruitless." Spike gave him a scathing glance but did not deign to answer.

"So be it." Angel replied amicably. "Remember, Childe, you brought this on yourself."

Before Spike could so much as frame a reply, Angel went into game face and sank his fangs deep into Spike's neck, effortlessly reclaiming the exact spot he had left scarred over a century ago. He pulled great draughts of blood from Spike's veins, reveling in the richness and the emotional connection that accompanied it. Spike moaned, low and helpless; occasionally managing to frame it in something like the word "Sire" but mostly just making sounds of desperate, fearful pleasure.

As Spike neared the point where he would lose the fight and slide into the blackness, he became frantic; he knew rationally that Angel would not drain him to dust, but the fear of slipping into the dark never to reawaken overwhelmed any sense of false pride that remained. He began to beg. "Please, Sire. Please, stop. I'll obey. Don't drain me. I'll do anything, just please . . . gift me with your blood. Sire? I beg you." Silence fell.

Angel withdrew licking his lips, sated in a way he had not been for almost a century. He noted that Spike had slipped into that otherworld where he was not quite unconscious but no longer able to speak. His eyes were vague and unfocussed but pled his case nonetheless. Angel opened his wrist and let the blood drip into Spike's parted lips. At first only Spike's throat worked, then as the elixir of his Sire's blood began to take hold, his tongue joined in to capture the drops that spattered outside his mouth. Angel continued to hold the source of Spike's revivification a few inches above his straining mouth, and eventually, his head rose far enough to fasten eagerly on Angel's wrist. Angel waited until the suction from each gulp was stronger then pulled his arm abruptly away.

Spike was now in a frenzy of desire for the life-giving properties of Angel's blood, but at the same time, he was infinitely too weak to even begin to try and take it. Just as he had known Angel would not drain him to dust, he knew that should the occasion arise, Angel would protect him in this weakened state, but once again reason had no effect on his survival instincts. Spike was prepared to do anything to be deemed worthy to receive more of his Sire's blood, and this was exactly where Angel wanted him to be: needy, weakened, and shameless . . . a portrait of vampiric desire.

Spike collapsed back onto the bed, weakened beyond resisting, knowing that Angel held all the power now and in fact always had. He met Angel's eyes evenly, letting his knowledge of his position freely show in his own eyes. Angel smiled down on him like some Old Testament god debating between wrath and largess, enjoying the very real submission of this wildest of his Childer beneath him. Spike was helpless beyond the point of denial and knew it. It was in every flicker of emotion that crossed his handsome face, every nervous lick of the lips, every tiny, sinuous movement meant to emphasis his desirability. Angel knew he wasn't going to hurt Spike . . . at least not much, but Spike, he realized, was in a world of uncertainty.

Spike knew what to expect of Angelus, but Angel, in most ways, was a blank slate as far as he was concerned. That epiphany made Angel smile all the more wickedly because unlike Spike, he still knew exactly which buttons this situation pushed in his childe's scarred psyche. A weakened, fearful and dependent Spike was an incredibly malleable, infinitely turned-on Spike; Angel was a cruelly happy vampire.

Spike looked up at Angel's face, seeing more of Angelus in his smile than he was accustomed to seeing; it made him nervous yet heightened his anticipation of whatever was to come. He watched Angel's face change, with a mixture of lust and trepidation. Usually, the ensouled vampire only took on his demonic aspect when he was angry, but Spike saw no anger in the golden amber of his Sire's true eyes this time. Angel manifestly sliced his tongue on a fang; Spike's mouth parted, and a small gasp of need escaped his lips in reaction. Angel sealed a kiss between them gently, and taking his cue from that pressure, Spike delicately sucked the coveted blood from Angel's tongue as it marked its territory in his mouth. Spike shuddered with the difficulty of controlling himself. There was nothing he wanted more than to seize Angel's head, sink his teeth into that bleeding invader, and claim back all the blood that had been taken from him.

There was also no other action that could cause him as much pain as succumbing to that impulse would give him. To his horror, Spike found that he was whining deep in his throat like a dog submitting to the alpha male: a pleading, abject sort of sound that arose from the struggle between his natural instincts as a predator and his survival instincts as the childe of a volatile and dangerous vampire. Suddenly, Angel shifted position so that their cocks, trapped between their bodies, rubbed up against one another. Spike's hips thrust back in response and the whine morphed into an appreciative moan that caused the seal of their kiss to be broken. Angel slid downwards: kissing and nipping along Spike's jaw and neck, licking his collarbone possessively, and heading erratically towards his already responding nipples. Spike's chest heaved uncontrollably, as if his lungs demanded a breath and moaned, "Angel," in a provocative manner.

Angel paused to savor the moment then alternated licking and biting a nipple, becoming gradually rougher until the skin was finally pierced enough to lick away the beads of blood that welled slowly to the surface. Spike was vocally appreciative of the increasingly rough play and stilled expectantly as Angel lapped across his breastbone to the other nipple. There was a lick and a breath that caused it to harden and contract, then a pause. Spike had a moment to anticipate a repeat of the gradual stimulation before Angel sank both fangs into Spike's pectoral muscle and harshly pulled a mouthful of blood from the wound.

Spike cried out in shocked agony, and before his mouth could close, Angel covered it once again. This time, feeding Spike his own blood, held in his Sire's mouth. Angelus had fed Spike mouth-to-mouth many times but always before with prey's blood. It surprised him how different his own tasted, compared to when it was filtered back through his Sire's bloodstream. Still, it was strong blood, and the intimacy of the act, combined with the surprise of the pain, had him rubbing and thrusting against his Sire's body as if his desire had remained unsated for ages rather than less than a day.

Angel closed a hand around Spike's throat and slowly squeezed. Once the action penetrated his consciousness, Spike, with some difficulty, stilled and warily turned his attention to Angel. The pressure relented once the movement stopped, and Angel's hand traced down the length of Spike's pale torso, coming to rest on his hip. Angel's index finger made small circling motions over the sensitive skin as he spoke.

"You are even more beautiful than when I made you, William. It pleases me what you have done with your body."

Spike swallowed to mask his nervousness. "Thank you, Sire," he responded tentatively.

"You're welcome, Childe. As a reward I am going to let you respond for the moment --not control, not initiate-- only respond. Do you understand?"

The relief flooded both Spike's body and his voice. "Yes, Sire. Thank you, Sire." He had quickly gotten used to the new equality of their sex life, and consequently, this return to the old rules was proving more difficult than he would have guessed.

Taking advantage of his permission, Spike let his hands come up to touch Angel's skin, sighing with evident satisfaction at the tactile pleasure.
Angel ruffled Spike's hair fondly, "Hedonist." He accused.
Spike smiled cockily, "I am as my sire made me," he remarked.

"That ye be, Lad. That ye be." Angel acknowledged.

Angel kissed him, and Spike kissed back; their arms entwined around each other, their bodies seeking to meld into the closest joining possible. Angel rolled onto his side; bringing Spike with him, and Spike marveled at how strong Angel felt as he effortlessly rearranged their bodies to suit his fancy. Angel reached between them and grasped Spike's eager shaft, stroking lightly. Spike arched into a bow of sensation at the mere touch. Laughing delightedly, Angel worked his childe nearer and nearer to release then stopped.

Spike, lost in the growing arc of pleasure, began supplying the movements to continue the stimulation once Angel became motionless. His hands, used to the weaknesses of other partners, dug into Angel's body trying to restart the desired caresses. Angel laughed with self-satisfied, humorless mirth.

"I thought you understood, Boy." He censured nastily.

Spike immediately released his grip on his Sire and once again became motionless.
"Forgive me, Sire. Got carried away, dinn' I? You feel so bloody good."

A little true humor crept back into Angel's laugh; that was the allure of this maddening childe, he touched the heart unerringly and with no strain.

"I think we cannot trust you to restrain yourself, Childe. So I will do it for you, yes?"

Heaving a sigh that was part pretense of annoyance and part relief at being understood, Spike gracefully placed his arms over his head. Angel locked a manacle onto one wrist then teased at the pulse point on the other waiting for the inevitable reaction. As the wrist, almost of its own volition, began creeping away from his fingers, Angel seized it; allowing Spike to struggle futilely against the steely confines of his fingers before slowly dragging the arm into place, he locked the other manacle down. It never failed that Spike, no matter how consensual the binding, resisted at that point. Neither did he ever fail to pull frantically at the bonds once Angel contained him. He inevitably started panting as if succumbing to a panic attack, and his eyes dilated though whether from fear, desire, or both, Angel had never been able to decide.

Angel once again placed his hand in the middle of Spike's chest.
"Mine," he intoned.

Spike's breathing slowed, becoming shallow except for the occasional deep hitch. Everything up to this point had been a kind of familiar foreplay for them; now the real game would begin, and Spike would suffer for as long as Angel could make him: until he begged for release and beyond that point, but where Angelus would make him cum in spite of, or because of, the very real pain mixed with a little pleasure; Angel intended to hold Spike on the edge of pleasure for so long it became a kind of pain. A subtle distinction, but a worthwhile one from Angel's point of view, and the beauty of it was that one simple fact had not yet dawned on Spike. He had enough blood in his body to survive; he even had enough to maintain a passable erection, but what he did not have was enough blood in his body to allow him to cum.
In fact, if he got hard enough, he might just pass out. As long as Angel refused to feed him, he could keep Spike writhing in a torment of pleasure for what amounted to, practically speaking, forever.

Spike, however, was still blissfully unaware of this predicament. Now that Angel had removed the onus to control his reactions, Spike could surrender to the sensations unreservedly. He couldn't remember the last time he had been freed to just react, heedless of his circumstance. Relaxing into his bonds, he gave over all control to Angel; eagerly anticipating the places that his Sire might choose to take him.

Angel traced down Spike's chest with his tongue, pausing occasionally to prick between ribs with his fangs. It made Spike squirm against him interestingly. As he neared Spike's groin, he let his fingers tease down the sides of the ribcage, knowing that his childe was ticklish there and that it would distract him somewhat from the anticipation of Angel's mouth on his more than ready cock. Sure enough, Spike tried to shy away from the tickling fingers, but there was no place for him to go. He valiantly attempted to ignore it, hoping that Angel would move on to other torments, but instead the tickling increased. Knowing that this was another level of surrender that would eventually be wrested from him, Spike gave in.

"Please, Sire," he pleaded, "Please stop." The moment he spoke, it was as if a switch had been thrown, and he began to laugh helplessly. "Oh bloody hell. Stop, Angel. I'm begging you, Luv. No fair."

Angel smiled facetiously. "Am I supposed to be fair, Spike? I don't recall that in the lore. The Sire is supposed to be fair to the Childe? . . . No, I'm pretty sure I didn't miss that."

By now Spike was gasping as the urge to laugh overtook any ability he had to refrain from breathing. "What. . . ." He managed to get out. "Anythin', please."

Angel took pity on his childe because he could and simultaneously stopped tickling him and sucked his cock deep into his mouth.

Spike's sigh of relief instantly became an inhalation of purest pleasure. He could feel the back of Angel's throat gripping the head of his cock, as his Sire purposefully swallowed him down to the root of his shaft. A part of his mind savored the feeling of Angel nuzzling into his short-and-curlies; just as Angel savored the scent and feel of the springy thatch. He began a steady rhythm intended to bring Spike to a rapid and violent peak, which surprised Spike, but he happily prepared to hang on for the precipitous ride. Spike began to cry out formless sounds of anticipation as he came close to the moment of release, but when the wave of orgasm started to break, his world grew painfully out of focus and consciousness slipped away.

Angel looked down at Spike with a satisfied smirk on his face. As he had planned, the dearth of blood in Spike's body left him unconscious rather than sated. He ran his hands covetously over the pale body while awaiting the return of awareness. Deciding that his childe was a little too drained to fully appreciate his situation, Angel, as soon as Spike stirred, once again opened his wrist and let Spike draw a few more mouthfuls of rich blood.

This time when Angel pulled his wrist away, Spike did not even try to follow. He had come to full consciousness with the horrifying realization that despite what seemed to be an orgasm massive enough to make him pass out, he was still hard: painfully hard, in fact. Each thick, coppery swallow made his erection more urgent while driving home the utter dependence that his Sire had forced upon him. He feared that fighting for more than he was given might result in having it all taken away again. That was enough to spur him into obedience, at least for the moment.

Angel viciously twisted one of Spike's nipples whilst he arched into the pain with a silent cry. Scraping his nails down Spike's chest, Angel left faint lines against his alabaster skin. He teasingly stroked the twitching, straining cock, savoring the vocal but non-verbal reactions, as well as the physical ones. He dug a bottle of lubrication out of the nightstand and, slicking a finger, slowly inserted it into Spike's opening. Spike's pelvis began to thrust in a slow, almost mechanical movement, and a low rasp vibrated in his chest. Not a purr nor a growl but a sound somewhere in between the two: steeped in longing and bestial need. He pulled out long enough to add more lube and introduced two fingers into the tight, rhythmically-gripping channel. His other hand drifted from teasing the shaft to rolling the balls in their velvety sac as if he were warming dice for good luck. Angel curved the internal fingers, felt for the spongy spot of tissue that indicated Spike's prostate, and hummed in appreciation at the full body convulsion that confirmed that his fingers found the target.

"Angel." Spike said, in a soft, protracted murmur.

Angel's eyes closed involuntarily at the heated submission conveyed in that one word. His face took on a look of absorbed pleasure as he massaged the spot in a random manner: slow then fast, light then heavy, consistent then erratic. The chains holding three of Spike's four limbs added a percussive counterpoint to Spike's vocalizations as they started to jerk and twitch uncontrollably under the maddeningly chaotic assault. Each time he thought he was approaching relief, Angel would change the stimuli until finally, all pride lost under a tsunami of need, Spike began cadging.

"Do me, luv. I've learned the lesson, Angel."

Angel laughed softly. "What did you call me, Childe?" He asked pointedly.

"Sire. Please, Sire. I'm gonna dislocate something here. Please, let me cum."

"Are you sure that's what you want?" Angel asked with fake concern.

"Are you mad? I'm sure. Fuck me; Touch me; Suck me, but please, Sire, make me cum."

Angel's eyes flickered momentarily between brown and golden; he licked his lips and concentrated on exciting his already panting childe. As Spike felt the long climb begin, like the first hill on a roller coaster, the anticipation of rounding the top and plummeting down into sensation focused his entire being, and a torrent of babble emerged from his mouth.

"Yes. Oh, yea. Sire, please. Don't stop. That's it." On and on the words flowed forth until his throat and every other muscle in his body became rigid with paroxysms of bliss. The bliss was short-lived, however, when the pleasure of orgasm contrasted with the pain in his bollocks. He felt as if he were ripping muscles in the throes of orgasm. He had enough blood to remain awake as the pleasure suffused his body but not to actually ejaculate. It was like the worst case of blue balls he ever remembered, multiplied and exacerbated by the contrasting pleasure. His stream of words mostly remained the same, but the tenor of them changed.

"Please, Sire. Don't. Angel, have mercy. Stop. Please."

Angel leaned forward and brutally took Spike's mouth in a gesture that was more conquest than kiss. He slid into game face and carelessly let his fangs slice lips and tongues. The mixture of their blood in the crucible of their kiss took the edge off the pain of too much pleasure, and slowly, Angel let his fingers become motionless though he left them fully seated in his now sobbing childe. Spike shuddered and nuzzled into Angel's touch wherever possible. He had never cum so intensely in all his unlife, yet he was still achingly hard.

Angel sat up, pleased by the whimper of protest that forced its way past Spike's abused lips, and indulged in the sight of his debauched childe. Occasionally fluttering his fingers just to see the ripple effect work its way from Spike's core out to his extremities, he felt a blanketing sense of completeness from indulging in these most possessive of feelings. Spike eventually resolved into some semblance of his normal state of mind and acknowledged Angel's patient observation with a heartfelt declamation.


Angel chuckled that so much could be summed up in that one word. He stroked Spike's cheek, allowing him to nestle into the touch as his thumb caressed the ridge of the cheekbone.

"Is that all I am, Lad?" He asked pseudo-seriously.

Spike looked puzzled by the question, sorting through the Angelus-relevant answers and assuming that Angel expected a reply; he clearly felt at somewhat of a loss, then he remembered his earlier remark. Pleased with his reasoning, he answered in a subdued but strong voice, whilst looking Angel straight in the eye.

"You are my Sire, my Lord and Master. . . ." his voice broke as he added, "you are my dark."

Angel bent down and placed a kiss on his forehead that held more blessing than passion, a benison of approval that set the last trace of anxiousness from Spike's expressive face. The relief at Angel's approval loosened Spike's tongue.

"You're a hell of a good shag, too, Luv." He said saucily.

Angel slapped his cheek good-naturedly.
"You never learn when to leave well enough alone, do you Boy?" He observed genially.
Spike flashed him a grin that reminded him viscerally of a portion of his anatomy which had also not yet been relieved. He pulled his fingers out of Spike swiftly and without warning, just to hear the outraged cry of abandonment it engendered. Moving between Spike's legs, he uncuffed his leg, removed the chain, and then locked the manacle back around the ankle for the visual effect. Spike's leg trembled throughout the process, but he mounted no resistance.

Spike tried to ignore the trembling that his Sire's every touch gave rise to, but as Angel continued to lay proprietary hands on his legs, it was difficult if not impossible. He watched with some trepidation as Angel positioned himself on his knees as close as possible: groin-to-groin. He moaned as Angel's hands gathered up both their cocks, holding them together but laxly. Spike loved those hands; whether they belonged to Angel or Angelus, whether the acts they preformed were cruel, kind or an electrifying mixture of the two, he could not get enough of the look or feel of them. Broad palms, but long too, which, taken with the equally long fingers, gave an elegant impression; an air almost of long-boned fragility offset by their size and the square-tipped fingers with their close trimmed, well kempt nails. More than one had looked at Angelus' unmarred hands and assumed him to be a well-born layabout, only to be given a practical demonstration of their true mettle as the life's blood was drained from them.

Now however, those hands were moving sulkily over their parallel shafts, not quite teasing but not seriously building sensation yet either. While he wanted to feel the ecstasy Angel's touch provided, Spike felt that if he hovered without release much longer he would die from the throbbing ache that emanated from his painfully sensitive tackle. Swallowing his tattered pride, he spoke quietly and persuasively.

"Sire?" At Angel's nod of permission, he continued. "What can I do to please you? Let me drink, Angel. Beyond cruel, this is. Please. Sire?" Spike's begging wound down, and he let the full brunt of his emotions show on his face and shine from his eyes.

Angel tightened his grip just to watch Spike's back arch in a spasm of painful pleasure. He felt so centered and content. The fact that he was raging to fuck this body was completely balanced by the knowledge that he could (and would) do so whenever it pleased him. Spike's muted, respectful begging told him that.

"What can you do?" He echoed. "There's only one thing you can do, Spike: you can take it. Take whatever I give you . . . and if you do it well enough then I will let you drink from my very veins. Do you remember what that feels like? You'll know in that moment that, heaven or hell, this is where you belong . . . and I am whom you belong to."

Spike was gripped with the feeling that he was falling inexplicably up, up into the endless mahogany wells of Angel's eyes, but rather than jerk back at the sensation of vertigo, he surrendered to it and was rewarded by a look of triumph that lit Angel from within with the warmth and brilliance of a bonfire on a starless night. He was distantly aware of a soft keening which rose and fell in relation to the touches of the hands preparing him for this final gauntlet but never quite took in that the sounds were coming from him. That gauze-wrapped perspective was ripped away when, in a single, excruciating thrust, he was transfixed on Angel's cock.

The cry of agony that rent the air definitely came from his own mouth; Spike had no doubts about that any longer. The pain of the abrupt entry and the accompanying jolt of delight made dissembling over his reactions utterly impossible. He was pathetically grateful for the pause afterwards that allowed him to gain nominal control over his frenzied panting.

Angel held Spike's hips in a viselike grip and waited for the muscles surrounding him to relax. Spike's cock was weeping copiously, and it made Angel dry-mouthed with the desire to lap it up. Reflecting that it was possible in their current position but hardly comfortable, he opted to scrape some pre-cum off Spike's belly and suck it sensually from his finger, licking his lips in gratification at the taste. The gesture seemed to ground Spike, allowing him to unlock muscles and still both his breathing and his mind. He caught Angel's eyes and, licking his own lips in parody, whispered, "Yours."

Angel momentarily pressed his palm against Spike's breastbone, then he pinned Spike's hips again, and took another savage stroke, agreeing, "Mine."

Spike was taken with a rolling shudder that started in the back of his head and worked its way down his spine with bone cracking intensity. As if it were a signal that he had been waiting for, Angel began smoothly moving in and out: slowly at first but rapidly gaining momentum as his own need for release overtook him. He came in a thunderous climax whilst watching the ecstatic pain wash across Spike's twisted features.

Spike, beyond words, pressed fevered kisses to Angel's skin after he collapsed on top of him. His arms pulled weakly at their restraints in a futile effort to touch more of his Sire. After a few moments, Angel returned his kisses with a spate of butterfly-soft attacks on his neck. The keening returned but so softly that even a vampire would not have heard it from mere feet away. It was as if Spike couldn't control the sound but was forlornly attempting not to disturb Angel with its presence. Angel put a stop to it by vehemently kissing the parted lips. Spike's mouth melted in complete acquiescence: he gave when pushed, followed when led, opened when probed, and entwined when tasted. The arrant, fervid response, uncluttered by any ambition or art, inflamed Angel to such an extent that he grew hard again before he had a chance to slip out.

Spike moaned into Angel's kiss as he felt the shaft grow within him, lancing him with pleasure. Knowing that the exquisite mélange of pleasure and pain was set to begin again, he felt the last remnant of his struggle crack and fade like an old photograph; he remembered it, could even figure out the gross shape of the thing, but it had no real meaning to him any more; it had become abstract. He heard the ending chords of a song and Keith Richards' raspy, laconic, mocking voice laughing inside his head; "If you struggle, it only tightens up." For Spike, the struggle had ceased.

Still enraptured with their kiss, Angel began to stroke into Spike again, and tears, silent and crystalline, slid from Spike's blue eyes like rain, washing away the dirt of his and his Sire's troubled past. Angel's movements were measured and stretched on for some time before the tempo increased. He finally broke their kiss to reverentially lick some of the tear tracks from Spike's face like a god deigning to personally accept a sacrifice. He adjusted his thrusts to concentrate on Spike's prostate, causing him to inhale sharply with each push. As Spike's eyes rolled back in his head, Angel nuzzled into Spike's neck and whispered, "Drink, childe. Take from me all life: the power, the pleasure, the pain --it all comes from me."

The lethargy that held Spike shed from him in the blink of an eye as he let his fangs drop and sank them into his Sire's proffered neck. He sucked deeply, unconsciously matching the rhythm of Angel's thrusts. The renewed level of blood quickly gave him the energy to meet those thrusts, and soon the two vampires were pounding into one another unreservedly. Angel bit into the scar left by Spike's making but merely tasted rather than drained. This time when Angel reached his climax, Spike also came in shuddering, long-overdue surges.

The pain, the pleasure and the blood intertwined in a white-hot tempering that re-forged the chains between Sire and Childe stronger than ever before.

While the orgasm still possessed them, Angel began feeding gently from Spike, and when the aftermath of that crescendo eased over Spike, he once again, in this diminished way, mimicked Angel's rhythm. In a blood soaked version of the Ouroboros, they fed off and through each other until the post-coital lassitude over took them, and they drifted into sleep.

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