The Lateralus Duet - 2 - Reflection
by Valyssia
Do Their Bounds Divide
[reviews]
I may find comfort here. I may find peace within the emptiness. It's calling me...
When I walk back in the room, her body's still clenching. The rattle of metal and creaking of leather fill the air. She has a mouthful of the bedspread. I smirk. I still feel the cascade of energy flowing off her. After setting the bottles of water aside, I roll her onto her back. She looks away.
I remove the straps holding her knees to her chest and guide her legs down. Her legs unfold, lying flat when I remove the manacles that bind her thighs and ankles. Her bound arms push her breasts together above the hard leather shell that covers her lower body. Sweat coats them. It's been a long morning and before that an even longer night. I resist the urge to sweep one of her nipples into my mouth. I want to, but I need to free her. She was a good girl and I need to free her. I drop the manacles over the end of the bed into the plastic tub.
Her bound hands move against the hard leather covering her crotch. She's seeking comfort again. I'm not sure she even realizes it. Releasing the straps, I free her upper arms from the leather shell. I actually spent hours making this horrible thing—molding it with magick to fit her like a glove. I read a paper once on aversion therapy. The girdle is a last resort. It was a last ditch effort. I thought if I put her hands right where she wanted them most, but didn't let her touch, it would mean something. It does. It means I'm a monster.
After searching through my desk drawer, I locate the key and unlock her bracelets from the metal ring at her groin. Her free hands immediately travel above her head. She thinks I'm going to chain her again. I'm not. Instead I remove the three straps that hold the girdle in place. The look of gratitude on her face when I open the leather clamshell makes me weep. Her skin's drenched with sweat. I have to motion for her to get up. She's completely in my control again. "Buffy, drink the water," I say. It's a command. One I shouldn't have to give, but I do.
It hurts her to sit up. As she starts to drink, I place the girdle into the plastic tub. I want to take it all to the trash, but some part of me needs this crap. That's the point: all this garbage, all these things, all this pain—it's all about me controlling her. I'm too frightened not to. My weakness causes this.
Her gaze fixes on the butt plug when I scoop it off the bed and place it on the nightstand. We both look at the awful thing. She finishes the bottle of water and clears her throat. I know how much she hates it. I can almost feel what she's thinking. She can't believe that I would do that—that I would even threaten to do it. I was gonna stick that thing inside her, chain her down in that awful plastic tub and leave. That was how—that's how I was going to treat this woman I say I love. Instead, I forced a confession out of her. My cruelty made her—I made her beg. As a reward—her big reward, was an orgasm. After hours of torture I made her cum. Yeah, I'm a really benevolent mistress. I should be shot.
When she finishes with the second bottle of water, she curls onto her side in a ball, weeping with her back to me. Deep, sick yellow bruises—angry-looking bruises cover her bottom. There are fresh black stripes where I hit her this morning. I ease the pain with magick. She's suffered enough. After moping away my tears with my hands, I pick up the tawse. Turning my back on her, I take a seat at my desk. Absently playing with the thick strips of leather, I examine her again—deeper this time. I need to know I didn't really hurt her. That's dumb. Of course, I hurt her, but I need to know there's nothing deep.
I'm a monster. We've killed things that have done less and felt justified—like we were ridding the world of evil. What makes me different? Is it the situation? Is it because she asks me to dominate her? There are lines. There are always rules. I broke them all. We don't even have a safe word. I've read that that's really important—that the sub should be able to say a word and make it stop. I didn't give her one. We really need a safe word. Why didn't I give her one? I scared her. I made her beg me to stop—really beg. No playing, no games—the slayer was begging me to stop.
She needs me to tell her—to reassure her it's okay. I offer gently, "You may touch." Both of her hands move to her crotch.
"Yes, Mistress," she mumbles. Her voice is so weak. How can she even—? She should hate me. She should leave. I guess I am sort of in her house, though. Then maybe I should leave? Where would I go?
I watch her thighs move as she caresses herself. It's like watching a baby. There's comfort in the touch. She needs it. There has to be an end somewhere. I don't think she'd survive without me. That sounds crazy, but—
I won't—I can't let her—she can't just sleep. I have to chain her down. I want her to hold me more than anything, but when I do, I wake up and she's gone. She hunts. That's what happened last night. If she understood how many times she lay in our bed naked and bleeding she wouldn't do it. She doesn't understand.
I get it all too well. There's a piece of her that still wants to die. She's trying to find that one thing that will kill her. That's what she hunts. And it's so innocent. She doesn't see it that way at all. But I still remember, she threatened me. Then when that wasn't enough she threatened herself. She knew that would hurt me more. She doesn't remember. I punish her. She punishes me. We punish each other.
There must be an end. I have to make one—find one. Splitting my focus, I continue to ease her suffering as I set the tawse aside and reach into the brass dish. Gently sifting through the herbs, I catch the shards of blackened quartz one at a time. There are three. I line them up on the desk when I locate them. The last one is hiding. I stand up to look and a tear drips into the dried herbs. Finally, I find it trapped in the corner.
It's strange, so much of this isn't real yet somehow it hurts. It stems from hurt so...I guess it makes sense. I thought there was an end—that I could take the last of it and she'd get better. She's getting worse...floundering. She doesn't understand. None of what she wants makes sense. It doesn't make sense to me 'cause she shouldn't want it—not without these. It doesn't make sense to her 'cause she doesn't remember why. So what we have is this great big vicious loopy thing. She wants more and— I wipe away the tears. And I give. I don't want to, but I give her what she wants. I want the Buffy I met that day on the way to the diner. I miss her. I crave her. I need her.
The horror we went through—she went through—gave her an excuse—the perfect thing. She split into three people. Her aggression became the slayer. Her weakness became the slave. Everything else is Buffy. She's always tried to set herself apart from both. She wants to have her cake and eat it too. I always thought that was a funny thing to say. You can't. It's impossible. You eat the cake and what you have is an empty plate. That's Buffy. I wish I knew how to make her see it's all her—the cake and the plate and the whippy stuff and the cherry. It's all one big—'kay...this analogy—it's a good one but it's making me hungry...and maybe a little horny.
Snatching a couple of Kleenexes from the box, I dry my eyes and wipe my nose. I'm drowning. After tossing the tissues aside, I focus and touch the tiny shards. I can feel them—the memories. They don't like being trapped. They want to go home.
I watched the memories, so many of them were delusions—the work of a broken mind. I tried to fix her. It was like this weird game of Jenga with Buffy's brain. The tower topped ominously a couple of times. It didn't come crashing down, but in the end I still failed. She's still hurting. We're still hurting.
I hate what she's making me into. This isn't me. Tara and I used to play. We had fun. We explored. There were toys, but nothing hurtful. Now it seems like all I do is hurt, discipline, control...
I thought when she came in last night and sat down, something good had happened. I expected her to wait. She never approaches the bed without permission. She comes in, takes her clothes off, folds them neatly, and kneels on her mat like a good slave. I taught her that. She needed the structure—a routine to follow. She kneels until I tell her to join me.
I know she wanted to be spanked. She never calls me Mistress in public unless she wants a spanking. I never use that thing—my gaze fixes on the tawse—unless she's bad. I never leave a mark unless she's naughty. Most nights she spends hours just trying to please me. I wish last night had—that she hadn't been naughty.
I focus my attention fully on her. She feels better and her bottom looks better. "If you could ask for one thing—one gift—what would it be, Buffy?" I have no idea why I ask this, but I do. I'm so used to seeing her like this, it's easy for me to just choose for her. I even get mad sometimes when she questions me. Our hell is a perfect hell—perfectly conflicted. I want the old Buffy back, but I don't like it when she questions me? How ridiculous is that?
She doesn't say anything for several moments. I sit and patiently await an answer.
She turns toward me, still the perfect submissive, she doesn't make eye contact. The look on her face is a mix of wonder and confusion as she tries to figure me out. Finally, she admits, "I'd ask you to come with me." It really is an admission too. It's hard for her.
"Come with you?" I ask, needing her to be specific.
"Hunting," she answers. The embarrassment pours off her in waves.
Her answer shocks me, but my expression remains neutral. It's hard, but I force it. Holding up a crystal, I prompt, "Are you sure?"
"Yes, Mistress," she replies as her shame turns to confusion, "You said those were hurting me."
"I said that you were hurting yourself. I thought the memories were the cause. Thing is, the 'hurting' was because of the 'hunting.' It's why you sleep chained up. It's why I punished you the way—" Unable to continue, I break off to collect my thoughts. I feel horrible. This time I think it shows.
It takes me a few moments to calm enough to continue, but I finally manage to explain, "All of this is because of what you want me to do with you." Funny, I'm as confused as she is now. Maybe she's right. If I go with her I can protect her. Maybe she does need it. It seems insane, but after 'she kills monsters with a little piece of wood' is it really that much of a shock?
I spend several more minutes weighing what I should do. Finally I answer, "I'll give you what you ask for, but I want something in return."
She nods and I continue, "It's actually a few things. I want you to see what I saw. I can show you my memories. I should've done it weeks ago, but it was so much easier to wallow." I look away. It's my turn to play submissive. I'm actually good at it, but this Buffy would never see that. It's so easy to separate them. She does it. I do it. But really it's like she wears different masks. I need to make her understand that again. I think that's the key. That's what'll make her better.
"I'll give you a few days to think and then I want to slowly give these back" — I hold up one of the crystals as I explain — "It'll be as slow or as fast as you want. If you feel scared or overwhelmed you can say 'no.' I won't make you. Take the time you need."
I look up. My gaze turns stern. The final thing I say is a command, "You will never hunt like that without me. If you need it, you will come home and ask for it just like you ask to be spanked."
She looks at my feet and answers sheepishly, "Yes, Mistress."
I don't need to tell her the price. She already knows.
I watch her for a few moments. Goddess she's beautiful. "Go shower. Take as much time as you need." She awkwardly rises and comes over to me. She smells amazing. Her gaze is fixed on the floor. She needs me to touch—to tell her its okay. I keep my hands in my lap and continue to explain, "When you get done, we'll eat and I'll show you." Reaching up, I cup her bottom. I know it still hurts. I want her to remember. Gently caressing it, I add, "Once we're done, I need to go see the woman you found last night." She tenses. "I'll leave you here if you want. If you are able to come with me, you may." Her posture relaxes again as the words comfort her. She's scared of this woman. I understand why. I pat her bottom softy and issue a stern prompt, "Now go."
Maybe we'll find our end?
***********
As I awaken from a weird dream, a red-haired woman enters my room. I blink to clear my eyes. Do I know her? She removes the clipboard that hangs at the foot of my bed and sits down. My face tenses with confusion. She doesn't look like a doctor.
"My name's Willow," she offers politely while she reads my chart.
It's very strange. It feels like she's examining me too. Flashes of memory jumble my thoughts. Blindness and pain tears at me. The touch it feels—it's similar. I want to run away. I could, but I'm too curious. That and—it's just a sense. She's so gentle.
"Buffy Summers," I reply, because it's all I know. She looks at me incredulously, like I've gone mad, and I amend, "I'm looking for her." My voice changes between the two phrases. It sounds strange to me.
She studies the pages for a few more moments in silence. After returning the clipboard to the foot of my bed, she comes over and peers at me intently. It's like she's looking for something on the surface she couldn't find underneath.
Suddenly she asks something that catches me completely off guard, "You don't know who you are. Do you?"
I shake my head and she takes my hand. Her hands are very soft, but unusually strong. There's a kindness in her touch that's unusual too. I might've been wrong about her. She may be a doctor. If she isn't, then surely she's a healer.
She releases my hand and apologizes, "I'm really sorry I can't stay. I just needed to see you. I'll be back. Promise."
I watch her turn and leave my room. Very strange. I hope she does come back.
***********
Pausing to look, I see her on top of a hill in the distance. She's fighting. It's so weird—so beautiful. I watch for a moment completely mesmerized before it hits me that I should join her. There are three...make that two, of them and one of her. I've never seen her move like this. I start to run up the hill, cutting between the grave markers. If my legs don't fall off I'll be impressed.
She disappears from my field of view behind a large mausoleum while I run. When I finally make it past the huge thing, there's only one left. I'm trying to split my attention too much. I should watch her, or run...one of the two. I'm gonna end up on by butt on the ground if I don't. I glance down to cut between two tombstones and when I look up, the stupid vamps doing one of those funny windmill-kick thingies. That's all it takes. She tilts back to avoid his leg and drives the stake...er, piece of tree limb, home. She's a pretty simple girl, my slayer.
My legs burn as I finish the run. I'm panting when I reach her. Then I look up. She's perfect. Now I'm really panting. In every way, she's just perfect. Sweat glistens on her skin. She shakes herself off and a cloud of dust erupts from her hair. 'Kay, so...maybe not that perfect. My jaw must be open 'cause she gives me a funny look. I locate the presence of mind to close it.
She quirks an eyebrow...and this is Buffy—like really, my Buffy... "Um...Will, you can fly right?" There's this curious innocence about the question. She's not trying to be a smart aleck. It just is what it is.
As I'm getting over the shock, I consider how to answer. Finally, I just nod. I'm standing here, like an idiot, thinking about magickal properties, power consumption...and all this other stuff—this really, really important stuff. I open my mouth to explain and realize she's gone.
I look around, feeling like more of a goof than I already am and I see her again. She's standing near the back fence. I didn't realize we were so deep in the cemetery. I center myself and do as she wants. It's lots easier. I mean yeah there's the whole focusy thing and—well, it's a pain, but I don't have to dodge stuff this way. Just a straight line and I land next to her.
She has one hand on the fence and her head is bowed. All of the confidence has drained out of her. She says in a small voice, "Mistress, please?"
I'm confused again. I have no idea what she means. I follow her over the fence into the woods. It's lots darker here. She's careful not to lose me in the dark. She takes my hand and I conjure a small light, for me mostly. She's doing just fine.
We must be where she wanted to go because she stops. There's a large old tree with a low hanging limb. She could hop up and grab it if she wanted, but that's not what she wants. She stops underneath it and hangs her head. I don't need the light to see that she's ashamed. She repeats the words and I understand.
***********
I laugh. I've never felt so free in my life. Walking a lap around the living room, I glare at the three frightened faces. It's perfect. They tortured me. They told me I was evil. Well, I am evil now.
I glower at my brother. He was always so perfect. He's the only one I left free. He backs against the wall, trying to somehow melt into its surface as the demon desecrates my face. I'm so hungry and he's so very afraid. It's wonderful. He smells yummy.
Smiling sweetly, I purr, "Fuck her and I'll spare your life."
After snatching his throat, I lead him across the room to my Dad's favorite chair. I turn the chair with her in it. She's facing Daddy, tied across the arms. She has to look into his eyes while this happens. I grab her skirt and rip it off. She screams. The fear—oh, it's wonderful. I caress her worthless ass. Hooking a finger in her underwear, I rip it. The flimsy cotton falls between her legs. My attention returns to my dear brother and I growl, "Fuck her."
His trembling hands move to unfasten his belt. And they say incest in the south is a myth. My gaze returns to her. She's breathing so hard. Poor little lamb, she's frightened. I dip a finger inside her. Dim-witted slut's dripping wet.
Still finger fucking the stupid cunt, I snap focus back to my brother. He jumps and his pants fall around his ankles. Removing my finger, I slice his cheek open with my nail. It's a slow gesture. I leave a delicate stripe. The blood smells so good. I wipe it away and bring my finger to my lips. He looks terrified, but he's aroused. I can smell both. It's a cocktail—the perfect cocktail. I trace my lips with my bloody finger and suckle it suggestively.
Releasing his throat, I grab his boxers and tear them off him. They fall to the floor. I seize his manhood—funny how it makes a perfect handle—and drag him behind her. Leaning into to whisper in his ear, I ask sweetly, "Don't you want to live?" and let him go.
My wrath turns to my father. I smile as she squeals behind me. His eyes are filled with horror. He looks at his feet and prays. There'll be none of that. I amble over to dear ol' Dad like I haven't a care in the world...and I don't. Climbing the staircase behind him, I take a seat and I reach through the banister, wrenching his head forward to watch. I run my tongue over his ear. Yuck...but well worth it. He cringes. I purr, "Watch, Daddy. Watch and I'll let you live."
***********
I walk a lap around her, sizing her up. My breath the catches in my throat and I stifle it. Showing weakness is a 'bad,' but she's just gorgeous. The soft, white light makes her body glisten. Her muscles stretch and strain. She hangs from the branch almost limp. I run my hand over her rosy bare bottom lovingly as I pass by and she moans. Goddess she smells good. The more I tease the better she smells.
Her neck is craned in supplication. Sweat beads up on her brow, running trails down her cheeks. Tears fill her eyes, mingling and mixing with the sweat. The salty mixture drips off her chin and runs between her breasts. She's beautiful.
I stop behind her. Wanting her to sweat more, I rub her scarlet bottom just a little too hard. It feels hot in my hand. Her muscles tense and twitch. The question is: has she had enough?
Funny thing: this actually could be good for her. She feels healthier. We might be able to privately feed the more abhorrent sides of her nature under cover of night. If they're satisfied, I might get her back. I dunno though. I mean, I have desires that aren't exactly—umm...'vanilla.' I'm not sure 'abhorrent' is a fair word. I guess the fair thing to say would be, 'in control, they aren't; out of control, they are.' At least there's room to be hopeful—hopeful that this will help.
Five more: that's what I want...and I am the boss. As I draw back, I hear her gasp. My hand smacks hard on her right cheek and she squeaks. It's the funniest thing. I almost giggle. Did Saks just announce fifty percent off on their entire stock of women's footwear? She slumps and groans, "Twenty-six." All of her weight's on her wrists now. I need to be careful.
I support her magickally as I draw my hand back. I don't pull the swat. She has to be numb. I want her to feel. My hand cracks her left cheek. I snatch it away and shake it out. Ouch! Fresh tears are falling. I hear her hiccough before she mumbles, "Twenty-seven."
Time for a little break. I can feel the heat coming off of her from here. Her body's drenched. Any ash has flowed away. I rub her now-deep-crimson bottom until the fresh hand prints blend in. Once she's breathing pretty much normally again, I pull my hands away. I like taking my time with this—really making her feel it.
Using my feet, I spread her legs. Then I lower her. She sags forward and her bottom pushes out. I want to just clip her labia with these next two. I line up and swing, not quite as hard as before. She yelps when I hit my mark. She's breathing hard again—too hard to speak. I can feel her heart hammering in her chest.
As I move around to aim again, she groans, "Twenty-eight." I can see her muscles twitching. I bound her. She can't cum, but her body's right on the edge. The energy pouring off her is intoxicating. I take a deep breath and strike. She chokes and sputters for a moment and finally rasps, "Twenty-nine."
Lingering again, I dip my middle finger inside her. She's open, waiting for me and I just can't resist. Palm down, I massage, rubbing the ridges along the opening very gently. I pinch her clit with my index and ring fingers and she moans. It's a long, slow, guttural sound—more like a growl. When I remove my finger, she shivers.
She bites in another breath of air when I move my hand. It's like she knows what I'm thinking. I smack the curve of her bottom, cutting a line across her engorged sex. It's not a hard smack—just enough. Her breath issues in ragged gulps as I stride around her and let go. She slumps into my arms, trembling.
My body isn't much better off than hers. All of the shakys and stumbleys I've been ignoring catch up with me. I feel weak. Maybe it's the magick? Anyway, I'm wrung out. I wanna go home. I considering this, how to make it happen, when she timidly reaches up and fingers the button of my shirt between my breasts. Her head is bowed. She peers longingly at the button and asks, "Mistress, please?"
I normally won't let her mix the two things. She either gets spankings or love making. She can't have both and she knows it. It just seems too much like Spike. Paddle her and make her—? It's too exploitive. Thing is: I had all this stuff figured. She's been gently trying to show me I might be wrong. I could be wrong about this too. I need to give her a chance to show me. It's important.
I nod and she slowly, respectfully unbuttons my blouse. There's nothing hurried about anything she does—nothing rough. It's almost too much for me to take, but then in the same breath it's like she's worshiping me. I get the funny feeling I'm about to get another lesson. She un-tucks my shirt and removes it. Then with one hand, reaches around my back, and unhooks my bra. The garment slides off under her gentle touch. She peers longingly at me for a moment and I nod again.
Beginning at my neck, she kisses and suckles her way down to my breasts. It's an affectionate process that leaves me faint. When she sweeps my right nipple into her mouth, my knees buckle. She catches me without jarring me at all. I'm in her strong arms—wrapped in Buffy, cradled by Buffy. I'm in heaven. She carefully lays me down. There's a layer of moss on the ground. Why hadn't I noticed that? It tickles my back. I gasp when she drags her teeth over the tip of my nipple.
As she lovingly kisses her way across my chest, I slowly shut my eyes. Her hands travel over my bare skin while she caresses me with her lips and tongue. I'm so wrapped up in her touch it suddenly occurs to me I should be touching her. She's still moist with perspiration. My hands slide over her skin. It's slippery and unusually warm. I linger at her bottom rubbing the hot, sore flesh and she grunts. I knead it in my hands as I push her against my throbbing, aching...umm...oh, that feels amazing.
She slips out of my grip and moves down my tummy, leaving another trail of kisses. I'm glad I'm on the ground 'cause I'd be on the ground if she hadn't—
When she reaches my jeans, she stops and waits for permission. I nod. At least, I think that was a nod. She slips my shoes off and removes my jeans. It's all so docile that it takes me a moment to realize, I'm not really big on the entire 'naked outside' thing. It's not something I've ever done. This occurs to me as she slips my underwear off. Oh well, too late now. I'm outside and naked.
I swallow thickly and immediately forget anything, or— Did I have an issue? Her tongue feels amazing. There's a huge issue. Big issue here! The part of Buffy that becomes the slave, or wears that mask, or...well, whatever— What was I thinking? Oh dear! Umm...yeah, she's really good at this.
My heart pounds in my chest, like it wants to get out. I breathe like I'm dying. Her fingers slip inside me—just two. I want more. I tilt my hips up to deepen her stoke and she moves with me. Somehow through the clouds—poofy little clouds—I groan, "More." I don't recognize my own voice. It's so weird when that happens.
Another finger presses into me and she gives me what I'm actually asking for. I don't know it myself, but she does. Her stroke turns firm. My eyes spot behind my closed lids. I need to do something. What it is? I have no clue.
Then it stops—well, not stops, but not right. What are you doing, Buffy? It feels good, but it's not. I know, you know, exactly what you're doing. But you're not doing it. Don't get me wrong. Not complaining. It feels good, but—
My brain freezes. It's like an ice cube. My body's trembling so hard she has her free arm locked around my thigh. I can feel all of this, but...it's also like I'm...I dunno, taking a bath maybe. There's no water, it's all pure energy. The air crackles around me. She's pushing me, seeing where I'll go. I'm not sure. I just know it feels unstable.
She pulls out. Wait! No! Don't stop.
Oh GOD! It almost hurts. My breath catches in my throat. I wheeze. I want to pull away, but...she starts to move again. My back spasms—it trembles and shudders then locks. I feel like I'm being ripped apart...and it feels so good. It hurts, but Gods, Goddesses and minor deities...it feels—
So good!
Exploodddiiiinnnnngggggg nnnoooowwwww...
I'm slumping back onto the ground. I think—well, I can't think. I think that's the problem. She slips out. So empty. The problem might be — she wraps her arms around me and turns me onto my side — scratch that. No problems here. No Siree Bob. I'm problem free. I'm still shaking. I can't seem to stop. Not that I want to. She lays my cheek against her breast and strokes my hair. She's making hushing sounds. Why? Oh...still breathing like I'm dying. Yeah, s'okay...that's normal. Situation normal—I feel like Silly Putty.
I peer up into her face. It's dark now, but I can just make her out. I guess my little friend got bored and left. She's looking at her hand. I look too. She has beautiful hands, so delicate, so small, but perfect in every way...just like the rest of her. Her hand, her perfect little hand glistens in the low light.
I can almost hear her thoughts. I could if I wanted to, but this is strangely more intimate—the not knowing—the reading. Finally, I clear my throat. Water moves to the top of my list of needs. She's looking at me now. Waiting patiently for what I have to say. Drawing in a deep breath, I rasp, "Take me home, Buffy."
My eyes flutter closed as I rise into the air. She's holding me, gently, lovingly, cradling me.
***********
I wake up in our bed. Was that a dream? No, no, she's wrapped around me, holding me. Oh, this feels so good. I could lie here all day. Well, except for the nagging need to pee. Ignoring that...enjoying the warmth...darn it!
Wait! No chains. Where are the chains? I bolt upright and begin to examine her in the early morning light. She's awake, I just woke her and she's giving me this really funny look. I run my hands over her, checking for injuries. Was last night a dream? There's a leaf in her hair. I pick it out and set it aside. 'Kay, so...not a dream.
"What's wrong, Will?" she mumbles. Her voice is so sleepy. She's looking at me—I mean really looking at me—and we're in our bed...and she didn't call me 'Mistress.' Oh! I can't think. This is getting really, really annoying...and there's a leaf stuck to my butt and it itches. I pull it off and place it next to hers on the nightstand. You see, this is why 'naked' and 'outside' don't mix.
Somehow I calm enough to say, "Nothing's wrong, Buffy." Nothing at all. She showed me. She showed me and everything's okay. I kiss her. It's morning. Morning breath is icky, but I can't help it. Twenty-four hours ago I was in hell. Now I feel free. I'm happy—unbelievably happy. That's what's wrong.
I lay back down and she curls around me. There's something else, though—something else nagging. I was too afraid yesterday to talk about the girl. I let Buffy lead me. I let her have what she needed. I talked to Giles instead. He said he'd 'see to it,' but I don't think he can. This girl—it was so weird—something had touched her—something very old and very powerful. I could feel it when I walked into her room.
Buffy's still studying me. Opening her mouth to speak, she thinks better of it. I prod gently, "You can ask. It's okay."
Bowing her head, she stammers, "I-I...what's wrong? Did I do something wrong?"
"No, Buffy, I was just thinking about the girl you found," I admit. She turns sheepish and uncomfortable. I knew this would—I knew it'd be bad. But I also know, and I don't know how—they can help each other. They need each other. Talk about complicated. So much for the respite. You were fun while you lasted, little respite.
"I want you to go see her," I say and she winces. The next thing I know, she's across the room. Drawers are opening and she's getting dressed. It takes me a moment to understand this. She's running. She's half dressed and she's running.
I surprise myself. Before I can process how I feel, I'm across the room ripping her jeans around her ankles. I shove her against the bed. She's bent over, kneeling on the floor, trembling, and I'm throwing things out of the nightstand drawer. I find what I want—the tawse—and I rip her panties off. I'm so furious. I've never been this mad in my life. I slap her across the butt with the leather straps. They make a cracking noise as they smack her bare skin. Then, I dunno—I just keep beating her. There's no counting, only weeping and pleading. Finally, I have the presence of mind to look at what I'm doing. I scare myself.
I drop to my knees and stare at the abused flesh. Her poor bottom. There are deep, red welts. I did that. I can't look. I close my eyes and her voice croaks out of the fog, "Please, Mistress! PleaseI'llbegoodIswearI'llbegooddon'thurtmeplease."
I am a monster.
***********
I dunno how they do it. Maybe these country men are just made to fuck. Maybe my brother's just not that much different than the barn animals my dad fucks, or that sow from the church. Anyway, somehow he's still pounding away. My dear brother shot his load in daddy's ass not more than an hour ago. I thought it was only fair to give dear ol' Dad a turn.
The sin, the scandal...I should take pictures and post them at the church. I run for the old Polaroid, opening the drop-leaf desk by the dining room door. Yay! There's film. Click and flash. My father slows. Their eyes snap open. I take another picture. "Don't mind me. I just want a memento," I say in a singsong voice as I sit back on the couch.
After removing the pictures, I casually sit and fan myself with them. They aren't moving anymore. I'm getting bored. Better hop to it. My face fills with hunger. I growl, glancing at the cunt's empty husk.
Closing their eyes, they go back to their roles as rapist and victim. Their roles are perfect. They both raped me. It wasn't literal, it was psychological, but still rape. They killed the only thing I ever loved. Well, not the only thing, but—
I toss the pictures onto the coffee table. I'm hungry. I'm hungry and cranky and tired...and bored. This was fun, but sun's coming up and I need my rest.
Rising from the couch, I grab my brother by the hair and wrench his head sideways. My father has his eyes closed. He's imagining he's somewhere else. Imagining he's fucking some beautiful young girl. My brother whimpers when I sink my teeth into his neck. I shift my bite and warm, salty blood spurts down my throat. My father's grunting. I can feel his climax building. I drink. I never would've imagined my brother could taste so good. He was such a stinky, smelly, dirty boy in life—so fat and repulsive—so simple minded. His blood is yummy.
My father cums as my dear brother dies. It's a beautiful thing. Dad slumps over his perfect son, perfectly spent and I stand up. Grabbing more of the rope I took from the barn, I tie my dad to his favorite child and purr, "The wages of sin is death, Daddy."
He can sleep there. I'm going to sleep in the cunt's room. At least she didn't smell like a pig. The birds are singing outside as I climb the stairs. It's going to be a beautiful night tonight—just me and Dad.
***********
When I find the courage to look up, she's curled in a little ball again. Her back's to me. She's gently seeking comfort. My gaze fixes on her bottom. Bruises are starting to form—deep ugly bruises. I did that.
I'm numb. We're on autopilot now, flying by wire. Willow has left the building.
Rising from the floor, I glare at the tawse in my hand. At first I want to throw it, but I have a better idea. I walk around the bed and lay down, facing her. She won't meet my gaze. I wouldn't be able to either. Mirroring her position, knee to knee, I implore, "Look at me, Buffy. Please. I need you. I need your help. I need your strength. I need—" My voice falls flat when she looks up. It's not an accusing stare. I want it to be, but it's not. It's shamefaced and timid.
"I'm sorry I made you mad, Mistress," she says. It's a genuine apology. One I don't deserve. She looks down. Her gaze fixes on the tawse. I offer it to her, open handed. I want her to take it. She takes it from my hand.
She looks so confused and the words—the words they just start to flow, "I'm sorry, Buffy. I love you. I can't—I'm so weak. I hurt you 'cause I'm weak. I'm awful." The flow stifles, I gasp and wipe my soaked cheeks. We're gonna need new mattresses if this keeps up. Poor bed. I dunno why I thought that. It was stupid. My mind snaps to point and I plead, "I need your help." My throat closes; I choke the last few words, "Please forgive me?"
She's stroking my hair. I look up again. I can feel the shame. I know she can see it. Taking a deep determined breath, I ask, "Please break that thing?"
She nods and sits up, facing away. There's a hard, splintering noise when the handle snaps and she sets the pieces on the nightstand with our leaves. When she turns back around I see a little bit of blood in her palm. Seeing that I notice and she says, "It's nothing."
She's looking at me, not my face but just below. There's an expectant quality to the stare. She wants to know what I need. Goddess, there's a list. I start on the list. I consider what Willow Rosenberg needs to be healthy. It takes me a few minutes, but she patiently waits.
I open my mouth and the words flow again. I'm not thinking about them. They just come. "I don't want you to call me Mistress anymore" — she studies me — "unless it's part of a game you're playing. If you want" — I can't meet her gaze — "if you need what we had last night, it's fine. I need you to understand. You saw what I saw. I showed you. I shared. You're not this. You are Buffy Summers, a complex woman who wears a bunch of different masks. Some of them you wear to make others happy. If you wear that mask—the 'slave' mask to make me happy. Stop. Please stop. It's not making me happy. It's killing me."
I feel wiped out. I could've just run a marathon and I'd not be this beat. It takes all my strength to get up. I go to the dresser and begin to lift aside my underwear. In the bottom of the drawer is small, smooth, L-shaped dildo I bought before this nightmare—before our lives turned upside down. I take it out and move back to her. I wanted to enjoy this with her. I kept it separate because it was.
After seating myself on the edge of the bed, I begin to explain, "I want you to make love to me." No clue why I feel this so strongly, but I do. I'm not doing so well with the introspection at the moment. I just know I need. Rolling onto the bed, I find she's facing me now. I hand her the toy and turn away.
"I've never shared this. It's something I couldn't share. It wasn't right. Not with any of the others. It is with you. Right here, right now, it's right." I take a deep breath. This is an admission. One I hadn't ever planned to make. I need to make it. I need her to understand me—all of me. My eyes close and I elaborate in terms she'll understand, "The thing you seem to hate most—the thing I use—I use against you...I-I—well, I'm not a very good little Jewish girl." I don't have to say the actual words this way. It's easier. I still feel the heat rise in my face. I'm ashamed of it.
She doesn't say anything. I don't expect her to. When she reaches over me to search through the drawer, I realize I'm being stupid. I was stupid last night 'cause—well, I couldn't see straight last night. I need to—before we get to that. I turn onto my back while she's hanging over me and slip my hand between her legs. She freezes, trembling in my hand, and I murmur, "Libero."
I reluctantly remove my hand and roll onto my side as I whisper, "I'm sorry, Buffy. I want you to enjoy this; however you want to enjoy this."
After she slips back into place behind me, her hand threads under my side. She starts drawing gentle, tiny little circles over my clit. It feels so good. I can feel her moving around behind me. She's working with something one handed. My body begins to relax. It all turns distant. How can she be so loving after that? I was awful. Part of me wants her to punish me, but I know she won't. I'm the monster, not her. Funny, after everything, I think that. It's true though.
Her fingers push gently inside me. She moves languidly. It's soothing. Then I bend my knee and she presses one finger of her other hand into me. It's uncomfortable at first—it always is—but then it's—it's wonderful. Both of her hands caress me—penetrate me. She's carefully stretching me. It's a slow process, fingers are added. I can feel it. I feel it all too well, but my mind's not processing anything. There's just a hum—a subtle buzzing.
Her back hand slips out and she presses against me, holding me tight. As she pushes the dildo into me, I moan. Oh, Goddess that feels so good! Her hand moves faster and firmer. She caresses my side with her free hand and across my tummy, settling on my left breast. Her fingers are slippery. She seizes my nipple and bears down. I gasp. My body jerks away. It's a 'reflex' thing...and it felt...umm...wow!
The movement...all this...it's all for me. She loves me. She has to. If I missed it before, I know it now. She kisses my shoulder, trailing up to my neck. The other—the other stuff, gets pushed to the back of my mind. It's all there. My body feels like...well, I dunno...it's all flooey. Nothing's right, but everything's perfect. It's being rubbed, and stoked in so many ways. I never imagined I could feel so incredible. But now the thing I pay attention to is her mouth. She reaches my neck and bites down. She's telling me—showing me again—I'm her mate. She's dominating me, but it's so tender that—well, that's not what it is. It's love making. It's exactly what I need. I can feel her breath on my neck.
She thrusts hard, driving into me. I cry out as she grunts and bites harder. She won't break the skin. I know she won't. If she did, I wouldn't care. I couldn't care now if I tried. There's nothing gentle left. She slips another finger inside and pounds against me. The heel of her hand is mashing me. Like everything else it hurts, but it's the good kinda hurt.
I feel her cum. It's like a force of nature. My body's swept up by it. I'm right on the edge and she pulls me along. Her teeth are at my throat. She shakes her head and changes the bite as—as my eyes spot. Lights flash behind them. I suddenly realize how hard I'm shaking when my muscles all lock. Overwhelmed, I'm screaming—crying out. What am I saying, nothing, her name, something about the Goddess? I dunno...all that and more probably.
It's funny the stuff you suddenly find yourself aware of when you realize you've totally lost control. Things start coming back into focus and you're suddenly acutely aware that—well, in this case the bite turned to kisses somewhere along the line. I missed it, but at some point she started kissing me. Her hand is still inside me. Her other hand's still on my breast. Next major awareness: I'm shaking like I'm having seizures. Completely still, except her mouth, she's locked around me, holding me, trying to calm me. Third and final epiphany: I never did go pee. I can almost understand water sports now. Not quite—still gross. There's hope.
My throat hurts. I try to talk and it sounds like my vocal chords have been sanded, "I need—I-I hope you'll...please, give me one more thing." She moves, sliding out, releasing me. I feel empty again, but full. She loves me. If she doesn't stop, I might just be okay—we might just be okay. I roll onto my back beside her. Pressure, any pressure on the bladder is a serious 'bad.' I need to say this—I need to finish—it's very important. I swallow. It hurts. When I find my voice again, I continue, "I want you to go through all the stuff in this room—everything—all this junk. Anything you don't like—get rid of it. The tub—it's in the spare room. Get rid of it. Make it all go away."
I don't wanna! I don't wanna get up! She's stroking my hair again. It's so soothing. She whispers her answer, "Okay, Will." The words sound so good.
Struggling, I get up. Stupid body.
***********
When I enter our room after class, there are three piles of sex toys around Buffy. She's so pretty, naked and sitting on a pillow. Her hair's still a little damp from the shower. As I approach, her head cants forward just a little. I walk up behind her and crane down to give her a kiss on the crown of her head. She smells sweet, like jasmine.
"Mm-Will, I wasn't sure, so..." she says sheepishly, "I hope I did okay."
After setting my bag and purse aside, I join her and say, "Show me." I really don't have to ask. There's an obvious reject pile. You'd have to be—well, pretty darned different to like some of this stuff. The pile on her right is all stuff I know she likes. I like most of it too. Pretty obvious. The pile in the middle's what has her worried. Chains, shackles, some of the heavier paddles, stuff I can hurt with. I figured it'd go this way, but just talking is good. Communicating is really, really good.
"I just dunno. I mean, there's stuff you do with some of this that's...umm...but sometimes it's totally bad."
"Keep it all—all the stuff you like—even if it's just a little. You'll have to show me what you like about it, 'kay?" I can already guess what she likes. I've been her mistress for more than a month. When I think it—well, it just sounds insignificant. It's significant. Buffy's not a 'half' kinda girl. When she does something it's major. I haven't quite pushed all her buttons—not quite—but I know all the important ones.
Rising, I take a bag out of the closet and begin to put away her favorites. "This is my bag. Unless you tell me you want something from your bag I'll just use this."
Her face lights up with a smile. This may just work. It still needs time. When we're finished clearing the mess, I sit down next to her again. I take her hand. After she pushes the reject bin away, I coax, "Buffy, please look at me."
She looks up. There's very little hesitation and only minor discomfort. A moment passes and her gaze fixes on my shoulder. I smile and say, "It's fine, sweetie. In fact, it's more than fine." I can feel the heat in my cheeks. It's my turn to awkwardly look away.
Once the discomfort passes, I take her wrists and focus. We're both peering intently at the silver bands when they spring open. She looks up at me in shock and I offer the only thing I have to give, three words, "I was wrong."
When she immediately snaps the bracelets closed, I probably look as stunned she does. I can't believe she likes them. I can almost hear her say the word 'no,' but she never does. The shock on her face eventually gives way to thoughtful reflection and she replies, "I think we both were. I'd sorta rather work on it than blame."
I smile. She can be so sweet. Pulling her close, I kiss her. I focus completely on the contact, pouring everything I feel for her into it. She means the world to me and I want her to know it.
Once the moment passes, I lean my forehead against hers and murmur, "I need you to listen and try to understand, please?" When she nods, I explain very gently, "I'd like you to consider going to the hospital with me. I know you're scared and I don't blame you. I'm worried too. That's why—that's why we need to face it. I'll help you any way I can." She's uneasy again. I place her head on my shoulder and murmur, "I wouldn't—I'd be totally fine with letting it go, but there's something weird...different, umm...something special, about this. 'Kay?"
Feeling her nod again, I caress her back and whisper, "There's just enough time if you get ready for work now."
After clearing her throat first, she asks bashfully, "If I...I mean, can...can I hunt tonight? Would you come? Please?"
Withdrawing just enough to make her lift her head, I give her a quick kiss and mutter, "I'll meet you there after your shift."
***********
Closing the book in my lap, I lean back in bed. My body feels better. The doctors say I can 'go home' tomorrow. That'd be great if I had one. I don't even know my name. Hard to find your home when you don't even know your name. It wasn't sewn into any of my clothing. I sort of didn't come with any of that either. So, I'm not exactly sure what will happen. They've been looking. They assure me that if I'm in any of the 'databases' they'll figure it out. 'Don't worry, it'll be fine.' Stupid people! They haven't a sodding clue!
I take a deep breath to clear my head. I've been doing that a lot. The confusing emptiness leaves and just becomes emptiness. I'm playing with the empty—there are fragments—when she enters my room with her friend, Willow. How I know they're friends—not sure—but it's obvious to me now that there's something. They're connected at the hip. These two people are linked. The man Willow sent...'Giles.' Part of me knew him, but it was weird—like meeting someone you think you know. I know these two now. They're significant. Of course, I always knew her.
My gaze fixes on the blonde, Buffy Summers. I know her. She's part of who I am. We're linked too. She's so timid. Something about this is wrong. It's so wrong. She won't look at me. Willow holds her hand and she peers at the floor.
Willow's looking at me—looking me right in the eye. Her gaze is piercing, but she's still so sweet. She twiddles a little wave and takes Buffy aside. They mumble a few short words back and forth. I almost catch some of it. Most of it's just too soft.
When they're done, Buffy turns toward me and slowly looks up. I've seen pictures. I remember them sort of. Again I'm not sure why. Of all the things I might remember, pictures of a woman—it's a bit strange. She's so important. I know what her eyes look like. I think I know what to expect.
Our gazes meet and...it hurts. There's a flood, a torrent of images flashing through my mind. I double over in pain and she's gone. Fragments, pieces, torn photographs, jumbled sensations, I'm so...
I clamp my eyes closed and a sensation—a concept hangs there, separate from the chaos. My eyes snap open. Willow bolts toward the door. She must be running after Buffy. I yell, "Take her to the vineyard." This is meaningless to me. I just know I have to say it.
They're gone. I slump back onto my bed and puzzle over what I saw. It's like—it's like she was making me remember, but the memories were only partly—well, part is better than none. I begin to consider the 'part.'
***********
It strikes me as funny that I can do this. I lean back, lounging casually in the pew. My gaze travels around the church. Huge stained glass windows frame the space. I wonder how much light they'll let in. Will it be lethal? I know they're pretty, even in the moonlight. Pictures of saints and angels surround me, icons that should strike fear in my un-beating heart. They don't.
I take a sip from the mug in my hands. It's getting cold. Shame really. He was a disgusting boy, the preacher's son. He soiled himself while I drained him. It smelled horrible. Well, at least the parsonage is vacant. I have a place to stay. I want to be here for this. I need someplace close. They never did anything to me in life. I almost feel bad that I killed them...almost, not quite. I'd have to care and I definitely don't.
My gaze lingers on my father. He's starting to smolder. I rise from the pew and walk toward him. He should be awake soon. I always loved this church. I remember peering up at that cross. I'd listen to the preacher speak and look at it. It's impressive, another icon for people to worship. For practitioners of a religion that condemns idolatry, they sure have lots of them—lots of these symbols to inspire faith. That never made sense to me. Now I just find it damned handy to know where there's an eight-foot-tall cross hanging on a wall.
I could take this whole thing further, pierce his side; make a pretty crown of thorns for his head. I didn't even nail him there. He's a vampire. He'd just pull himself down. Cables are the safer bet.
I just hope he doesn't turn to ash. I want the 'good people' who come to church tonight to see this. I hope it stings, I hope it burns; I hope the fire consumes his flesh, but I want him alive—well, not quite alive. Maybe they'll be stupid enough to free him. That'd be funny.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the photographs. Glancing at them both I drop the one where my father's face is twisted with pleasure into the collection plate. They should enjoy that too.