DISCLAIMER: Another day, another…they don’t pay me anything at all. I just do this to amuse myself and you. That’s what allows me and mine to slip under the radar while playing with characters created by those more fortunate than us.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Special thanks to Howard Russell for all of the lovely commas.
ARCHIVING: A master list of my fiction can be found here. Please do not archive or distribute without my permission.
Buffy shakes her head. Beneath my clutching hand, muscles and tendons draw and stretch, cloaked in skin like sinuous velvet. Starlight twinkles and dances, reflected in her watery eyes. She blinks. Her teardrops sparkle like lustrous gems, refracting the pale light. “Don’t,” she pleads, her voice broken, raspy, weak.
That might have something to do with my hand—the fact that I’m choking the fight out of her. Not the ‘life.’ Not yet. I just want her to knock off the squirming. It’s annoying…and—well, actually kind of hot. She looks fit to be tied, writhing and bucking below me—all svelte and buxom. The latter parts jiggle while other parts wiggle. She’s really turning me on. Too bad I don’t have—
She jabs my side, wrenching a snarl from deep in my chest. Silly me, I got so wrapped up, her other hand slipped my mind—the one that’s been prying futilely at my wrist. Less futile, the punch rocks me sideways. She darn near throws me. I let go of her throat and go for the offending limb. Getting her pinned is a bouncy, bumpy, obnoxious, pulse-pounding ride. We tussle. Pain gives way to everything else. Eventually, I manage to clamp down and wrestle her hand above her head to join the other.
My weight slung forward, I breathe in just inches from her face. She smells so good, sweaty and sexy. Afraid. Confused. Yummy. Like dinner. Juicy meat and bone.
It’s an awful thing to feel so torn. Making difficult decisions has never been my strong suit. Now, with this thing roiling around inside me, it’s nearly impossible. Lusty, hungry and so, so strong. Clarity’s a problem. One I’m not terribly worried about as I lean down, tilting my head, following my instincts. They tell me she’ll taste better than she smells. How deeply I taste will depend on her.
She angles her head to be difficult, knocking mine aside. My lips barely brush her neck before my forehead scuffs the ground. Leaves rustle. Her body twists as she implores, “Please don’t. I don’t want to hurt—”
Her breath catches when my teeth graze her skin. Tender, succulent flesh slides over my tongue, between my jaws as she squirms. I want to bite down. The only thing that stops me is the sounds she’s making: breathy little hiccups, soft plaintive sighs. Knots tighten deep in my belly. Tingly and warm, they tug. I find her pulse with my tongue. The power makes me giddy. I could end it right now. A smile stretches my lips.
She bucks hard, stretching everything else. We roll, out of control. Shock wrings a gasp from me. She’s so strong. I knew that, somewhere, somehow. I just didn’t appreciate how strong. She lands atop me, one hand on my throat, the other drawn back, balled up, clamped tight, ready to strike.
A bunny rustles the underbrush, snaring her attention. I could do a lot of things with the opportunity. Maybe break free as she scans a radius, warily probing the forest. I could tell her that we’re the only predators here. I could explain. Instead, I give her time. She figures it out. Our eyes meet. Her anger’s faded. She looks deeply conflicted, full of regret and weakness. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she grumbles, trying to sound tough and fooling no one. She can’t do it.
And she can’t hold me like this. My hands are free for all sorts of mischief. The thrum low in my belly dictates what type. I reach up, weaving past, striking fast. Finding the lapels of her blouse, I rip. Buttons go flying. It’s her turn to be shocked. My finger hooks under her bra, between her breasts. I pull. To my surprise, as the tension drags her down, her bra spills its goodies, popping from my grasp, open.
I want to bite, nibble, lick, suck, claw every inch of her. I want to taste the blood that will weep from her skin with just the right touch. A little too much. I want to gobble her up like the big bad wolf. Only I’m no wolf and she’s no grandma.
She proves it by springing to her feet. I leap up in her wake. Run, rabbit, run. But she’s too worried about fussing with her bra to really outpace me. Modesty costs her valuable seconds. The forest is too dense. Distraction unwise. Careening, we weave between, around, behind, dodging tree trunks an inkier shade of black in the waning light. I crash into her, taking her down by her legs into a pool of darkness. She kicks, scrambles, claws at the earth…
I climb, gaining ground. My fingertips slip into the waistband of her skirt. I drag her down while pulling myself up. She rolls. Fabric tears. I bite. Her ribcage repels me. My teeth graze sweet, supple skin. She pushes. I pull. We wrench at each other. Her nails gouge my back. I growl. Our mouths meet. Stillness follows. Then she opens as if in acquiescence. Heat flows between us.
Our bodies entwine, locking together, while each trying to tear the other apart. Or at least the clothing parts. Other parts—soft, pillowy parts; hard, boney parts; firm, muscley parts; smooth, silky parts—all find a way to fit as if the darkness has coalesced beneath me. It sure doesn’t seem like Buffy. She’s too goodie-goodie for this.
The darkness has teeth and claws of her own and a grip like iron. She’s fluid, slippery, seductive. She weeps. Her body weeps. She makes me weep. Her cries have changed from ‘don’t’ to ‘don’t stop.’ She has texture and taste: sweet and yeasty, the salt of sweat, the occasional savory tang of blood. She trembles under my fingertips. And I tremble too.
Return to Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fiction
Return to Main Page