By joan the english chick

A Vague Disclaimer Is Nobody's Friend: The characters and locations of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" are property of Mutant Enemy Productions (Grr, argh) and FOX Television, and are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is property of the author, and may not be reproduced, retransmitted, or posted anywhere without my expressed permission.
Warnings/Ratings: This story is rated NC-17 for sexual situations, kink, and some four-letter words.
Timeline: Takes place a few days after episode "Wrecked."
Spoilers: "BTVS" 6th Season through "Wrecked"
Summary: Buffy, sex, fear, introspection.
Relevant Quote: "...someone should teach you how to use candles in foreplay" -- Spike to Buffy in "Wrecked"
Dedication: This story is dedicated to Misha as thanks for kindly providing me with a OMWF CD. :-)

Buffy lies facedown on Spike's bed counting the days. She winds up with five and her throat is tight with shame. Five pitiful little days, she couldn't even go a full week before coming back to him.

She can feel him sitting next to her, leaning against the headboard. She wonders whether he's watching her. She wonders whether she wants him to be watching her.

She wants to blame Spike for this, of course. She could say it's all his fault -- he invited her over, after all, earlier this evening. She was out for a brief before-dinner patrol, stalking through the cemetery, when he appeared by her side, fell easily into step with her. It was so natural, so matter-of-fact. She almost forgot that she was mad at him, that she was never touching him again. Yeah, right.

"How's the little bit then?" he asked as they walked. No "evening, Slayer, fancy seeing you around" or anything. Went straight to Dawn, and of course because she's grateful to him for getting Dawn to the hospital, she skipped over the angry part and answered the question.

"She's fine, getting better," she said, not looking at him. "Went to school today and everything."

"Glad to hear it," said Spike, and she knew he really was. It confuses her, this earnest compassion from what's supposed to be a monster, a creature of evil. She doesn't want to understand it, although there's a prickly feeling at the back of her consciousness telling her that she does anyway. Get it. Is it possible to understand something against your will?

So then they came to the edge of the cemetery, and Spike said coolly, "Well, stop by any time, pet," with a salacious wink, and she summoned up a disgusted expression and a lame "as if!" and stomped away. Knew he was watching her go with an amused grin. God, how that pissed her off. God, how it made her panties damp.

And of course later, after she'd eaten dinner and washed the dishes and played mommy to Willow and Dawn and put them to bed, of course she'd slipped back out and made her way back to the cemetery. And Spike didn't have the decency to pretend he was surprised to see her. She found him standing beside the bed, shirtless -- he'd heard or smelled her, she wondered from how far away -- and she said, "Just shut up, okay?" and ran her hands over his smooth, cold, muscular chest. And he took hold of her upper arms and pushed her down on the bed and covered her body with his own.

That was, what, half an hour ago maybe, and now she's lying here with her cheek pressed into his silk pillowcase and her thighs sticking together, berating herself. Telling herself that she's getting up and leaving, any minute now, and never coming back. Yeah. Sure.

Suddenly she feels a hot prickle of pain on her back, stinging briefly, then subsiding to a warm tingle. Then another, and another. She inhales sharply in surprise, tries to roll over or twist around and look, but Spike's hand is on her neck holding her down. She feels a sudden rush of fear, constricting her chest and making the little hairs on her neck stand up against Spike's palm.

"Just relax, pet," comes his voice, drifting into her ear from behind and above. "Just keeping my promise." Promise? What does he mean? Another spot of soft heat on her back and suddenly she remembers: someone should teach you how to use candles... Candles, of course.... She tries to get up again but he pushes her down again, hard. Buffy knows -- or thinks she knows -- that she's stronger than Spike, could shake his hand off and get up any minute. But something holds her back, something in Spike's touch or his voice, or maybe inside of her.

"Spike..." she whispers, quivering a little. Another drip, this one longer, dripping the wax in a line down her lower back just to the beginning of the cleft between her buttocks.

"Just shut up, okay?" says the soft voice behind her, echoing her words from earlier, and she realizes this is her punishment, as it were. She doesn't want to admit that it seems only fair. That would make it sound too much like a, oh shit, relationship. That is NOT what this is. A groan constricts her throat but doesn't become vocal. Another trail of wax paints her shoulderblade.

Now Buffy's entire back is hot and tingling from the wax. And her whole body is tense, waiting, her muscles tight with not knowing when the next drop will come. And as that next drop hits her, she realizes that between her legs it's getting very, very wet.

Is this it? Has she finally crossed some line, lost the ability to distinguish pleasure from pain? She's known, of course, about people who mixed the two, but always thought it was some bizarre aberration of the mind, not the body. Only the sick would enjoy something like that, she used to think. Then again, what has her love life been thus far if not pain -- emotional pain rather than physical? and why shouldn't she try the physical for once, she's the Slayer, it's less likely to leave scars? Or does that just mean she's sick too?

"Stop thinking so much," says Spike quietly, scaring her badly. Does he read her mind now? When did that happen? Spike releases his hand from her neck, runs it down her back, his fingertips tracing the contours of the blobs of wax sticking to her skin. She shivers as her arousal increases in a surge with each sweep of his fingers. He croons softly, dreamily. "Relax, luv. That's it."

Buffy does her best. She consciously relaxes each muscle in sequence: feet, ankles, shins, knees, thighs ... her thighs can't relax entirely, not as turned on as she is. Butt, back, shoulders, arms, neck. Spike continues caressing her waxy back. With every tiniest movement she feels a little bit of tightness, the pull of the wax restricting the flow of her skin.

Then she feels the bed jounce underneath her as Spike leans closer. She feels the heat from the candle's flame near her flesh and another wild flutter of panic, I want the fire back but he doesn't let it burn her, lets another drip of wax loose. This time the candle's so close to her skin the wax is like fire and she twitches violently, gasping. It burns and stings the sensitive skin at the small of her back. Her breathing is ragged now, the space between her thighs is a river delta.

Spike leans close and blows softly on the spot. His breath, cooler than a living person's, sweeps across her agonized skin like a caress, bringing relief. She shivers and begins to writhe slowly against the sheets, feeling pleasure gather in her belly, trying to rub herself against the bed.

Spike repeats the process. Even the sensation of the flame so close doesn't prepare her for the shock of the dripping wax, the sudden hot pain, the lingering burn. And no pleasure she's ever experienced could prepare her for the sweet brush of Spike's unnatural breath, easing the heat away. A quiet but intense moan puffs up her throat and she's still writhing, pressing herself into the mattress.

Then Spike sits up again, mysterious noises and movements transmitted to her through the bed, and in an instant he's back again, his fingers running over her skin again, circling round the spots of wax, making her tremble. Delicately he's peeling the wax away, leaving her skin feeling soft and slightly chilled. When his hand moves down toward her ass she tenses again, wanting, hoping. But he doesn't give in yet. He removes the wax that had trickled down between her cheeks, sweeps his fingers lightly across the swell of her, then away.

Now he reaches up, takes her shoulder and flips her over. He's managed to get her arms trapped, one tangled in the sheets, Spike moving his knee to hold the other down against the bed. Buffy blinks foggily at him through a haze of pain, arousal, confusion. He grins just slightly and leans over her, showing her the candle in his hand. It's white, simple and plain. The flame mesmerizes her briefly until he moves again, brushing his free hand lightly over her lips as he moves the candle down her body.

She starts up in alarm, but Spike puts his hand on her stomach, holds her down, poises the candle over her breasts. They heave as she tries to get her breathing under control, tries not to freak out. Spike tips the candle ever so slightly and a pendulous globe of wax forms, gathers, falls. It hits directly between her breasts and rolls a little. She gasps and bucks upward at the stinging pain, the intense heat. Spike's hand on her stomach feels oppressive, holding her down, holding her back. She whimpers and hates herself for it. But he doesn't smirk, his expression remains solemn -- almost serene. He leans down again, his cheek almost touching her nipple, and blows gently. Buffy whines and tries to press her hips upward, silently begging him to touch her. Her entire groin throbs with desperation.

She sees indecision flicker across his features. And Buffy realizes she's holding her breath, tense again with arousal and suspense. Spike gives the candle a little flick and tiny drops of wax spatter across her breasts, making her yelp and twist under his hand. He leans over to blow on the spots again and ends up taking her nipple into his mouth, suckling strongly, his other hand sliding up across her ribs to wrap around her other breast, fingertips wandering across the bumps of wax, teasing her. Buffy continues whimpering nonstop, wriggling around trying to get her hand free to touch herself.

But then he pulls back again, gives the sheet a twist so that it holds her arm trapped again. Puts his free hand back on her stomach, holding her down. Slides it up a little, over her ribs, pressing between her breasts right over the rivulet of hardened wax. And he moves the candle farther down, lets a drop of wax fall on her abs. Buffy can't stop herself from talking now -- words begin to escape, the ones she's tried so hard to keep down, the shameless murmurs that she knows will make her blush later. Nothing too coherent, mostly like "oh God, oh God," and Spike's name, and then, yes, then she's saying "please please please," and a small part of her can't believe she's begging. But she needs it, she needs release. Her whole being vibrates with the need to climax.

And Spike won't give it to her, not yet. He's lost in the moment, fulfilling a fantasy by introducing her to this dark new kind of pleasure, drinking in the noises she's making. She can see his erection pointing at the ceiling, bobbing slightly with his movements, she knows he's painfully aroused too, but he, it seems, has more strength than she. He's not ready to break yet.

He dips his hand again to drip the candle across her belly. She's panting frantically, her breaths erratic, making her stomach roll and heave crazily, and the wax paints abstract patterns of white on her white skin. It stings and burns like tears. Spike moves his hand and the dripping wax is flirting with the line of her pubic hair, rolling along the soft sensitive skin just at the bottom of her belly. Then moving again and it dribbles across the tops of her thighs, a thin line of wax dripping down the slope toward her inner thighs, mixing there with Spike's semen and her own juices. Buffy's throat is raw from gasping and whimpering, she can't say "please" any more. She closes her eyes and everything is gone except the fiery pain and the desperate arousal, suffusing her skin all over. She knows nothing but the pleasure and the pain. She wants nothing but the pleasure and the pain, she knows nothing but Spike, she wants nothing but Spike.

And it's while she's floating in this moment, lost on the brink of ecstasy, she feels Spike move, and his mouth is on her breasts again, blunt teeth grazing her nipples, wet tongue circling them. She begins to whimper again, feels her climax approaching from a distance like the gathering swell of the ocean on the horizon. Spike trails his tongue down the swell of her breast, across her heaving ribs, tracing the contours of the wax, dipping into her navel briefly, and on downward while she gasps and bucks underneath him. His tongue dips between her dripping wet folds, finding his way unerringly to the tiny hard nub of flesh awaiting his caress. He runs his tongue over it lightly, teasing, then moves lower, pushing his tongue inside her. She moans loudly and tries to get out another "please" but her lips won't close around it. Still Spike hears the unspoken word, moves back up to her clit and begins to suck, and Buffy feels the tidal wave gathering over her, pausing, pausing, then rolling over her in a flood. She cries out wordlessly as stars explode behind her eyes.

It's possibly the longest-lasting orgasm she's ever had. It seems to roll on and on in blissful waves, and as it's beginning to subside, Spike slides up her body and enters her. She's so completely wet he just slips in easily, and she gives a loud gasp as her oversensitized muscles clench instinctively around Spike, drawing him further in. Her knees automatically draw up around his hips and then she can do no more than lie there, limp, boneless, feeling almost literally incapable of moving as he fucks her slowly, deliciously. His mouth is beside her ear and he murmurs all those obscene things she loves to hear: how hot she is, how tight, how much he loves being inside her, how good it feels. And even though she doesn't think she can lift so much as a finger, she finds her arm rising, her hand hooking around the back of Spike's neck to pull his mouth over to hers. He gives a tortured groan into her lips as his tongue thrusts against hers, tasting of her. She wants to suck all of her own juices from his tongue, and he suddenly stiffens against her, groaning again as he pours himself into her.

Slowly the aftershock tremors of Buffy's orgasm come to a stop and Spike moves to roll off of her, but she wraps her arms around his shoulders, holding him in place. His cool body feels nice against her fevered, sweat-slicked skin, and she doesn't mind the weight of him on top of her. She pulls his head down onto her chest and feels his softening penis slip out of her, feels the fluids mingling between their legs. They lie there for an eternity while Buffy's breathing slowly comes back to normal.

At last Spike pulls away, lifts himself up a bit to look down at her. Buffy sees a sarcastic remark forming on his lips and sees him reject it. Again she's taken aback, made anxious and uncomfortable by the unexpected displays of not-evilness from Spike. Why can't he be either evil or good, why must he be this weird and unfamiliar blend of the two, why must he be the only person who can make her feel truly glad that she's alive again?

But what he finally says is, "Hold still, luv," and begins carefully peeling away the wax from her breasts, her stomach, her legs. It's smushed and partly softened again from being pressed between their bodies, but the sensation of the wax peeling off her skin is oddly erotic. Buffy can't believe she could possibly get aroused again, not for hours after that, but yet it's happening.

"Bit messy," Spike mutters, not looking at her, and she realizes it's his way of apologizing for the kinky. Like he's giving her an out, like now is her time to say 'yes, don't ever do that to me again.' She thinks yet again that this is what she *should* say. But it's not what she wants to say. Of course.

"I don't mind," she tells him, meaning, 'No, I didn't hate it.' And it scares her that he gets it, that he knows just what she means. He smiles a little and finishes removing the last of the wax, rolling it between his fingers and then tossing it carelessly to the floor. Looks up at her and sees, just as if he could see right through her, that his ministrations have turned her on again.

So he shifts his body back up, lies beside her with his elbow next to her head and his cheek resting on his hand, looking down at her. Trails his other hand down her stomach and between her legs, touches her lightly. She jumps and twitches a little, almost painful when he touches her clit. He moves his hand down more, pushes two fingers inside her and moves them, watching her face the whole time. Buffy almost can't believe it, but she really does feel another orgasm building. She tries to stay with Spike, to hold his gaze, but as he finger-fucks her so slowly and brushes her clit with his thumb, she can't manage it any more, her eyes drift shut.

"Yeah, that's it, pet," she hears Spike murmur. "Come for me now. Let me see you. So beautiful."

The bold words shoot straight from her ears to the pit of her stomach and she shudders in climax, her muscles clutching at Spike's fingers. A sigh escapes her and she seems to sink even farther into the mattress. Slowly his fingers slide out of her and she can hear him licking them.

She dozes then for a while, and when she wakes up again, not knowing how long it's been, she finds Spike hasn't moved, still lying there watching her. She meets his eyes, and her first reaction is to think it's sweet -- her second reaction an instant later is that it's creepy. She tries to think about what's just happened here, what Spike has shown her, but she can't. Her mind shies away from it, and that's how she knows it's a truth. It's a truth she doesn't want; she feels tears rising in her eyes and blinks them away, fast, not wanting Spike to see them. Stupid; he's so close to her, he's right here, he can see everything.

Buffy sits up too fast, scared and confused. Head-rush, she has to pause for a moment while colored spots whirl before her eyes. Spike sits up beside her, more slowly, not touching her. She thinks she hates him for understanding. She can't meet his eyes now, but she leans over to kiss him again, just briefly, running her tongue over his lips, then pulls away. Reluctantly, stiffly, she reaches for her clothing.

Spike stays where he is, watches her get dressed. Uncomfortable, she feels like she should apologize to him now, but she's not sure why. She pulls on her shoes, pauses, turns to him. He looks quietly at her, waiting.

"Thank you," she says in a near-whisper. She sees that she's surprised him. She sees that he doesn't know what to say in response, and she feels a twist of ironic amusement; finally she's managed to turn the tables on him. She turns and leaves.

Buffy walks down the dark streets toward home. It's still sticky between her legs and her panties are uncomfortable. The skin of her back and stomach and thighs tingles painfully from being burnt. The stretched soreness in her thighs and between them makes her feel powerful, feminine. And then there's the soreness that isn't physical, that makes her knees tremble from realizing what she's felt, that makes it hard to breathe in those moments when it hits her like a fresh shock each time. But when you put it all together, as odd as it seems, she feels good. She still has too much to think about -- including the fact that, like it or not, she's in a relationship again -- but in the deranged clarity of the middle of the night, she thinks she can handle it. She thinks she'll be able to think about it, real soon now.

She gets home and lets herself in silently, tiptoes up the stairs, buries her clothing at the bottom of the hamper and stands naked beside the tub, her hand poised over the shower control knob. But she doesn't turn it on. Eventually she pulls her hand back, brushes her teeth, and gets into bed still covered in dried sweat and Spike's seed. There's so much to think about. She falls asleep almost immediately.