Vengeance

Spike shuffled out of the dining room, following Bjuffa into the snow. Might as well be chained behind her, the way she snapped her orders at him. But three days had passed since she'd had her way with him on the anvil, and he'd turned defeat into a triumph of sorts, yeah. Every time she tried to get a repeat performance out of him, he'd disappointed her sorely. Either his cock wasn't hard enough for her, or she hated the bored look he managed to give her as she ground herself against him. He knew he was in her dreams. She was in his as well. The difference was, she didn't know... and it was killing her.

"Faster," Bjuffa snapped at her recalcitrant slave. Having him on the anvil had been the most arousing thing she'd ever experienced; his rage and fury had been beautiful, and his body hot and hard, eager and desperate. But she hadn't been able to ride him to that level of satisfaction since, and it was infuriating to watch his bland blue eyes as she rode him. Tonight, she vowed, would be different. Tonight she would make him see her again, feel her mastery over him... and respond as helplessly as he had in the smithy.

"Yes, mistress." His voice dripped with sarcasm as he emulated the kitchen women's response to her, especially when she was in a fury.

He could see her back straighten, her shoulders square. When she turned slightly, he noticed her jaw was set. She was in a temper... he could feel the anger roil off her. That meant she'd try to break him again. Good. There was nothing better than giving her a mocking look that said he knew she wasn't satisfied, before retreating to the furs on the floor by the fire.

Green eyes snapping, she hooked her fingers in the solid iron ring of his collar to hurry him along. If he pretended to be compliant one more time... she didn't know what she'd do! But he would not like it; she was determined to make that so, at least. "Too slow," she snarled, and jerked him along in her wake.

He heard laughter coming from behind them. At his expense. They were like children, these Vikings... playing with their slaves.

He walked faster. Too fast, colliding with her, then putting his hand down to grip her hips as if to steady himself. He heard the sharp intake of her breath. Ahhh... so much like his when she'd given him no quarter on the anvil. She had a lot to learn, pitting herself against him. Aye...

Heat flared in her belly as he touched her, hands stronger than they looked, as she'd discovered in the smithy. And in nearly the same place where he'd gripped so hard, trying to force her to his rhythm, to make her serve his pleasure. Saxons were so different! And so gods-damned stubborn!

"Clumsy," she snapped, and jerked him to a halt as she kicked the door open, then shoved him through it.

He staggered a bit, then halted and looked at her. "Sleep?" he asked, knowing that there hadn't been one night that she'd allowed him to go straight to his furs. And each night, the look in her eyes as she ordered him to satisfy her, grew just a little bit wilder. "Bed," he nodded, starting to walk away.

"Bed," she agreed, on a feral snarl, and tripped him to his knees. "Strip first." Her nipples were already pebbling with need, her core growing hot in anticipation. She would break him tonight. She would. That compact, muscular build would serve her –service her— as she wanted, and in the way that would best humiliate him to have lost control again, to beg to please her as he had on the anvil.

His face was level to her belly, but he looked up as he started to take his clothes off. Nothing escaped his notice... not her high color, not the way her breasts strained against her blouse, nor the way she touched herself as she started to take her clothes off. She wanted him in a bad way tonight, he'd sensed it at dinner... the way she'd kept her gaze on him like a hawk biding its time.

He dropped his shirt to the ground, and slowly worked the ties on his breeches, feeling the intensity of her gaze. The orders would come soon enough, the heat between her legs would grow and she'd try to use him to douse the fire. But the little bitch didn't like defeat... and taking him like this wouldn't give her what she wanted, would leave her wanting for more. Then he'd listen to her pleas in the dark, after she was asleep. He'd know exactly what she wanted, and would withhold it from her.

Naked, body shining in the fire like amber and cream, Bjuffa stood beside the rough chair on which she intended for Spike to sit, and offer himself up to her. "Come," she told him sharply, and pointed the chair. "Come here."

Her words washed over him in ways she could not guess. His cock twitched, but it was nowhere near the torture he'd suffered days ago when he'd first learned how her roughness affected him.

Giving her a weary look, he sat down, knees pressed together. Though his eyes were hooded, he was drinking in the sight of her curves and her sharp movements as she approached. Hungry. Demanding. Ferocious. She would be all of that and more tonight. He could feel it.

Her fist knotted in the curls at the nape of his neck, and she bent his head back for a fierce, punishing kiss as her other hand gripped and kneaded along his shoulder, dipping down to pinch at his nipple, tormenting the small bud until it stiffened. She hadn't missed the twitch of his manhood, though he tried to mask it with those bored eyes, and Bjuffa was determined to make him beg again tonight. And maybe she would let him get something, if he did it prettily enough.

Pleasure-pain coursed through him, but he bit back a groan. As she tugged his head back and ravaged his mouth, he put his hand out, grasped her arm. He needed something to hold onto... something to keep his mind sharp and the desires of his body at bay.

She growled against his mouth, and bit his lip before ending the savage kiss. His hand wrapped her wrist completely, and that sent a strange fluttering alive in her belly, tangling with the heat and need she already felt to make him respond to her. "Can't stop me from using you," she jeered, and shook her wrist to let him know what she meant. "You're mine." Her other hand snaked between his legs to stroke roughly along his hard cock, hating the flat look in his eyes.

"Slave, yes," he answered instantly. She wanted him to fight... fight to have her, or fight to stop her. She was smart... knew that her words provoked him, knew how to use her hands on him. But he was smarter. Saxons were always smarter than Viking. He wore a secret smile, and leaned back... let her do the work. Let her pleasure him, while he schooled his features to look at her as if he were appraising the value of a beast for the fields.

Some beast. Dear God, every time she arched, her breasts bounced close to his mouth. Made him want to suck them... nay... fuck them.

Indifference. Damn him, this insufferable indifference of the past three days was infuriating! She dropped her hand lower between his legs, nails scratching against his balls as she bit sharply at his nipple, leaving unmistakable marks.

"No..." he rasped, making it sound as if she'd hurt him. In truth, he'd almost come off the chair to do to her what she'd done to him... to pin her hands behind her as he impaled her with his cock. To ride her so hard and so fast, he'd come inside her then withdraw and watch her beg for him... release her and watch her grind uselessly against flaccid flesh, watch as she teared up, as she raged at him.

His breaths grew ragged. Every muscle in his body strained as he fought the urges tormenting him, body and soul.

Bjuffa shifted forward, sinking to sit on Spike's thighs, her hand still busy between his legs, satisfaction glinting in her eyes at his protest, and licked a trail from one nipple to the other before marking it with her teeth as well. Her hand shifted higher on his cock, and her thumb circled the top, collecting wetness which she smeared along his length, slicking the big vein along the underside of his shaft. Her own center was wet and eager, more than ready to ride her pony again, and she rose to impale herself on him, grinding brutally down against him, forcing him deep inside.

He bit his lip. Hard. Using the pain to try to take his mind off the incredible heat between his legs and the merciless need that was building each time her inner walls flexed around him. God... oh God... it was ... difficult to hold still. She knew how to use a man... to abuse him. He started to pray... to think of Father Patrick... anything, anything to not give himself away to her.

Bjuffa's lips parted as she rode him harder, angling her hips to rub her clit along him with every movement up, every plunge down. His hand still gripped her wrist, his fingers tighter and tighter as she rode, and she dragged her arm closer, bringing his hand along, and rubbed her breasts against his knuckles as she rocked feverishly atop him, breath coming unevenly and slickness coating his cock and thighs from her overwhelming need.

She was getting to him. He had to break her concentration, before she broke him. Had to.

Leaning back, he looked into her face and forced a laugh. He laughed, even though on the inside, his entire body was crying for relief... urging him... riding him as hard as she was riding him. Screaming for him to lift her up and fuck her against the wall or on the ground... to get so deep inside her, she'd never forget who was the master, and who was the slave.

Furious at the interruption, his laughter effectively stopping her release when it had barely begun, she backhanded him with her closed fist, clamped her jaw, and tried to regain what she'd nearly touched, the tantalizing orgasm that hovered just out of reach, riding him with a frantic desperation.

He tasted blood on his lips, and was grateful. Her punch helped him come around. Sneering, he watched as she desperately tried to work herself over him, knowing she didn't like to be watched this way... knowing he might pay for this sorely, but he would win. He would.

It was gone, slipping through her fingers and away from her body like trying to catch sunshine in her palm, and though he was still hard between her thighs, she just... couldn't get there again. Couldn't even come close.

Lips drawn back from her teeth in a grimace, eyes slitted, she tried. Tried scratching him, biting, even pinching her own nipples roughly. Nothing worked. Nothing let her reach that shimmering, elusive peak.

He watched her. Slipped a little. Watched some more. "No mercy, Buffy..." he whispered, leaning forward and kissing the cheek of his enemy. This battle was over.

*

Damn him to Hel anyway! Cold bastard would probably feel right at home there. Well, no more! Snarling silently, hair tousled and green eyes flashing, Bjuffa flung back her furs and rose to stalk silently across the hard-packed floor of her cottage, determined to arouse Spike and leave him wanting her even more than she wanted him. That fire, that hate, that passion in his bluer-than-blue eyes, would be hers again. And she would break him, and then take him completely, any time she wanted him, after this.

Silent, filled with a deadly determination and raging need, she arranged ropes over a beam, ran them through some of the wall hooks where spare clothing hung, and made loops for his wrists complete with a spare line running up and over, ready to be a crude pulley. He would beg to serve her, very soon.

When her preparations were done, she stood naked above him, hating the peaceful expression on his chiseled, dreaming face, looped the restraints securely about his wrists, and kicked him savagely in the side to waken him, already hauling on the ropes with all of her body weight, jerking his arms high, painful and rough, and dragging his form back against the wall to stand.

Sudden pain and shock woke him, but his sleep dulled senses could not make out what was happening as he was hauled bodily and made to stand. His knees buckled, but the sensation of rope cutting into his wrists woke him enough to force him to stand. Blinking, he met her angry gaze. Had she found out about Fastvi? Or was this merely a new form of torture? "What? Didn't do anything, yeah?"

She bared her teeth at him. "Going to change that. The not doing anything. You’ll learn... do everything. Whole hearted. Eager to please." Hauling harder yet on the ropes, she had him stumbling back against the wall, arms wide and high, eyes still sleep-dazed, and tied the rope off with a fierce pleasure. "Or you will never know relief again."

His head jerked back and he bit his lip as his body was stretched to its limits. "Anything you ask for. Yes." He smirked, ready to win the second battle of wills tonight.

Her smile went sharp and deadly. "Not asking. Telling. Once." Stepping up close to the clean beautiful lines of his chest, she ran her forefinger along the defined vertical line between muscles, from his collar bone to the dark blonde curls above his already-stirring sex. The touch was soft, appreciative of his masculine perfection, and light as a tickling feather. Her smile widened, and she turned her eyes up to him as she breathed across the flats of his nipples, then licked them to life and stepped back. "You may ask. Or beg."

A sense of shame washed over him. Shame that he seemed unable to control his body when she mistreated him. Shame that his cock was standing at attention for her, that every time she touched him, his blood seemed to thicken and rush to his groin.

He didn't mean to arch toward her wicked mouth, but he knew she felt it. Saw the triumph in her eyes. "What of it bitch? You kick a man, he cries out. You touch his cock, he wants a good wanking."

Bjuffa laughed at him. “Bitch, yes.” It was hardly an insult to be recognized as strong, determined, in charge! She kissed softly along his collarbone, leaned in to lick at his throat, keeping him off-balance in expectation of roughness that she had no intention of supplying... at the moment. Lips, teeth, tongue... all explored his throat with leisurely possessiveness, lingering sensuality. "Want, then," she purred, and slid away, going to a wooden chest behind the headboard of her bed, bending to open the heavy wood with its iron banding.

His eyes followed her every movement, focusing on her swaying breasts and arse as she left him. Even that made him burn and yearn, for her slaps and and kisses, in turn. Dear God, it made no sense... no sense to want both...

When she straightened and turned back, he wondered what instrument of torture she held in her hand. It was a long, white ... tusk? As she drew closer, he saw it was carved, and she was stroking it in a menacing manner. Its tip was blunt. Did she intend to stab him with it? Thus far, she hadn't taken to meting out punishments that had lasting effects...

Slightly afraid, but prepared to behave as if whatever pain she inflicted was only a nuisance to him, he braced for the worst. And still... despite his trepidations... his body burned for her touch.

Bjuffa stroked her fingers slowly over the carved and smoothed ivory, a faithful replica of a man's thick member, erect and ready, slightly curved and lovingly detailed. Somehow, Spike was resisting her more effectively... and she meant to make him see how useless it was to cling to pride, utterly wrong for a slave. Doubly wrong for a murderer. Playfully, she pointed the mock phallus at him, flicking her finger over the smooth ivory head. "Want," she repeated, and added, "Watch," with a much more wicked, hungry expression, moving in close enough that there was no way even an ignorant Saxon could fail to recognize the carving for exactly what it was.

Spike's eyes widened. Wicked woman. Wicked, forbidden art. He wondered who would have carved it and why she was showing it to him.

Then she rubbed it against her cheek and his cock surged ever so painfully. Perplexed... breathless, he watched as she moved the carving to her mouth. God he wanted to be the carving... he wanted to push himself into her mouth... to fuck her.

Bjuffa was hard-pressed not to snicker at Spike's expression, the way the blue of his eyes darkened and his cock jerked against his belly as he watched her mouth, his eyes widening as her lips parted to lick delicately at the carven ivory tip.

He swallowed hard, knowing she was going to put it in her mouth... knowing she'd drag her tongue along its shaft the way he wanted her to lick him, to suck him. "You want me to be like you? Too need?" he asked, wondering if she intended to work him up to the same state she'd been in so that he'd be the one tossing and turning.

She removed the toy from her mouth with a slick popping noise. "Don't care what you want. But you... will want. Will watch." She gave him a mysterious smile, and trailed the thing along her breasts, slipping the warmed, wet ivory across her nipples, not hiding any reaction at all. "Mmm," she moaned, low and breathy, and let it trail lower across her taut stomach.

He wanted to fuck her breasts, then he wanted to fuck her belly. Every sound she made, every expression of pleasure she gave made his balls draw up tighter and tighter, made his fucking cock pulse and ache.... scream with the desire to plunge insider her... to take his pleasure.

She didn't want to wait any longer, was tired of teasing him when she was still so hot and needy, and she backed slowly away from him after one gentle stroke of his cock, one sliding caress around his balls with her strong, slender hand, to sit upon the bed she'd abandoned not long before, rubbing herself wantonly along the furs before rising to her knees, wide apart, and teasing at her slick folds with the ivory phallus, letting pleased sounds spill from her lips at the familiar, sensual, self-inflicted torment.

His mouth dropped open. Never in a thousand years had he expected this... nor even imagined something like this in his dreams. At first, he had a certain satisfaction from knowing she was doing this for him... to get to him... because she wanted him again the way she'd had him on the anvil. But then, it was apparent she'd forgotten all about him... and was taking her pleasure from... from it... that thing.

He should have been disgusted. Maybe he was, but once again, his body betrayed him. All he could think about was how her muscles were contracting around the ivory, gripping it... making it slick with her heat. How he wanted to be the ivory...

He thrust his hips, hitting open air. His cock was so stiff against his stomach, it was painful. Each of his efforts to close his eyes, to ignore her, failed. Instead, he was left staring, wanting, needing... breathing with her, groaning when she made her sounds, fighting with the ropes that bound him... fighting to reach her... to reach himself... "Fuck..." his chest rose and fell, and he felt droplets of sweat rolling from his temples as she rode the ivory.

Close to the release that Spike had denied her with his laughter earlier, Bjuffa fell backward from her knees, back flat to the furs and shoulders digging in as she arched her back and worked the ivory deeper, faster, her other hand teasing lightly at her clit, eliciting whimpers of need that quickly deepened into throat-tearing groans of pleasure as her inner walls pulsed. Her knees splayed wide so that she could take more of the carved phallus, deeply enough to make herself scream as she convulsed and shattered into orgasm, completely focused on her own sensual gratification, and the release of days of frustration.

"Please..." the plea broke out of him as he watched her swallow the ivory deep inside her, withdraw it and swallow it again. He wanted to be on top of her... penetrating her hard... so hard... slamming into her until she gave him what he needed. As he slowly succumbed to the madness, he bucked and writhed, raised his leg, clenched his thighs... jerking around, trying to get a bit of friction where he desperately needed it.

Her body arched hard as she came, tightly-locked muscles trembling, body sheened with sweat, and then Bjuffa dropped back to the bed, limp and sated, working the ivory slowly a few more times to draw out the shuddering remnants of pleasure. And then she withdrew it, hips twitching, set it to the side, wrapped herself around her pillows, pulled up her furs, and turned her back on her still-bound slave to slide into an easy, relaxed sleep.

Insults that would have made a whore proud dropped from his lips, not that they made a bit of difference to the bitch. Eyes burning with hate, body burning with need, and muscles aching with the strain of standing in one position, Spike took a deep breath. Wouldn't do to let her know she'd gotten to him. By morning, he would look at her with the same disinterest he had when she'd chosen him as her slave. Until then... he stoically tried to turn his mind to things such as the freezing waters of the lake and the snow falling on his bare skin.

*

His eyelids were mostly closed against the harsh early morning light that only reminded him she'd kept him tied like like a calf being fattened for a feast. Bitch. If only he could inflict on her half the pain in the muscles of his stretched arms. The cuts on his wrists were nothing in comparison.

Practically purring with contentment at having finally gotten a full night's sleep after satisfying herself, the pleasing bonus of having left her slave tied for punishment all night, Bjuffa rolled over in her furs and opened sleepy green eyes to look at his naked, beautiful form, trying to sag in the ropes but unable to because of their tightness. Every muscle in his body stood out in sharp relief, and she doubted it was because he wanted to impress her!

Stretching with a small pleased sound, she kept her eyes on him, and casually remarked, "You serve me. At breakfast today."

He bit back a disrespectful response. He'd serve all of them, if only to be released from the hell he was in. It only fueled his desire to win the games they played... until that one day when she'd find good old Spike gone for good. Summer... he had to wait for summer, when conditions weren't this harsh and he could reach the port.

"Yes. Serve." Obey and appease, he might, but he wasn't going to beg. He'd stay like this untill the morrow rather than do that.

"Mmm," she agreed, and pushed the furs aside to rise, still naked, and cross the cottage to where his restraints were tied off. She unlooped the rope, and let it slowly slip through her fingers, allowing his arms to slowly lower, and watching the expression on his face avidly as she did so. This was punishment, too. And might teach him that freedom could be even worse than being hers.

He stared right back into her green eyes, pulling his mouth into a half smile, while his arms screamed for mercy. The pain doubled when his elbow bent slightly. Immediately, he straightened his arms, sucking his breath in as he lowered them slowly to his sides. This had to be what it would feel like if he tied her on the largest war horse he could find and left her there for three days.

Eyes narrowed, Bjuffa watched a moment to be sure he'd not faint and wrench his shoulders right out of their sockets. Accidental torture, vengeance by happenstance: these were not what she wanted to repay him for murdering Bjorn. When she was sure he would not hurt himself, but leave that task to her, she removed the loops of rope from his wrists, but left the apparatus in place. "Pants," she commanded, and turned away to dress herself, smiling at the fury and pain in his eyes.

Mercifully, she turned away as he struggled to make his hands work. Nay, mercy had nothing to do with it. She didn't know the meaning of the word.

Though his breeches were up around his waist, he could not work his hands properly. Biting his lip in sheer frustration, he fought with the ties.

In her bodice, kirtle and skirt, hair brushed and boots on her feet, Bjuffa turned back to see Spike struggling with the laces of his breeches, as she had half-expected. Hips swaying, she went to him, brushed his hands aside, and tied them herself before mockingly tucking the loose ends into the snug waist. Smirking, she then patted him on the head, and commanded, "Follow."

She ought to be burned at the stake. He'd dance around the fire as she howled with pain. Or maybe he'd stop dreaming, and make his dreams come true by slitting her throat before he left this place. Aye... a plan always helped him overcome humiliation.

He followed her, knowing that breakfast would be short. After that, he'd be released to complete his chores. He couldn't wait.

Once in the longhouse, Bjuffa took her usual seat near her uncle, a pair of chairs that commanded the best view of the entire place, as well as the comfort of being neither too close to nor too far from the fires. Many of the lower-ranked women were already serving as she nodded a greeting to Ragnar, and then gestured as Spike. "Fetch food," she commanded. "Quickly." This was a new and calculated humiliation for the Saxon, or so she reckoned it. His people had funny ideas about women's work being demeaning. She hoped it stung.

"Yes mistress," he said, his smirk now firmly back on his face as he headed for the kitchens.

Moments later, he re-emerged, carefully holding a plate that to his aching arms, felt as heavy as three shields. Nevertheless, he whistled as he approached her, ignoring the jeering. Soon... very soon, he'd get what he needed. That which allowed him to be impartial to her when she made her sexual demands.

Bjuffa couldn't help but grin at the whistling. She knew better. He was miserable. That tune was nothing but bravado! And when he placed her plate before her, she made him chnge its placement three times before nodding approval, and sending him off for her mug of breakfast ale.

As dutifully as any maid or slave, he met all of her demands. There was nothing that she could complain about, he made sure of it. Unless his whistling was getting to her... but then again, he couldn't help himself. "More?" he asked, seeing her empty plate. "You want long sausage."

"No," she said, rolling her eyes at his attempt to make her uncomfortable. "Just ale. You would not get sausage long enough." Again, she waved him away. "Quickly."

He gave her a humble nod, but the look in his eyes was anything but humble. They both knew she lied.

Turning, he headed back for the kitchen, pushing past some Viking warriors that were already fighting. They went to bed drunk and woke drunk, these dirty sea robbers.

Once inside the large kitchen, he started pouring the ale, but his eyes were on Fastvi. Deliberately, he flicked his tongue out and licked his lips. She'd been his salvation these last few days... he'd used her to take the edge off his need.

Fastvi's dark eyes brightened with lust. The blonde Saxon slave was well-endowed, and the last three days had been the most fun she'd had since Bjuffa sent Ovind away. They'd fucked in the barn, behind the sheds, even in the steamhouse. He was insatiable... which meant she rode him as often as she could, and not as often as she'd like. Slyly, she inserted a finger into her mouth and sucked on it, and made sure that she got to him as quickly as she could without attracting undue notice.

Buffy had put that blasted ivory into her mouth and sucked it much like Fastvi sucked her finger. He hated thinking of the blonde and getting hard, hated imagining her as he fucked Fastvi, hated being weak like that.

Glancing around, he walked to the brunette and spoke close to her ear, trying to enunciate and use as much of her language as he could. "Meet me behind the cattle shed."

"I can't now... she..." he glanced at the door. "Afternoon, then? I need you," he said, nudging her thigh with his cock. "Want Spike, yes?"

"Now," she repeated. "Now, later. Always want," she smirked, stroking his straining flesh with her wicked fingers. "But now better."

"Where?" he whispered, his voice roughened by needs that had burned all night and had yet to be fulfilled.

He saw her glance toward the back of the kitchen, where barrels of wine had been stacked. Leaving Buffy's mug unattended, he gripped Fastvi's wrist and dragged her behind the barrels.

"Yes," she panted, already tugging at his laces with one hand as she pulled her kirtle downward to expose her firm, round breasts. "Now, better. Now best!"

Anxious, and knowing he'd have to be quick, he pushed her skirts up and slid his cock between her thighs. "Say 'come,'" he told her, gripping her hip with one hand and fondling her breast with the other as he started to slowly thrust and slide is cock across her entrance. "Say it," he demanded, again, closing his eyes and imagining green eyes and a cruel, cruel mouth.

Wet and ready, she moaned, "Come?"

*

Still in the great hall, Bjuffa tapped her fingers impatiently on the long wooden table, wondering what would be taking so long. Had he gone to Jotlund for the damned ale? Maybe that whistling... hadn't been bravado after all. But she'd been working him so hard... yet, he had been disinterested in bedding her, until she tormented him by making him watch her pleasure herself. Suddenly decisive, she rose, and stalked toward the kitchens.

*

"Again, say it again," he demanded, his cock slick with her heat. He aligned himself, "say it!" Like a threat, he refused to move until she played Buffy for him.

Fastvi wriggled against him like an eel on a hook, panting and clutching at his back, and repeated the word again on a breathy growl, digging her nails into his muscled ass. "Come!"

"Yes," he ground out near her ear, pushing his thick hard cock inside. He locked one arm around her, bent his knees slightly and straightened, burying himself even deeper in her tight sheath.


Her breasts were heavy... heavy with need. He squeezed and played with them, causing her to writhe and buck against him. "Good, yes, yes..." he muttered, fucking her hard, but in short quick bursts aimed at getting him off fast.

"Ung," she grunted, grinding against him, "Sweet Freya!"

"Will not help you now," came Bjuffa's voice from behind Spike, just before she crashed a sturdy kettle against the back of his head. "Whore." Fastvi scrabbled to get off of Spike's cock, panic in her face.

Spike literally saw white as a dull pain hit hit him. Automatically, he reached to touch the back of his head, but at the same time tried to keep Fastvi from separating. "Wait..."

Then he realized he recognized the source of the voice behind him. "Fuck..." He groaned as Fastvi dragged herself one last time across his length and stumbled away.

When he turned his gaze on Buffy, she had to feel the full weight of his hatred.

"Don't wait," Bjuffa advised Fastvi, raising the kettle again in clear threat. The dark-haired woman fled as soon as Spike looked away, and Bjuffa dismissed her from her thoughts at once. She could be punished later, for giving Spike what he was supposed to beg for from Bjuffa herself. And receive nowhere else!

Glaring at her recalcitrant slave, the headwoman of the steading felt a bitter triumph. She knew his secret now, and would make him suffer for it. And the look in his eyes... a magnificent fury! Exactly the level of passion she had been seeking in him, and not finding for the last three days. Damned Saxon! "Eyes down," she reminded him, even as his cock quivered, hungry and wet, between his thighs, not in the least diminshed by the blow she'd given his thick skull. For good measure, she clouted him again, making the metal ring.

He swung his arm around, about to give blow for heavy blow, but stopped inches from her face. She had to know he could snap her neck, break her nose, bruise that cheek. Had to know that if... when he wanted it, she'd be dead like her brother.

The anger coursing through his veins mixed with lust, made him pulse and ache that much stronger. Would she fuck him now? Would she take his anger, his hate, and his need... would she win his round?

He finally obeyed and hooded his eyes, still breathing erratically. Would it be so bad if he lost this round?

(A/N: Comments make us write more )