Reflection

TITLE: Reflection

AUTHOR: Midknight

CHAPTER: 1 of 1

FANDOM: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

SHIP: Buffy / Spike

RATING: NC-17

CATEGORY: Erotica, Angst

SPOILERS: A couple, Season Six

UNIVERSE: As per cannon.

DISCLAIMER: None of these characters belong to me. They belong to Josh Wedon and whoever else does. I pay homage to them and I make no profit from this story in any fashion, way or means.

AUTHORS NOTE: I apologize before hand and hope you will forgive any errors or blatant discrepancies.

FEEDBACK: Yes Please. It helps. It really, really helps. - Deton8@mweb.co.za

Sunnydale, Spike's crypt, just after midnight.

She should have gone home. She should go home, but instead she walks down the steps to his bedroom. She finds him leaning against a rough stone pillar in his usual black t-shirt and leather pants. His arms are folded and he has that smug smile on his pale face she just wants to punch. "What took you so long, Luv?" he asks and she stops on the last step. She should just turn around and go home.

"Fuck you, Spike. I'm going home." She tells him, willing her feet to turn and take her back up the stone steps. "Only if you ask nicely, Slayer and, no you bloody well aren't and you know it." He retorts in his irritating matter-of-fact tone. Gods, she'd like to prove him wrong, but instead, with a slight pause she steps off the step into the room itself. His grin is so damn smug, she consciously has to unclench her fists, not that a spot of violence would change the inevitable outcome of her coming to him. In fact, it would most likely enhance it.

"What's this?" she asks as she notices a tall sheet shrouded shape standing at the foot of his bed, and welcomes the distraction. "That? Well, that is why I've been waiting for you." He answers cryptically. She raises an eyebrow at him and places her hands on her hips to show her displeasure and all he does is give her a wicked little chuckle. She fights the urge to stamp her foot and watches as he pushes himself off the pillar and slowly walks over to the object in question. "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours, Slayer?" He asks her adding a shoolboy whine to his British accent, resting his hand on the sheet covering the mystery object. "Spike!" she says his name in exasperation, but he is unmoved and gestures with his other hand for her to comply or leave. She knows that the longer she resists, the more he enjoys tormenting her.

With, a sigh, she shrugged off her jacket and kicks off her shoes. She feels a little thrill as she watches him. His non-chalant posture belies the intense look in his eyes as he watches her strip out of her tank top and unbutton and shimmy out of her jeans. This is why she is here, why she just simply can't walk away from this twisted situation. The way he is looking at her now. The way it heats her skin. The way it makes her feel. A dead thing like Spike, makes her feel alive and not just any dead thing, a vampire, the things she has, is and always will be destined to kill. There is a bitter laugh in the back of her mind at the irony.

"Buffy, stop." He tells her as she reaches behind her to undo her bra and she gives him a quizzical look. "Do as I say. Slayer. Trust me, it will be worth your while. I promise." He explains all pretenses having left his body and tone. She suddenly feels a little scared and revels in the feeling. "Well, I've shown you mine." She tells him gesturing for him to fulfill his end of the bargain. He nods and pulls the sheet off the tall object.

It is a tall full-length mirror with an ornate wooden frame with ornate wooden stand that extends forward for about half a metre. She looks at her reflection in the mirror. She notes her toned body, blonde hair, loose and resting on her bare shoulders. Her skin looks pale in contrast with the black bra and panty set she is wearing. The crucifix she is wearing glitters in the light on its chain where it rests, nestled in her cleavage. She sees Spike remove his t-shirt and notes his pale, slim and hard muscles body. She undoes the clasp of her chain and lets the crucifix drop to the pile she had made of her clothes.

"What does it do? Is it magical? Will it tell me my future or whether I am the fairest in the land? She asks as she steps closer to the mirror. "No. It's just a mirror, Luv and that will be more than enough. Now stand in front of it and close your eyes." He instructs her. She can see her frown deepen in her reflection. "Just do it, Buffy." He re-iterates, his voice gaining a long-suffering quality. What perversity he has in mind for her she doesn't know, but the anticipation, even the shame, of what they do and have done, makes her feel and that is what she desperately needs.

She feels plush carpet under her bare feet when she stops in front of the mirror. She hadn't even notices the rug the mirror was standing on. He Is still standing next to the mirror when she closes her eyes. Time seems to loose meaning as she stands their in the darkness behind her eyelids. Her ears strain as she tries to pick up sounds beyond her own breathing, without success. The urge to open her eyes mounts and just as she is about to she nearly jumps out of her skin when he whispers in her ear: "Keep 'em closed. Luv. Just a little longer."

He moves her forward a step, his touch cool and a little disconcerting on her shoulder. "When I tell you to open them, don't move and just keep looking in the mirror. Understand? He tells her, his voice, honey in her ear. She nods, not quite trusting her voice and his hand disappears from her shoulder. "Open." He whispers the single word into the shell of her ear.

She opens her eyes slowly, not knowing what to expect, to find her own reflection and that of the room behind her. She is so close to the large mirror she cannot see on either side of it without turning he head, which she doesn't, heeding Spike's instructions. Her patience begins to fray as she stands there in the silence of his crypt with nothing but her reflection for company. She wants to call his name to turn, to find out where he is, but before she can she gasps as she feels his body pressing firmly against her back.

She starts to turn her head, but his voice is a sharp command in her ear: "Eyes on the mirror, Slayer." The eyes of her reflection widen as she realizes she can't see him behind her although she can feel him. He is naked, she can feel the hard tube of his shaft pressing into the panty-clad upper curve of her ass and the small of her back. His smooth, hairless, muscled torso and chest are cold against her back, taking the heat from her body and making her skin pebble with gooseflesh before taking becomes sharing and they find a happy medium.

He chuckles in her ear. "Thought you'd get a kick out of this." He tells her and again she gasps as she feels his hands on her skin, but doesn't see them. One hand slides from her hip to her taught little belly and then dips lower, finding and slipping under the waistband of her panties. She is fascinated as she sees the material move away from her crotch as if by its own accord, yet she can feel his fingers dragging through her pubes before they explore her most intimate flesh. She moans as his long fingers work their magic and use he's centuries of experience to ring pleasure and moisture out of her.

She feels his other hand, invisible in the mirror sliding up her ribcage and then cupping her breast. She feels him squeeze and fondle her tit, watching the cup of her bra change shape accordingly. Her nipples expand and harden, pressing into the soft cups of her bra, tingling as they slide against the material. An invisible thumb flicks her right nub back and forth where it is clearly defined in her bra.

She wants to curse Spike as his phantom hands drag pleasure from her body but all that comes from her mouth are groans and other sounds of desire as he stimulates her body. She can feel her stomach muscles shuddering as her sex clenches and relaxes around his invading, rubbing fingers. Her back arches, pressing herself against the invisible support of his body behind her. Her hips rock, pressing and grinding first against his palm and then back against the hardness of his shaft. Her bra feels restricting and too small for her breasts as they grow, hot and flushed and the skin of her nipples and areola feel tight as they swell.

She feels pressure against the side of her head and tilts her head slightly away from it and she feels wet lips kissing and sucking at her neck. She's willingly baring her neck for a vampire. The only other one she has downe that with wa Angel. "No. No, Buffy. Stay away. Warning. Do not go there." She warns herself. She can see the skin dimple and grow red as teeth and fangs lightly test her skin and pulse point. Her body is beyond her control as waves of pleasure surge through her. The strange disparity about what she feels and what she sees intensifies her reactions. Her thighs shake as she feels herself flooding, hot and wet onto his manipulating fingers and into his hand.

The pressure suddenly disappears from her breast and she is shocked at the strong sense of loss and then relief as she watches the clasp between the cups of her bra undo itself. The air is impossibly cool against the skin of her freed breasts as invisibles finger and lips slide the straps of her bra off her shoulders and she feels the undergarment slide down her arms and away. When his hand finds her breast again, she can see the effects his fingers press into the firm, but pliant flesh, yet not see his hands.

His nimble fingers are working her sex into a pulsing froth. She can see the evidence of his hand in her panties as the black material shifts and changes shape. He stops playing with her most intimate flesh for a moment as he pushes her last piece of clothing down off her hips. It starts to slide down, but then stops. She can see the material is damp and, as she watches, she sees the firelight glistening off her inner thigh. She hadn't realized she was that wet. She can feel his hand at the juncture between her thighs and her crotch as he helps the black, lace undergarment on its way and it drifts down her thigh, over her knees and onto the floor.

She mewls her dissatisfaction as his hands and body suddenly retreat from her and she is seemingly alone once more. She feels horribly exposed and has a strong need to cover herself. She starts with a yelp when he laughs low and wicked right in her ear, proving that he had gone nowhere. "Bastard." She hisses at him. "Now... Now, Buffy. That's not a nice thing to say. I know who my sire is." He admonishes her while running the backs of his fingers down the length of her back in a feather-light caress. She shivers in response.

He runs his hand up her spine and again she helps when he's gentle touch suddenly becomes hard pressure between her shoulder blades, bending her forward. Before, she can loose her balance she reaches forward and grabs hold of the mirrors protruding stand. She realized the design of the mirror is by no means an accident and her hands wrap around the smooth polished wood. She yelps when an invisible hands twines into her hair and roughly pulls back, pulling her head up. "Eyes on the mirror." He growls and she stares at her wide, grey-eyed reflection, bent over but with her neck and back arched. Her hair seems to be flying out behind her. Her breasts sway a little as they fall away from her chest. She can clearly see the hard, long points of her brown nipples, contrasting with the pale flesh of her lower body and thighs. Her nerves are on fire, her adrenalin pumping with anticipation of the unknown and the unnatural sensation of feeling without seeing while her eyes are wide open and she revels in it.

Then, she feels the pointed head of his cock, sliding up and down the length of her slit, teasing, just pressing between the moist folds, never quite connecting with her entrance. He toys with her, starting mock thrusts and withdrawing after hardly an inch. In, frustration, she braces her hands and pushes back. His mocking chuckle floats down to her as he manages to compensate and foil her plan to impale her self on his shaft. She tries again and a third time and each time he evades her. She is fighting hard to keep her frustration under control and hidden, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

The fourth time she thrusts back, harder and faster hoping to catch him off guard and end up voicing a gasped cry as instead of the playful retreat she had expected to overcome she finds him thrusting forward, hard and with intent plowing his cool member into her heated depths. Her flesh resists him, the friction slamming pleasure into her nervous system like a lightning strike as he buries himself to the hilt. With, a final tug at her hair to remind her of his instructions he lets her hair drop onto her neck and back. Phantom hands clutch at the muscles of her shoulders as he grinds forward into her. She can't help herself from returning the pressure by pushing back.

His hands shift again, fingers sliding between her body and arms felling inappropriately ticklish. Warm pressure envelopes her breasts. She watches them lift and compress against her chest. She can see the indents of his fingers on the supple flesh, feel the heat of his palms as he rhythmically fondles and squeezes her tit flesh. She can see her nipples flatten and move in little circles as if she has developed some incredible power to control them. The pressure of his hands shifts again, now pressing at the sides of her breasts, mashing them together. He causes the inner curves of her cleavage to rub together, smooth skin, lubricated by sweat while she can see her nipples move from side to side with the flicking of his thumbs.

All the while, he is moving inside her with short, deliberately measure thrusts, barely moving an inch, but hard, stoking the furnace of her sex and driving the wave of her orgasm to greater heights. In the mirror invisible hands stop their molestation of her breasts and slide across the ridges and valleys of her ribs until they take a firm grip on her hips. He switches to hard, fast ful-length pounding strokes that make her moan, grunt, groan and gasp over the wet slapping sound of his body crashing into hers. Her knuckles are white as she grips the stand, bracing herself against his pulling and thrusting onslaught.

Each jarring stroke takes her closer to climax. He tells her how hot and wet and tight and great she feels. His pounding is a mixture of pleasure and pain that floods her body with sensation, beautiful feeling that erases the hurt and the longing for her lost heaven. She stares at herself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the wild eyed, sweaty and flushed women she sees. His pace is unrelenting and she can feel the heat and heaviness in her belly growing as her orgasm nears. Buffy's mouth is open wide, gulping in air that her lungs can hardly process fast enough. Her muscles start to clench and release at his cock with the random purpose of increasing the friction and taking her to a temporary heaven.

Her head begins to drop, her eyes closing as the wave of her climax nears it's peak. Without, breaking stride she again feels his hand wrap itself in her hair and he pulls her head back up. "What did I tell you, Slayer!?!" he warns her through what she assumes are gritted teeth, by the sound, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. She loves and hates what he is doing with equal intensity, but her body betrays her as the wave of her orgasm breaks over her and floods her nervous system with pleasure. Her sex clenches around him and ripples while the rest of her muscles lock as she cries out her release.

He is still thrusting into the tight vice of her climaxing sex and each thrust renews the cascade of sensation along her body. Her reflection goes blurry as her senses overload. She can vaguely feel her legs trembling with the effort of holding her up. The stand of the mirror creaks ominously with her unrelenting grip on the wood. She gasps when he drags his filling shaft out of her clenching snatch. She can feel her own hot juices following his retreating member.

The only warnings she has is that he has let go of her hair and again taken hold of her hips and the light, wet touch of his dick head at the pucker of her asshole before he struck. She screams as searing pain cuts through the pleasure of her orgasm when Spike drives his cock into her ass. Her knees buckle and he follows her down onto her knees, driving his invading shaft deeper. She knows what he has done, but her mind refuses to accept or believe it as her scream slowly peters out, still echoing in the cavernous crypt. Her breaths come in short pants as he bottoms out and she can feel his throbbing shaft deep in her bowels, her muscles still screaming in protest. The wood of the mirror stand bites into her hands.

She hears a whimper when he shifts slightly and it takes her a moment to realize it had come from her. "Spike, you goddamn bastard. I'm going to stake you for this. I fucking swear it." She promises him her voice sounding hoarse and strange to her own ears. She feels his chest press to her shoulder blades before she hears him whisper in her ear: "No you won't. Just you like you couldn't turn this sweet, tight ass of yours around and go home earlier, My Sweet Little Slayer." He punctuates his statement by drawing back and thrusting once, twice and then a third time making her grunt with discomfort.

She wants to rail against him. Tell him she means every word. She even believes she would if only she could get her arms and legs to work. This violation is more than she can handle over and above the sordidness of her affair with Spike, but his talented and experiences fingers have snaked between her legs and are stroking her climax sensitized flesh. His other hand has captured one of her breasts and she can once again see the flesh being manipulates in her reflection. Her body betrays her again as the shock of his violent penetration wears off and his fingers rekindle the pleasure it had robbed her of, it adjusts to his cock. She doesn't know if it's a Slayer thing or nature, she has no point of reference, but when he starts making slow, steady full-length strokes into her bowels there is little pain and after a few strokes that and the discomfort fade.

Her fingers play her body as if she were a Stratavarius violin and he a maestro violinist. Nerves shattered by pleasure and then pain are slowly reintroduced to pleasure. She wants to curse the blonde haired woman in the mirror when she realizes she is rocking back to meet his thrusting member and probing, rubbing fingers. He whispers in her ear like some demented invisible conscience. Telling her how this is only the beginning, that he still has so much more to show her. She feels his fangs nipping at her earlobe and then the side of her neck, more than nipping. He applies pressure that is just short of breaking skin and then a little more.

Buffy's disbelief is written across the face of her blinking reflection as without a sound she cums with Spike's cock buried in her ass and his fangs penetrating her skin. He isn't drinking and she lets go of the mirror stand for the first time since this has begun and reaches up, cups his head and presses his mouth more firmly against her neck. She feels him start to drink and moans her final surrender to sensation to feeling. She feels him thrust one more time and his sex swells and she feels him pump his seed into her bowels.

He stops drinking abruptly and she wonders if he realized, at that moment, she wouldn't have stopped him if he had drained her. He slides out of her and she s unable to stifle a groan as his dick head pops free of the tight ring of her rectal muscles. She slumps forward, the surface of the mirror cool against her forehead and she allows her eyes to close. Her breathing returns to normal and the cold, unfeeling, numb world of her reality with it. She prefers even the hate and revulsion to this nothingness.

She hears the klink of metal on stone and the telltale swish of water. She frowns and only flinches a little when she feels a warm, wet cloth on the inside of her thigh. Looking down between her thighs she can see his hand and his knees along with his flaccid cock. "Spike was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery wearing a black duster coat." She thinks to herself as she lets him clean her up.

She waits for him to finish and get up with the basin and move away before she struggles to her feet, grabbing her underwear and walks over to her pile of clothes. The stone of the crypt floor is cold under her feet after the plush carpet. She dresses slowly, deliberately, her body complaining a little over its abuse, but Slayers heal quick, well their bodies did anyway. The bruises his fingers had left on her hips were already fading to yellow and the bite mark was already closing. The crucifix is the last thing she puts back on.
She hears him, behind her, his boots scuffing on the stone floor and she assumes he has dressed as well. "Buffy..." is all she allows him to say before she turns and with the momentum of that turn slaps him across his face. She can see the print of her hand, red across his pale cheek. "Burn that." She orders him in a tight, cold voice and without waiting for his reply, turns on her heel and leaves.

THE END