It used to piss her off that Spike never shut up. Always throwing the cruel truth in her face, or digging out some deep insecurity with a well-chosen word. And the one time she’d shut him up, the one time she’d managed to shut him up good and proper hadn’t shut him up at all, but led to all sorts of other talking. Spike was a talker all right. Dear God, the things he said, right in her ear, right in her mouth, and the way the blood left her brain and went straight to her crotch. Melting at a word.
Tight, hot, wet, cunt, pussy, clit, cock, quim, prick, sweet, taste, twat, lick, and oh god, oh god, oh fuck, fuck, fuck me baby, baby, baby so wet, yeah, suck me like that, yeah, and fuck and come for me, coming, come, come, come, oh Jesus Christ Jesus, yes, yes, yes.
Now she only had to hear the word “come” anywhere anytime – “It comes with fries and medium soft drink” “The Toyota 4x4 comes fully loaded” “Tricia Hernadez! Come on down!” “Yeah, hey Buffy, I don’t get off until seven so I won’t be able to come over before, like, eight at the earliest” – and she’d melt like butter in the microwave, primed and swollen, bubbling liquid between her legs, aching for him when he wasn’t there to fill her with fingers, tongue, or prick. He used French words too, words she felt but didn’t understand, making nasty things nice. A puckered aperture became a dark rose, the back road to heaven through a bit of whispered French soon followed by his tongue. He was a sorcerer with words.
Like now: His body pressed up hard along her back, thickening cock straining against the denim, working her short skirt higher with a bit of judicious rubbing. His hands cup her breasts like a support bra with built-in magic finger massage. His lips right next to her ear lift the tiny hairs there, sending a shivery thrill out the top of her head, while his words follow the path of least resistance. Down. Down to her womb. His words open floodgates between her legs.
“Pretty, pretty tits these are. Fill my hands right up. And your bum.” He rolls his hips against the part he’s named. “I just want to spank it, it’s so pretty. Spank your bottom ‘til it’s quivering, all hot and red then fuck you there. Take you in the arse. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my nasty girl?”
And she sighs and moans and knows she would because he’s made her want his hands and cock there just by saying it. Oh, he is evil. Truly.
Arranged upon his bed, her ass in the air propped up by pillows, while he murmurs and whispers the things he’s going to do because she’s so naughty until her cunt is slippery from his words and he hasn’t even touched her the way he says he will. He’s torturing her by not doing it. And she can’t believe she wants him to. He’s kneeling at the side of her now, and she can feel his studied, contemplative gaze. She wriggles and writhes in aching anticipation.
The first slap is a surprise, the flat of his hand on the tender underside of her ass, both cheeks caught by the one blow that almost, not quite, grazes her labia, oh god, the sound of it, and the sound of her own gasp of surprise. And again, his palm smacks against her flesh, a momentary concentration of strangely delicious pain that moves from the point of impact and spreads like a brush fire to her extremities. It resonates in her entire body and she bucks against it or towards it she can’t tell.
One hand lain across the small of her back holding her immobile. “Didn’t say you could move, pet. Now hold still. Take it like a good girl and I promise I’ll make you come. Promise.” Another slap. “That’s it.” Another. “Such a good girl. Such a pretty red bottom. Spread your legs a little.” Another and another. “That’s my girl.” Smack. Slap. Oh god.
“Please, please, please, please,” she grunts, gasps, sighs to the steady rhythm of his hand falling, every nerve in her body aflame.
“Please what?” He smacks one quivering cheek then the other. “More or stop?” She doesn’t know. He stops. The absence of his hand on her flesh presents a new kind of pleasure pain, cool air exciting her skin and making her ache for something else but she doesn’t know what exactly.
“Want me to fuck you in the arse, sweetheart? Are you ready?”
Oh, that’s it. “Yes. Yes, please.”
He moves around behind her and she hisses as he presses his hands between her thighs, moves her knees wide and plunges two fingers into her sopping pussy. That’s not what she wants and she mewls in frustration.
“Hush. Have to get you greased up first.” God, he was nasty. The slurpy slick sound of his fingers moving in and out elicits a growly chuckle of delight from him and a low moan from her. “Maybe I should spank you more often. Christ, you’re so wet. This is going to be really good, baby.” His fingers move from her dripping cunt to her asshole, but so carefully, spreading the liquor around and around the tight little origami aperture, teasing it open. When he pushes one finger in she sighs as if she’s been waiting all her life for a single finger in her ass. Then the other one follows and he twists and turns them, pulls them out then in again until she’s moving back to meet each gentle thrust wanting it harder and faster. When he takes the fingers away she sobs, empty and wanting filling. “Oh, yeah,” he says, “this is going to be so good.”
His cock slides easily into her pussy, she’s so primed for him and he coats it in her juices with a few easy strokes, withdraws and pulls more liquid from her with his hands. Now he’s ready, spreads the slickery juice between her cheeks, holds them apart and sighs, just a moment’s appreciation before she feels the tip of his prick and he starts to push in. It’s huge. It feels huge and the fingers were lovely but this – this is huge.
One arm slips beneath her belly, pressing her to him so she can’t escape and he leans down close, the breath from his words tickling her spine. “Relax. Relax. Just relax, love. I’m going slow, so slowly. Relax, sweetheart. Can you feel that? A little more and we’re in and then it’ll feel so good. That’s it, that’s my girl. Oh Christ. Oh. Oh yeah. There we are. How’s that, baby? ‘S’that good?”
“It f-f-feels weird.”
“Not hurting, is it?”
“No, no, not exactly. Not—oh, oh god.” Evil, evil man, with his voice and his nasties, and his sneaky fingers stroking her labia, thumb on her clit as he starts to rock between her tingling cheeks. He slides out and plunges in again, and her body doesn’t want to let him leave the next time.
“Oh god, your sweet arsehole. Squeeze my cock, so tight, oh god, my sweet girl, fuck me so good, never better, oh god,” a panting chant by which to come. And she’s going to soon, and then she does, hard and for such a long time, and her bucking, uncontrollable shuddering makes him come too and she feels him spurt inside her, and hears his litany, “oh fucking god, oh Christ, oh Buffy, oh my god woman, oh, oh, oh, yes, yes, yes, unh, unh, unh! Aahhh…”
Later when they’ve pried themselves apart, she gets up and wanders naked, searching for something, she doesn’t know what. This is the problem. He takes her places she’s never been and there’s always another level though she can’t imagine how there could be something better than where she’s just been and so she wanders and wonders, strangely happy, yet discontent and anxious to take another step.
There’s her skirt on the floor and his trousers. She hears him laugh low in his throat as she bends to retrieve…
“You’ve got a lovely handprint on your rosy bum, my love.”
Ah. She pulls the belt from the loops of his jeans with a snap. “Your turn now.”
Mister Talky Mouth is suddenly struck dumb. His eyes go wide and then, a slow grin stretches his lips.
He isn’t silent for long.