PLAN D
By 1stRab-id/Raeann
RATED: R, language, violence, sexual situations
SPOILERS:
Heck…this is all pretty AU…but Tara and Willow are together and it was WAY
prior to any B/S action…so, I would say…Season 5…Intervention and then a bit of
AU time has passed. Any resemblence to
later events on the show is purely coincidental, I assure you…we were all young
and clueless.
SUMMARY: This is a continuation of sorts to the OGD
Vampire Slave Ring Round Robin. It
takes up right after the Part written by NautiBitz. And for a better summary of events I would suggest you enter
NautiBitz in the SEARCH and pop over to read her part "NAKED" before
reading this part.
For
the record, this is all unofficial…I wasn't part of the OGD RR group when I
wrote this…I had just joined the group…and loved NB's part sooooo much I
couldn't resist following it up…I sent this to her way back when and she gave
me a Beta and we became FAST cyber pals….
DISCLAIMER: Uhm…not only do I not own any of this…even
the situation is not of my creating…Joss owns the characters…and OGD owns the
original idea…I am just a HIRED GUN here…or a volunteer gun actually!
Previously…NautiBitz
wrote…Part 9…"NAKED"
And I quote NB…
The corner of Tara's mouth lifted in a lazy smile as she affectionately
rubbed her cheek against Anton's arm. "Buffy," she said haughtily,
then frowned. "What happened to your hair?"
"Buffy?" Anton repeated loudly, a sneer on his face.
"Buffy?!"
The entire hall went deadly quiet.
"The Slayer!" someone shouted, pointing an accusing finger.
Buffy and Spike froze in place.
Time for Plan B. ...Or is it C?
…END NB Quote…
Plan
D, actually…
“That’s
right, mate,” Spike said, nodding, affably, at their accuser. “The Slayer!”
He
cocked his head to one side and considered the crowd. It looked ugly. Spike
decided a little harsh language couldn’t make things any worse. His eyes filled
with a sort of manic glee that ran counterpoint to his fear as he addressed the
assembly.
“Wondered
when one of you bottom-feeders would recognize her,” he said. “She could have waltzed right in and dusted
the lot of you before you even knew she was here. Where’s your instinct for survival, people?”
“Her
hair’s a different color!” a tweedy vamp near the door said, defensively.
“Well,
that explains it, then,” Spike scoffed, in acknowledgment of the heckler. “Only
her bloody hairdresser would know for sure.”
There
was a subliminal, but general, shift of the crowd as the news sank in. It left a wider circle around the pair than
had been there before. Spike felt an
inner surge of pride in his beloved’s reputation for devastation.
“And
I know you’ll understand,” he continued, favoring Anton with a patronizing
smile, “if I don’t care to exchange her
for your over-ripe, shop-bruised, little plum.”
“Balls
of cast-iron,” Buffy thought, as Spike, giving her leash a tug, turned on his
heel and headed for the stage.
But
Balls alone weren’t going to get them out of this alive. Spike hadn’t taken two steps before the
hulking Anton and a couple of his buddies blocked the way.
“You
expect us to believe that YOU enthralled the Slayer?” Butt-Ugly asked, obviously
NOT buying it.
“I
don’t much care what you believe,” Spike growled, craning his neck back
slightly to lock eyes with the behemoth. “But like I said, ‘I got the chit
right where I want her’.”
Buffy
let her hand fall to the hilt of one of her hidden stakes as the tension level
mounted. There were 40 or 50 vamps between her and the doorway. She could take twenty-five. Maybe
thirty. On a good night. With surprise on her side. If she wasn’t particularly concerned about
getting Tara out of there in one piece.
“I
think you’re lying to us, William,” Anton continued, his fangs descending. “She
may be the one in the collar but I think you’re the one on the short lead.”
He
reached out with one massive digit and prodded Spike in the chest. From the chorus of accompanying murmurs, it
seemed that the jig was up. Buffy
tensed herself for the kick-off.
Spike
caught the telltale skip of the Slayer’s heart and pulled her violently into
his body catching her in a one-armed embrace.
She resisted, instinctively, almost imperceptivity. The question in Spike’s mind was, “Who
else noticed?”
“Then
why aren’t you dead, Friend?” he asked, casually. “In case, you missed it
before, that well-endowed treasure of yours is a buddy of the Slayer’s. You think she likes you parading her pal
around like a summer-cut poodle?”
Anton
and several others looked over to where Tara stood in all her lush glory. Then they looked back at the now impassive
Slayer. Spike was petting her, stroking
over her skin with firm authority. Buffy’s
jagged pulse steadied. Her breathing
slowed, deepened and took up the rhythm of Spike’s caresses.
The
Slayer felt a surge of demonic power enter her body in a way that was totally
unique in her experience. It made her
flesh burn like cold fire. It was
tactile hypnosis and it caught her off guard.
Dracula
had used his eyes to enthrall her and the sound of his voice. Buffy knew that
most vampires used a similar method.
But Spike’s thrall was corporeal…definitely of the body. He was using his touch, his scent, and his
proximity to seduce her.
Every
one of the Slayer’s senses recoiled from this sort of submission but she forced
herself to move past those instincts.
Willing her body to relax into a meditative state, Buffy let everything
else fall away. After a few moments,
eyes closed, she rubbed her cheek against Spike’s shoulder in a conscious
imitation of Tara.
Spike
slipped his hand inside the cowl neck of Buffy’s soft leather dress and lightly
traced the swell of one firm, high, breast. There was no change in the Slayer’s
vital signs. He glided his fingertips
in quick circles over her nipple until the skin around it pulled tight under
his touch.
There
was sudden and unmistakably earthy aroma radiating off the Slayer, an
intoxicatingly primal perfume. Heat! Blood! Desire! It was a heady cocktail and
Spike, at the epicenter of events, nearly lost his grip on the harsh reality of
their peril. The circle of spectators
drew closer, like moths to the Slayer’s flame.
“And
you are willing to give her UP?!?” Anton repeated, with a lot more emphasis on
the “up” this time.
“NO!” Spike thought,
desperately, his hackles rising at the very idea. “God, No!”
But
he stopped himself just short of saying it out loud.
Instead,
he shifted his weight so that his hip pushed Buffy away from him. His hand slid
across her chest and around to the nape of her neck. He grabbed a fistful of hair, tugging at it until her back arched
slightly. He held her in that pose
while he considered their position, the distance to the door, the mood of the
crowd and how much of the truth he was willing to tell.
“I
can’t fuck her,” he said, after a long pause.
“What?”
Anton gasped, coincidentally, echoing the exact, slack-jawed tone of the "WHAT?"
in Buffy’s mind. For a half-second the
Slayer was sure that she'd spoken aloud.
“You
gone deaf? Or am I just using words you don’t understand? Fuck…you know? Shag,
Bang, Screw…Can’t!”
“They
got a pill for THAT now,” a dark-skinned, weasel of a vamp joked to general
laughter. He leaned out of the crowd
and smacked Buffy’s ass for the visual gag.
There
was a blur of motion as the Slayer struck.
She tore free of Spike’s hold and thrust up under the comedian’s elbow
until it snapped. Pivoting on one foot
she brought the other around to connect with his temple as he fell
sideways. Mr. Funny hit the ground,
bounced once and didn’t move again.
Game faces bloomed all over the room.
Spike
knew a moment of abject panic and then he noticed that Buffy was standing very
still. She wasn’t in her fighting
stance. In fact, she looked positively
pliant.
--“Spike!”--
Willow’s voice sounded in his head.
--“Buffy
says, 'Play along.'”--
Another
agonizing wave of admiration for the Slayer splashed down Spike’s torso to his
groin. All he could think about for
several seconds was where to find them a room.
A room with no view, good solid walls and sturdy hardwood furniture…and
a deadbolt…and soundproofing…preferably, in another part of the state.
With
a great deal of effort, he brought himself back to the far less pleasant
present.
--“Spike?”--
Willow prompted, anxiously.
--“On
it,”-- he thought in reply and shut the mental trapdoor on Red’s follow-up
question about Tara.
“They
got a pill for terminal stupidity?” Spike commented, in an aside to Anton. “What
will they think of next?”
With
Masterful assurance, Spike reeled in Buffy’s leash. She came meekly back to his side as he turned to address the
crowd.
“This
is the SLAYER, people! Not some
roadside strumpet or weak-willed Mama’s boy. Try to keep your soddin’ hands to
yourselves.”
“But
surely…if she’s under your control…” one of Anton’s cronies began.
Spike
staked him with a glare.
“Ever
done the thrall?” he asked and nodded, sagely, at the youngster’s sheepish look
and negative shake of the head.
“Well,
then…let me tell you it’s not an easy thing,” Spike continued. “To fill your mind with tenderness, devotion
and concern…when every fiber of your being is crying out for blood and death
and ripping destruction.”
Several
of the Ancients in the crowd murmured their understanding of this point. The mood of the room clicked back toward
relaxed and Buffy heaved an inward sigh.
Whatever Spike was up to seemed to be working. The auction crowd was visibly more at ease.
The
Slayer, however, was uncomfortably aware of her body. It was still reacting to Spike's hypnotic touch. Buffy realized she wanted him with what
bordered on obscene intensity. She felt
dirty, in a decidedly pleasurable way, all musty and crampy and more than a
little bit whorish. The texture of the
red leather dress teased at her nipples and icy sparks danced up and down her
spine.
“Now, I won’t lie to you,” Spike was saying
as Buffy struggled to tune back in, “Summers, here, is high maintenance. Drop your guard for moment…let go of the
love…and she’ll hand you your head…minus the platter and garnish.”
“Her
will is that strong?” Anton asked, plainly intrigued. “She’s still dangerous
even under the thrall?”
“I’ve
had her for three months and I don’t mind admitting that I’m just about spent,”
Spike sighed, regretfully. “Tried everyway I can think of but I can’t keep her
under it and fuck her at the same time. So, I am here to find the vamp that
can.”
“Why
don’t you just drain her dry?” a male Demon in platform shoes and polyester jump
suit asked.
“Nothing
like the rush of Slayer’s blood," his vampire companion supplied, to a
general mutter of agreement.
“Spike
knows about that first hand,” Anton replied, suddenly, coming over all
fangs-and-friendship. “You’ve tasted it
before, haven’t you?" he continued, while slapping Spike’s shoulder in
camaraderie, “From two different Slayers, as I recall?”
“Three,”
Spike corrected, cutting his glance toward Buffy.
“Is
it as sweet as they say?” Anton asked, with a tad too much eagerness.
Despite
his sycophantic entourage, hulking size and Master vamp mystique, Anton had
never bagged a Slayer. He was far too
civilized, too calculating, for the task.
He only played games he knew he could win.
Spike,
on the other hand, had mental acuity coupled with brash assurance. The combination allowed him to do what the
well-manicured Anton never could. Spike
took the necessary risks for his rewards.
And
he wasn’t afraid of having his ass kicked for his troubles. In fact, as far as Spike was concerned, that
was often the best part.
“Sweet
enough,” Spike shrugged, “but my appetites have…changed.”
He
let the word hang in the air.
Anton
narrowed his eyes again but this time his penetrating gaze raked over Buffy in
a way that made her skin crawl.
“And
what are you asking for her?” the Master Vamp inquired in a business-like tone,
just as Willow’s voice went off again in Spike’s head.
--“Spike?
Buffy is about to start killing things.
And Tara is near you. I can
sense her but I can’t get close enough.
Can you see her?” --
“Fair
Blood Price,” Spike said, off-handedly, while mentally adding, -- “Meet us
backstage. Go now!”--
Buffy
knew that the more expensive slaves were sold for talent…Passion or Parade
prices. Less valuable slaves were Blood
Slaves. They were sold as food and drink.
“Like fine wine,” she
thought, her mood incendiary, “or a good cow.”
“Not
Passion Price?” Anton asked, with a lift of one eyebrow. “I thought you wanted
her…broken.”
“Oh,
I do,” Spike purred. “But I won’t drive a hard bargain. I’ll let her go at Blood Price to the right
Demon.”
“SLAYER
Blood Price, of course?” Anton guessed.
“Of
course,” Spike conceded, one vamp of the world to another. His tone shifted and he added, “But there IS
a condition on the sale.”
“A
condition?”
“I
wanna watch!”
“Watch?
Watch what?” Anton asked. Thankfully,
before Buffy forgot where she was and asked the same question.
“When
she’s broken to saddle,” Spike replied, coldly. His eyes glowed yellow as he raked them over the Slayer and said,
“I want a front row seat for the entire show.
I wanna see her buck and shimmy and fight the inevitable until she is
all lathered up and wobbly and begging for the bit in her mouth.”
There
was a moment of stunned silence and then a cough of laughter that spread from
vamp to vamp until it filled the room.
--“YIKES,
SPIKE!” -- Willow yelped, telepathically.
--“You have GOT to get Buffy out of there…RIGHT NOW!” --
But
her warning was totally unnecessary.
Spike knew he’d crossed the line.
He was already moving forward, yanking hard on Buffy’s leash to throw
her off balance. Her retaliatory strike
turned into a stumble.
--“Get
backstage,” -- Spike, mentally, snarled at Willow. -- “Find some place we can
be alone…a nook, a cubbyhole, a bloody broom closet…anything.” --
Buffy
had settled into a pressure cooker simmer at his back. Biding her time, Spike thought. He was under no illusions about how much she
wanted to introduce him to a new level of pain. His only hope was to keep her moving at speed until they could
find someplace where he could explain himself. The black leather of his duster
fanned out as they mounted to the stage level.
A
jittery myopic vampire with a clipboard in his hand intercepted Spike and Buffy
as soon as they ducked through the curtain.
“#46!
You aren’t up for almost an hour,” the undead stage manager fussed, “You’ll
need to wait in the auditorium until you’re cal…”
Spike
strong armed him aside without a word and made for Willow who was waving
frantically from the left wing. There
were people in chains arranging props and microphones behind the closed
curtains. And a number of others
huddled together in cages. Several vampires lounged about joking and gossiping
and prodding the merchandise.
Spike
didn’t allow the Slayer time to take much of it in. Jerking her forward, violently, every few steps, he kept up his
brisk pace as they crossed to Willow's side.
“Where?”
Spike barked, without ceremony.
“There,”
the Witch said, pointing as she led them toward a gray door at the end of a
short passageway. “It’s a prop
room. The best I could find," she
apologized, as she spell-keyed open the locks.
“Get
rid of the census taker,” Spike ordered, jerking his chin back towards the
clipboard-wielding vamp that had trotted along behind them. “We’re going to
need a good twenty minutes here.”
“It’s
REALLY not going to take me more than two or three,” Buffy snarled.
Willow
looked from the Slayer to Spike and managed to duck out of the way just in
time. Without preamble, the blond
vampire whirled the Slayer around by her leash, gave her shoulder a hard shove
and let go of the chain. Buffy
staggered into the prop room, coming up short against a heavy metal desk with
hip bruising force. Following close
behind her, Spike slammed and bolted the door.
“You
arrogant Bastard!!” Buffy growled.
“Hang
on a minute, now! I…”
“You
demon-animated, alley-crawling, sack of ashes! Who the HELL do you think you’re
jerking around?”
She
gripped the edge of the desk and the inch thick metal crumpled under her hand
like aluminum foil. The ambient
temperature in the room went up several degrees. Spike would have backed away from the heat but there wasn’t
anywhere for him to go. He was in the
one place no sane vampire would ever be caught in…tight quarters with an
incredibly brassed-off Slayer.
“Got
copped, Luv,” Spike soothed, holding up both hands in surrender, “had to think
of something, dinnit I?”
Buffy
wasn't mollified in the slightest. She crushed the tiny padlock at her throat, tore
the collar from her neck and closed on him in a flash, snaking her leash out
behind her like the lash of a whip.
“You
want to see me broken?” she whispered, her eyes blazing. “You want to hear me
beg?”
“Well…not…in
a BAD way,” Spike hedged…afraid, for some reason, of being caught in a lie.
The
tip of Buffy’s makeshift whip sang through the air toward his face. Spike put out one arm to block the
blow. He realized, too late, that was
exactly what the Slayer had expected him to do. The chain length wrapped around his wrist and Buffy jerked him
forward into a brutal gut punch. The
blow doubled him over as she ducked to the left and wound the slack of her
former leash around his neck.
Within
two heartbeats, Spike was thrown face down and pinned against the desktop. His left arm was trapped close to his chest
and the Slayer had twisted his right arm around behind his back. She leaned into her hold on his wrist
applying pressure until his joints creaked in protest. The chain cut deep into his throat.
Spike
knew that the Slayer was capable of separating his head from his body with
those delicate links. It was simply a matter of how much force she planned on
exerting.
“I
don’t beg, Spike,” Buffy breathed out, so close to his ear that he could feel
his hair stir in response.
Spike
tried to speak but only managed to choke out a few garbled syllables. Buffy relaxed her hold a fraction so that he
could draw in enough air to reply. She
showed no inclination to release him.
“I
might,” he croaked. Shifting his
position slightly and gaining some relief, he swallowed, convulsively, before
adding, “Right person…”
“What
are you babbling about?” Buffy snapped, impatiently.
When
he failed to answer, she brought one knee up between his legs with firm
deliberation. Spike made a small noise in the back of his throat. It was a sound halfway between a laugh and a
sob. Buffy halted her upward thrust
just short of actually emasculating him and waited for further
explanation.
“Beg,”
Spike clarified, as soon as he could form words again. “I, said, ‘I might…for
the right person’. Cut of the lash…bite
of the collar…you sure that’s not what you want?”
“Yes,
I’m sure,” Buffy asserted, sliding her knee down and shifting her body weight
back off of him. “That’s disgusting.”
“You
think?”
The
Slayer assessed their relative positions and bit her lip in consternation.
“Third Base,” her treacherous
mind reminded her.
Slowly,
she slackened the tension on Spike's choke chain. Then, with a small sigh, she released him entirely and stepped
back.
“Okay,
you are enjoying this way too much!”
“Oh,
don’t pretend you never thought about it,” Spike rasped, massaging his throat
as he straightened up.
He
turned to face her, adjusting the set of his coat on his shoulders.
“About
Bondage?" Buffy returned, her eyes wide and almost innocent. "Sorry!
No!”
“About
breaking me,” the vampire corrected. “Wiping the smirk off my face? Holding me
down and having your way? Bending me to your will until I lose all
self-restraint and independent reason?”
Buffy’s
mind conjured up a swift montage of black leather, sharp white fangs and cherry
red blood on pale skin. Her gaze
strayed down, taking in Spike’s lean, fit, fully aroused person. She bit her lip again.
Spike
studied the Slayer as she studied him.
He knew what Buffy wanted. He
knew it better than she did. He didn’t
question that anymore. He was only
waiting for her to admit the truth to herself.
When
his beloved’s eyes finally flicked up to met his own, she smiled. The pink tip of her tongue flashed just
behind the white of her teeth. Mouth
lolling open in a wolfish grin, Spike closed on her in three swift
strides.
He
took hold of both of Buffy’s shoulders slamming her into the bolted door so
violently that the wood split. She
gasped into his kiss, gripping his face between her hands and digging her
fingertips into his flesh. They clawed
and bit at one another like the predators they were. No thought between them but to satisfy their mutual appetite.
“Oh,
God, Slayer,” Spike choked into the foam of her hair, “I bet you come so hard
we need a week to recover.”
Buffy
murmured her agreement and slid one hand up over the bulge in the front of his
jeans.
“Go
down,” she commanded, knowing he would obey.
Showering
her with kisses, Spike sank to his knees before the woman he loved. He pushed up the jagged edge of her red
leather skirt and yanked down her matching thong. The tiny scrap of lingerie twisted around her ankles.
Cupping
the swell of her hips in both hands, Spike drank in the scent of Buffy’s
readiness. He sighed, rubbing his cheek
along the line where her silken skin gave way to course curls.
Stepping
out of her thong, Buffy hooked her right leg over Spike’s left shoulder. The heel of her strapy sandal bit into his
back as she arched her body, in encouragement.
Tilting her pelvis forward to meet his eager tongue, Spike lapped at her
succulence, probing the softness and tickling the hardness of her. There was the barest hint of blood in her
tangy fluid, just enough to entice his Demon into breaking the skin of her
inner thigh for a deeper draught.
Buffy
gasped as Spike’s fangs cut into her flesh.
The sound changed to a strangled little cry as he, simultaneously,
thrust two fingers deep into her slippery core. He timed his strokes, keeping
pace with the beat of Buffy’s pulse against his tongue.
She
clenched around him, soft as velvet, hard as steel and Spike knew he was going
to come when she did. He needed to be
buried inside her when that happened. He needed that more than he needed blood. More than he needed anything.
Breaking
away from the bite, Spike pressed his forehead against Buffy’s abdomen as he
fought for control. She was so close to
release. He could feel the shudder
building in her gut. He rocked back on
his haunches to watch her writhe against the door. Their eyes met and Spike felt his insides liquify. He was so entranced by the play of emotion
on Buffy's face that he froze in place, his slick fingers stilled in their
work, his thumb resting on the hard nub of her arousal.
“Don’t
stop,” she pleaded, closing her eyes and knocking her head back against the
door in frustration.
“I
need you,” Spike said, simply.
The
Slayer moaned her assent through lust-swollen lips. She let her leg slide from the vampire’s shoulder, reaching out
to tug at him as he surged up into her arms.
He raped her mouth with his tongue, forcing her open to his need. Fisting one hand in her hair, he braced
himself against the wall with the other, but still he crushed her with the
press of his body, as her fingers clawed at his clothing.
They
broke the kiss just long enough for Buffy to gulp down fresh air.
“Take
me in right now,” Spike growled, into her neck as she gasped, "all the way
inside…and I swear you will love every minute of it.”
“Promise?”
she panted.
“I’m
your dog, baby! How could I lie to you?”
The
boldness of him sobered her and she broke free, reversing their positions, pushing him back into the door.
“Bet
your full of stupid pet tricks,” the Slayer rumbled, dangerously.
Spike
tilted his head to one side, considering her mood. His eyes glittered but his voice, when he spoke again, was
teasingly soft.
“You
give me my bone, Luv,” he vowed, "and I'll do anything…anyway…anywhere…you
say."
The
full force of his earlier thrall came back to Buffy, in a wet rush. She reached out to take Spike’s hand,
interlacing her fingers with his and pulling him with her as she backed across
the room. When her ass smacked into the
edge of the metal desk, she slapped the palm of her free hand down on its hard
surface.
“You
standing…me leaning across…do it from behind,” she directed.
“And
then?”
“Then
you up here on your back, me on top, face to face.”
Spike
shifted his hips forward, rubbing the bulge of his erection against her as he
whispered…
“And
then?”
Narrowing
her eyes at his blatant challenge, Buffy let her dress fall to the floor and
was flattered with a tiny whimper from her loyal mutt.
“Then,"
she purred, guiding his hand to her breast,
"you go down again and we’ll see if you can…
--“GUYS!”-
- Willow’s telepathic intrusion splashedd over them like a bucket of ice water.
- - “Company’s coming.” - -
“Bloody
HELL!” Buffy exclaimed, in frustrated unison with Spike, as the room door was
ripped off of its hinges.
Three
enormous vampires shouldered their way into the small area. They, angrily, thrust forward one,
handcuffed, redheaded witch, in obvious need of a new Vampire Glamour Spell.
"We
are so busted," Willow said, sheepishly…taking the words right out of the
stark-naked Slayer's mouth.
tbc