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“Where the fuck are we?”

Xander raised a fuzzy head, forcing gummy eyes to open.  “Um.  I think we’re in. . . Aladdin?”

“And his ruddy forty thieves,” Spike agreed.

The room was large, the architecture immediately bringing to mind images of mosques and ancient middle eastern buildings from the television they both adored.  Sinuous and curvy dominated the room, not a single right angle in sight.  Even the windows were more circular than rectangular, letting in sweetly-scented night air.  Jasmine.  Myrrh.  The walls were tiled with geometric patterns, brightly colored in blues and greens and yellows.  The floors were thickly carpeted, their patterns matching the walls, their colors darker and richer, silk banners flowing from ceiling down to the—

Bed.  They were in a bed.



Xander bolted up and off the bed, landing on his ass with a woof of expelled air.  Arms and legs still flailing—as well as other things—he forced his stunned body to grab some of the opulent silk tapestries and cover himself.

Spike bit his lip.  Hard.  “You done screaming like a girl, mate?”  His voice was high and tight.  Rather like he was being strangled.  His eyes were incandescent in the light cast from various lamps.

“Uh, yeah, I think.  And ow, that hurt.  Spike, where the hell—”

“Good.”  Throwing his head backward, Spike guffawed.  Loudly, and for a long, long time.

Wrapping the silk around his lower half tighter, Xander tried not to let his eyes drop below Spike’s navel.  It was hard, since the vampire was rolling about with the strength of his laughter, and Xander was struck by the inexplicable urge that he should be licking that honey-blond trail of hair that led downward. . .

He forced himself to look annoyed—Spike was laughing at him, after all.  But as the sounds continued, Xander couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  Spike looked. . . Spike looked happy, something the young man didn’t think he could ever remember seeing before.  Not gleeful, not smarmy, not even leering, which were Spike’s usual expressions for ‘good feeling’.  Just. . .happy.

“You looked like a bloody windmill!” Spike gasped out finally.  By then, he was tangled up in his own cocoon of silk blankets—thankfully covering the place where Xander’s eyes continued to drop—grin open and friendly.  It pulled an answering one onto Xander’s face, remaining as he chuckled a bit ruefully.

“Yeah.  Well, you try walking up next to the guy who you—never mind.”

Still grinning, a slightly predatory look came back.  “Did, didn’t I?” he asked, voice low and dripping with things Xander didn’t want to examine too closely.  “After all, you were—bloody hell.”  The look dropped off completely, leaving Spike befuddled and annoyed.  “What the bleeding hell is going on here!”

Untangling himself, Spike began to prowl around their room.  A few small brazier type things that cast a soothing golden glow.  Positively hundreds of pillows in all colors imaginable, made out of silk, velvet, and other sensuous fabrics, were scattered around the room.  A fountain trickled gently in the back of the room, near the bed, its white basin a shock against the riotous color.

“Okay.  Lessee.  Little good witch told me she had a pressie for me, a thank you for popping her one.”

“I’d, ah, think it was more for proving she wasn’t a demon, but—yeah, okay, sure.”  Spike’s heated glare cut off anything Xander was going to say.  Instead, he contented himself with watching Spike prowl through the room, lifting objects, sniffing them distractedly before replacing them and looking at something else.  He was still naked.  Xander wondered why he’d thought Spike’s original hair color was dark brown.  Then he wondered why he’d thought that at all.

“Right.  Got her family off her back, blah blah, she and Red live happily bloody ever after.  Just peachy.  But, well, who’m I to turn down a pressie?  She sits me down in this circle, whispers something—in Arabic?  And poof.  I’m here.”  The thoughtful look dropped away, another heated glance sent towards Xander.  “With you.”

‘Heated’ could mean so very many things.  Xander decided to choose anger, since he was used to Spike being angry with him.  He was angry at Spike a lot, too.  He could deal with that.  “Oh, yeah, like I chose to be here with you, Fangless Blunder.  Thank you, no.  I was at home.  With Anya.  And we’d. . . gone to sleep. . .”

Puzzled, Xander crossed his legs to sit more comfortably.  His hip ached dully from when he’d landed on it.

“Before you ask,” Spike said, “this isn’t a dream.  Least, it don’t smell like a dream.”

“Anya said something.  What did she say?  I don’t remember!”  Frustrated, and starting to be frightened, Xander slammed his fist towards the plush cushions of the bed.

His hand was caught mid-air.

“What did I tell you about destroying furniture, Ali?” Spike drawled from above him, looking lazy and amused.  “Rich I may be, that does not give you liberty to demolish things for the sake of demolishing them.”  Settling onto his knees beside Xander, Spike flashed a devilish smile before pushing down the twisted silk and taking a hardening cock into his hands.  Stroking slowly he said, “If you think you have so much time, I shall have to find you things to do.”

“But I have many things to do, Master.”  He felt relaxed and happy, pleased that Master had time to spare with him today.  Master was so often busy.   “However, Master does not let me attend to my duties as. . .”

Spike chuckled richly, keeping the pace languid and sure.  “I should take you to court with me, Ali.  Have you ride me in front of the viziers,” squeeze, “and the advisors,” squeeze, “and the mages, and all the endless hordes of petitioners. . .”

Xander’s pupil’s dilated and his breathing grew ragged.  “Oh, yes, Master.  Whatever you desire, Master.”

“Poor Ali.  Have I denied you so, lately?”

Xander whimpered as a cool thumb swiped over top of the head, gathering moisture and pressing firmly against the drooling slit.  “No, Master.  I know you’ve been busy with the—oh—the—”

“Hm, obviously I’ve been very busy if you can hardly speak while I’m just stroking you.”  Another warm chuckle and Xander felt lips tickle his cheek.  “I think I’ll go on holiday.  Just for a little while.  Either that, or I am bringing you to court with me.  I spent a great deal of time and effort training a boy to be ready, willing, and deliciously responsive,” he purred seductively.  “It wouldn’t be prudent of me to allow such a treasure to go to waste.”

One long lick from jaw to eyebrow and it was only extreme force of will—and training—that kept Xander from thrusting up to find more friction.  “Master. . .”

“Will you beg for me, my pet?”  Another lick.  “Will you beg for my permission?”

“Yes, Master, please, anything Master!”

“Do you enjoy my hand on you?  Your Master’s hand, stroking you firmly—like this?  Rubbing where you liked to be rubbed, where I made you like it?  Oh, Ali, you’re so beautiful when you’re desperate like this.”  Another lick, rough tongue rasping along skin shaved perfectly smooth.

“Please, Master, please.”

“Thrust at me.  Yes, like that, my pet.  Help me work that beautiful cock.  Do you want release, my pet?”

Xander moaned in wordless pleading.

“Do you want to pour yourself into my hand?  Release all that is pent up within you?  Coating your Master’s hand with your essence?  Will you bind yourself again?”

“Always, Master,” Xander gasped, hyperventilating with need.  “Heart and mind, blood and soul, I am yours, Master.”

A deep purr of pleasure and the hand that had not ceased its torture cupped the head tightly.  “Bind yourself.  Make yourself mine.”

Xander arched but did not cry out, his body jerking slightly as thick, milky fluid dripped from his cock.  It did not spurt, instead dribbling down like molasses, to pool between wide-spread thighs.  The orgasms was drawn out impossibly long from the pressure on the head of Xander’s cock until—


Spike chuckled a third time, pleased as his flushed and gasping pet twisted to lap up the fluid from the silk.  Rubbing his back gently, Spike leaned down to give his beloved Ali a kiss, ready to whisper another promise that this time he really would take a break—

“Oh, gross!”  “What the bleedin’ fuck!”

It took a tense second or three to realize they were so close their noses were practically bumping.  Xander threw himself back with a yell, grabbing a pillow to cover himself before scrambling to the fountain.  “That was gross,” he said between scrubbing and spitting.

Spike smirked, stretching himself along the still-damp silk.  “Oh, please,” he drawled with lazy derision, “like you never tasted your own jizz before?”

“No, I haven’t, Spike, and eww, just for the record.  You really will suck anything won’t you?”  The scarred eyebrow rose and Xander belatedly slapped a hand over his mouth.  Removing the hand, he spat furiously again.  “Where the hell are we?  And can we go home, so I never have to see you again?  Ever?”

Still chuckling, the vampire looked around their room with a practiced.  “Well, Toto, we certainly ain’t in Kansas now.”

“Spike!  Will you just—”

“Looks real enough.  There’s some mojo about, but I think that’s protection spells and the like.  Smells real enough, too, and that’s hard to manufacture with a spell.  Spent time in Egypt; this looks a bit like that.”

Interested in spite of himself, Xander snagged yet another piece of silk and covered himself securely.  “Really?  I always thought stuff like this was a Hollywood producer’s wet-dream or something.”

“Well, yeah, if you look at the common folk.  Don’t live much better’n the rats, them.  But the rich folk, they got it nice.  Least, they did.  Eighty years and more since I been there, and they hadn’t discovered oil yet.”

“Oh.  So, we’re in the Middle East?”

“Yeah, because I have all the answers, don’t I?” Spike drawled with the casual ennui that drove Xander crazy.  Except he wasn’t relaxed.  Xander could see individual muscles tensed in wary anticipation, ready for something to happen. . .  It was oddly reassuring.  Spike was ready if something happened.  “You want answers, you start looking yourself.”

You are the hundred-year-old-vampire.  You know about all this magic stuff, you figure it out.”

“Know more than you, wanker,” was the acidic reply.  “Just don’t know what this is.  Donut boy.”

Xander was about to make a snappy retort when he hesitated.  “This?  This place?  You don’t know what this place is?”

Spike shifted, losing some of the cultivated boredom.  He never could maintain that pose long, Xander realized.  “Yeah.  What of it?”

“You don’t know what this place is,” Xander repeated. “But you do know something about what just happened.  Don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, but the answer was written plainly on the vampire’s face.  It was weird.  Were anyone else present, Xander was sure the pretense would have continued: making sure the world at large saw the cool, confident, vampire—in control of himself and his surroundings.  But it was only Xander.  And he. . . trusted Xander?  Would let himself relax around Xander?  Didn’t need the facade?  None of these questions were comforting.  Their answers less so, especially since he realized just how much he wanted to know those answers.

“Okay, Spike, no fair hogging the info.  You know what’s going on, don’t you?”  Xander concentrated on looking mean and foreboding; but his thoughts were scary things right now.

“No, I don’t have one sodding idea of what’s going on!” Spike snapped, leaping to his feet and beginning to pace.  Fortunately, the silk went with him as he agitated back and forth.  “All I know is—”


“Is we got some kinda. . . past life thing.  Or mebbe we’re in other people’s bodies.  That kinda thing.”

Well, it was more than Xander had.  He looked down at himself and then over to Spike.  “Well, we look the same—hey, here’s a mirror.  He held it up to see himself staring intently back.  “Yeah.  We look the same, so it can’t be possession—right?  So, um.  You think past life?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve done the possession bit before and this don’t feel like that so unless you got some bright ideas. . .”  Spike glared at him, fear and worry not quite hidden by the steely gaze.  “So, you’re Ali, is it?”  His voice did a weird, husky thing.  “And you’re my slave.”

Xander gulped, frozen solid as Spike prowled closer.  “Um, yeah, but see, I’m really Xander, remember?  I’m not a slave.  And anyway, why would you want me for a slave?  I’m gawky and clumsy and shouldn’t you want someone pretty and lithesome and, well, female?  You know, to cater to your, um, needs?”  Babble, babble, babble.  The rim of the fountain bumped against the back of his legs.

“Oh, I dunno,” Spike drawled.  His eyes were way too bright as they traveled up and down the human’s body.  Xander’s skin shivered wherever those eyes lit.  “Pretty enough, all that lovely golden skin.  Yeah. . . teach you how to dance for me. . .”

“Okay!”  Nice, big manly squeak, but adrenaline got Xander away from the fountain and past the bed before the vampire had time to blink.  “So.  Right.  Past-life stuff and how do we get home again?”

Smirking, Spike glanced at the mirror.  Nothing reflected back; well, that proved he was still a vamp, at least.  “Well, first thing we do is get the hell out of here.  Have a bit of a look, see what we can see?”

“Okay.  Recon, I know recon.”  Relieved to be on familiar ground, Xander found the door under a heavy fall of something gauzy-looking.  “Um, maybe we should get clothes first?”

“Ali, Ali, you know you are to be unclothed at all—buggering fuck, will whatever the hell you are get out of my damned mouth!”  Spike eyes crossed as he attempted to look at his own mouth.  Uncrossing his eyes, he glared across the room at Xander.  “We are gettin’ out of here now,” he snarled.  “I want this ponce out of my head!”

Xander just blinked at him.  Three second ago, the vampire seemed happy to have the Xan-man as his personal cabana boy.  Now, he was playing homophobe—or was that Closet Man?—and overcompensating with aggressive behavior.  See random destruction of the room as he—searched for clothes for Xander?

Accepting the loincloth with another blink, Xander dressed himself.  Tried to remember everything he could from the psychology class Willow had babbled about and told himself that yes, indeed, he was a man even though he knew all that female sensitivity stuff.  Hey, all his friends were female!  It was learn or drown!

He was still very confused as he watched Spike struggle to put on the flowy, billowing cloth that seemed to be pants.  Or they would be if Spike could ever get them on right.  There were no shirts in sight.  “Hey, how come you get the pants and I get the loincloth!” he demanded with righteous aggravation.  “I want pants!”

“Fine!  Take the damned pants!  You try and get ’em on!”

Oh, snarky vampire.  “Good!  I will!  Just watch—oh, Master, must I dress you again?”  Xander laughed, amusement shining from his eyes as he gathered up the flung material and crossed to the sullen vampire.  “Here,” he said, placing the fabric along pale, sinewy legs and holding it while he wound a sash around an ankle.  “Sometimes, Master, I wonder how it is you taught a poor, uneducated, European boy like me.  Since you cannot do the simplest things. . .”

“Insolence, Ali!”  But it lacked real anger and Xander grinned in anticipation.

“Shall I punish myself, Master?” he asked seductively, wrapping the other ankle tightly.  “Are you too poor a master to devise punishments for me?”

“I have neither the time nor the—oh, Allah above!”

Xander chuckled, his Master’s length deep within his mouth.  Sliding off with a lick at the spasming slit at the tip, he made his eyes big and innocent as he asked, “Allah, Master?  Do you wish him to teach me?”  One hand began to stroke and knead a velvet-soft sac, the other sliding down to press just behind them.  “I know I am not a good slave, born in a frozen land among godless people, without proper education or training.”  Releasing the sac, he dragged soft, un-calloused fingers to tease skin that shivered with want.  “I thought, perhaps, I did not need the Holy One himself to—”


A despairing, desperate cry.  Laughing lightly, Xander slowly sucked his Master back into his throat.  Bobbing quickly, he tried not to laugh as his Master babbled to all and sundry that Ali was his best, most favorite slave, his love, his own, his—


Salty, coppery semen flooded his mouth, Xander very careful not to spill a drop.  While his Master panted and calmed, Xander licked him clean and tied the sash around his Master’s narrow waist, so that the pants would stay up.

“There, Master,” he said soothingly.  “All dressed.”

“Very go—oh, my god.”  Spike blinked, unsure as to whether he should be happy or disgusted that Xander had just sucked him off.  Rather well, too.

Xander chose for him.  He remained frozen for almost ten solid seconds before turning a deep, deep red all the way down his chest.  Then he howled.  “Gross!”  Once more, he dived for the fountain and splashed water everywhere as he tried to rid the taste of semen from his mouth.  “Not fair!” he complained as he tried to make himself throw up—Spike didn’t want to tell him that the finger-down-the-throat didn’t work for people who didn’t have a gag reflex.

Which Xander obviously didn’t have.

“How come I’m the one who always ends up with c—um. . .”  More blushing. 

Spike watched in obvious amusement, tracing the lovely rush of blood down the taut stomach—construction was good for something, then—past the silken loincloth. 

Which was doing nothing to hide the contradiction to the juvenile hacking and scrubbing from above.

Spike grinned.  This was fun.