They’d killed the priest as soon as they’d walked through the church but that was only the beginning of her fun. They’d made the people praying for their lives pull down the crucifix, setting it on the floor. Then their killed them one by one, their blood flowing over the wooden frame.
This was his punishment, for leaving her, for getting that filthy soul thrust back into him. When everybody was dead, she ripped open his shirt, dragging her nails over his chest, drawing blood and lapping it up.
“Angelus, are you going to get on your cross willingly or do I have to put you there?” Darla snarled, pushing him to the ground.
“No, mistress.” He said, lying on the cross, his naked back burning.
“Good boy.” She muttered pulling his trousers off so his legs could burn as well.
She kept her dress on, its many petticoats protecting her from the cross as she straddled him. She pushed his chest down, making the skin on his back hiss. When he gave in to the pain and cried out, she slapped him.
“You’re so weak. That dirty soul is making you weak. I’m going to make you strong again.” Darla promised, her voice soothing even as her words tore him apart.
She took his cock in her hand, stroking it to hardness despite the pain his body was in. She lowered herself onto it without preparing herself, rewarding his suffering with her tightness, enduring a little pain herself. Each thrust drove him harder onto the wood, skin smoking.
Her face transformed as she orgasmed, her fangs sinking into her wrist. She offered Angelus her wrist, letting him drink her blood until he came inside her, pain forgotten.
When he was done, she let him up off the cross; admiring the burns it had left.
“This, lover, is only the beginning. I’ll make you what you were again.” She kissed him, as if she was kissing everything better.