There is nothing as sweet as the scream of an elf. Unless it's the scream of one particular elf.
He came to me again tonight, his hair shining silver in the moonlight, blue-gray eyes luminous, and in that instant when he spoke, when that low melodic voice breathed "Spike," I knew I could not turn him away.
Right, then. Strip him down to leggings, chain him up. After all, if there's one thing I'm the master of, it's pain. Run one hand over that smooth expanse of skin, almost as white as my own, silky and so delicate looking. Ah, but here lies life, in the quiet drum of his heart, the cool rush of blood in his veins, the slightly uneven breathing... all of it so unlike my own dead form. Lift the long silky locks, brush a kiss along the nape of the suddenly exposed and vulnerable neck, then drop them over his shoulder.
And now... now we play and he pays. Pays for the pain of two hundred years, of lovers gone, of small blonde girls now buried and dark goddesses forever lost. Pick up the crop, hold it to his lips, watch them move against the leather in prayer before he kisses it. Stroke down upraised arms, bound and helpless, watch him writhe as it pets him, waking nerves, teasing with the promise of pain to come.
A flick of the wrist and it snaps just beneath one nipple with a quiet pop. He jumps, his mouth falling open in a sweet pink O of surprise, and I chuckle, even as the crop flicks over the small bud now drawn tight and rosy, and lands on his collarbone. Down and up, trace random esoteric patterns, each ending in a tiny pain, a small pink mark on flesh. Usually I relish the soft begging sounds he makes, but tonight they scratch over my ears, so I snatch up his belt and gag him, fingers sliding over patterned leather, pressing it between his teeth with a whisper, "Shhh, luv."
Lay the crop aside and pick up the strap. This was always Angelus' favorite... long, wide and thick, perfect for beating his wayward childe. And now it was mine, the one thing I took from my sire's quarters before he abandoned me yet again. Raise it up, lay it hard against his back, rocking him into the post, wrenching a muffled groan from his throat.
I love the sound of leather cutting air, the smack against skin, the whimpers and moans that he can't quite hold back. In those moments where he twists against his bonds, eyes wide and frightened, the scent of his blood intoxicating as it rises to just beneath the surface, beckoning to all my baser instincts, I could almost love him. He suffers so sweetly, his moans behind the leather desperate as the blows rain down on him, painting his back and hips with an intricate criss-cross pattern.
I tear at his leggings, tossing them aside to continue down his body, over thighs, each dull thud of punishing leather upon flesh eliciting new struggles as he tears at his restraints. When he glows from shoulders to knees, I look him over with a low growl, my hunger for him almost unbearable. I want him, want to claw at him, bite him, sink so deep into him that I lose all sense of myself. Tonight, I need more.
I drop the strap, barely registering the thunk as it hits the floor at my feet. I reach for the whip that lies upon the table, smiling as his eyes widen when the leather coils hiss as they unwind, waking to my command. I reach up and stroke his cheek, leaning forward, brushing lips over his, almost overwhelmed by my longing for him.
I circle him, drinking in his scent, knowing I'm stalking the man tied to the post before me in much the same way I do my prey, but unable to help myself. His uncertainty is tinged with a palpable sense of fear, and a hint of curiosity. I wait a few beats, giving him time to call this to a halt before we venture past the point of no return.
When it becomes evident that he will dance to the tune of my choosing, the control that has been hanging by a thread snaps. I want to hear him when the leather strikes, need to hear the sobs and pleas when he breaks under the lash.
A flick of the wrist and the coils leap to life, licking over his skin, kissing his shoulder blade in the instant before they bite into it. Another, and a third, until blood slides down his spine, shining and red, spattering the floor beneath him, a shocking spot of color in the darkness of my lair.
Wrap the whip around his waist, almost in a caress, before pulling it hard away, cutting the skin open. Blood, need to see more blood, paint him with it. Again and again, until it seems I watch someone else, sure that the creature delighting in the sobs of pain and the ribboned skin couldn't possibly be myself.
His scream shatters the air, a keening wail of submission, a sweet symphony of pain. Blood-soaked leather coils on a table, almost without thought, and my shirt joins it in short order as I look at him, the hunger emanating from both of us heavy in the air. And perhaps, just perhaps, I'm not as dead as I believed.
I never knew cold could burn. I never knew suffering could be sweet. I never knew pain could awaken pleasure. I never knew passion breathed among the dead.
But then, I've never loved a vampire before.
I tried to stay away this time, I really did. But the moon shines brighter here, streaming through the windows of his crypt, creating a halo about platinum blond hair and lending an otherworldly glow to his skin.
I can't help it- I whisper his name, just to hear the single syllable, hard and soft at once, like him. Midnight blue eyes widen imperceptibly, and I bow my head, knowing he will accept me, at least for tonight.
I try to aid him in shedding my clothes, but my hands tremble too badly, so in the end I stand before him while he works magic and everything slides away, baring skin to the graveyard air. Chains close about my wrists, shockingly cold as my arms are raised and tethered to the post.
Cool hands smooth over my back, sending a frisson of pleasure up my spine as they gather my hair and drape it over my shoulder, and the lips that slide over my neck make me gasp with sudden need.
As though he can sense it, he steps away and reaches for the crop, placing the tip against my lips in our own private ritual. I speak my love in silent Elvish against the soft loop, kissing it in gratitude for these stolen moments with him.
A moment of stillness, and then the caress of leather on skin, stroking, teasing, making me squirm in eager anticipation. The first strike catches me off-guard, the slight sting on my chest making me gasp. His low chuckle rolls over me like the deep purr of one of the great cats, and traces my nipple with the crop, hard edges over flesh that begs for softer touch.
Over and across in tiny flicks and snaps, decorating my chest as it pleases him. The small needling pain is sweet, but not enough, not nearly enough. I twist against the wind, chains rattling, soft little begging moans falling from my lips with each breath.
Then he stops, puts the crop down and picks up my belt. Fingers press supple leather between my teeth, leaving only my eyes to plead with him to continue, his rough whiskey-toned voice murmuring softly, comfortingly.
But I don't want comfort, I want more! There is a second, a heartbeat where I fear he will leave me, and then the sight of his hand wrapping about the strap, bringing an almost profound sense of relief. The first hard blow rocks me forward and tears a groan from my throat.
Pain flares, white-hot and searing, shooting up my spine. I move with it, under it in silent supplication, a slave to the leather and the vampire and my own burning desire. The blows come faster, harder, until every breath is a sob, a ragged pleading moan.
His hands move, flashes of white lightening in the dark around us, and air washes over my legs, followed by the punishing blows of the strap. I buck against it, hands twisting in the chain that wraps about my wrists, seeking any anchor I can find in the midst of the firestorm around and within me.
His growl sends shivers up my spine, and I peek from beneath lowered lashes as his eyes rake over my body, hoping like any petitioner to find favor in the god's sight. His eyes glow with a forbidding light, bright blue pools that invite me to lose myself in their depths.
The strap falls to the floor and he reaches to the table. When his hands close upon the whip, coiled like a deadly black snake in the far corner. I look up at the soft hiss as it unwinds, knowing my eyes must be wide and frightened, unable to hide anything from him now.
His hand cups my cheek and I lean into the touch, like a cat, never taking my eyes from his. The gentle brush of his lips is unexpected but oh, so sweet, and I can taste his own hunger in the kiss.
He backs away, his boots ringing on the floor as he circles me. I glance over, and the predatory smile that flits over his features sends hot and cold chills creeping over my body. He tears the belt from my lips, muttering "Want to hear you, luv."
We've never gone this deep into the dark garden before, but he leads, and like a child behind the Pied Piper, I find myself unable to do anything but follow. Leather slithers over my skin, soft and hard at the same time, lulling me into a sense of false peace before it bites deep over my shoulder blade.
I sob at the unexpected fire it brings to my blood, jolting as it cracks again, struggling to stay strong. Something wet slides down my back, and I know it must be blood, my blood, dampening my skin before it falls to the floor. Somehow, though, I can't regret it, not when the whip snakes up, wrapping around my abdomen before slicing into it.
Pain takes over, cleansing, drawing me out of myself. I give myself over to it, to Spike, to the whip, to the night until I can feel the world fall away from my feet. All the matters, all that exists in that moment is the pole and the chains, the kiss of leather and the bright blossoming pain, and the hard white hands of the being who wields power with such cruel delight.
I want, oh Gods, how I want to tell him how I feel. But I couldn't stand to see those blue eyes turn cold or hear his voice go flat and tell me he can't love me back. So I stay silent as long as possible, and then, I scream. High and wordless, pain and pleasure combined, love wrapping about the wild notes to form the darkest kind of music from the heart.
When it ends, I lift my head, like a swimmer surfacing from a long dive, drowning, wanting him, needing him. The dark smile of the god as he moves towards me, the light in those blue eyes tells me what he never will. I sigh, a ragged sob of invitation, and as he lowers his head to mine, I whisper in Elvish, "Master."