Dead Soul
RATING:NC-17
WARNINGS:graphic sex and violence, sadomasochism, bloodplay, implied character death, unrelenting cynicism and angst, and just a soupçon of blasphemy
PAIRINGS:Spike/Sunday (BtVS, Season Four, The Freshman), Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Sunday/Drusilla>
SPOILERS:BtVS - none past Season Four
DISCLAIMERS:I own nothing and no one.The story title is a line from the song Blank Generation by Richard Hell and the Voidoids.Chapter titles are the titles of Elvis Costello songs.
THANKS:to my terrific betas, SpikeMom, juliaabra and Lady Starlight who make me go back and describe things more, who slay the insidious typos, oh, and who make me use more commas (grumble, grumble).And to astraea for the gorgeousness that is her – eyeballs to entrails
FEEDBACK:might make me too happy to write, which may, perhaps, be a consummation greatly to be desired.Worth a try, anyway - deadsoul820@aol.com> or my LiveJournal
SUMMARY:a twenty-year vampiric globetrotting ménage a trois with lots of really twisted sex and yummy gore.Oh, and angst, lotsa angst.Sequel to Sunday Girl
We
didn’t actually get out of the hotel until several hours later. Got be squeaky clean to do the big
honkin’ evil, and the huge sunken gray marble tub was just perfect for soapy,
splashy games between two creatures who don’t need to
breathe.
What? You need me to
spell it out? Well, if you
insist. I’m stuck here in this
crappy motel anyway, waiting for the sun to go down so I can continue my little
road trip. I don’t know if
remembering our nights at the Lord Byron will make this one any easier to bear
or if it will just make it seem all the more tawdry. The latter I suspect, but oh
well.
***
The
bottle of scotch accompanied us to bathroom, naturally. And that bathroom put the luxe in
deluxe. It continued the terracotta
and gray color scheme with a creamy white tile floor. The toilet and bidet were hidden by a
half-wall of gray marble that matched the tub, the counters, and the twin
sinks. One wall was mirrored floor
to ceiling, which made for a fascinating display of waterworks with no visible
impetus. Especially fun to watch
while drunk, although I was pretty distracted most of the
time.
I
guess here’s where I rhapsodize some more about the beauty of Spike. Really, this just can’t be done
enough. The bright lights in the
bathroom, incandescent, thankfully, rather than fluorescent, shone his smooth
white skin, sparkled his blue eyes, picked out the definition of each and every
muscle, each and every sharp plane and angle. No marble was whiter, no sapphire bluer,
no grin wickeder. And the pink of
his evil, talented tongue. The
expressive black swoop of his eyebrows, revealing every thought, every
mood. If I had ever played poker
with him, his eyebrows would have given away his every attempt to bluff. Okay, that’s enough,
Gershwin.
Sometimes we’re just so normal.
Vampires, I mean. I mean,
who doesn’t love a good, hot bubble bath?
And so what if evil smells like lavender? Evil smells as evil does. Um, or something like that. Okay, I have no idea what that means,
either. I guess I’m stalling. It was such a good time, such a special
time that I’m kind of afraid that by sharing it, by speaking it aloud, I’ll
lessen the power of the memory. But
if I don’t share it, the memory will die with me since I doubt that Spike looks
back on those days with much fondness.
I’ll quit teasing now and get to the good stuff.
***
It
all began when I showed him a little something I’d picked up in Paris. Well, stole, if you must know, from a
little antique store in the Place des Voges near the Gare de Lyon
when I had a few hours to kill before catching the train to
Rome.
I
wasn’t sure what it was at first.
Certainly no one I’d ever known had used one. About as long as my hand and only about
three-quarters of an inch wide, it was made of ebony worn to the smoothest,
silkiest patina by years of use and chased with silver art nouveau swirls and
curlicues. I took it to the bored
clerk. “Qu'est-ce que
c'est?” I asked.
She
glanced up. “C'est un
rasoir,” she said, and looked back down at the fashion magazine she was
reading.
“Ça marche comment?”
Sighing gallicly, she took it from me, pulled the blade out, and
handed the straight razor back to me.
It was rusted in spots, as if stained with old blood, but still had a
keen edge. It made me think of
Spike. Black and silver. Beautiful and dangerous. I wanted it. I looked around. The shop was deserted. I reached across the counter, grabbed a
handful of carefully messy gamine hairdo and baptized my new
baby.
Once
I was settled in Rome, I cleaned it carefully then took it down to the concierge
who said he could send it out to be sharpened and
restored.
***
And
so, back to the bathroom. I was
still naked and he still had on his jeans.
We were passing the scotch back and forth while we waited for the
enormous tub to fill. “And, see,” I
said to Spike over the noise of the water, after showing the razor to him, “They
even gave me this.” I took it down
from the hook on the back of the door.
“What’s it called? A
strop? To keep it sharp.” He took the supple piece of leather from
me and ran it through his hands, testing its flexibility and
heft.
“Nice. Come in handy,
this will.” He snapped the
three-foot long leather strop across my ass as I leaned over to check the water
temperature. I shrieked and danced
around a bit, rubbing the red mark I was sure it had left. “Hey! That’s for little Spike! Not for me!” From his anticipatory expression, I
figured I’d better clarify which ‘little Spike’ I meant. “For the razor, I mean. That’s what I call the
razor.”
“Well
you know, us vampires, gotta travel light.
Everything’s got to serve more’n one purpose. All it takes is a little
imagination.”
As
sternly as I could, I said, “Don’t you quirk that eyebrow at me, you
pervert. I know exactly what you’re
imagining.”
He
moved closer to me; I backed away.
“So if I’m imaginin’ you, in chains, spread out and helpless, does that
make me the only pervert in this room?” he drawled.
And
of course it didn’t. “Maybe, maybe
not. The committee needs more data
before it can make that determination.”
Closer still. “And is it
perverse that I’m imagining myself arranging you just so - face down on the bed,
wrists and ankles shackled to the four corners, a pillow pushed under your belly
so that your lovely, smooth white bum is raised in the most inviting fashion,
your hair in wild disarray, your wanton mouth gagged, your fiery eyes
blindfolded - ”
He
had me backed into the corner, running the leather strap down my arms, across my
chest, around my neck, his voice getting lower, huskier, “Am I perverse to want
to turn that luscious white arse of yours pink, then fuchsia, then raw blood
red? To want to hear your muffled
screams, smell your rising desire?”
I was
pointlessly panting, my eyelids heavy and half-closed, all the borrowed blood in
my body had rushed to my hard nipples and swelling cunt. I leaned into him, rubbing my face
against his chest, nuzzling his neck.
Still holding the strop, he reached around me to brush my ass with the
end of it, using it with both hands to pull my body into his, to press his hard,
denim-covered cock against my twitching belly. Neither of us noticed the tub
overflowing until the bubbly deluge reached our bare feet.
I
sprang away from him with a shrill cry and ran to the tub to turn off the
water. Spike grabbed up all the
towels and threw them on the floor to mop up the flood. I opened the drain and, while Spike was
still dealing with the floor, I went to the phone and called housekeeping,
“Molti altri tovaglioli, per favore, e
rapidamente!”
Within five minutes there was a soft knock at the door, and Mia, the
shy, dark little maid who usually cleaned the room, entered with towels, soft,
fluffy charcoal gray towels, piled high in both arms. Spike was still decent, I mean, he had
still had his jeans on, and I’d thrown on a robe. She took the fresh towels to the
bathroom and came out with one of the laundry bags provided for the guests,
filled with the sopping mess. Spike
charmed the poor girl mercilessly, and she was blushing and stuttering as she
left. “She’s such a sweet thing,” I
said, once the door was safely closed.
“When we decide it’s time to stop eating Italian, we must have her for
dessert.” I looked over at Spike
with my best sunny smile and said, “Ready for bubble bath, take
two?”
This
time I sternly insisted that he stay out of the bathroom while I refilled the
tub. He amused himself by trying
out the strop on the various fixtures to see what different noises he could make
with it, testing his aim on the few remaining begonia blossoms on the
balcony. Men. They never do grow up. He was such a little boy with a new
toy.
When
the bathwater was finally just right, I pulled the robe off again, stood in the
bathroom doorway, cocked a hip, and called to him, “Come ‘n get it while it’s
still hot.”
Grinning like the little boy he’d just been emulating, he came in
from the balcony, tossing the strop on the bed and stripping off his jeans,
almost tripping in his haste. He
scooped me up in his arms. I was
bracing to be thrown into the water (and having to call down for even more
towels), but he lowered me gently into the bathtub before climbing in
himself. I’d poured some lavender
oil into the water, as well as the bubble bath, so the hot water felt silky as
we twined around each other, playing like otters, all slippery limbs and rolling
bodies.
Spike
grabbed my legs and slid me under the water before ducking his own head under
and burying it between my legs. He
held me firmly, not letting me get my head back to the surface, and I had a
moment of panic, but, as soon as I remembered not to breathe, I could relax and
enjoy. I clutched my own slick
breasts, as he dragged his tongue up and down from my clit all the way to my
asshole, pausing there to tongue it, pulling my cheeks apart so that he could
thrust his tongue into it.
I
clenched at the unexpected and unaccustomed invasion. It felt really weird, but kind of
good. I relaxed to give him easier
access and within minutes was pushing up with my hips, my legs high, kicking up
above the water’s surface. If
someone had come into the bathroom, the scene would have been extremely
humorous, if puzzling. Just a pair
of legs flailing in the air.
He
licked back up to give my clit a quick nibble before slithering between my legs
and sliding his smooth cock into me.
We still, neither of us, had come up for air. He set an unhurried pace, kissing me
likewise, deep and slow. Not
breaking contact or stride, we rolled in the water so that I was on top. This was the first time I’d been on top
so a little experimentation was in order.
I kept my head under the water, so we could continue to kiss. Spike lay still, as I worked myself up
and down on him, trying different angles, movements, working out which would
best hit the spot(s).
I
found the angle and quickened my pace, grinding myself against him until
I came. He rolled us back over and
drove into me until he, too, was satisfied. We lay under the water, not gasping, for
a few minutes longer.
The
oil and soap in the water were beginning to sting my eyes, so I wriggled out
from under him and sat up. I rubbed
my eyes until the tears had washed the irritants out. Spike still hadn’t emerged, so I took a
deep breath, closed my eyes and ducked back under to blow a stream of bubbles
into his ear. That got him up. He roared out of the water, shaking his
head and wiping his eyes. “I was
asleep, you daft bird.”
“Yeah, and about to grow barnacles. I’m hungry.”
“First, there’s a little something I’ve been meaning to take care
of.” He got out of the tub, water
and bubbles streaming down his beautiful white skin, smooth, tight muscles
gleaming and flexing. He crossed
the room to the counter (I have mentioned that this was a huge bathroom,
haven’t I?) and collected the small can of shaving cream that was part of the
gratis toiletries kit and little Spike.
***
“Hold
still,” he snarled at me.
“I
can’t help it,” I giggled. “It’s
cold and it tickles. Hey, why does
it feel cold?”
“’Cause you’re warm from the bath, you little barmpot.” He touched it to me again, and I
couldn’t help squirming.
“If
you don’t hold still, you’re going to end up like one of Jack the Ripper’s
earlier victims – you know, slit open but not actually missing any bits.” He leered up at me, mouth half open, and
tongue curled up to touch his upper teeth.
Which, of course, only made me laugh harder. “Suit yourself,” he said, half laughing
himself and closing the razor with a click. “You want to be an aviation blonde,
makes me no never mind.”
“Aviation blonde?”
“Y’know, blonde hair, black box.”
“Well, then, what are you?”
“Too
manly to worry about color coordination.”
Okay,
I’m sure the liquor had something to do with it, but the thought of Mr.
Black-on-Black-on-Black not being concerned with color coordination set me off
into the kind of laughter that formerly could have caused an embarrassing loss
of bladder control. And so, you
see, the benefits of being a vampire just kept piling up.
Eventually I got myself back under control. Settling myself more securely on the
edge of the tub, I spread my legs wide.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m
ready.”
Tongue caught between his teeth, Spike carefully drew the wicked edge
of the straight razor between my legs, working from the outside, in, rinsing it
off under the trickling tap after each stroke. His careful manipulation of my flesh,
drawing each bit taut, as he ran the sharp blade over it, the danger of being
cut, the look of concentration on his face was so arousing it was hard to hold
still. I leaned to the side to
brace myself against the wall and closed my eyes, willing myself not to
move.
Finally he finished, rinsing me off with handfuls of warm water, but
he didn’t put the razor away. He
knelt up from his sitting position in the tub and grasped one of my breasts,
holding it tight around the base so the skin was drawn tight. With the blade, he cut an inch long slit
in the flesh and continued to squeeze, licking up the blood as it welled from
the wound. He drew a pattern of
shallow rays all around my nipple then repeated it on the other breast. Dragging the dull edge of the razor down
my stomach, he repeated the pattern once more on the smooth, bare flesh of my
mound, arrows pointing to the top of my slit. Holding me open with the fingers of one
hand, he made the smallest of nicks on my distended clit then closed his mouth
over it, sucking deeply.
I
came almost immediately. The sharp
pain coupled with his prolonged handling of my most intimate parts, as well as
the sight of the blood against my pale skin, had aroused me to the extent that
all it took was one long pull of his mouth on my clit. I cried out, shaking, and fell from the
marble tub’s rim, landing on top of him in a loose, wobbly, liquefied
heap.
Sliding out from underneath me, Spike draped my boneless body over the edge
of the tub, nudged my knees apart and entered me from behind, fucking me fast
and hard, driving my breasts into the cold stone, holding onto my shoulders
to keep from pushing me out of the tub entirely. In the mirror directly across from the
tub, I watched in fascination as the water churned and splashed for no reason
whatsoever.