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On Me - Chapter 5
Even I feel a bit sorry for the wanker right now.
He’s been in that shower for over an hour, and I can still smell him from here.
But, shit, was it worth it. Best fun I’ve had since… 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 DON’T feel sorry for him – he had it coming,
git… but, jees, if I had to make a list of things that Angel’s pissed about
then it would be:
-
Getting napalmed with demon cum
- Having to walk home, cus he smelt too bad to get in his ‘oh it’s all clean
now’ car
-
Having to cut demon cum out of his hair
-
Me
Cus, yeah, OK, I did kill that thing.
Eventually.
How can I help it, if all that not eatin’ 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 – just in case it had to nip
home to the family, I guess. Course, I’d seen one before – been there, done
that, seen the movie kinda thing - so it had no effect on me at all, ‘cept,
shit, those things are ugly. It was kinda human shaped, you know: head, body,
two legs, but you don’t really focus on that really, cus I guarantee you ain’t
lookin’ 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 Angel’s anyway.
Poor ole Sire went straight into game face: Grrrr
Didn’t help though, in fact, I’d swear in court, that it just sorta put a sign
on his face: vampire here, come an’ 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 fuckin’ 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.
Spontaneously.
No wait, maybe it was when the demon let out a sorta pleased squeak and grabbed
him by the balls – gently you understand, I mean, jees, I don’t know what the
prick was complaining about, it wasn’t as if the Taran was gonna hurt him!
Na, if Angel had only just bent over and done the decent thing… 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, it’s just not
the texture of that cum you remember, it’s gotta be the smell. I’ve smelt road
kill on hot summer nights that I’d rather stuff up my nose than that. It’s indescribable.
And it really don’t help that it’s HOT. I mean, scalding hot. And boy,does it
stick when it hits vampire skin. Well, you can’t blame it; it’s 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 wasn’t doing so good really… well, if it’s dragged
outa me, I’ll have to tell you: he was actually crying by this time. In between
the screaming you understand. Couldn’t quite catch what he was saying, though,
sounded a bit like ‘Spite, spite quill it’. Didn’t make any sense to me.
I
don’t know what I’d put down as the moment when the tosser lost it
completely.
I mean gibbering wreck, hysterical, vapours, girly blouse kinda lost it, but
I’d have to put my money on the bit when the demon got the pansy-assed, wanker’s
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 to… jees, I’m trying to have an analogy
here, an’ I just hate those fuckers, to… Cordelia breakin’ a nail. Yeah, I mean
Angel was headin’ towards funny farm - an’ 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 ain’t too happy about right now.
I
was having a fucking ball.
Demon
couldn’t see me at all.
Angel
could though.
And
don’t 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, don’t worry, I got to see all the action. Got to see the wriggling, got
to see the hysterical panic – 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 don’t know what he is so pissed about. I said I’d kill it, and
I did. One slice, and off with its head. And I just won’t listen to his crap
about the fact that the head of the thing’s cock was already in his ass, and
that he had to pull dead cock out after I’d killed the demon. Just ain’t true
– I was there, wasn’t I? Besides, his ass is dead, too, so what’s 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 I’m 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 thing… I’ll admit that. But considering the extreme
danger we were in – no, I was in, I seem to remember – I think I stayed calm,
did my job of enticing the thing, and let Spike, Spike... fuckingitofawhoresonIwouldfuckingkillhimifIdidntthinkhedcomebacktofuckinghauntme
…let
Spike kill it.
Yes, that’s certainly the report I’ll be making to Wes in the morning. In the
morning... IF I CAN EVER GET THIS DAMN CUM OFF ME. It’s stuck to me like dried
gum on carpet. I’ve got the bits I can reach but, fuck it, I can still feel
it on my back and buttocks… oh god, no, I can’t... I won’t... I’d rather go
back to hell... I’d rather fight another Taran... I won’t....
'SPIKE!'
'Spike! Get your sorry vampire backside in here NOW, and if you’re lucky, I’ll
give you a head start tomorrow before I stake you.'
There
are many things I won’t forgive Spike for over the years I’ve known him, and
I’m not even thinking of hot pokers and needle nosed pliers – that was a
minor incident in the ‘my-determination-to-piss-my-Sire-off’ Spike
extravaganza. But this, this will
remain top of my list of reasons when I eventually stake the little scumbag.
Oops,
sounds like the poof’s a tad displeased.
'Sod off, Angel, I’m having a snack. Jees, mate! Can’t help feeling a bit peckish
all of a sudden. Some host you are; ain’t even been offered a blood blister
since I got here.'
Oww, shit, the pillock’s come stormin’ out of the shower, dripping wet, very
large – in every way, so I see – 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.'
I’m 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 – 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, that’s nothing new for hair-gel boy, is it?
'Hey, mate! I’m getting me jeans an’ stuff wet here. Oi! Don’t rip em; they’re
the only ones I got, ya know that.'
So.
Good.
What
do we do now?
We are both naked, both in the shower and… 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 can’t 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. I’ve
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 doesn’t stop me desiring him, doesn’t stop me lusting
for him, and, yes... sod it... doesn’t 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, and… oh god, it's so hard, so firm, so perfect. It’s 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 can’t 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 he’s doing it, of course. He’s 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 ‘compliment her taste in books’, but
with me? With me, it’s over one hundred and twenty years of knowing someone
in your blood, being so intimate with him that you don’t 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 can’t
help it, I know that this is the worst decision I am going to make in this whole
sorry trip with Spike, but I can’t not do this. I need him. I want him. I love
him.
'Spike,
pleeease!'
Oh yeah, Angelus, way to go. Bastard’s 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 don’t 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 what’s 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 don’t 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 don’t want to feel his skin, and I don’t
want to smell his hair, and I don’t want to hear him panting those incredibly
erotic, short gasps for that, oh, so unnecessary air, and I don’t want to feel
his hatred for me. But, most of all, I don’t want him to feel my tears, as they
run unbidden down my face.
This doesn’t feel right. I mean, the hand job feels just
fine. Oh yeah, I’m really getting off on that. And soon. But the rest, the rest
is very wrong. Spike hasn’t even made to turn me around. He hasn’t spoken at
all. I have never EVER had a hand job from Spike without an accompanying dialogue
fueling every fantasy I’ve ever had about him. And he isn’t making contact at
all, except for those incredibly talented hands. No skin, no lips, no teeth.
It’s as though I were here on my own, like always, like I’ve been every single
night since losing my soul with Buffy.
It’s
like masturbation.
And it breaks my heart. And I want it to stop, but I can’t say it, don’t 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 don’t care, oh, oh,
oh, shit, I can’t help it; I’m gonna cum, and all these years of pent up frustration
are pumped out by Spike’s 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 Spike’s hands. I don’t know what I’ve done here, what I’ve started. I initiated
this. Shit! I threatened him with his life and made him fuck me. What does that
make me? Dear God, I’ve just abused the most important thing in my life.
I don’t 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, I’ve now got
an erection that would dent concrete, and he’s 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 can’t get them on, cus I’m 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 doesn’t even want me
to give him any pleasure. All he can remember of me is pain and fear. But I
can’t 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 can’t resist, don’t resist,
why should I? I can’t 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 and…
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 he’s 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, I’m gonna cum in Angel’s mouth. I feel the pressure building, and I’m
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. It’s sort of a little bit like dying again. Without
the good part of that. The part with Angel’s teeth in me, Angel’s cock in me,
Angel’s 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 don’t 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 can’t 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. I’d rather let him see me suck that demon than see me cry. I walk to the
bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
He didn’t need to swallow me. Why did he need to debase himself like that, just
to pay me back for the shower job? I didn’t want that; I didn’t want his reluctant
mouth on me. I didn’t 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 he’s walked off, leaving me here in his apartment with nowhere
to sleep and, and, sod it, no bloody blankets….
'Hey!
You prick! Angel!'
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