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On Me - Chapter 5

Even I feel a bit sorry for the wanker right now. Heís been in that shower for over an hour, and I can still smell him from here. But, shit, was it worth it. Best fun Iíve had sinceÖ Christ, when did I last have fun? Oh yeah, for the ten minutes I actually had my ring on; I mean, fuck, I nearly tanned! And so, no, I SO DONíT feel sorry for him Ė he had it coming, gitÖ but, jees, if I had to make a list of things that Angelís pissed about then it would be:

- Getting napalmed with demon cum

- Having to walk home, cus he smelt too bad to get in his Ďoh itís all clean nowí car

- Having to cut demon cum out of his hair

- Me

Cus, yeah, OK, I did kill that thing.


How can I help it, if all that not eatiní shit made me feel a bit, you know, off the mark.

I mean, we found the fucker all right, could hardly miss it, as 'Miss Sunnyhell 1999' had seen a gigantic neon bar sign in her vision. It had holed up in the basement, right along side its own whirly thing Ė just in case it had to nip home to the family, I guess. Course, Iíd seen one before Ė been there, done that, seen the movie kinda thing - so it had no effect on me at all, Ďcept, shit, those things are ugly. It was kinda human shaped, you know: head, body, two legs, but you donít really focus on that really, cus I guarantee you ainít lookiní at anything else but the three foot, erect, horned cock, sticking out of its chest. Yeah, OK, you might spare a glance at the large pustules covering its entire sodding skin, or you might even notice that most of them are erupting with a day-glow pus, but you gotta just admit it - the three foot cock stays the entire center of yer attention.

It did Angelís anyway.

Poor ole Sire went straight into game face: Grrrr

Didnít help though, in fact, Iíd swear in court, that it just sorta put a sign on his face: vampire here, come aní get me.

Poor sod though, the shock just sorta brought Angelus out to play. Now, Angelus used to like a bit of cock as much as the next permanently horny demon, especially if it was mine, well, truth be told, only if it was mine, but even Angelus lost it in the face of the fuckiní monster cock in that basement. Not right away, you know, but I think the clinching moment was when it started to spurt green, congealed cum outta the end.


No wait, maybe it was when the demon let out a sorta pleased squeak and grabbed him by the balls Ė gently you understand, I mean, jees, I donít know what the prick was complaining about, it wasnít as if the Taran was gonna hurt him!

Na, if Angel had only just bent over and done the decent thingÖ well, none of the unpleasantness that ensued would have happened.

Stupid pillock! So, I reckon he brought most of it on himself! I mean what with struggling and screaming and wriggling, it got that little ole demon mighty aroused. The wanker coulda gotten away with a few minutes of relative discomfort as that erupting cock was forced up his ass, but no, he had to get angsty with the demon, and said demon wrestled him to the floor. Huge quantities of congealed cum with little runny bits in it were gushing over him, but gee, itís just not the texture of that cum you remember, itís gotta be the smell. Iíve smelt road kill on hot summer nights that Iíd rather stuff up my nose than that. Itís indescribable. And it really donít help that itís HOT. I mean, scalding hot. And boy,does it stick when it hits vampire skin. Well, you canít blame it; itís not meant to go outside the vampire, now is it?

By this time, Angelus had departed the scene, coward, left Angel to face things all by himself, and he just wasnít doing so good reallyÖ well, if itís dragged outa me, Iíll have to tell you: he was actually crying by this time. In between the screaming you understand. Couldnít quite catch what he was saying, though, sounded a bit like ĎSpite, spite quill ití. Didnít make any sense to me.

I donít know what Iíd put down as the moment when the tosser lost it completely.

I mean gibbering wreck, hysterical, vapours, girly blouse kinda lost it, but Iíd have to put my money on the bit when the demon got the pansy-assed, wankerís pants off. Yep, that just seemed to push him over the edge from Scourge of Europe and a bit of China having a really bad day toÖ jees, Iím trying to have an analogy here, aní I just hate those fuckers, toÖ Cordelia breakiní a nail. Yeah, I mean Angel was headiní towards funny farm - aní not in a nice way.

And what was I doing all this time? Ahh, well, that may be why I appear on the list of things Angel ainít too happy about right now.

I was having a fucking ball.

Demon couldnít see me at all.

Angel could though.

And donít you just know, I kept popping up all over the place. Not with my demon killing axe though. Funny that, just seemed to misplace it there somewhere.

But, donít worry, I got to see all the action. Got to see the wriggling, got to see the hysterical panic Ė heard that, too, smelt it, too, I think - best of all, got to see the spurting and the sticking and the erupting.

Yep, very good evening all round for old Spikey.

And I REALLY donít know what he is so pissed about. I said Iíd kill it, and I did. One slice, and off with its head. And I just wonít listen to his crap about the fact that the head of the thingís cock was already in his ass, and that he had to pull dead cock out after Iíd killed the demon. Just ainít true Ė I was there, wasnít I? Besides, his ass is dead, too, so whatís the biggy?

And yeah, OK, so maybe I coulda killed it a tad sooner. Maybe a few seconds, ya know? But jees! Picky or what?

So, what Iím wondering now is... how much longer do I have as a sort of undead live thing, and when am I gonna be turned to dust?

Hope that shower goes on for a bit longer really.

Think I handled that quite well really. OK, so I was slightly fazed when I first saw the thingÖ Iíll admit that. But considering the extreme danger we were in Ė no, I was in, I seem to remember Ė I think I stayed calm, did my job of enticing the thing, and let Spike, Spike... fuckingitofawhoresonIwouldfuckingkillhimifIdidntthinkhedcomebacktofuckinghauntme

Ölet Spike kill it.

Yes, thatís certainly the report Iíll be making to Wes in the morning. In the morning... IF I CAN EVER GET THIS DAMN CUM OFF ME. Itís stuck to me like dried gum on carpet. Iíve got the bits I can reach but, fuck it, I can still feel it on my back and buttocksÖ oh god, no, I canít... I wonít... Iíd rather go back to hell... Iíd rather fight another Taran... I wonít....


'Spike! Get your sorry vampire backside in here NOW, and if youíre lucky, Iíll give you a head start tomorrow before I stake you.'

There are many things I wonít forgive Spike for over the years Iíve known him, and Iím not even thinking of hot pokers and needle nosed pliers Ė that was a minor incident in the Ďmy-determination-to-piss-my-Sire-offí Spike extravaganza. But this, this will remain top of my list of reasons when I eventually stake the little scumbag.

Oops, sounds like the poofís a tad displeased.

'Sod off, Angel, Iím having a snack. Jees, mate! Canít help feeling a bit peckish all of a sudden. Some host you are; ainít even been offered a blood blister since I got here.'

Oww, shit, the pillockís come storminí out of the shower, dripping wet, very large Ė in every way, so I see Ė and is dragging me towards the water.

'You are going to scrub my back, and if I feel, or smell, one bit of sticky substance on me afterwards, you will think that Taran demon was on the same level of sexual attractiveness as Pamela Anderson, compared to what I will do to you tonight.'

Iím not sure what I am more astonished by: what must be the longest speech I have ever heard Angel make, his, oh, so-out-of-date-imagery and weird sexual taste (Pamela Anderson Ė I mean, how drunk would you have to be?) or the fact that he has just mentioned having sex with me. Yeah, OK, painful, unpleasant sex, admittedly, but I mean, thatís nothing new for hair-gel boy, is it?

'Hey, mate! Iím getting me jeans aní stuff wet here. Oi! Donít rip em; theyíre the only ones I got, ya know that.'



What do we do now?

We are both naked, both in the shower andÖ oh, Jesus, I really do have to help him get that stuff off. Poor git. I take the scrub brush and start working on his shoulders. You canít even see the tattoo for all for the cum but, gradually, the combination of my scrubbing and the hot water starts to make an impression. I work quietly and slowly down his back. A bit more slowly than I really need to, I guess. The feel of those muscles under my hands is too good to rush. Iíve been wanting to run my hands over his back since I saw him again coming into the magic shop. Yes, I know I said I hated him, and I do; I hate him for not loving me. But hating him doesnít stop me desiring him, doesnít stop me lusting for him, and, yes... sod it... doesnít stop me loving him. I start to turn the scrubbing into a massage, pushing the flesh with my hands, easing the tension from each muscle, as I descend. And, eventually, I end up with my hands on his ass, andÖ oh god, it's so hard, so firm, so perfect. Itís all I can do to stop from bending over right there and putting my face against it, just to feel that skin on my lips, the taste of the water cooling against it.

Oh, God, he is brushing my backside and working his hands over it, pushing against me, squeezing, releasing, and I have to lean against the shower stall because, for the life of me, I canít support my weight any more. I can feel arousal in every fibre of my body, and I am so painfully hard, I can see my swollen cock, engorged and purple, bouncing against my stomach. I know why heís doing it, of course. Heís trying to get that toe in the door of my forgiveness, just like he did with Cordy earlier this evening. With her, the hair. With me, sex. With her, it was a lucky guess. I mean, one look at Cordy and, bless her, you aren't thinking Ďcompliment her taste in booksí, but with me? With me, itís over one hundred and twenty years of knowing someone in your blood, being so intimate with him that you donít know where you begin and he ends. He knows me. He knows how helpless I am under his hands. Fuck, I chose those hands. I trained those hands. I loved those hands. And I canít help it, I know that this is the worst decision I am going to make in this whole sorry trip with Spike, but I canít not do this. I need him. I want him. I love him.

'Spike, pleeease!'

Oh yeah, Angelus, way to go. Bastardís giving me a way to earn my reprieve from a stake, earn my forgiveness. And, by doing so, he reminds me of the whore that I am and have always been for him. But I donít deny it to him. I drop the scrub brush and slide my hands round his body and, leaning into him for support, take his cock in my hands. I rub my thumb lightly over the weeping end and hear Angel hiss in anticipation of whatís to come. I take a firmer hold and start to pull back and push slowly forward, changing the rhythm, just as he likes it. He responds by arching back into me to get more contact from me, but I donít let him. No way is this about love or even lust for him, this is pay back and revenge, and hate and domination, and reminding me of what a worthless fuck I am, and how he expects me to earn my keep. So, I donít want to feel his skin, and I donít want to smell his hair, and I donít want to hear him panting those incredibly erotic, short gasps for that, oh, so unnecessary air, and I donít want to feel his hatred for me. But, most of all, I donít want him to feel my tears, as they run unbidden down my face.

This doesnít feel right. I mean, the hand job feels just fine. Oh yeah, Iím really getting off on that. And soon. But the rest, the rest is very wrong. Spike hasnít even made to turn me around. He hasnít spoken at all. I have never EVER had a hand job from Spike without an accompanying dialogue fueling every fantasy Iíve ever had about him. And he isnít making contact at all, except for those incredibly talented hands. No skin, no lips, no teeth. Itís as though I were here on my own, like always, like Iíve been every single night since losing my soul with Buffy.

Itís like masturbation.

And it breaks my heart. And I want it to stop, but I canít say it, donít have the will power not to let it finish. Because I need this, whatever it is: love, lust, hate, revenge, just a hand job from a stranger; I donít care, oh, oh, oh, shit, I canít help it; Iím gonna cum, and all these years of pent up frustration are pumped out by Spikeís hands, and my dead seed hits the wall uselessly and trails down in the steaming water to our feet. My knees have no strength in them. In post orgasm exhaustion, I lean fully against the wall, pulling away from Spikeís hands. I donít know what Iíve done here, what Iíve started. I initiated this. Shit! I threatened him with his life and made him fuck me. What does that make me? Dear God, Iíve just abused the most important thing in my life.

I donít fucking believe this. He is leaning against the wall, totally ignoring me. I know I was only a convenient hand for him but, fuck it all, Iíve now got an erection that would dent concrete, and heís clearly not going to repay the favour. I get the picture, Angel. I storm off into the sitting room and start pulling on my jeans. But I canít get them on, cus Iím still too wet, so I fling myself into the couch and consider just wanking off there and then. God, I need it so much.

He left. He hates me so much, he doesnít even want me to give him any pleasure. All he can remember of me is pain and fear. But I canít let it go like this, so I follow him into the sitting room. And, oh god, he is so hard. He is leaning back against the couch, sort of braced, with a huge erection sticking up against his belly. And I canít resist, donít resist, why should I? I canít make things worse for us. I cross over in a second and fall to my knees and lick the tip of his cock. I catch a bead of precum on my tongue, and it tastes like coming home at last; it tastes like the past; it tastes like days of loving and living unlife to the full before the brooding, before the stint in hell, before the loneliness. And yes, I need this, so I take it. I take his cock fully into my mouth, relaxing my throat muscles andÖ ohhhhh.

Spike has meshed his hands into my hair and is pushing me down further. If I were human, I would be gagging at this point and my throat would be sore for days afterwards, but unlife has its advantages, and you take what you can get. So, I start to slowly suck and lick, feeling him swell under my tongue, feeling him bucking and arching up to meet me, to force more sensation and, suddenly, I know heís starting to cum. I can still sense that moment after all the years, so I speed up for him and, yes, yes, he cums, and I feel myself falling, and this is a bit like dying, this feels like death.

Fuck, Iím gonna cum in Angelís mouth. I feel the pressure building, and Iím desperate for release, so I thrust up and, at the same time, try to ram his face further down onto my prick, and, oh god, I feel my cold seed spurting down his throat, and he swallows over and over again. And this is the worst thing I have felt in a long time. Itís sort of a little bit like dying again. Without the good part of that. The part with Angelís teeth in me, Angelís cock in me, Angelís promise of eternity in me.

When I finish swallowing, he roughly pushes me away and stands up. I fall over to my side, and I donít have the strength to right myself, but sit there huddled against the couch. And I can blame it on the Taran demon tonight. I can blame it on the long trip yesterday. I can blame lots of things, but I canít stop tears coming to my eyes. What have we become, that he can do such things in hate and rage, and that I, his Sire, allow him? I drag myself up. Iíd rather let him see me suck that demon than see me cry. I walk to the bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

He didnít need to swallow me. Why did he need to debase himself like that, just to pay me back for the shower job? I didnít want that; I didnít want his reluctant mouth on me. I didnít want his half-hearted pretence at passion. So, when he finished I pushed him off - before he could read my pain and sense my heart breaking. And now heís walked off, leaving me here in his apartment with nowhere to sleep and, and, sod it, no bloody blanketsÖ.

'Hey! You prick! Angel!'


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