P.S.
Chapter 1
Scene: An airplane.
We see the seatbelt light go off with the associated sound. Miranda is sitting in a window seat, looking out through the window. She bites her lip and then pulls out a book from her bag. She unhinges her tray table and sets her book on it. Instead of looking at it, she stares off into space for a moment. She starts tapping her fingers on the table, absent-mindedly. The old woman, two seats over, gives her a look. She tries to stop fidgeting and picks up the book. After a few minutes of staring at the opening page, she closes it in frustration and sets it back on the table.
Miranda’s POV, thinking to herself.
Ok. Twelve more hours. Twelve. Maybe 11 and 50 minutes by now. A blip—a trifle to someone like me. No worries. God. A bloody eternity. I had to make the trip to Hong Kong, didn’t I? Couldn’t resist a chance to get back at that weasel Martin. Hope it was worth it. Of course it was. I had to go. No choice, really. Alright, in truth, there was choice, but I needed to see if I could be on my own for a bit—how I’d do without anyone watching over my shoulder. It was fine. Mostly. Wonder how he did. So much temptation ‘round every corner now that we’ve moved the shop into the city. So much anonymity. Told him if things got really bad, I’d rather he shagged someone else than bite anyone. You know, if he HAD to release something. I almost meant it. I wanted to mean it. That’s progress. I’m sure he did fine. I’m on my way home now—that’s all that matters. Right. Check the time. Hey, another 2 minutes has past. Time is flying by. No, it’s good. I just need to focus on my book. Or on a magazine. Or on whatever godawful film they’ve got for us. It will all be fine, so long as I don’t think about Spike.
Oh, Spike.
Dammit, I wasn’t even going to think his name. The thing is, I’ve been gone two weeks. It’s the first time we’ve been separated since all the business in L.A.—was that two years ago? My body is keenly aware that I’m going to see him in roughly 11 hours and 47 minutes. If I let myself think about it, thereby opening the connection between my brain and certain other parts of my body, the next 11 hours and 46 minutes are going to be rather uncomfortable.
Mmmm…Spike.
Stop it!
What if he did shag someone else? Who would he shag? Better than killing, for sure, but who? Not Shelly. No—she’s like family. She could’ve given him a blow job, I suppose. He’s always been curious about her tongue ring. Nah, he’d find someone else with one if he wanted to. He’s thoughtful like that—he’d know it would bother me if it was someone we knew. Sure. So he found someone else to suck him off. That’s not so bad. I could live with that.
[She frowns.]
I can’t BELIEVE he found some slag to give him a blow job. Bastard. I didn’t kill anyone either and yet I didn’t resort to pulling some tart off the street. God, just the thought. Some hoochie had her lips around MY Spike’s knob. Running her tongue along his long, hard, beautiful manhood. Probably had her hands wrapped around his narrow hips—maybe clasping his muscular, cut ass. Twirling her little tongue over his tip, sliding it under the foreskin and over the impossibly smooth skin underneath, tasting the precum leaking out if his covered slit. BITCH. Bet she couldn’t flick her tongue as fast as I can, the way he likes it. Or take in as much of his length as I do, sucking him to the back of my throat while I gently massage the soft skin of his balls. She probably handled them too roughly or so lightly that they tickle, which he definitely wouldn't appreciate. Bet he was wishing it were me—closing his eyes and pretending. Only it wasn’t as good. He’d come anyway, though, visualizing me and all. She’d feel him get even harder in her mouth—like a bloody steel pole. She’d hear those delightful noises he makes when he’s about to burst—the short breaths and accompanied grunts and whimpers that come from the back of his throat. He’d stifle them a bit, though, because it isn’t me and he wouldn’t want to let on that he’s enjoying himself too much. Wouldn’t want to give her any ideas. He’d clench his teeth to keep from letting out the load moan he makes with me when he comes down my throat, hands clasping at my head, hips thrusting involuntarily.
[She licks her lips.]
Mmmm, I can almost taste him.
Dammit!
[She crosses her legs.]
Quick time check—Right. Eleven hours, 32 minutes. This is going to be bloody impossible. What’s the point of fighting it? I can always nip to the loo if I have to. Or maybe use a strategically placed blanket once everyone’s gone to sleep. You know, if I get too worked up.
[She leans back in her seat, smiling.]
Spike has a lovely penis. He really does. And I’ve seen my fair share over the years. Everyone has their preferences, so I won’t argue that he has objectively THE BEST penis out there. To each her own. Or his own, for that matter. [She raises an eyebrow.] Ooh, maybe he got a bloke to suck him off. So I wouldn’t be as jealous. There’s that guitar player who always tries to flirt with him when he drops in to have a listen to the new releases. Spike’s clueless of course, but I notice. Maybe he’s not so clueless. Oh my. God that’s hot. No—not going to go there. Highly unlikely. Impossible, as a matter of fact. Spike is just a touch homophobic. He gets this look on his face whenever I bring up the idea of a threesome of the multiple penis variety. Right. Where was I? Spike’s knob. So for me, it’s absolutely just right. Now, there’s always a lot of talk about size and I have to agree with the consensus that baring extremes, size it simply not terribly important. Many other factors are much more critical in determining the quality of a lover—enthusiasm, skill, attention to detail, etc. That said, the thing I like best about having such a well-endowed lover is actually the sensation that lingers after the act itself. I like the soreness—the slight burning from being stretched from the inside—that lingers well after the last wave of pleasure has passed. I like when we make love in the morning, before we go to the shop—sometimes hours pass before the swelling and tingling has completely subsided (depending on how vigorous we were) and during that time, I can imagine him inside me. I have that constant reminder of what we’d been up to earlier and how good he’d made me feel and for some reason, that makes me feel closer to him. Satisfied. Mmmmm. Yeah, I like it when Spike fucks me in the morning.
Of course, it’s not all about fucking. Don't get the wrong idea. I’d be lost without him, penis or not. I don’t like to dwell on it, though. It’s not right to love someone so much. I’m sure it’s not. Someone must have told me once. I can see why. It can make you crazy. More on that later.
Alright. No more thinking about sex. Can’t think about it for at least another, oh, 10 hours or so. So what else? Hm. Uh. Yeah...Er...But I don’t see anything wrong with thinking about Spike generally. You know, other things about him besides his body.
He’s incredibly sweet. I mean, everything he does has a touch of vampire in it, but he does try awfully hard. Sometimes he gets it a bit wrong, which I personally find rather endearing. Like that time in Turkey. We were staying in a rather small hotel—maybe 20 rooms. It was a big old house that had been converted. One night there was a fire—had absolutely nothing to do with us (for a change). The whole bloody place practically burned to the ground. Fire scares me—scares Spike, too, for obvious reasons. We got out in plenty of time and just stood outside with everyone else, watching it burn, waiting for the rescue folks. No one really knew if everyone had gotten out or not—wasn’t the most organized of places. We stuck around in case we’d be able to get back in our room and get our things. Anyway, we’re standing outside having a smoke, when Spike gets a funny look on his face—he cranes his head towards the building as if he’d heard something. I ask him about it, but he just smiles and says he’ll be right back. Without saying another word, he charges into the burning building, only to emerge a bit later, carrying something in his arms. I thought he must have remembered something we’d left in the room and was about to scold him for taking the risk—we didn’t have anything THAT valuable with us. He strides up, looking rather pleased with himself. As he approaches, I see he’s carrying a baby—maybe 10 months old, cheeks wet with tears. It looked healthy enough, and for some unknown reason wasn’t even crying—maybe the shock of it all. I’m rather flummoxed. Not that Spike doesn’t do heroic things every now and again—but this was just so random. So out-of-the blue. So unexpected. He notices my confused look.
Spike: “It’s for you.”
I stammer: “What?”
Spike: “I knew you wanted one. I heard it crying.” [He takes hold of it under its little arms and holds it out to inspect] “I think it’s alright. Looks well enough.”
He holds it out for me to take. Still gobsmacked, I take it from him.
Me: “But where are its parents? You didn’t just leave them there?”
Spike: “Don’t worry, love. They were dead already—the roof fell on ‘em in the next room.”
Me: “How did you know?”
He shrugs. I want to believe that they were dead when he got there. I try not to think about it.
Spike: “Do you like it? ‘Think it’s a boy.”
Ah, the way he looked at me then. So genuine. So earnest. He honestly thought he could just give me a baby and that would make me happy. With no thought to what having a baby would mean—how it would change things. I still tear up every time I think about it.
Me: “It’s a beautiful baby, William. But we can’t keep it.”
Spike: [looking deflated] “But I thought that’s what you wanted.”
I knew I couldn’t really make him understand, so I didn’t try.
Me: “It’s wonderful that you saved this baby from the fire. Absolutely wonderful. But we have to give it to the police—maybe they can find a relative to take him in.”
Spike: “But you...”
Me: “I’m not ready to be a mum again just yet. Things are different now, remember? I can’t.”
He nods his understanding.
Spike: “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. Babies are surprisingly easy to come by. Dru had a thing for ‘em and we never had any trouble...[He stops when he sees the look I’m giving him. In a softer voice] I just thought...”
Me: “I know.”
*
So sweet. Sometimes he’s not so easily dissuaded once he’s got an idea in his head. He can be rather stubborn. Take my birthday last year, for instance. About a week before the actual day, we were faffing about at home. We’d taken to reading to each other now and again—always in bed. First it was just erotic stories and, well, we never got very far. Then we worked our way up to short stories of various kinds and now we were embarking on a whole novel. I say ‘we’, but he always insisted I do the reading. A shame, too, because I find the sound of his voice so comforting. I think there must be an old memory or association that makes him reluctant to read aloud—I don’t press him on it. I’d managed to talk him into Wuthering Heights of all things—is one of my favorites and I insisted that he’d like it. So I was reading...
**
“If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.”
“Because you’re not fit to got there,” I answered. “All sinners would be miserable in heaven.”
“But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there.”
“I tell you I won’t hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I’ll go to bed,” I interrupted again.
She laughed and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.
“This is nothing”, cried she. “I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weaping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will do to explain my secret, as well as any other. I’ve no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not thought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn’t have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightening, or frost from fire.”
**
As I was reading, I tried desperately not to let on that this is my favorite part. I pause to look over at him before I continue. He’s looking bored.
Spike: “Blah blah blah, after many many many more pages of blubbering on about it and probably some crying, she ends up convincing her brother to let her marry the gypsie-man and they live happily ever after. How bloody boring. I thought you said it was a good story. Dark, you said.”
I look up from the book, straight into his eyes and say, very seriously with a casual eyebrow raise...
Me: “She doesn’t marry Heathcliff.”
Spike: “Oh.” [He actually looks slightly surprised—like he might actually care.] “What a bitch. Does he do lots of nasty things to her in the end?” [he says with growing interest]
Me: “Maybe. Guess you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. We should head off soon.”
I put the book down and crawl out of bed. I start getting dressed. He’s watching me, as usual.
Spike: “So what should I get you for your birthday?”
God, he looks sexy lying on his stomach, the sheet just covering his ass, head perched on his hand.
Me: “Surprise me.”
Spike: “Surprises are boring. I’d throw you a party, but we don’t actually have any friends.”
Me: “Yeah. Why is that? People used to like me.”
He’s right. We’d been living in Sleepy Hollow for over a year and hadn’t made any friends at all. Save our employees and they’re paid to hang out with us, so it’s not really the same thing.
Spike: “You’re not exactly the charmer you once were, love. One of the side affects of always saying what you think.”
Me: “Hm. I think people in this town are too sensitive. Not exactly Sunnydale now is it? People had a certain tolerance for odd behavior there.”
Spike: “Maybe we should move into the city. Be closer to the shop.”
Me: “Could do. Expensive, though. And what would Cat think? [pause] Buy me something pretty. More jewelry.”
[He frowns at this suggestion.]
I should mention that the ‘shop’ we keep referring to is actually a record shop. It was Spike’s idea. Sidekick, remember? We’re working our way slowly into the big picture. Very slowly. We came across it one day in Manhattan. Some bloke had been running it on his own for a couple of years and was going broke quickly with the Tower Records opening just up the street. He was ready to sell it cheap and we had the cash, so we bought it. We kept Barney on as the manager, since neither of us knew the first thing about running a record shop and he was keen to stay. Oh, but Spike refuses to call him Barney because of the stupid purple dinosaur and the overall ridiculousness of the name, so we call him Buz. I like Buz. He’s a bit uptight, but he puts up with our...er...hobbies and doesn't ask too many questions. We’ve got two other employees. Alex, who does a fantastic job with security—I think it’s safe to say that no one has ever left the shop with something they didn’t pay for. And Shelly, who works the register and helps Buz out with various things around the shop. Spike never told me how he knew her. When we decided to take someone else on, he said he new the perfect girl for the job and a few weeks later, Shelly arrived. Obviously they have some sort of history, which is rather hard to conceive of seeing as she’s only 20 years old. I don’t ask. They’re a good lot. Oh, and just so you don’t think we’ve given up on the whole hero business, what with me being an angel and all, we have a back room. We’ve been known, on occasion, to help people. We’re starting to build a reputation. I’d say that we’re rather like a more flexible, less committed and decidedly snarkier version of Angel Investigations, but Spike would murder me for even thinking it, let alone saying it. We’ll get around to it. The saving-the-world part. At some point we’ll stop enjoying each other so much and we’ll buckle down. You know, once we’re past the enjoying-each-other-so-much part. It’s inevitable. Right? Speaking of enjoying...
Spike: “Think I’d rather DO something.”
I can see his mind working and it worries me for some reason.
Me: “Why don’t you plan a trip? Someplace warm.”
Spike: “Got it. [eyes flashing] An orgasm for every year of your life.”
I think he’s joking. He’s got a huge grin on his face.
Me: “I’m going to be 142.” I say, dismissively.
Spike: “142 orgasms it is, then.”
Me: “That’s just silly, William. You’ve only got a week.”
Spike: “Lets see. That works out to just over 20 a day. There are 24 hours in a day and if memory serves, you regularly have 3 or 4 in an hour.” He says this with a dirty little grin.
Me: “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Spike: “How am I being ridiculous?”
Uh oh. He seems a bit bruised by my dismissal. It’s never a good idea to imply to Spike that he can’t do something.
Me: “I may have 4 in an hour, but that’s not every hour of every day. It’s an entirely different sort of thing.”
Spike: “If you had 4 in an hour, it wouldn’t have to be every hour, then would it? ”
I shake my head.
Me: “No. Think of something else.”
Spike: “I don’t want to think of something else.”
Me: “You just don’t want to go shopping in the cold.”
Spike: “Do you have any idea what happens to a vampire trapesing about outside when it gets below freezing? Not a pretty sight, I’ll tell you.”
Me: “So order something online. That’s what the bloody computer is for.”
Spike: “You’re getting 142 orgasms for your birthday and that’s the end of it.”
Me: “You’ll never be able to do it. And I’m not even sure I’m capable of it.”
Spike: “Oh, I’m perfectly sure.”
I think of something.
Me: “Write me a poem. That would be lovely. Or put that tuxedo on and take me out to dinner. We could shag in the toilet of the most posh restaurant in Manhattan.”
Spike: [shaking it off with a disgusted frown.] “Get your kit back off. We’ve got to get started.”
Me: “How about you make me a music mix. That'd be fun, yeah?”
So you’re probably wondering why I don’t just smile and take the 142 orgasms. The thing is, we didn’t really have time for a sexathon that week—we were re-arranging the shop and doing inventory and we’d made appointments. One of us has to be responsible. And I’m pretty sure he WAS joking at first. Not to mention that I saw it as a bit of a copout, really. A way to get out of shopping. I mean, he couldn’t possibly do it anyway, right?
Spike: [Shaking his head, he says very seriously and deliberately] “I said. Get_your_kit_off.”
Oof. I like his tone. I REALLY like his tone.
Me: [feebly] “Ok”
I do as I’m told and while I’m stripping off my clothes, I decide to ask:
Me: “So how many orgasms are you planning on having this week?”
Spike: [thinking for a minute] “Twenty-eight.”
Me: “That’s four a day—do we have enough blood?” I say, smirking just a bit, letting myself enjoy the thoughts of our future lovemaking. I wouldn’t say we’re in a lull excactly, but it has been a considerable time since our last true sexathon...
I’ve just got my socks left now, which I pull off one at a time. As I reach for the second one, I hear what sounds like the low, deep-throated growl of a panther or something. It makes my hair stand on end. Before I can react, I’m thrown on my back rather violently. The back of my head hits the wood floor with sharp thud. I don’t have an instant to think—to comprehend what just happened before I feel him dive into me. I instinctively yell as I feel the sharp pain in my neck and between my legs, both at the same moment. I feel a bit dizzy from the fall. For reasons I can’t explain, I feel myself pushing against him—as if I’m trying desperately to dislodge his teeth. I have a fleeting thought—did I try to push away when he bit me the first time in that alleyway? Back when I was just a girl and didn’t know what was happening. Or did I just give in? I don’t remember. A moment later, when I realize what’s happening, I try to relax. The thing is, we don’t usually play this sort of game—the predator-prey stalking thing. And Spike so rarely shows his vampire side now, that sometimes I forget the power that’s within him. Since the chip stopped working, he’s been rather cautious about letting his demon out to play—maybe he worries that he’ll lose control. So I forget. What was in me right now was pure animal. I must’ve been standing 8 feet from the bed and last I’d looked, he was casually sprawled under the sheet looking relaxed as a kitten. And yet somehow, in an instant, without making a noise, save the growl, he was on me. Humans' didn’t have a bloody chance back when he was on the prowl for real now, did they? Feeling me relax, he leaves my neck and still in vamp face, kisses me hard on the lips, his still covered in my blood. I cut my tongue on his teeth, they’re so sharp and once he tastes the blood, he takes hold of it and sucks roughly. He pulls his cock out slightly and then pushes it further in—again, I can’t help but whimper. It bloody hurts—he thrust in with such force the first time. Without the usual lubrication, his enormous cock feels twice as big—stretching everything to the limit. In something between a grunt and a whisper, still in game face, he says “I had to be in you. I couldn’t wait. I heard you say ‘blood’ and I wanted it.” The husky voice is too much for me. Every rasp dripping with selfish desire. Forget the pain. And just so we’re clear, I’m not usually one to get off on pain—have never been interested in S&M or anything like that. But it’s different with Spike. He knows exactly what I need—what I want—what makes me wild. Maybe just a flash of pain—something for contast. Now instead of worrying about my sore head or my sore neck of my sore pussy, all I can think about is his desperation. I’m sure he knows it—knows that is the one thing that will always get me off, no matter what state I’m in when we start. Now I’m desperate for him to use me—use my body to get himself off. He thrusts again and grins—he can feel himself slide back in more easily this time. He pumps a couple more times, to lubricate his length with my now freely flowing juices. I feel a bit weak from the blood loss and the adrenaline from the surprise of it. Otherwise, I’d push him over on his back and ride him a while. I can push him in deeper when I’m on top and I like to watch his face react to my movements. But I’m too dizzy. He shakes off his demon, giving me the chance to stare into his ice blue eyes. His lips are wet and glistening. He lifts his torso up and starts thrusting with more energy. He closes his eyes and a mild snarl creeps across his mouth. He sucks in some saliva that might have been about to leak out and then bites his lower lip. I wrap my hands around his hips, pulling him in deeper. He slurs “Think I may have made you bleed. I can smell the mixture of blood and sex. Maybe I should take a look—have a taste.” I hear myself utter a desperate plea “No. Don’t.” I can’t bear to feel the emptiness. “I want to come with you inside me.” He smirks. “This isn’t about what you want love. This is all about me.” He pulls my legs up and rests them on his chest, allowing him to plunge even deeper inside. God it hurts. God it feels good. Why does the idea of him being selfish turn me on so much? I feel my temperature rise as his pole brushes past my G-spot with every thrust. And I thought I was dizzy before. I’m swollen now and so as he pushes in and out of my hole, the taught skin tugs at the base of my clit. Oh god. I close my eyes. I can’t stop myself from moaning and whimpering, it feels so unbelievably intense. My head is swirling. I whine “I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me come.” Yeah, very original, I know. But you can’t think straight when all the blood is in your parts—there’s none left for the brain. It’s rather amazing we can speak at all. I hear him rasp “Why you tellin’ me, love? I told you I didn’t care. All I want is to fill up that soft, wet space between your legs with my juice. I’m gonna come so hard, you’ll feel it in your chest.” And that’s all I needed to hear. I scream as I feel the tingly wave of my orgasm sweep through me. I sense my inner muscles try to take hold of his thrusting cock—gripping and squeezing in desperation. He barks his approval and I open my eyes just in time to see his seemingly pained expression as he pumps his juices into me with quick forceful thrusts. I can feel him throb inside me, wave after wave. He collapses onto my chest and rests his forehead on the floor next to my head, breathing heavily. After a moment, he lifts his head up and kisses me softly on the lips.
Spike: “Ok. One down, 141 to go.”
And so started the week of 142 orgasms.
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